(Cole) 3/29/14

Hola a todos!  I hope that everyone is doing well. 

I’m going to just jump right in and get at it.  No apologies this time, as it’s only been just over a week.  I really want to be better at posting on time again.  I don’t have the nuclear hours or outage excuse for my lengthy intervals in-between posts, but the rockiness of my life certainly has contributed to my ridiculously long gaps of silence.  As any consistent reader of my posts will know, not having reliable work really hits me hard, and it effects the way I write, love, and basically function in general.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say I have a solid, consistent, “real” job just yet, but I’m getting there, and until I have that holy grail of dependable work, I have my (previous) bosses from the nuke plant, who continue to go out of their way to keep me gainfully employed, which I appreciate probably more than they know, and just last week I had a trial run with a pretty cool dude who does drywall.  Needless to say I passed, and he has work for me, so until I find something more concrete, I think I can continue to keep my head above water, for now.  But enough about work.  Let’s get into the marrow of what these posts are primarily about…

I watched a documentary the other day on the earthquake and ensuing nuclear fallout caused by the tsunami at Fukushima, in Japan.  I learned that the quake was so large in magnitude that it actually further tilted the earth’s axis by 25 centimeters, and has shortened our days on this planet by about one second per day.

One second per day does not seem significant.  One would hardly notice a stolen second.  One second per day seems almost trivial, but think about how much time you will have lost by the time your days come to a halt.  If you could save up those seconds in some sort of bank, how much could you save, and what would you spend those seconds on, should you be lucky enough to cash out, and dictate the use of those previously considered insignificant seconds?  365 seconds per year, saved up specially for you, to slam on God or Satan’s desk of judgment as if it were the table of a pawn shop and you were fortunate enough to collect before you perished…  

The time has come for me to eat crow, and I’m fine with it.  I don’t do it reluctantly, I almost do it with pleasure.  It’s really easy for us to bitch.  We bitch about jobs, friends, lovers, roommates, and, myself especially, the cunt ass motherfucking twat waffles in front on me on the road who don’t know how to drive!  And don’t even get me started on the fucktards in the line at the supermarket that ask the cashier where the corn is as they’re checking out.  I guess my point is that sometimes it’s easier to complain than to sing praise, and I think this is a shame. 

Sometimes I think we do it because venting can be incredibly gratifying, cathartic, and even somewhat orgasmic, especially when a lot of other things are going pretty sour and curdling in our lives.  I also think that, as good friends, when things are going well in our lives, we don’t like to brag and rub it in.  No one can really stand the idiotic grin and nauseating verbal incontinence of a person who believes they are truly in love.  The saying “misery loves company”, like many other sayings and stereotypes, was not invented for no reason.  There is a hint of truth to it, and no one really wants to be the asshole who flutters around all giddy with cupid’s arrow stuck up their ass.  If you have any respect, for yourself and for others, you do your best to keep that shit to yourself (as you let that sly grin tilt you lips upward when you glance at yourself in the mirror, in a bathroom, alone, and simultaneously make sure you don’t have any boogers in your nose or lipstick on your teeth)!

So this post is more about crooning than complaining.  The Rapist does not read my posts, at least, not that I know of.  Perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn’t.  He knows that I write posts, and he knows that he is more often than not the subject of my posts.  We’ve very rarely spoken about my posts, and he has never asked to read one, and that is fine with me, in fact, I think it’s probably better that way.  I don’t want him to behave in a specific manner because he has read that I would like him to.  I would like him to just be him, without coaxing or subtle coercion.  That way, if he buys me tamales and scotch (read previous post) he will have done it just because he wants to, and not because I wanted him to, or suggested that I would like him to do something I thought he should do.

The first day that I wanted to eat crow was Friday, March 21’st, and my desire to eat such a foul looking bird has only waxed since then.  I was coming down to spend the weekend.  Friday daytime and evening we had together, then I was working Saturday, and we were to spend Saturday night and Sunday daytime together before he went back to work Sunday night. 

I rolled up around four in the afternoon at his place.  We didn’t really know what we wanted to do, but I asked if I could wash my car and he said ‘of course’.  This business of washing cars has been a sort of ongoing joke between us for quite some time, as I always used to tease him and say if his car (or truck) was dirty it meant he had no self-respect.  I would say this while my car would be absolutely disgusting, just to dick with him.  Anyway, when I first rolled up to his place, he had a beer cracked and waiting for me, and though he joked that he would just sit on the edge of his truck and point out any spots I might have missed as I worked and he drank beer, he quickly grabbed a sponge and began helping me. 

