Those moments we shared,
When you and I came together in time and space
If not in person
When your longing and my forgetting
Intersected and crossed-over into a kind of being
we wore our authenticity like masks
I was Everywoman
You were The One
when your old image of yourself was shed and recycled into
new configurations of manhood and loving
when I tried, oh how I tried, to keep a profile commensurate with your desires
when my hungry lips wrapped around your imagined tumescence
and the cock in your hand was, for a few hours, mine
the fever has passed now
you have returned to your pre-programmed life, terrified at the interruption
you now wrap yourself in guilt as if it were a cloak of invisibility
“I’m so sorry” is the mantra
You, in your naivety, believe will wipe this all away
Delete, delete, delete
Conversations, posts, text messages
All safely gone where only a tame geek can find them
Is it your wife you are protecting from this knowledge?
Or yourself? Denying a part of yourself?
Oh such a beautiful, beautiful part of yourself
You came to me half-dead and I sought to revive you
Instead, my darling, you made ME alive
I shall not forget, nor delete, nor make this invisible
I shall be the guardian of that room and sit here
Holding my rose-bud
In so many ways, you are still the boy you described
Desperate to “do the right thing” and fulfil their expectations
Seeing your own as “misguided”
One day, I hope
You might apologize to the right person,
Change the cloak of invisibility for the cloak of manhood
And knock on my door
But with assertion and confidence
Knowing that you are the only one
I will let in
I regard myself as a reasonably intelligent gal. I’m well-educated,well-read and have had much life experience. And my biggest (or most easily accessible), erogenous zone, is my brain, Or maybe it’s my ego. Hard to tell, since the two are somewhat entwined.
Nothing turns me on more quickly than a highly intelligent, engaging and witty man. I spark up at the hint of intellectual depths and shared cultural capital.
The first great love of my life caught me through literature. Working in an office in my mid-twenties, I had the job one afternoon of doing a mountain of photocopying. To amuse myself while completing this task, I was reading a Virginia Woolf novel.Possibly “Mrs Dalloway”. My memory fails me in this detail. Which is just as well really, because I don’t know about you,gentle reader, but people who can only tell stories with all the minor details filled in, shit me to tears.
So reading away I was, when Steve*, who was over six-foot tall, popped his head over the gorgeous, orange office partition (eeeek….more detail……!), and said, not inaccurately “Oh. You like Virginia Woolf?”. A short conversation ensued in which a mutual love of Iris Murdoch was also discovered and some sort of deal was sealed. Not to put too delicate a point on it, it was on for young and old.A two year “affair” ensued. He would even leave me little notes in my desk, asking me to lunch, quoting Foucault. We wrote each other poetry. Appallingly pretentious, I know. Today, I cringe somewhat at the thought. But at the time, dear reader, I was smitten.
And so the pattern has gone many times through my life.
It shocks me, the amount of times I have become hooked on a man, mainly because he can impersonate “The Goons”, quote Yeats or hum a few bars of “Rhapsody in Blue”. And those attractions were very often mutual. There are plenty of men on the dating scene claiming that they are looking for an intelligent, well-educated woman. They want someone who will make them think, engage them and challenge them.
Or so they say.
My experience has often been that intellectual men are attracted to me, have hung around, all keen as mustard for a while, then drifted off, only to end up madly in love with some woman who is quite lovely, but hardly a Rhodes scholar. Ego-me likes to say that I intimidate them. I still believe that men might like an intelligent woman, but not one that is more, or even as, intelligent as them. But practical-me knows that this is not the entire answer. It is really much simpler.
Many men like intelligence and intellect in a woman, but in the end, it’s just not that important. It is an initial attractive force and nothing more. It is not an essential to a fulfilling relationship.
So where does this leave me, and women like me?
The short answer is-pretty fucking lonely.
The long answer is-ummmm-I dunno.
Any answers dear reader?
*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.