You are sweet and dark

You are sweet and dark. 

You are sweet and dark. You refuse to live life on a lark. You want to explore, putting yourself on a ledge, testing your limits and boundaries at all times. Life to you is a constant and chronic flirtation with disasters and last-minute triumphs. Of course, you are very sensitive. You don't phone in and tell people you are still alive. You jump right in front of people's faces and say, "I am here. Anybody is game for life?"

So, you held her up close. You pressed your groin against hers. You palmed her ass, caressing and pressing it forward. And then you kissed her. Your hand moved to her breasts. Then you unbuttoned her blouse. She wore no bra, as she had advertised. Her tiny  tits were now in full view. You lowered your head and took them, in turn, into your mouth. She was groaning with delight. She was responding. She took your sex which was already hard into her hand and fingered it. 

Afterwards, as she lay beside you, her head snuggling close to your chest, she said, please don't ever leave me. You said nothing. Fear and loneliness had already returned.

Your writing has taken on a disturbing Freudian overtone lately. You're a late bloomer. For years you suppressed what you envisioned what must have happened to Laura right before she left you for another man. It was too painful for you. You would not be able to take it. Now you are able to empathize. You don't get angry. You are just disappointed and cynical. And then you told yourself that you would concentrate on making money and on your body and mind, and the hell with Laura. But she keeps showing up in unexpected moments. Your mind is telling you to be very careful.

You asserted that life is richer and stranger than fiction. Fiction is just the imagination of one author at a time and his imagination must be grounded on plausibility coupled with an artistic control over his imagination while life is a daily farrago of the expected and unexpected, the strange and sometimes pathetic attempts of humans trying to assert their worth and their moments in the sun before they die in obscurity, loneliness, and amidst a sense of insignificance.

You don't think you are wrong for holding such a futilitarian and absurdist view of life. You have seen enough examples.

Mimi called and woke you up.  At first you thought it was Denise. You were about to click off the phone when she identified herself. Mimi talked about Denise of course. She defended her. You were calm and serene. You simply said you had misplaced your compassion and once again you had an error of judgment. You told her that you didn't know shit about women as you bragged and boasted. In fact you were and still are a babe in the woods as far as life is concerned. You talk a good game, but you are naive and trusting and stupid. Mimi said, don't sell yourself short, why you keep talking down about yourself? you have no self-confidence or what? I like strong, confident men. You said, then you wouldn't like me, I am stupid and weak and yet full of noise and thunder. She laughed and tenderly said, you're a strange man, no wonder Denise fell for you. You said nothing to that cryptic comment. Then she queried after an awkward moment,   Roberto, you still there? You replied, yes. 

-Did I say anything wrong?
-No, not really.
-What do you mean?
-Listen, you know and I know you are a strong and smart woman. You don't have as much education and book knowledge as I do, but you know your street savvy has impressed me. Also, your heart has been incredible. I am just a guy floundering about in the sea of life, impractical and disdainful of money and hell-bent on destroying myself by saying the wrong things and taking unnecessary risks. I am strange, all right.
-Roberto, stop talking about yourself that way! I don't like it. I think you are definitely more than you describe yourself, otherwise I wouldn't bother to call you. By the way, why don't you EVER call me once?
-Because you already have a big-shot CEO as a boy-friend!!
- Shit! You're more stupid than I thought. Anyway, what are you doing? Did I wake you up?
-Mimi, you called me at one in the morning and now you're asking me if you woke me up?
-Sorry, go back to sleep. I was thinking of you and wanted to know if you are still seeing Denise. Please, call me sometimes, will you?

