Flight

I stood there stupidly, just past Customs with my whole life in tow. It was only a carry-on sized load. All I could do was stare dumbly at the black screen of my phone.

"Miss, you have to move on."

Yeah, tell me about it.

"Connecting flights to the left, exit to the right."

I almost explained to the guard that I didn't know what I was doing, that I had a big decision to make and many factors to consider. But, too exhausted to find the words, I didn't bother. I went to the right and got in a cab.

I had knots in my stomach all the way into Manhattan. What was I doing? I had willfully missed my connecting flight out of New York and I didn't have any money to pay a cab. I was trusting the word of a man that I had never met in person who had told me not to worry about it. He was a good friend of a good friend, but still, was I insane?

When I left Slater in the Istanbul airport, we were both in tears. His were silent, masculine, and graceful, and mine were hot, messy, and snotty with terrible facial contortions and body convulsions as accompaniments. My expressions of grief only worsened as I passed the point of no return and headed toward the boarding gate, his smell still in my hair. It didn't seem possible that in the few weeks we were together that we could fill holes in each others hearts that neither of us knew we had, and yet... there we were. Ripping ourselves out again, cutting the cords, pulling ourselves away before the idea had fully formed, imaginations running wild with the thick spread of idealism and the glitter of day dreams. I took off with a barely brave face streaked with those tears.

Two glasses of white and a couple painkilling sleeping pills later, I woke up an hour away from New York, having processed nothing. And yet, in that time something emotionally significant had transpired.  I left Istanbul behind in an ancient dream universe and found myself literally plummeting forth into another adventure, another city, and another man.

Meet Slater in the previous post.
For more considerations of polyamory and the traveling lifestyle, check out Distance: Emotional Problems of Nomadism.

Doesn't Take Much, Does It?

Developing further intimate attachments wasn't part of the plan. But in the six weeks by which I extended my Istanbul trip, I lost people in my life back home who were frustrated by my extended absence and irresponsible decision making and I gained a community in Istanbul. Like that Burning Man saying: the playa giveth, the playa taketh away...

Like I said, attachment wasn't what I was in for, and here he was talking about love. Every other sentence used that loaded word and I heard them being popped off like BB's from a newly acquired air gun. Finally, I felt I had to confront it, though I felt silly for doing so.

"When a man loves a woman like this--"

"Are you trying to tell me you love me?"

"No...

I guessed I was paranoid and indeed, very silly. 

"...well, fuck it, yes. Yes, I'm crazy about you. I love you. Which is dumb because I know it's fast, and all it can do is serve to hurt you, but I love you. And I want to tell you all the time."

Not so silly after all. This was the last thing I was expecting to result from our beginnings, which for all purposes should have remained a one night stand. Now it seemed that some investments had been made. I'm not sure that either of us had bargained for that, especially just after my rocky road with Sweetie and my imminent return to the States. That we both knew I was leaving soon put an interesting immediacy on everything we experienced together, but I found him to be surprisingly emotionally forthcoming for an American-raised man:

"I feel like I have to show you every thing at once... I mean I want to. But I'm scared, darlin'. And I'm hurtin'."

At first it was innocuous enough. Who seduced who we still quibble about. As he would describe things, I gave him a look that spoke loudly and clearly. He set his sights on me and I tested his persistence with off-handedness. We played a sweet game of cat and mouse and eventually we ended up at my place to chow down on some midnight mantı (Turkish ravioli in a spicy butter and yogurt sauce).

Next thing I knew, my arms were pinned to the bed. Though I hadn't begun the night "on the prowl", I was happy to play with him. He was handsome and charming enough -- he instinctively knew how to make me laugh. And though he had many physically admirable qualities, being tall, blonde, fit, and Danish, as he pressed into me I found myself distracted in admiration of his teeth. They had character. He was full of character -- he grew up in a traveling circus and continued the charade all the way through the Ivy League. His life had always been fascinating in summary, if lonely in practice, and as an adult he seemed to seek out his fascinations in... adult realms.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like semen on your chest."

