The sudden realization that I have performed sexual acts with almost two thirds of the people on my Livejournal friends list hits me tonight as I sit on the toilet while I furiously masturbate and mentally count on my fingers as I try to remember who amongst the many accounts has seen me naked.
In a split second, several thoughts occur to me. Nearly two thirds can mean many things. It can mean that I am a really big slut. It can mean that I am a lousy lay and these people are really nice and feel pity on me and therefore stay in touch with me. It can mean that I am a fantastic friend and therefore they want to stay in touch with me afterwards. It can mean that they all get a huge kick out of laughing at my journal in a spiteful way. It can mean that I am a fantastic lay and they stay in touch with me to stroke their egos.
Three years ago I was not such a great lay, and I think to myself that I want to refuck everyone from that period of my life to show them how much I have improved. As soon as this thought flashes through my mind, it occurs to me that only in my manic states do I consider refucking half the state of Ohio while I masturbate in a public bathroom, but oh gosh golly gee, these thoughts are sure moving fast, and was I in here to piss?
I must be manic.
The next thought that occurs to me is it must have been that Greek coffee I just finished slurping down not fifteen minutes ago. My head is still floating all abuzz with the headiness, drunk on the caffeine, and I think to myself, Girlfriend, you have got to stop drinking coffee, but as I am coming I am thinking of the Cafe Mocha Milkshake at the deli and the utterly sinful way it stole my head for a half an hour, making me oblivious to all my worries.
God, it feels good. Not a care in the world.
Zip up my trousers and stroll over to the sink, look myself dead on in the mirror and see the eyes of a woman who can take on anyone in the room and make them her toy for the evening. Oh no, not this again, a small voice in my head thinks. Oh yes, this.
Wash my hands in the lukewarm water, every stroke tingling, my own touch delighting me. My skin is alive and craving contact, a sensation not unlike being on MDMA or GHB. And I realize, GHB — that is what I need right now. I need to get knocked the fuck out. I need to go home. I need to not put myself in this situation. I need to stop drinking caffeine.
I start to giggle and it turns into full blown laughter by the time I have sat back down in our booth. I need to sober up. I cannot drive like this. \”Are you okay?\” \”Yeah, I just need to sober up.\” \”You haven\’t been drinking.\” \”Oh, they put something in the coffee.\” By this point I am practically gagging, I am laughing so hard; tears are streaming out of my eyes and people are staring.
I drink the rest of my sludge. I must be manic. Surely that is the logic.
(paraphrasing as the memory serves)
\”Time to go home.\” \”I haven\’t paid the bill.\” \”I\’ll go get the waiter.\” \”Cassandra, just wait.\” \”Nooooo, I know him, he won\’t mind, he\’s just in the back.\” \”He\’ll be out in a few minutes; be patient.\” \”Patience is not something the manic are blessed with.\” \”You\’re manic?\” \”Only slightly.\” [pause] \”Was it from the caffeine? You warned me about that.\” \”I guess so, yeah.\” \”Are you hallucinating?\” \”Not unless your enormous phallus is a figment of my imagination.\” \”Cassandra!\” \”What?\” [both laugh, she signals for the check] \”If you\’re paying, that means I have to put out now, right?\” \”Cassandra!\” \”Okay, good. \’Cos I\’m horny like a bitch in heat.\” [he stares] \”Time to get you home.\” \”That\’s what you said the first night we met. I thought you didn\’t like me.\” \”Didn\’t like you? Why did you think that?\” \”I thought you were trying to get rid of me, \’time to get you home\’. I thought kissing me was obligatory. I thought you were an asshole. An attractive asshole, but an asshole.\” \”Then why the hell did you keep talking to me?\” \”I like assholes. They\’re more interesting. Most of my friends are assholes.\” \”Most of your friends treat you like shit.\” \”Most of my friends treat everyone, including themselves, like shit. They have self esteem problems. We tend to gravitate towards each other.\” \”Well maybe you should stop.\” \”I\’m working on it.\” \”You\’re not working on it hard enough.\” \”Is that a challenge? Are you challenging me?\” \”Yes, yes I\’m challenging you. You need to be challenged. You\’re surrounded by bullshit constantly and while your life is complex and you have many hurdles to overcome, you\’re not being challenged in your personal relationships. They\’re all petty and one dimensional. Stop taking the easy road with people, Cassandra, stop gravitating towards assholes and people who don\’t treat themselves or you well.\” \”And what, gravitate towards you and let you treat me like a queen?\” \”I never said I would treat you like a queen. Like a human being above all else, like a spoiled brat if that\’s how you\’re behaving, or like the scared little girl that I saw the other night. I\’ll treat you as you deserve, and as you treat me.\” [silence] \”Time to take you home, then?\” \”Yes.\” \”I\’ll drive. Give me your keys.\”
I hand him my keys, defeated, as we crawl out of the booth and head out of the restaurant, having paid and waved goodbye to the service team who were still amused by my drinking the Greek coffee. (\”You know it\’s mud, right?\”) We walk in eerie silence in the darkness, me trying not to stumble in my half coherent state and he looking ridiculous carrying my wallet with its chain and keys. I followed him to the car, having forgotten where it was myself.
Somewhere in the parking lot my hand reaches for his left arm, wiry and strong, the veins prominent above the muscles. I run my fingertips through the softness of the hair on his forearm; it is light and sparse, and in the parking lot lights it all looks white, but I know it is not. \”I\’m sorry.\” \”For what?\” We stop walking and stand in the middle of the lot by a car that is not mine, and I look into his eyes with eyes that are not my own, but are instead swirling with the hyper surrealism of mania.
\”I don\’t like being manic, not anymore. Things always go wrong, I always regret everything that happens, everything I do, everything that is said. It\’s a sickness, and I can prevent it, and if I don\’t, it\’s my fault. And I fucked up. We were pretty harsh with each other back there — we\’ve never done that before and I wish we hadn\’t, but I like your challenge. You\’re right, and I accept, but then you have to keep your end of the bargain and treat me as I treat you and how I deserve, and not how you want to treat me at that moment.\” \”I couldn\’t do that all the time. There would be times when my emotions would take over.\” \”I know.\” \”We can try.\” \”Trying is a start.\” \”You have yourself a bargain. Now let\’s get you home.\”
And now I\’m home. Sonata in my system, coming down off the caffeine, coming down off the mania, depression sinking in, wondering what the hell happened to Mattie tonight, and my head is about to collapse on the keyboard in exhaustion.
So that, my friends, that was mania. That out of control, oversexualized, overdramatic, truth spilling demon — that was her. By the time I wake up in the morning for yoga she will be gone, thank heaven, but she will be replaced with her dark and sinister sister, depression. Perhaps she will have a story to tell you tomorrow.