Frosty South and Letters to Boys

It’s colder here than I thought it would be. Away from the city and into the bendy corners of the country side the frost covers every nook and cranny like someone dropped a bag of flour and clouds of silky white powder clung. to any surface it could. My small feet are cold under the covers and I am wondering why they won’t get warm, so I shuffle them around hoping the friction creates some heat.

I am currently in-fatuation with man. He was brought into my life by a friend. My friends mother met me and decided that her nephew and I should meet. The interesting part is that he is up north and I am down south. So here again I find myself writing to a boy. This time specifically it’s texting. Technology has changed the medium for me over the years but the process is the same.

Is life really just a series of repeats or is it just me ? Am I the only one that can look back at the years gone by and find identical patterns over and over again ? Or do others have completely unique experiences every time ? They say that the definition of insanity is doing something over and over again expecting different results. I cannot decipher whether life wants me to get it right by giving me the same situation over again or it wants me to just walk away until a different scenario presents itself.

In 10th grade a boy and I shared a mutual interest. Teenage angst and depression. This may have been the first time I choose a brooding male. I’m not entirely certain why, my father was quiet and what seemed to me at the time, distant, but overall a positive person and I definitely would not say brooding. We had a couple of classes together including writing. I can’t remember what exactly got us started on the note writing and who wrote the first one but we began a poetic correspondance. Of course he was cute, and liked dark music and seemed to understand the misunderstanding of that time in our lives. It started with the regular “ our teacher and so is a total nerd “ and I responded. Not sure who put forth the first free verse but once it had been shared then poetry was our connection. Twisted graceful words, then considered truth and now I realize an outlet for free writing, a kind of exorcism of teenage despair. He had a girlfriend, a good friend of mine. The notes were innocent and purely friendship. He often shared his feelings on his tumultuous relationship, not realizing that all the tumult was on his side. Everyday for weeks notes passed back and forth. He was a jock leaning towards goth. An odd combination and everyone even his close friends were sceptical of his confusion. He seemed to like the dark asexuality of Marilyn Manson and nine inch nails. He started to wear eyeliner and black nail polish all the while still sporting hockey jerseys. On a good day a boy wearing eyeliner in my small country bumpkin community would turn some heads but combined with the sports angle no one could process that at all. He ended up taking a whole bottle of Tylenol one day and as the law dictates when someone makes a suicide attempt they are put into psychiatric care for awhile. He called me from the ward once under the pseudonym “Jesus Christ Super Man “. I felt special, like I was someone that understood and he knew it. I fell in love. Months later, his straightedge girlfriend let him go. This only exasperated his tortured existence. One fine day out of the blue he invited me over to his house. Immediately informing his mother we were busy he took me to his room. I don’t think we even had a conversation for more than two Minutes and we were kissing. This was my dream. Maybe all this time he had truly loved me and had only now realized it. He, as some men do, tried to go a few steps further, third base if you will. I denied his advances. My girlfriends who were scheduled to pick me up showed up early catching us in our awkward teenage groping and that was the end of that. In the days that followed the notes and phone calls stopped. A week later I saw he was dating a freshman. I am leaving out the details of my pain and anguish over losing a friend and a deeply touching love. We have all felt this before, it needs no words.

He didn’t talk to me again until senior year graduation and even then it was only to sign my yearbook. “ thanks for helping me find myself…not like that, you know what I mean – Jesus Christ super man. “ this was nice and made me laugh remembering the moment we spent in his room, the first I slipped my hand under a boys belt to feel the combination of silky smooth softness of thin layers of skin paired with the hardness that nature built men’s bodies to have when flushed with desire. It was very kind and brave of him to acknowledge what I had meant to him and showed it showed his character being able to make a joke about an awkward teenage moment. Resolution. In later moments involving men in my life I would not be so lucky to receive it.

With the unveiling of the internet there was chat rooms and email friendships to be had. A new world slowly being born and growing from an opportunity of information and education into a social monster. A stranger befriended me through email. Hours and hours of chatting through msn messenger we became long distance friends. Flirting and talking for hours on end I started to create who he was in my mind. He was years older than me and the friendship was mostly innocent, in my recollection their was no inappropriate behaviour, mostly us sharing our mutual darkness that I seemed to so easily connect with in boys. I was a sounding board for him and him for me. Wolfgang. I am sure this was not his real name so I am using it here. We were friends and stayed connected for years, he mailed me gifts of books and stuffed animals. Great and interesting books he enjoyed. Hitch hikers guide to the galaxy and The Art of Motorcycle maintenance. We mailed photos of ourselves to each other. Normal everyday ones. I though he was handsome and collegiate he told me that I was pretty but he was not attracted to me. Confirming my years of thoughts and ideas that I was not appealing to the opposite sex. That I didn’t have anything special enough to make a guy stick around. A few years went by we emailed everyday, and then life happened we wrote less and less and then he was gone. I occasionally looked for him on the internet, and when Facebook came around I searched but found nothing.

