  Got to figure out how to alter this pages appearance. Two French presses and a freshly cracked beer for breakfast, and Im all ready to roll. Driving out to the liquor store, I felt like I spent the night on coke or something similarly bad for me. spaced out, thinking compulsive thoughts that go nowhere, unsure of my physical abilities to react or interact with the world outside my skin. Yawning, telling me I should still be asleep to let the alcohol of last night wear itself a bit thinner. Looks like the gym isnt going to happen today. And you know, Im already hulking a bit from all the weight lifting and push-ups. Think Ill let the kids go it alone. Still yawning, yet I cant sleep with house guests. Im lost.
Two words that keep intruding into my head today. Im lost for no other reason that the disorientation caused by Kerri. Ok, I know I said Id stop talking about this, but Ive begun and I cant stop until its exhausted itself. Two scenes playing out in my minds eye over and over again. One: That day in the first week that I moved into my new house. I called Kerri, still just an old friend (haha, old) that Id recently run into at Pride for the first time in 6 years.
We been to the beach together, talked to catch up. I invited her over to see the place, and there she came. Rumbling up in her motorcycle, parking in my vacant garage. Her helmet in her arms and a sexy swagger over to me for a hug. We laid on the fresh carpet looking through lesbian porn (I had that much moved in) and talking about the vagina monologues. I suppose it was a little suggestive on my part looking back, but I wasnt even thinking about touching her. She stayed for two hours, I remember, before she got up to leave. And there, standing in the mouth of my open garage, she moved to kiss me. I felt her breath, her energy like a storm cloud embodying all the potential of a lightning strike. And then we kissed again. Deep, lusty kisses as I pulled on her wallet chain to bring her body closer to mine. One hand on her chest to feel her heartbeat, the other holding the warmth emerging from our hips pressed together. It was magical, sexy, and right there in front of my new neighbors who afterwards went straight into their house and shut the door. She got on her bike and started the engine, looking hungrily into my eyes. I told her, Dont leave now, not like that, with a big grin on my face.
Ill be back, baby, she responded with a serious intention and a smile. She backed up her bike, that thundering engine between her legs. A moving vibrator. Nice. And then she was gone. I walked back into my empty house and gave an hoot of pleasure. Id just come out to my neighbors, and I just kissed miss kerri-lou toepfer. The woman I had a crush on when I was a drugged up teenager.
The woman who I made out with on the floor of a friends apartment when I was 17 and housesitting.
Kerri.
And the other scene I keep going back to? That last night in my garage. Im such a sweetie, Id set up chairs atop a spare stretch of carpet given to me by my parents from their swanky joint in Julian. Just for us, two chairs so we could have post-coital smokes together in the warmth of the indoors.
I got to taste her mouth for the effort; she was touched that I set that up for us. (God, this feels better being able to talk about this stuff without the worry that shes going to pop in and read it. What freedom! ) Id just set it up to. Right before the break-up. She was pulling away from me for weeks, withholding sex in favour of getting to know each other better. Code for rethinking how ready I am for a passionate relationship. The feelings she had for me were scaring her, she said. And my drinking, she went on. The drinking was scaring her. I challenged her sobriety, the bubble of safety she lived in. The beer breath she used to laud me for, telling me in hushed, husky tones in between kisses how sexy she thought it was.
It used to turn her on. I offered to not ever drink in front of her if she needed that, and she told me it didnt matter. In fact, it turned her on. But there it was. She was preparing to leave. And I felt the torrent of painful tears culminating in my chest and hands, that painful ache. Id lost her, and she was blaming my drinking. Not so much her own emotional ambivalence. Me.
my behaviour. I got up from our cosy spot in the garage. I spoke only these words. I touched her head with my hand and said, Im going to go to bed now. The only thing I could think to say to end the pain that was being issued to me. I left her in the garage, walked upstairs to my room and curled up in the fetal position on top of the covers and wept silently. Silently because I wasnt sure I felt safe to show grief in front of someone whod just proven her trustworthiness. Then I got up. It wasnt safe to mourn like that. So I turned on the shower and stripped. Weeping, I held the wall while the water warmed.
Then I stood under the head and cried openly as the hot water washed my tears down the drain. I may be dramatizing it with language, but the moment was as powerful as words can say. The attention to drama is not for nothing. And when Id had enough, maybe ten minutes later of my baptismal cleansing alone, I got out, toweled off and put on fuzzy pants and a wife beater. I walked back downstairs to see if she was still in my house, and I was met by silence and an unlocked front door signaling she had left. Thats the second scene I cant stop recalling. Shoot. Writing that encapsulated quite a rollercoaster of emotions. Beginnings and endings. Like Fritz said in therapy, Im not too good with endings. I need another cigarette. And no, Im not done yet. 
