For K, Part I

A quarter after 1. Phone call from K, the Bathrobe one, as how Alan and I put it. He said he was drunk, getting propositioned by a hot German dude sitting nearby in the party, but the only occupying his mind was me, thousands of miles away.

“Please let me sleep,” I whispered in fainted cracking voice. My voice had been severely damaged recently, I noticed. “No, you need to listen to me right now!”, the demanding but sincere tone was raised from the other line, “I’m baring my soul out to you. I can’t take it any longer.”

———-

I met K on Tinder, and we conducted regular conversation, as all of those matched people do. On the following days, we already talked for hours on the phone, about everything. He kept on nagging me to tell him about Ben, about Alan, Jorge, and everyone that ever mattered to me, as an excuse for him to share his corresponding stories. I might had an idea what he had in mind, which is also my preference in most cases: traditonal getting to know each other phone calls, letters, dinner dates and then a fortified relationship.

K has been taking photos of random people he met on the road, collecting their stories and publishing it on his personal blog, which later gained him a quite extent of popularity. And that night, he told me that I was the most beautiful soul that he’d ever met.

Drunk or sober, his words hit home to me.

K said what I’d been doing was not the right approach, that I’d been trying to fill my hole by digging another, that I wasn’t meant to be that guy who couldn’t do anything else but smoking the thoughts away between hookups. I went for dicks, with the hope of stumbling across the heart and the brain. I went for flesh when all I needed was what’s underneath. And all those men were going to consider me the same if I didn’t even think higher of myself than a person fucking my way around my youth.

K said he could help me heal, not that I even thought that I need healing since I’m well aware of the fact people out there are dealing with much more serious problems than my post-teenager angst. But stills, his offer was what exactly I could hope for in a man: he’s willing to fly to me every week just to go on dates. “You don’t have to fly to Myanmar or anywhere to see me,” his voice reaffirmed while making a reference to Jorge, “I will come to you.”

K said he knew really well that he wasn’t the “type” that I usually fell for. “I’m not 30, 40 something, I’m not rich nor well-established, not psychologically broken nor train-wrecked, not even handsome but I can offer kindness and happiness. I can’t write songs but I can write you poems that brings you the dark blue fire that you’ve always find amusing.” All he asked for was a chance, for us, to meet up, and try going on dates. And all I could do upon hearing such chick flick material was stuttering and sobbing in the ultimate darkness swallowing the entire space.

But what K didn’t say, or maybe didn’t realize, is that it was an ultimatum he was laying on the table: I’m not allowed to fool around with anybody, since he wouldn’t be able to bear such thoughts. It’s OK for me, actually, since I always think I’m a pretty monogamous kind of person while being in a relationship. However, for K, at the moment, it’s gratitude, fellowship, sympathy and honor that I share.

And more importantly, how can such idea work while I haven’t been given enough time to see and decide how I feel about K yet. And staying celibate for a supposedly considerable period of time, considering my promiscuous tendency, under of feeling controlled and so on, is what I just can’t afford at the moment.

“K hasn’t really been in a serious relationship, he doesn’t know what it’s like,” that’s what I told myself, to not make me feel more guilty not accepting his offer. Our conversation both ended in tears and disappointment from both sides. He failed to score the goal with me, even with his naked soul, and I failed to keep him in my life.

It’s been weeks since I last heard from him, despite my effort in reconnecting, thinking it would adapt him to the situation. Maybe in time, he’d change his mind about the idealization of relationship, of intimacy, and of us. What’s good for us already is coming across such people who could see the mutual alledged brokeness, the patterns emblazed across our lives that we ourselves couldn’t realize, and remind each other that we weren’t alone in those dark places. What comes before that should only be a greater bonus, right?

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This entry was published on May 24, 2015 at 7:00 am. It’s filed under Bathrobe and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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