Lingering liabilities

vendredi, le 04 septembre 2009

Not long after Wonder Woman arrived this morning, L’homme is on the phone to find out whether the two of us had cast all our usual chores aside in favour of single-mindedly and with determination search for the invoice he so desperately needs. I tell him our search yielded no result, no invoice.

And then the old, familiar L’homme jumps to the fore. The L’homme that lives the parasitic lifestyle, completely devoid of remorse or guilt, who will, with superficial charm, manipulate resolutely to fulfill his own self-indulgent needs. He now needs a favour from me.

I listen in stunned silence. I make a clumsy and vague attempt to tell him that, tragically, he has always discarded the person I am in preference for the means and abilities I have to pamper to the needs of his parasitic, self-indulgent lifestyle.

I need to provide him with written and authenticated proof of my independence, my competences, my capabilities and, in so doing, cover up a lie about his, in order for him to secure a loan to repay the debt he has incurred watching girls masturbating sensuously, desperately seeking uncomplicated sex and relentlessly pursuing a life of make-believe. Now he needs me to substantiate the unsubstantiated belief he holds of himself, that he is reliable, dependable, stable, honourable and upstanding and for this he expects me to lie with the same glibness, guiltlessness he knows so well. As always, he is expecting me to create a reality for him that he is wholly and totally incapable of creating for himself.

And all of this I need to do on his terms. I must fabricate stability for him and leave it in the mailbox. He couldn’t possibly face me, The Princess or the home we once shared.

I am torn between my self-flagellation of the past nearly three months of the ease with which I have always given in to L’homme’s demands and a desire to leave his needs unfulfilled with the same callousness, coldness and cruelty he always reserved for mine. But for me to do the latter, I would have to prostitute my soul for him, yet again. And L’homme has never had any use for the prostitute in me.

The compromise? I’ll give L’homme what he wants, I’ll create a reality he has never dreamed of doing for himself, but to get that reality, he will have to meet with me, eye to eye.

He ends the call without the courtesy of a goodbye, why should he? He’s about to get what he wants and if I did imposed any discomfort on him, he’ll ease it with bars, booze and the broads that hacked his band or not even notice it at all. Again, I am his meal ticket, he my lingering liability.

Giving in to his needs, I wonder why he is turning to me. Where are his so-called friends, where are all the sensuous girls that landed him in this predicament in the first place? Or would he be complicating sex by standing truly naked in front of them?

He arrives to get what he needed. The Princess rushes out to meet him. With dog-like innocence she assures him of her devotion, her forgiveness, her adoration. I walk up and give her the space she needs.

L’homme steps forward and folds his arms around me. I cling to him and am overwhelmed by a warmness, a comfort, a familiarity that flows through my body. Every fiber of my being soaks up the world of make-believe of L’homme.

I give him what he came for. I demand a trade-off. Creating a false reality for him, means he is indebted to me for a future need I may have of him. He agrees. I smile wryly. In a bitter argument we once had, L’homme told me his honesty was only momentary. I then pointed out that his honesty carried no weight, had no meaning, because once the moment had passed, so would his honesty. He then snapped that he had expected more intelligent thinking from me. Funny that, I expected more honesty from him.

We hug again. I softly kiss his neck, I draw the smell of him so deep into my nostrils that I hope it would live there forever. I walk him to his car. I babble to hide my emotions, to make the moment last.

And as he drives off, I know so does the undertaking he made to be available if I needed him.

As the garage door closes behind me, my intense emotions of the past few hours overwhelm me. I tearfully walk into the kitchen. Wonder Woman turns from the lunch she is busy preparing and gives me a hug.

Of the hugs I got today, I know hers is the more sincere, but for now I trade sincerity for the world of make-believe I create in the arms of L’homme.

(L’homme reminds me of a Meatloaf song: ‘I want you, I need you, but there ain’t no way I’m ever going to love you. Now don’t be sad, because two out of three ain’t bad.’ Except he only wants me and needs me to support his life of self-indulgence. Barging on a canal in the South of France, I would dream under the equidistant trees and bright yellow sunflower fields of a life I could create there for L’homme and me.)

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