Again, something a little different.
What is it, to be in love? Is it the endorphin packed, anticipatory rush that smothers you with passion; a craving so bone deep it overwhelms all the senses? Fingers gliding over corded muscle slick with sweat, that thick, heady aroma of musk – is that it – desire mixing with the taste of salt on his skin? Love is its own truth, in a way – a separate craving; no – beyond that, really; love creates, yes – but through deep, gut wrenching pain. Lovers construct their own particular cross.
Why is it we always remember that one, destructive obsession? The urge is to romanticize it, glossing over the memories of bitter tears and shredded hearts. I loved him, and I hated him, and there are still times when I would go back to all that and damn the consequences. I was the one who left – knowing that staying would have destroyed the both of us. He was just too drawn to the dark side – and I willingly went there with him – fevered and crazy beyond rational thought. Life in the fast lane truly makes you lose your mind.
He was younger than me – by enough to make a difference. I managed to keep at least one foot on the ground (some of the time), but it was hard. He dealt drugs, hustled pool (taught me well enough to still play a dangerous game) robbed houses, boosted cars – I made him stop almost all of that. He loved me enough to do it, too; mostly. The drugs – that was the brick wall. I should have walked away, should have ended it then and there – but I couldn’t. Sex, yes – it was, to some extent about sex – even now I can smell leather, tobacco and marijuana, when thinking of him. The pot heightened the experience – elevated it into something transcendent – spiritual and carnal all at once. But it was also the danger; satisfaction gleaned through living life on the edge – we were quite the pair, he and I – a force to be reckoned with, in our own way.
Now, whenever I think of him, a welter of emotions hits with a fury that bewilders – rage, grief – fire and ice. Not indifference; oh no – never that. I never was and never could be indifferent to that man. The pull is so strong that, even now, all these years later, we could never dare be in the same city, let alone in the same room. We haven’t spoken in 20 years, but I know where to find him. We loved and fought and almost destroyed each other to a pastiche of Joan Jett, AC/DC and Foreigner. He was a devil, and I knew it. Every time I see a tall, slim man with long blond hair, there’s a visceral twist – for years my heart would actually leap; but it was never him, thank God. I made my choice, and I chose another. I would not alter the past, even if granted the power to do so.
Was this love? Drowning in rarified air, unable to gain any purchase, fingers clutching for invisible rope. I thought so at the time. Hurtling through life till one or the both of you implode can be addictive – you come to expect that hot adrenaline rush. Never mind that you feel sick afterward – spent and empty – yearning for the next thrill so you can feel alive again. I was old enough to know this was not how it should always be; at least, not for me. He was going to end up dead, or in jail, and I had no desire to lay myself down beside him in that grave. I craved stability – I could no longer live my life in the ether, pretending to be on solid ground. Love is not enough, if that’s what this was.
So I ran, ran far away, ran into the arms of the man I chose. He followed, lying to himself, pretending we had a future. Come with me, he said – leave him. Come back to what we had. I looked around at my then ordered life, and for one brief wild moment heard the sirens song of desire. Felt his hands on my skin, hot breath on my neck, the sheer, animal need to tear through the woods as if all the demons of hell were behind me, reckless, abandoned – two wolves driven by blood and instinct. It was tempting; there’s a kind of freedom that comes with irresponsibility. He and I had shared the wild heart of the young, but I was through with childish things.
I saw him fade into memory. Soon, all that was left was a dream, colored by time and distance. Were we in love, he and I? As the years tick by, those old memories seem to acquire their own special patina. It is easy to convert passion into something finer, more lasting. Certainly the memory lingers. Oh my yes, the memory of that man still skirts the edges of my mind. Music will trigger it, or I’ll hear a certain laugh. Sometimes it’s the smell of eucalyptus. Age does not dim desire. I spent years riding the crest of it. That perpetual state of high dungeon cannot fail but leave its mark. Still – it was a long time ago. Perhaps they have no portion in us now – love and desire and hate. Maybe that’s my answer. Past, not perfect, not gone. I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure. No more lovers cross for me.
