On my own – once again
Tuesday, April 2, 1985
They say that once you’ve been on your own for a few years – divorced or such – it’s hard to get back.
You get set in your own ways.
This is what happened with me and Sadie years ago, and is happening with me and Fran after only a few months.
I spend my time the way I want and find it almost impossible to share my time.
Who on earth ever thought I would become greedy about time?
For years I puzzled over Pauly’s rude behavior when he insisted we keep from disturbing him, always claiming he was in the middle of some special project when he simply needed to be by himself.
I need large amounts of time to relax enough so I can write.
Fran, who wants me to make love to her on demand, seems to need to get inside of me.
Sometimes that’s okay, but sometimes not.
I admit, I really got off on the frequent sex when we first me – her big car pulling up to the window of the Clifton Fotomat booth where are worked, she asking if I liked to walk when she meant something more.
The next Sunday morning at 7 a.m. we walked up into the remote sections of South Mountain Reservation and screwed in the woods until we were both sore.
Maybe even then I suspected the worst, and that time or lack of it would become an issue – modifying the old saying into “man does not live by sex alone.”
Sometimes, we didn’t even talk.
She walked in, took off her clothes and we fucked and fucked and fucked.
My hormones got so screwed up, I could hardly think: I reacted, the way animals react, so I couldn’t even think about writing.
Part of this may have to do with her addiction to cocaine.
Since I refused to have any part of the drug, I was forced to keep up with her insatiable appetite by sheer will power, until sometimes I felt so drained, I walked around in a daze.
All this fell apart on New Years when we both realized we had gone as far as we could go, and she went off to her other lover because she saw me as too cold. I’ve grown colder with each of her visits since, perhaps needing to hammer the final nails into this coffin of our dead love.
This morning, she didn’t even knock, she just left a note in my mail box saying, “It’s over.”
I know it is. But I also know that I’ll miss her, and I already miss the sex.