I was relatively impressed by the perversion leaning towards violence with which he was forthcoming on our first time, and yet I was a bit put off: he was cocky and yet a little cautious in bed. "Can you take this?" he whispered. I rolled my eyes... if he only knew. Granted he didn't, in fact we barely new each other, it was perfectly reasonable that he was checking in and making sure I was OK. But I was hungry for abandon. I purred:

"It's OK, you don't have to hold me down."

He tentatively released my wrists. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and then I slapped him hard across the face. He was stunned.

"If I have to piss you off to get you to fuck me like a man, l'll do it."

I caught a glimmer in his eyes as a hungry smile spread across his face.

"Well alright then darlin'. I guess I don't need any more permission than that, do I?"

His voice sounds just like Christian Slater circa True Romance. Our rhythm quickened and ferocity increased. Sedated with the pleasure of being taken voraciously by a Hollywood B-list daydream, I didn't hit him again.

____________

A couple weeks later, our story had evolved into that of star-crossed Istanbulus: a charming Cihangir guy fate had paired with a somewhat feral Tarlabaşhi girl. The irony of the situation didn't escape Slater: 

"Sometimes I think to myself: I want to show you off. But then I think: you're going to scare people. So then I consider: who can take it, and who do I hate?"

Some of his expat friends weren't so bad, I admit, but furthermore, Slater was not immune to my criticisms. He lived in Turkey for a year and didn't know the word for "apple" in Turkish, but I liked him anyway. Like I said, I didn't mean to get attached, but these things tend to happen, don't they?

However the stress from the time compression of our relationship began to express itself in tense ways. When the flame of my sex drive was more engulfing than his, he would make an offhanded "slut" joke or comment that, depending on my mood, would hurt my feelings. Once he asked me why I was wearing clothes and so in obedient response, I started to take them off -- to which he said:

"Doesn't take much does it?"

I guess it's easiest to hurt those who care. But why did I care so much? 
Igor has a theory which he calls my "super power", an effect against which mortal man is helpless. According to his observation, a person will fall madly in love with me and the "spell" will last two months. For that period of time, they will become enraptured and hopelessly enamored. After, they will wake up as if from a fever dream and back away with a self-protecting ferocity, as if to suggest I were akin to the deadly but alluring sirens sung about by bards such as Homer.

"By my estimation, Slater has about two more weeks. Then he's gone."

But of course this effect isn't one-sided. I guess Igor is sick of witnessing me get hurt. It seems like a bleak prediction, but Igor tends to be more accurately observant than I give him credit for. I'm willing to keep it in mind as I see how the long distance aspect of my relationship with Slater pans out, also keeping in mind that perhaps he is thinking wishfully. Whenever I mention Slater to Igor, his commentary is usually:

 "I want to punch that guy in the throat."

Despite the cattiness my male lovers exhibit towards each other, I'm fairly confident that if they met, they would get along splendidly. But regardless of that, the thing that gives me greatest hope for my distance-cleaved relationship with Slater is what he said to me when I couldn't find the words to return his professions of adoration:

"You don't have to tell me you love me for me to know that it's true. They're just words, after all."

 That is the kind of confidence that makes me in turn confident.

Who the hell is Igor? Meet him HERE (and get intimate HERE).
For more nihilistic relationship adventures in Turkey, read this post: Gypsy Love Curse. 
The latest from Seduce and Confuse can be found HERE, I promise. 

Hunting Bambi

“So, you come to these things often?”

What a line. Sparky clearly has a way with women. Bored and annoyed, I wrote my review of her off-handed seduction techniques in the form of bar snacks (çerez) thrown at her head.

“Ow. Ow! So... you’re a pianist?”

She ignored me and the flying pistachios admirably and kept on luring the wide-eyed little thing into her experienced bisexual lech. With that knowing smirk, she may as well have been asking, “Would you like to have your first lesbian experience, little girl?” To me at the time, it was disgusting. What could possibly be interesting to Sparky about this Girl Scout cookie? She was the kind of person who’s name I would forget before she even finished introducing herself, and the way she was dressed, it was as if she was trying to force me to underestimate her. She had her mousy blond hair back in a ponytail and was sporting a light pink sweatshirt paired with baby blue sneakers. She looked like a twenty-year-old infant. There were many things wrong with the scenario, but I got stuck on the sneakers.