There are stories of boys after these ones.Not too many and not too few but the connection with them all is words and how I have chosen to share them as well a distance that always literally spans between me and them. There was the boy who I slept with the first time, unplanned but I had been obsessed with him to the point of self torture. Never being able to physically talk to him I convinced myself we could read each other’s thoughts.

This, also is a common pattern for me and not sure when it originated. Something in me has always convinced myself that I have some otherworldly power of intuition. That I know what people are thinking as a result of human observation, relating to myself and my own thoughts, and peoples physical cues. This definitely deserves some investigation at a later date as I am stil not sure where this came from. I suppose it would be chalked up to over active imagination and narcisstic romanticism.

Again after sharing my body with someone I was ignored. I wrote a letter and took it to his house, trying desperately to explain myself and be understood. To no avail, I was nothing to him.

There was the crusty gutter punk squeegee boy. One of the many street kid roommates that shared the big house me and my friends lived in, in my late teens. The one I was too shy to truly pursue but seduced with skimpy Pajamas and notes to come to my room at night, I would leave the door open. Unremarkable coupling, silent and strange. I wanted so desperately for one of these boys to love me back, see how I was exceptional and profess their love. This was not to be. He moved out shortly after, never to talk to me again. I wrote him a lengthy letter once again explaining myself, hoping that through my words this person would understand. Hoping they would see my light and realize they had an opportunity in their hands.

There was the German boy. Handsome and cheeky. I knew the moment I caught his eye that he wanted me. A love affair followed short and very heated. The first lover I had that showed me that sex was ridiculously fun and that I had power in that way as a woman. He blew my mind and I, of course fell in love. Shortly before his return to his home country there was some talk of him staying or me going but this was just gratuitous kindness with no true intent. After he had gone I wrote him beautiful letters professing my love for him and my sadness at his absence. He wrote back explaining how it had been beautiful but it was not to be.

I’m gonna skip the next two men because they don’t really fall into this story very well and they were stories in their own that spanned over a decade in my life and deserve their own stories all about them.

Onto the last one. The one that changes everything. We knew each other a little, not really at all. Met at work and like the German I knew he wanted me. And I wanted to be loved in the way I felt I was being denied. We literally wrote each other every single day for months. Weaving a relationship out of misconception, imagination and desperation. It was the writing though. The texting. The black and white text medium. Again. The distance, real and physical and emotional. There was a literal ocean between us. Not to mention the reality of our lives. But the words connected us. Thousands of words. Words to create a highlight reel of an imaginary person that existed in our projected ideas of what we felt was missing in our lives, that fantasy of “ I want that, I’ve never had it, will I ever have it ? Is this person going to be everything I have ever wanted ? I want them to be. “

Finally after some time it came to fruition and it was glorious and horrible. So glorious I got lost in it, so horrible it stripped me of everything I had ever built for myself, everything I had ever thought I was. It left me for lack of a stronger word, devastated. Upon leaving him I wrote him a letter, all kindness, all forgiveness and all words. Pages and pages of words. And that was it. Never to speak to each other again, my letter had the last words.

Here I am lying in my bed, feet still cold and now my hands are too. Writing words. Thinking too deeply into what I am getting myself into. Here is a handsome man, strong and rugged with a life all his own before someone we mutually love suggested we connect. He seems intelligent and kind, flirty and fun. He is busy and works very hard and seems to be a grown up and for the first time in my life where a man is concerned, I feel like I may be the one who is less mature. I have been writing him words through texts for days. I am eager. For sure. I love weaving the story of who I am, dangling a beautiful and intense hook as bait and hoping with all of who I am that he will bite.

Why ? Why do I do this ? Is this going to turn out like all the others ? Is this a pattern I need to stop ? Can the process be honed and done correctly this time ? Or is this a repeat of a repeat of a repeat, the universe wanting me to put a stop to this ridiculous pattern and do it all differently. Do I refuse this process ? Do I gaurd myself against it because it could turn out the same ?

Am I insane doing something seemingly the same and expecting, hoping for a different result ?

Outside my bedroom window the Sun is melting the surface frost but not strong enough to soften the soil. I will put on my coat, stand on the porch and watch my breath in cold white clouds float through the air and dissipate. Hoping the answer comes. I sure have been waiting a long time for it.

A single golf clap? Or a long standing ovation?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.