Introduction
Sometimes, we go on sharing to others experiences which, to the minds of many, should have been kept locked in one's closet. But sometimes, the knowledge gained by those who are able to read such stories outweighs the risk of overexposure of the sharer. And what have I got to hide anyway? I am just being real. I believe that I keep my dignity intact not because I only share dignifying experiences but because I stay true to myself. When I write, I am not being graphic for the sake of being graphic. I want to portray a genuine experience to my audience and hopefully, if I am successful enough, trigger an effect.
***
Part One
A bell rang and I hastily got off the bed. I took a second to compose myself before I peeked through the peephole. It was him, finally. Not room service.
It has been four years since I first took him to my apartment. I recalled that first time when I tried in vain to get myself drunk before he pulled me to my bed. I was that nervous. And after he put me through my paces (I thought it was supposed to be the other way around), I remember having difficulty going down the stairs. My knees were that weak.
After all those years, I still get a bit nervous when we see each other like this. It was a relief that he wasn't able to see my shaky hands as I undid the three kinds of locks on the door. And when he finally stepped inside the room, I was pleasantly surprised how much better looking he has become. We only meet roughly once a year, but every time I see him I always notice a definite improvement in how he looks. And you can trust my judgment there because I get to see all of him.
As usual he tried to engage me in small talk first. I appreciate that he always makes the first moves. Although it was obvious that he really wasn't interested in my doings because he doesn't ask me to elaborate on my curt replies. I suppose he knows that we've got to have a semblance of a connection at least before we do what we came there for.
He was quite nice really. All in all. Even though he never forgets to ask why my ex-boyfriend wasn't joining us.
He placed his gym things on the table and without preamble, took off his shirt. I stole a very brief sideways glance at him. And I got another instant proof of his physical improvement.
When he turned off the lights, I was already lying on the bed and watching MTV. From experience, I have learned that there are only certain safe channels suitable for this kind of activity. It wouldn't do my ego any good if he found the TV more interesting than me. Or to what I was doing at least.
There is always that first few awkward minutes where nobody talks and nobody moves. He must be thinking I was paralyzed fro sheer nervousness but in truth, I was mostly occupied with mentally preparing myself. I feel excitement, and I would be a hypocrite to deny that, but detachment keeps smothering it.
He eased himself at a more comfortable position and placed his arm on my shoulder, pulling me closer. That was nice because it was a sweet act. But a little sad, too. Because from then on, it is going to be a mental battle for me and not a physical one.
My body busied itself with him but my mind kept on floating away like I was experiencing an astral projection. I had to keep on reminding myself how hot he is, and that he is worth doing this to, even if my hands and my lips were already all over him.
"Do you like this huh? Do you like this?" he asked, his breath warm on my neck.
I was playing a role. So it was okay for me to lie.
Within fifteen minutes he was done. It took me three times longer.
After, I smoked just like how it was done in movies. I wanted to feel why that seemed to be so pleasurable to do after having sex. Though if you were to see us, you'll notice that smoking on bed, exhausted was the only thing I got right. There were no satisfied smiles and dreamy eyes on my face. Lost, yes. But not languorous.
I took a shower shortly after he closed the door behind him. I knew that I should be reliving each moment and alternately giggle and sigh with each scene, but my mind was blank. There should have been something more, I knew that, but I shrugged the wondering feeling off, glorying in the fact that I did not enjoy because I was simply not made for casual sex. That I was simply not that low. I told myself that next time, I was going to buy a nice-fitting pair of jeans instead of doing that again. I smiled and felt good about myself.
And yet I've already reached that exact same conclusion four years (and four episodes) ago. It was the same resolve actually. Every single time. But I knew that I will keep on trying to enjoy it just because other people can. Next time I will try something new. Maybe be even more wild or adventurous. That night will come when I can finally answer him: "Yes! Yes! I am freakkin' enjoying this!"
***
"...what meets the objective eye may not be what is present in the subjective, internal world of the patient. Klein therefore cautions that one should not miss identifying the schizoid patient because one cannot see the patient’s withdrawnness through the patient’s defensive, compensatory, engaging interaction with external reality. Klein suggests that one need only ask the patient what his or her subjective experience is in order to detect the presence of the schizoid refusal of emotional intimacy."
From "Disorders of the Self" by James F. Masterson and Ralph Klein (1995) subheading 'Secret Pure Schizoid Cluster Disorder' pp 25-27.
