"The Exquisite Pain"
Masochism comes in many forms, many styles. Some people like a little spanking or other bed-tough-stuff. Some people enjoy the pain of tattoos and piercings, not only the beautiful results. Many of us enjoy the delicious heartache of falling in love with someone that is just entirely wrong for us. I have enjoyed (as well as hated) an on again, off again "complicationship" with Bartender for nearly ten beautiful, tedious months now. What we share is nothing you could call a relationship in the conventional sense of the word. You could barely call us friends at the best of times. What we have is most realistically described as an alcohol-induced haze of sex, laughter, and split personalities. Once in a while I will refer to him as my boyfriend (although God forbid I should ever say it in front of him), just to over-simplify the idea that he's the one I want and I'm not particularly looking for anyone else. Other times I refer to him as Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Jackass. Each time I scroll through my phonebook to find his name is a game of Russian Roulette; there's no way of knowing if he's going to say he wants to marry me, fuck me, or forget I exist. Still, I love him. He has no idea, of course.
This became all the more twisted last Saturday night when it occurred to me that I'm not sure if he even remembers my real name. The previous week, we were out drinking (per usual) when he jokingly introduced me to a couple of friends as "Ol' What's-her-name". Not even giving him a chance to redeem himself, I laughed, gave him a little back-handed comment, and introduced myself properly. This past Saturday, I temporarily lost my phone somewhere in his house, and while he was outside smoking a cigarette, I borrowed his cell phone to call mine. My number wasn't saved in it. It suddenly dawned on me that I don't remember the last time I heard him say my name. He has a variety of pet names for me, something you'd expect from a playboy that doesn't want to get his conquests mixed up. But is it really possible, that after all this time and all these nights spent together, that he doesn't remember my name? He obviously has my phone number memorized, but could he not know my name? Really? As sick and surreal as our past may be, this still seems far-fetched even for us. Still, the evidence was mounting as I rolled over in his bed and waited for him to come back inside.
When he came back in and fell fast asleep, I looked around his bedroom in a new light (or rather, in what little light there was). I looked at his old school tattoos moving to the rhythm of his breathing, at the kitschy leopard print sheets on his bed, at his beautiful, beloved stand-up bass resting in the corner, and finally at the straw cowboy hat sitting on his dresser. We'd bought it together at a gas station, half-jokingly at first before I begged him to wear it at his next show. That was on one of our best nights together, and I mean when they're good, they're so good. The next night I'd spent with him after that was one of our worst nights, and on my way out the door, I saw the hat and briefly considered setting it on fire. I'm not generally all that crazy; he just really brings it out in me sometimes.
In the dim light, I realized that silly hat was everything we were. Cheap, tacky, and cliche; yet playful, fun, and almost kind of beautiful in an ironic sort of way. I thought to myself, Is this really the kind of relationship I want? A gas station cowboy hat? I looked back at him in the moonlight, my rockabilly god, my exquisite pain, and fell into a peaceful sleep.
Final summation: None.
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