Dangling conversations

 by Raine

Hey, butch.

Sorry about last night. Had to get offline. Pain too much, I guess.

You know me, tough cookie, right? No tears, at least not with anyone present. Even without the video on, you’d know. Dunno how cold text can show pain but you always know, even when I dissemble and crank out the jokes, you know.

Unnerving. Especially when you remind me of the promise to lay head on your big butch chest.

Hah. Will the monitor ease the ache, the streaking, shrieking ripping in the guts?

Yeah, I know. Stalemate. You can’t come here. I won’t come there. Couldn’t anyway. Now it’s too late.

We both had our jobs, our lives, and even the burning itch couldn’t get in the way of these.

What was that you said? About choices? About walking into the trap with eyes wide open?

I don’t know about you.

I thought it would just be a fling.

Stupid phase we call it here. Ya know, times when hormones rampage and you just chuck out the caution and grab what little life has to offer.

Free as a bird, no complications, a good job, a finger to the world…why complain? G and I liked saying, our second best may be better than other folks’ best.

You smiled at that, huh?

But played along with the smart aleck kid. Let me flounce merrily, giving rope. You knew. Knew one day it would not be enough, the rare white-hot unions followed by long droughts, thirst I sought to quench with a hundred and one affairs. Until I tired. And withdrew into the solitude or art and music and a million passionate exchanges with you.

Your voice as I touched myself. Dozens of times, panting, screaming… ‘twas never enough. Even as imagination called on phantom lips and fingers, ‘twas never enough. Even when your drawl crept across the line, laughing, crooning, moaning, ‘twas never enough.

So okay, you win. Yes, I need that fuckin butch chest, that fuckin butch smell, hands that play me like the guitar that used to draw the gals. Need that quiet gaze that calms, that upraised finger that stops this brat in her tracks.

Whatever happened to our jokes and jeers about unions? And the sneers for those who insist on lighting candles and exchanging rings with the world watching?

Why did you need to change? You’re not much older than I am. You’re in the air half the time anyway. Why the need for me to come and stay and keep house? Because all your big-time butch pals have li’l gals at home?

Hurt you … laughing, staring like you were some alien crawling from my cunt. Hello there? What animal are you? What home? What family? Dis tough babe need one home – mine. You land, I come. You call, I run (if the job allows). We fuse, the earth shakes. We slam into each other, suck our life juice, mix, merge so well we don’t know where you end and I begin. What else?

Then she appears. Sweet and calm. Taciturn.

Content to keep bed warm, house ready for your return.

No jokes, you said.

You stopped trying after a few times.

No black humor. No white humor. No irony.

Just that smile. And that presence.

And thighs forever willing to part. Hands forever willing to caress. And a heart forever understanding of a restless mind and a restless friend over oceans.

I thought you said never to forever.

I laughed and shrugged. Said, welcome. Rare fusion still mine.

But it changed. Even second best changed.

The butch who never wanted a baby has one now. Needs to settle down now.

You knew I wouldn’t bitch. Knew I wouldn’t joke. Knew I’d pretend to be grown up and glad for you.

Well, I am.

Just wondering where I pick up the broken pieces.

Happy birthday, Dad.

    Raine (September 2000)

About the Author

Raine (not her real name) says this is her first attempt at creative nonfiction. Don’t ask her what it is. She figures, it’s taking slices of real life and weaving them together into some tale. The story here never happened to Raine. Everything is a composite of snatches of talk with friends – plural. Raine says reading Chris’ beautiful letter inspired her to create a doppelganger.