You waited for exactly ten days and called her at 10 pm

-Hi, Mimi, this is Roberto. Can you talk?
-Roberto! Of course, I can. What's up?
-You asked me to call you. Here I am. At Her Majesty Service.
-(Chuckle) I like that. Treating me a queen. Am I a queen to you, Roberto?
-Mimi, I've been thinking since we last talked. In fact, I've been thinking too much.
-What have you been thinking?
-Your calling me at one in the morning and your words. I am confused and I am afraid.
-Of what?
-Of you are toying and playing games with me.
-I'm cutting to the chase. I am very, very glad that you called. It's very good to hear your voice. What took you so long? Don't you like me?
-What's about your CEO friend?
-I am about through with him. He's too controlling and acting like he owns me. I have my own money, not as much as his, but I'm not starving.  
-Mimi, I don't have much money.
-I know that, silly. I don't care. Be straight with me. Do you like me?
-I don't have to tell you that,
-Do you? I want you to say it one way or another.
-Yes, very much.
-I thought and hoped so. Good. I know you are busy and need to make money. I will fly out there and spend a couple of days with you. You go on with your daily routine. I just hang around in your apartment, reading and resting or making some phone calls. We go out when you get back from work. Okay?
-When are you coming?
-Next week. Let me see. Hmm, next Friday. I can't wait to see you.
-Neither can I.

Friday arrived not soon enough for you. You took the afternoon off from work. You arrived at the airport early although you had told Mimi that you would pick her up at the passenger pick-up area. You wanted to watch how she walked towards the rendezvous area and the expressions on her face when you surprised her. It turned out she surprised you. She had a tight cream-colored jeans on, a white blouse, a scarf, a beret, and sunglasses while dragging a LV suitcase. She walked briskly with eager anticipation, her shapely breasts bouncing happily up and down. Your heart soared. You approached her from behind, saying "Excuse me, Miss. You seem to be lost. May I help you? "She turned around and exclaimed: "Roberto!" and flew into your arms and kissed you squarely on the mouth. Then she smiled and dropped a bombshell: "Now, tell me about the old hag Heather. You are not seeing her anymore, are you?" You stopped walking, stunned, and blushed "But how did you know about Heather?"

She kept on smiling, held onto your arm, and said, "I know a lot about you, more than you ever know. Where's your car?"
 
 
Roberto Wissai
July 8, 2011

Postscript:
You showed the above "story" to several admirers and aficionados. One wrote back, saying she was upset and jealous. That led you to write the following comment:

"When you read my words, don't wonder and wander into a realm of speculation and search for any autobiographical elements. Instead, watch the words and see if they have any artistic merits: does the story make sense? Do the sentences flow? Do the  words sing and dance and leave a lingering trace in your mind because they are striking and graphic and evocative as well as funny and hauntingly absurd? There is no need to shed tears over what I wrote. The story is a product of imagination. I am not that lucky nor charming. What I am blessed and cursed is a fantasy that threatens constantly to intrude into reality. Mimi does have a CEO boyfriend. And she does flirt with me, albeit very lightly and discreetly, as she couldn't help herself. She never makes any arrangement to see  me, however. Fiction is just another name for wishful thinking. As I often deride, all the so-called religious "miracles" in the Bible and other texts are exercises in fiction. My life has also been a lame and tame Walter Mitty story."

Omar read the "story" in your presence. He kept asking that if you actually wrote the story yourself. Exasperated, you exclaimed, "Omar, can't you see the point? If I plagiarized and copied from somewhere, I wouldn't excitedly and proudly showed it to you, fucker!" After he finished reading, he smiled and posed a question, "Is any of these true? Where and how did you meet these women?". You touched your head with a forefinger, "It's all up here."

He then said, " Roberto, you're a writer. You have a sense of the real physical presence of feelings. You are an ego in search of an id and of love. I wish you luck."

You sighed, grasped his arm, and intoned, "I don't have a clue what you said. I was not looking for any praise. I was hoping for understanding. You don't have to praise me. The bottom line is that whether as you read the story, you wonder what happens next and whether it lingers on in your mind. Any good story is the one that compels you to go back and read it again and again and again to the point it is part of how you feel and think and remember."


The same reader who earlier expressed petulance and peevishness came back and now raised the issue that there was a disconnect between the title and the story. To that you replied:

"You have to try harder to connect the dots in the story, from the title to the postscript. 

The protagonist describes himself as sweet and dark. The story begins with his musings on his restless search for "disaster and last-minute triumphs". Then suddenly he describes an erotically-charged atmosphere where there was a lack of any description of coitus despite the preceding leading in. The erotic atmosphere ended with the cryptic, Fear and loneliness had already returned.' This was the first clue of the dark character of the protagonist. 

The rest of the story explored his sweetness which attracted women of all ages.  

The postscript cast the story in a philosophical frame. It is an ego in search of an id and of love.


Wissai
July 8, 2011