“Sneakers? SNEAKERS?”
“Yeah, whatever, lots of people wear sneakers."
“Yeah, athletes and children. She didn’t look like an athlete, so that makes YOU a fuckin’ perv.”

I was being needlessly critical, I admit. Sparky sighed into a reminiscent smile.

“Didn’t you just fall into those big, doe-like eyes?”
“I wanted to hit her with a car.”

That’s how we came to name her, and others of her kind, Bambi.

________

Expat parties are an excellent hunting ground for Bambi’s -- those cute, fresh off the boat girls who just graduated college and came abroad to do the first interesting thing in their lives, which after getting their hearts broken once or twice by the charming locals, usually devolves into teaching English and hanging out exclusively with other expats. Lets get one thing straight: I am a traveler, not an expat.

What is an expatriate? And expatriate is a person who temporarily or permanently leaves their country and culture of upbringing to terrorize a foriegn one. As a function of their emigration, expats define themselves by their dissatisfaction. Most of them make a living teaching English and they seem to hang out mostly with each other, inventing incestuous little fuck circles in whatever country they infest. For further entertainment, they come up with other annoying amusements such as theater groups reeking of mediocrity and pub quiz trivia nights in all too expensive bars. They congratulate themselves on their internationality while never bothering to learn much of the local language or culture. Their adopted country is an organism off which they simply feed, all the while doing their best to recreate their homeland and inherently representing it, usually in an unflattering light with their bad cocktail of entitlement and cultural insensitivity. These embarrassing ambassadors come from all over the world, but when I find myself stuck at a loud and obnoxious pub quiz with drunk people spilling beer and arguing about George Lucas factoids while blank faced Turks look on with that same bored and slightly insulted lack of expression that I recognize from also having to serve people I despise, I can't help but sigh and think: "This is why the world hates Americans."

When in a sea of expats, hunting Bambi’s provides an excellent distraction from my fiery disdain. Besides, it’s good for me to maintain a certain level of sociability, even in “enemy” territory. Sparky has since illustrated to me that the pleasure in corrupting the innocent is like pissing on a freshly fallen and undisturbed bed of snow.

________

Several nights later, I stumbled into a bar to meet Sparky. I was two hours late and dragging in a girl by her tits.

“Whattya think of this Bambi I brought ya? I bet she’d fuck us both, the little slut.”

I slurred, not trying to flatter myself in the least.

“I dunno man. She’s not wearing sneakers. Sneakers kind of do it for me, Bambi-wise, remember?”

Wavering in my seat, I looked over my prey. I had already soul-slaughtered her and moved on to the victory parade wherein I offered her up to the scavengers as leftover kill. She was a hot mess with eyeliner was streaming down her face. I followed these black trails up puffy cheeks to two big wild eyes that expressed mixed emotions of humiliation and gratitude for the attention.

Most of the time, I work hard to be considerate of others, thoughtful, aware, and well spoken. But sometimes despite my efforts, I prove myself to be the most fucked-up asshole I know. On these occasions, I abandon my better, more articulate self and get in bed with a stranger to my standards who acts with wild selfishness. I don’t always get away with the crap I pull, but when I do, I wonder how. Amazingly, friends like Sparky have a high tolerance for my bullshit and chauvinism, even a certain revelry in it.

“You wan ‘er in sneakers? I’ll put ‘er in some fuckin’ sneakers. Let’s go, sugar tits. Daddy’s gonna get you some new shoes.”

For hot girl-on-girl action, check out the post Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish.
The latest from Seduce and Confuse, here.

Disorder and the Cure

Even at rest, my heart is pounding uncomfortably. My mouth is dry, and my stomach is churning itself into knots. I realize in surprise that for once I don't feel like doing the following things: eating dark chocolate, watching porn, or talking to literally anyone. I don't feel much like existing but like all things, I know this will pass. I have to remain calm. I have to acknowledge my diagnosed psychopathological condition as being a medical reality and not a slight against my existence or validity as a human being, and I absolutely have to take my medication.

