One of my ex-girlfriends (serious relationship ex #4 for those keeping score at home) would complain to me incessantly. About me.
She was a highly strung individual and always needed everything single thing to be a certain way. And I, well, I am not like that at all. I am more of a “what you see is what you get and be damned what anyone else thinks” kinda guy. Perfect match right?
One of her many, many quibbles was that I would exit the car slowly. Apparently so slowly that it needed to be brought to my attention. Repeatedly.
I have never paid for sex. Well, not in the traditional way of exchanging money for goods or services. I have, however, paid through other less direct means. Dinners, holidays, clothing, jewellery, heartache, angst, slashed tyres…
For those keeping score at home; I don’t think that there is anything wrong with exchanging money for sex. A business transaction that happens between two, or more, consenting adults is strictly their business and by no means grounds to judge.
That said; it’s not something that I myself would do. My rationale being: why pay money to remove the pleasure of mutually thrilling exploratory conversation? I like conversation. Conversation with a girl you find physically and mentally stimulating is the greatest invention of all time.
I’ve always had an unnatural fear of sitting next to attractive women on public transport. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bus, tram, train, ferry, plane or Heli-carrier; I feel slightly uneasy whenever I sit next to a pretty girl. This fear has absolutely nothing to do with a lack of confidence or some form of general social anxiety and more to do with the fact that I suspect pretty girls know they’re pretty.
Those that know me in the real world would take that statement as an opportunity to chime in with an enormously humorous and completely underused, “Heh, I can tell.” Comedic geniuses.
I do this not for money saving purposes or to make a poorly articulated statement about individualism.
No. I do it because historically I have never been able to find a hairdresser that cut my hair how I wanted it cut. They always cut it how THEY wanted to cut it, or how THEY think would look best. Without fail.
And I’d leave the hair salon with completely unrequested Emily The Strange style bangs or, even worse, a mullet, feeling equal parts angry/sad/confused.
Here I am sitting in a quiet Balinese warung enjoying a few quiet beers, for a change, when in walk a quartet of pretty young Australian girls and sit directly opposite me like some kind of hyper excitable, reality show judging panel. I honestly kept waiting for them debate my merits amongst themselves…
“Hm, I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“Too odd, too retro. “
“Grunge died 15 years ago. Can’t see you selling, sorry dawg.” Or something equally truthful and brutal.
These 2 forces, She + Her, are entirely symbolic of my own internal struggle.
Her; My doubts, insecurities, my rage/frustrations, my impotence, my complete submissive willingness to change/forgo everything I am just to please.
My belief that Her knows what is right in the world and, because of my past transgressions, I should follow Her blindly. Without question; lest I become a bastard again… Her makes me feel wracked with thought. Must think. Must think! Don’t react!