Sometimes, we go on sharing to others experiences which, to the minds of many, should have been kept locked in one's closet. But sometimes, the knowledge gained by those who are able to read such stories outweighs the risk of overexposure of the sharer. And what have I got to hide anyway? I am just being real. I believe that I keep my dignity intact not because I only share dignifying experiences but because I stay true to myself. When I write, I am not being graphic for the sake of being graphic. I want to portray a genuine experience to my audience and hopefully, if I am successful enough, trigger an effect.
***
Part One
A bell rang and I hastily got off the bed. I took a second to compose myself before I peeked through the peephole. It was him, finally. Not room service.
It has been four years since I first took him to my apartment. I recalled that first time when I tried in vain to get myself drunk before he pulled me to my bed. I was that nervous. And after he put me through my paces (I thought it was supposed to be the other way around), I remember having difficulty going down the stairs. My knees were that weak.
After all those years, I still get a bit nervous when we see each other like this. It was a relief that he wasn't able to see my shaky hands as I undid the three kinds of locks on the door. And when he finally stepped inside the room, I was pleasantly surprised how much better looking he has become. We only meet roughly once a year, but every time I see him I always notice a definite improvement in how he looks. And you can trust my judgment there because I get to see all of him.
As usual he tried to engage me in small talk first. I appreciate that he always makes the first moves. Although it was obvious that he really wasn't interested in my doings because he doesn't ask me to elaborate on my curt replies. I suppose he knows that we've got to have a semblance of a connection at least before we do what we came there for.
He was quite nice really. All in all. Even though he never forgets to ask why my ex-boyfriend wasn't joining us.
He placed his gym things on the table and without preamble, took off his shirt. I stole a very brief sideways glance at him. And I got another instant proof of his physical improvement.
When he turned off the lights, I was already lying on the bed and watching MTV. From experience, I have learned that there are only certain safe channels suitable for this kind of activity. It wouldn't do my ego any good if he found the TV more interesting than me. Or to what I was doing at least.
There is always that first few awkward minutes where nobody talks and nobody moves. He must be thinking I was paralyzed fro sheer nervousness but in truth, I was mostly occupied with mentally preparing myself. I feel excitement, and I would be a hypocrite to deny that, but detachment keeps smothering it.
He eased himself at a more comfortable position and placed his arm on my shoulder, pulling me closer. That was nice because it was a sweet act. But a little sad, too. Because from then on, it is going to be a mental battle for me and not a physical one.
My body busied itself with him but my mind kept on floating away like I was experiencing an astral projection. I had to keep on reminding myself how hot he is, and that he is worth doing this to, even if my hands and my lips were already all over him.
"Do you like this huh? Do you like this?" he asked, his breath warm on my neck.
I was playing a role. So it was okay for me to lie.
Within fifteen minutes he was done. It took me three times longer.
After, I smoked just like how it was done in movies. I wanted to feel why that seemed to be so pleasurable to do after having sex. Though if you were to see us, you'll notice that smoking on bed, exhausted was the only thing I got right. There were no satisfied smiles and dreamy eyes on my face. Lost, yes. But not languorous.
I took a shower shortly after he closed the door behind him. I knew that I should be reliving each moment and alternately giggle and sigh with each scene, but my mind was blank. There should have been something more, I knew that, but I shrugged the wondering feeling off, glorying in the fact that I did not enjoy because I was simply not made for casual sex. That I was simply not that low. I told myself that next time, I was going to buy a nice-fitting pair of jeans instead of doing that again. I smiled and felt good about myself.
And yet I've already reached that exact same conclusion four years (and four episodes) ago. It was the same resolve actually. Every single time. But I knew that I will keep on trying to enjoy it just because other people can. Next time I will try something new. Maybe be even more wild or adventurous. That night will come when I can finally answer him: "Yes! Yes! I am freakkin' enjoying this!"
***
"...what meets the objective eye may not be what is present in the subjective, internal world of the patient. Klein therefore cautions that one should not miss identifying the schizoid patient because one cannot see the patient’s withdrawnness through the patient’s defensive, compensatory, engaging interaction with external reality. Klein suggests that one need only ask the patient what his or her subjective experience is in order to detect the presence of the schizoid refusal of emotional intimacy."
From "Disorders of the Self" by James F. Masterson and Ralph Klein (1995) subheading 'Secret Pure Schizoid Cluster Disorder' pp 25-27.
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