Label whore

What do you label me, I wonder. Maybe you call me your comfort food, the thing you go to when you need a little comfort, a little human charity. But it's not charity I offer you, and I know it on a level your subconscious only dreams about. So I repackage this prepackaged bundle of joy and label it "dignity" for you, so it feels good to accept. I am the spoon full of sugar that makes you drool and hope and pray for the best tasting remedy ever-the same spoon full of sugar that makes you think of Mommy. And this alone makes me the guy you don't wanna fuck-but definitely the guy you wanna screw.

So you come to me binary—how cute, and sliming-in e-mail, to screw with my head after two years. And what a great set of two years getting myself back down from being labeled hung up, picking myself up from being put down, and starting it all over again. To recap, I have two years of absolutely nothing from you; no phone call, no e-mail, no billboard, FedEx, message in a bottle, smoke ring blown across a darkened room, carrier pigeon, or finger painting wrapped in a Navajo blanket. Then you come to open up that book again and start writing pretty enumerated sentences with ink bled from my hand.

You lie to me, that's fine, it's your comfort zone. I remember your lies being better-did you expect me to believe that you saw me on the El? On a week I was out of the county, nonetheless. Ok, fine. Let's take this little ride, because I'm not quite finished being jaded, and the mayor hasn't cut the ribbon on the door of my disenchantment franchise.

I watch you struggle against getting involved in another relationship with me. I understand it when you proclaim your desire to be labeled single for at least a year, and that you only want a petty friendship with me. It's your need to convince me that you are unsuitable, to convince me that you are damaged by love, or at least damaged by your ex finding out you cheated on him four times. But I look beyond what you say; I watch you watching me, when I'm not supposed to be looking, in restaurant mirrors, storefront windows, reflections on the lake. I look beyond the way we plan to meet at 8; I watch you walk around my block at 7:30 then wait at the corner like an airport chauffer. And thankfully I don't know about that, or you'd feel pretty stupid when you extol, enumerate, and label my virtues, beauty, strength, courage; my heart. I am the wizard behind your curtain. What do you label that?

And when we're walking, and when I break to go piss in an alley, don't follow me there hungrily-it's pathetic, and cliché. But when I rejoin you, and you brush your arm hair against me, I do notice it. I notice everything. But you don't notice it when I stand so the wind blows my scent onto you. You don't notice it when you're always sitting in the bad lighting. You don't notice it when I change my footsteps so they either match or conflict with yours. And when you tell me you're fighting the urge, and I ask you what urge, I'm playing coy, and I'm playing dumb. I feed you all the words you want to hear because your masculinity has weakened. That's fine; I can repair that, and it doesn't cost me much. I get what I pay for.

On the subject of payment, when I pay you compliments, and you don't reciprocate, I do know you're counting. You keep track of when I say you're cute, keeping the ratio me 4 you 1. You're unaware, however, that I know you play this game, and that it gives you a power trip. Sorry dude, I've played this game before with much better men who say it with diamonds. It's all a part of the charity. But now you're fit to be labeled King. Atta boy. Good boy. Now we're labeled satisfied.

And later, when I tire of being angelic, it's because I've decided I've had enough of being your rest stop. Yes, I know I'll never be able to understand the trouble you've been through, yes, I know I'll never be able to fix what is wrong with you, yes, I know you're not responsible for yourself, yes I know you want to hurt me to make you feel better. This last part's good, isn't it. I know you want to hurt me to make you feel better.

This when phase two starts. Let's go to a bar, and I'll sit in the bad lighting, and I'll not shave, and I'll look messy. And you'll have learned how to dress-not just to the nines-but to the thirty ones when out with me, and now you feel over dressed.

I order first and pay for my own drink, leaving you to fend for yourself. You'll be OK. You ask how I've been, and I start talking about the men who have been chasing me, and the ones I'm chasing, who heretofore have been unknown to you. And when you start smelling the competition, you realize I'm not wearing my usual cologne. I tell you it's something Brett bought for me. Suddenly, your "Start Some Shit" button magically depresses, and you wanna play. Their names? Sorry, don't wanna jinx anything. Kiss kiss. Now I'm not providing attention to you, and now you understand that you're not the center of my universe of attraction. I move my chair over an inch each time I get up and adjust myself, lovingly smoothing down my crotch. Phase two always makes me very itchy. When you stop looking at my dick, now hanging on the other side, you notice I'm moving away. Now you're nervous. Your universe is not working the way you allowed me to plan it. But to calm yourself you have your drink and another and another and another. And I've still only had two. And no, you can't buy me one. You can't even control how much I'm drinking. And yes, I am flirting with the bar tender. What are you going to do, Joe? What are you going to do?

Don't decide, feel restless instead, and want to go walking. Sure. And I tell you I know a great quiet street with all these driveways and alleys. And you so desperately want to go there. So we do. And as we turn a corner you're on your knees faster than worshippers around a manhole in the shape of the Virgin Mary. Now you want to go to your house. You invite me in. And while I'm in your bed I can safely vacate my body while you puff my pipe; lying here passively will prevent any confusion. And when I insist on leaving, we label you content, happy, and blissful. My vindication now ends Phase Two.

Phase three is very easy. I sleep and rest, and when I feel like it, I go out and buy some clothes. You now wrestle with what you did, consider eating oatmeal, and spill some while putting it into the pot. You think about calling me all day long, and when we speak you tell me that "we're still friends, right?" I tell you nothing has changed. But you don't call me again. One month passes, and I forget about you. It's an easy habit to fall back on. You, however, are wondering why I've abandoned you. You ponder quickly and lightly that I might have caught onto your game, or I might be happy with some man out there, but it makes you angry, so you stop. You brood. You dwell. And then you e-mail me, telling me that "Even though I consented, and I admit that, afterward I felt like I had been laid siege, I felt like you didn't care about me anymore, I felt like you used your body to trap me."

And with that you destroy all of your credibility. You've set the trap, with intentions as clean as your virtues; you lay a piece of cheese as pungent as my rage,—but before this cat comes to pounce on that mouse, I remember I'm allergic to cats, and to bullshit. I could call out your charade, but it's too easy; I've been fortified fucked and fortressed. I'm not interested in defining life for you anymore, especially when you prefer the label Victim. Your rules render it imperative that others hold the paintbrush for you, and the self portrait you've created starts to resemble something I've always suspected.

The next time you want dick, baby, just look in the mirror.