We washed the car together, laughing, listening to music, and I dare even say he worked harder than I did!  He even did my rims and tires.  We had a blast!  Talking shit, spraying the dogs down (though not intentionally), drinking beer, and rocking out.  It was just a completely “insignificant” moment in time that was, in reality, actually quite significant.  The kind of thing I would save up seconds for just to do again.

Later that night we ordered pizza and had a fire in the fire pit in his back yard, drank beer and talked more shit, lounging with the dogs.  He poured me a taste of this somewhat “exotic’ vodka he thought I would like and we drank some really epic Belgian Beer.  The kind of night that doesn’t seem all that special, but is exactly the kind of night you end up appreciating more than the expensive dinner out on the town.  Then we fucked like animals and crashed out in bed, our bodies entwined (something I never thought I would enjoy, and even avoided like the plague with my ex, because, I just never understood why anyone would actually want to fall asleep touching another person before, when a bed is typically large enough for each person to have their own side.)

The next morning he mocked me for setting three alarms, despite the fact that I really only needed one.  This is one of my OCD things that I think is hilarious that he hassles me about, especially considering the fact that he has way more OCD quirks than I do, but I let it slide.  So anyway, my first alarm goes off at five AM, and he is as awake and erect as my alarm.  No complaints here, except he doesn’t let me go back to sleep after.  All of the sudden, at like, 5:30 in the fucking morning, on a morning that I have to work and he doesn’t, he’s all in the mood to chat about life.  Fuck that!  I tell him to shut up and go back to sleep, until the next alarm, and then the next. 

When the final alarm goes off at seven, he tells me to stay in bed and he gets up to make coffee, allowing me to snooze for a few more minutes.  (Spoiler alert: If a man being sweet makes you ill, stop reading, because it only gets worse from here.)  Once coffee is ready, he brings me a cup in bed.  It’s sweet, to be sure, but it’s also sort of like a dagger in my side.  The man fucks me like a boss for a second time and then makes and brings me coffee?  SOOOOOOO not conducive to making me want to get out of bed and get ready for work!

As I’m dragging a brush though my fucked up sex hair and pulling on my Dickie’s, caked with paint and caulk, he’s packing me a lunch, complete with a sweet little love note, he gives me $60.00 for gas, and tells me he’ll take good care of my dog, Jean-Jacques, aka “the Peanut”, aka the ‘Nut.  My heart of ice is already melting, and by the time I get back to his place, well, I didn’t really even have a chance…

I drove home from work that Saturday thinking I was going to be cooking dinner.  Honestly, I didn’t think the man had any skills (outside the bedroom), and he had picked up some epic king crab the night before.  Not that I would mind cooking after working, I do it all the time, I just really wasn’t prepared in any way for what would ensue once I kicked off my crusty work boots and stepped back inside the Rapist’s door. 

The first thing he did was hand me a beer.  Smart man.  As I’m beginning to unwind, and sip my beer, he begins preparations for cooking dinner.  As I was expecting to be the one cooking that night, I was somewhat surprised, and asked if he needed any help.  He told me that he had everything under control, coaxed me to take a shower and relax.  So I did just that.  The man came through and then some.  He steamed king crab and melted butter and garlic, steamed a delicious artichoke, and made garlic bread, all the while just making sure I was relaxed and comfortable, and never ran out of beer.  To send me over the edge, he tells me how he took care of my precious Cacahuete (aka the Peanut). 

It was so adorable watching him cook, so nervous, wanting to get everything right, to impress me, and also to hear him wax on about how “overly protective” he was with my Cacahuete!  He said if anything happened to the Cacahuete, that it would be the “end of him”, and he wasn’t about to let anything happen to my dog.  Cupid could have pulled that damn arrow out of my ass and shoved it straight through my heart right then.  They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.  Well the way to my heart is through my dog (and my vagina), and he thinks the Cacahuete is “the coolest Chihuahua in the world”.  I was somewhat mentally stunted, trying to absorb everything, until I ate, and felt revitalized, rejuvenated, and once again, horny as fuck. 

The next day we slept in until about noon, fucked, took the dogs for a long walk, went out to lunch, and then went for a drive in Montana de Oro because the weather was so nice.  His car is a stick shift, which I find kind of sexy, and I mentioned that to him.  We started talking about the last time I drove a manual, and when I said it had been about ten years, driving through Switzerland on my way to Germany from France, all the of the sudden he says “give me third gear”, and then he had me shifting for him all the way back to his place.  Again, the tiny little gestures, the way he would put his hand on my leg or steal a quick kiss just totally melted the layer of ice that typically incases my heart. 