I'd been off of it for a couple months now, or at least I think so. At some point I lost track. Memory problems are a symptom of major depression, I'm not surprised when I have large black outs in my timeline. Most times I can't even remember what I did two days before, and not in a cute kitten-brained kind of way, in a way that sometimes terrifies me. I focus until it hurts, but I just can't access the information. I've forgotten more than I've ever learned, and that is why I like to write things down, make lists. I've written journals since kindergarten, proof that it's always been this way. I am sometimes congratulated for living in the moment, but for me I'm afraid that's all there is, there is no big picture. Each journal is a pained volume in a large narcissistic collection of tainted, disparate, and flawed points of view.

I can feel it exploding in my heart and brain: the medicine that doesn't keep me from drinking but keeps me from getting drunk, doesn't keep me from fucking but keeps me from reaching orgasm, doesn't keep me out of trouble but keeps me in check. Maybe I should have started back into it with a half dose, but I was too scared to think of it. Yesterday I scared myself, because yesterday I experienced rage. Not just intense anger: real, consuming, violent, irrational rage.

Why did I ever stop taking the meds? Perhaps I was convinced that the Turkish generic was somehow making me sick -- I'm no stranger to hypochondriac mind-cycles, so this wouldn't surprise me. I remember sobbing in an ER, reporting a "terrible skin condition" that neither the doctor nor Angel could see, both of them staring at me slack-jawed, wondering with what kind of gloves to handle a seemingly cracking mind.

I think I got greedy. I wanted to feel something more than detached anxiety, I wanted to cum, I wanted to overcome the nervousness, and I wanted to enjoy eating again. But all of those desires, human as they might be, were instantly overcome when like a zombie chimp I lashed out at a loved one in rage. My partner laughed at how riled up I was getting because it was ridiculous. But then I saw red and was unable to control myself as I screamed bloody murder and thrust forth at my demons with my clenched fists until he stopped laughing. Unfortunately I can't attack the phantoms of my mind with claws and fists because, unlike my partner, they aren't made of flesh and blood.

Immediately after the intense bout of temporarily enhanced insanity passed, I rested my forehead in my hand, pressing my temples with my thumb and forefinger. I thanked the universe for the restraint my passenger seatbelt had provided and I became painfully aware of the embarrassment of the situation, of having spiraled so far out of control. "Not again..." I remembered the last time this happened and then promised myself to get a prescription refill. "Never again."

I hate the way the medicine makes me feel at first: jittery, with hot flashes in my face, and unreasonably amplified bouts of paranoia, which would seem contrary to its intended effect. I can feel my heart beating all the way down in my stomach and looking at food makes me feel sick. I don't want to talk to anyone or make a single facial expression, I feel trapped and restless. I have a mild headache and an intense thirst which cannot be quenched. But all of these combined complaints don't compare to the weight of the guilt for lashing out physically or the fear of what I could have done if I were stronger, unrestrained, or if the fit had lasted longer. Notes on dating: assault is usually "deal breaker" material.

It's important that I don't feel sorry for myself or beat myself up. When I first started taking meds years ago (what was that first one, Lithium?) every time I saw the pill in my hand, I saw defeat and confession. I couldn't hold it together and at least one person with a lot more schooling than me felt fairly confident that I was "crazy." But I can't think like that. It's just a serotonin deficiency. A person with a heart condition needs to take medicine in order to continue to live a healthy life, and this mental condition is different only in that empirical test-based diagnoses don't yet exist and as a result often go dismissed or invalidated. I get told by friends and family that I don't really need therapy or psychiatric medication, but I've learned that it's important not to let others minimize the severity with which I should care for my mental health simply because they can't relate to my experience. Many people can't, but often refer to the vocabulary describing these experiences flippantly. Depression isn't common situational sadness, it's a medical disorder, one that has been affecting my life and my relationships for too long.

There is no cure. There is only management, which at best is a tedious match of pharmaceutical Russian roulette. I was afraid to be medicated again because of how it might affect my visual/performance art or my written work, but now I'm too afraid of being without it. I have to look past these side effects, think of my friends and family, and tell myself lovingly, "Time to be brave, sweetums," as I put the gun to my temple and hope for the best.