Goodbyes

Sometime after discussing our status (we promise to refrain from fucking other people), THE WIZARD left town. It had to happen. The high-speed courtship needed a breather, whether we admitted it or not. So we packed up his one outfit and went to the airport.

Being a frequent participant in long-distance relationships, I have had a lot of goodbye moments in every kind of travel facility.

Trainstation goodbyes are mostly romantic, except when you're breaking up outside the Amtrak in Indianapolis. The mediocre saxaphone soloist makes saying goodbye in the bus station pretty tolerable. But the airport is very sterile. There is no sweet way to be sent off in a place inhabiting so many guns and cranky people.

I didn't hold THE WIZARD's hand as we walked through the security area, nor did I look at him or speak. Tears were sitting in my eyelids, just waiting for the right moment. Even though no one was paying attention, I felt like my weepy eyes were on a jumbotron. THE WIZARD stopped in front of a check-in kiosk and faced me.

HIM: Don't cry, you big baby.
ME: I'm not.
HIM: I will totally miss you.
ME: I know. I'm sorry I acted like an asshole during your whole visit.
HIM: Whatever, Dude.

Against all my convictions, we talk every day. We also have pretty great phone sex. It is cold where I live, so he sent me a warm blanket in the mail, which is wrapped around me constantly and I might daydream about corny things like spooning and slow dancing. I annoy myself to pieces.

I am paying him a visit this week.

The Talk

After spending a couple weeks with THE WIZARD, I came to know and even appreciate all the little things - his ticks (humming constantly), fashion sense (Air Jordans no matter what the occasion), coffee preference (expensive beans, cream & organic sugar), his politics ('Obama annoys me'), hygiene (one shower per week tops) and most of all, the way he talks. 

THE WIZARD's fucked up teeth and big lips create a lisp/whistle/mumble that make listening to him speak both challenging and endearing. He has the combination of common sense and life experience that makes even the most basic statements seem wise, however his vocabulary is limited to the following adjectives: rad, sick, lame, fucking, and harsh. And keeping with the surfer theme, all sentences are peppered with: like, you know, i mean, and totally. He has no reservations when it comes to dirty talk - anal sex is discussed at full volume in the supermarket. And regardless of the circumstances, I am addressed as Dude at all times.  

On new year's eve, we played cards at the dining room table while waiting for cookies to bake. After I'd won the third game in a row, he took the cards out of my hand and with little effort, slipped his hands under my thighs and hoisted me onto the table.

HIM: Dude, it's almost the New Year and I love fucking you. I want to fuck you on this table and I don't want to fuck anybody else. Is that cool?

ME: Is what cool? Fucking on the table?

HIM: Well, yeah. But is it cool that I only want to fuck you? And then, you know, I kind of hope you only want to fuck me.

ME: What?

HIM: Just try to keep it in your fucking pants, okay? I think you're totally rad, so like, don't fuck it up by sucking some other guy's dick. Got it?

ME: Okay.

HIM: Dude, you are totally my girlfriend now. 

Aliens

I woke up around 5am to THE WIZARD yammering in his sleep, with his limbs all over me. My heart was racing. Why was he still here? How did I allow a human being to sleep in my bed this many nights in a row? His long crazy hair was wrapped around my neck and the sleep-talking was loud and hitting my last nerve. I was suffocating in this new (and extremely fast) relationship. "Please! I can't do this. Please get off of me." I shoved him away (a little too hard, probably) and he woke up.

HIM: Whoa! You are mean! Stop it. I know this is hard for you. I know. It's too much. I know! I'm fucking living here and you hate it. But you like me, okay? You do. So deal with it.
ME: I'm sorry. I'm a bitch.
HIM: Yes you are. But I get it. It's too much. I'll go on your couch for a while....

And then my stomach groaned. I had about six seconds to get to the bathroom. The salad I'd had earlier that evening turned into an alien baby who was trying to fight it's way out of every orifice of my body. In the bathroom, aside from all the explosions, all I could think about was that this man was in the next room, hearing every second of it. When I got back in bed, crying and shivering and sweating, I told him how mortified I was over and over. He wrapped a blanket around my head and asked where my keys were, then got dressed.

ME: Where are you going? I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry for being a dick!
HIM: I don't want you to be embarrassed. You're sick. I'm going to the store to get some shit to make you feel better. It'll be easier to barf by yourself. Call me if you think of anything you want.

Then he was gone and I was barfing again, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

Dude. Whoa.

So, THE WIZARD [no nickname could better suit this hairy and wise man formerly known as WOODY] stayed an extra night. And then he stayed 22 more.

We said goodbye to the fancy hotel and and its pancakes, taking the affair back to my apartment. Bringing sex over the home threshold changed things quite a bit. After that one night in my home, we magically woke up in sweatpants with the desire to watch 'Lost' episodes. And for the first time in a while, I was into this hurried domesticity. Apparently, THE WIZARD was into it too, because that afternoon he cancelled his flight home... As in cancelled. Return flight TBD.

That's right, dear reader. What was supposed to be a casual romp became a human being living in my home for three weeks. And I liked it... Well, sort of.

The sex part was great, of course, simply because it was always there. We had sex several times a day. Food, sleep, and bathing were sacrificed for getting off in any way we could imagine. It was beautiful. Every fabric and surface in my home ought to be sanitized. But along with the sex, he was always there too. Suddenly I was cohabiting. And amidst all the boning, we talked. Personal details were spewed everywhere! By day 9, I was emotionally exhausted and officially freaking out about the level of intimacy. Sweatpants, television, childhood memories, personal politics...it was too much. So I did what I always do: I acted like a jerk.

I attempted to revert back to the root of this relationship. I had sex with him - the filthier the better - and shut down the intimate chats, cuddling, and excessive kissing sessions. He knew what I was doing, and just shook his head in disapproval at me when I'd roll over to 'my' side of the bed. It was around that time that I got food poisoning. There's nothing like emptying your insides to open your heart.

Dude

I watched the snow pour down over my city from the 8th floor of the fancy hotel as WOODY/ THE WIZARD lazily packed his bag. The previous few days were a cuddle-sex festival of sorts. I didn't want this naked vacation to end, but now that it was over, I was gaining some perspective as to whether it was an affair or something special.

Just as my daydream drifted to long-haired, black jeans-wearing babies, WOODY/THE WIZARD threw a Sepultura t-shirt at my face and declared, "Dude, the snow sucks. I'm changing my flight. I'll leave tomorrow."