We came home, fucked again, and napped for about an hour.  He had to work that night, so I got up and made coffee, brought him a cup and sat on the counter of the bathroom and watched him shave (I looooove watching him shave, and he even put the razor in my hand and guided it over his face) and then we went our separate ways.

That weekend alone was enough for me to eat crow and thank the man for being really great and taking good care of me (and my dog), but the following weekend came around and he was even more wonderful.  I know, I know.  I’m practically puking in my own mouth, but as much of an asshole as the Rapist can be, I think he’s actually a pretty good man.  A good man who knows how to be a dick, and knows when to provide the dick, and, oddly enough, knows when to not be a dick and just make some epic food...  And then, yeah, the penis again… 

The following weekend, I came over around two in the afternoon.  We had a couple of retarded good nights, during his seven nights off (the nuclear schedule can be a bit strange for operators), but now we were back to him facing night shift again.  I came over semi early so we could have a nice lunch and “day drink”, AKA get a little shitty and enjoy each others’ recreational capabilities for as long as we could stay awake.  The thing is, my ability to stay afloat, financially speaking, had become increasingly dire.  As awkward as it was for me, I needed to ask him an incredibly uncomfortable question:  Would he mind if I stayed the following night as well, even thought he had to work that night and therefore would not be home with me, because it would help me out financially (petrol.  Yes, I’ve become ghetto.  Direct any questions you may have at your convenience…)  

The man didn’t even flinch.  He had no problem allowing me to sleep in his home, in his bed without him, eat his food, drink his beer, watch his netflicks, and turn his thermostat to whatever temperature I chose (to which I would later regret, because, as I said before, he is actually more OCD than I am).  Not only was he so kind and obliging to welcome me to stay that first night, as he was working and tired at the power plant, he actually invited and encouraged me to stay a second night, to eat his food and drink his beer, etc. 

The second night without him, I wasn’t planning on staying.  I came back to his place sweaty and gross, and just wanted to pick up my dog, collect my overnight bag, grab a quick shag, and go home to my house.  Of course since the Rapist had been, honestly speaking, pretty fucking rad, I wanted to take his ridiculously large, yet adorable and totally loveable 120 pound German Shepard (along with the ‘Nut) for a walk around the block before bouncing, so that he wouldn’t have to.  I made the Rapist coffee, and as it was brewing and I was packing up my shit in the bedroom, he looked at me from across the threshold and asked what I was doing.  I told him I was packing up and getting ready to leave.  He looked at me again and told me I should stay.  He said I had worked hard and I should relax and crack a beer.  He said that I should take a bath, chill out and enjoy myself.  He said that he understood that I just needed to be alone.  I think he understood that, as much as I love my current living situation, a part of me misses having a place to myself, and he not only respected that, he wanted to help give that to me, even if I was only faux-coy enough to accept it because I was dirty, tired, and really looking forward to soaking in his tub with a dry martini in one hand, and the only novel written by Salvador Dalí in the other.  As I have said before; the Rapist is a smart man, mostly because he gets me, and to be honest, I don’t think I’m exactly an easy woman for most men to “get”.  We most certainly have our issues, but I think primarily, at the end of the day, we just want to make each other happy.  If nothing else, it’s a pretty damn good start to something that could turn into something pretty epic. 

The following morning when he got home from work, he rousted me in bed and told me I had turned the thermostat up too high and I had sour beer breath.  I told him to go fuck himself, and that if he grabbed me a rock or a hammer I would gladly break one of his bedroom windows to cool the air so his crabby, OCD, old man ass could chill the fuck out.  We had epic sex, he brought us both a beer and I made myself coffee.  My plan was to leave, but he talked me into staying, for a little nap.  I took the dogs for a quick trot around the block as he showered, we drank one last beer, and then quickly fell asleep.  I awoke at noon when he got up to piss.  When he came back to bed I told him I was leaving.  He asked me to stay, and as much as I really wanted to, I knew I had to leave.  We may be “together” in some ways, but we are still separate people with separate lives.  I’ve told him before that I don’t want to get too domestic too quick because I think that ruins sex lives, and that’s the last thing I could want!  Besides, I can’t deny that it felt kind of good to know that, even though he wanted me to stay, I left anyway, just because I could.  It’s not that I want to be there all the time, because I don’t, but when I’m not there, I want my lack of presence to be felt, and I want it to smart a little...