Overheard in the ladies bathroom of a well-known Masonic
building, an enclave of slightly well-beered and overly-blurry females:
“Sweetie, you owe him nothing. Nada.
Nicht. He may think what he
likes, but unless you’ve had the
conversation you are just dating and therefore you can see who you like,
when you like.”
I cringed as I hovered silently over the toilet seat. It’s hard enough to pee in a public bathroom,
but throw in a juicy conversation and a gaggle of on-listeners and it’s urine
shut down. I emerged, sheepishly from my
stall, wanting to look up, but English repression forbidding it. Hurrah for many mirrors! It was as cliché as it gets: one holding the
glasses, one the purses, one taking her turn in the mirror and smearing her
come-get-me gloss lavishly across her lips.
Under the loud flow of the faucet I missed a bit, but
never did a pair of average-sized hands take so long to dry.
“But you’re missing the point!” Said the one who had now reinserted the wand
to the gloss and was wiping the smudges of shimmer off her lip lines. “If this were two weeks in, fine! I’d agree with you. But it’s not and I’ve slept with him. That redefines everything. There may not have been the conversation, but
there was conversation alright.”
I ferreted in my purse—my Mary Poppins hearse purse is
enormously useful for such time-stalling situations; it takes minutes to find
anything in there it is so cavernous—and finally drew out my hairbrush. I began to fuss and count the strokes. (I wasn’t really, of course.)
“DIS-A-GREE!” The slightly more looped of the three,
triple-fisting the glasses returned, “No conversation, no exclusivity! Sex makes no difference, it’s neither here
nor there.”
“No, believe me. It
wasn’t here. But it was definitely
there, and in the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room …” They cackled, gave
one last nod to the mirror, and the three drifted from the basement bathroom
and back into the hubbub of the Brews.
I looked at myself in the mirror: I was not meant for this
harsh, unfeeling world of dating. I
brushed my locks and considered the issue.
Had anyone ever broached the conversation with me? No.
Relationships had just… happened.
Organically. There had never been
any verbal contract of exclusivity, I had just—rather foolishly I realized then—assumed
it. If someone wanted to spend their
time with me, it had really never even dawned on me that they would on the
other nights—while I toiled like a dung beetle—be other with other
women at the same time. It never occurred
to me that there needed to be an agreement made, insisted on. I was wide-eyed at the thought that one could
be sleeping with one and dating many others—that just sounds exhausting. Of course, I know people do, but I was thinking
of it in relation to the anti-romances I had had.
Is this, The
Conversation, something that one should insist on? If so when?
And what—oh dear God—if one wants to say “no thank you very much, I do like
you, you’re a jolly nice bloke, but actually I rather want to consider other
penises right now. No offense! Tally ho.”
Or what if—Heaven forfend—a chap says to you, a lady, “Sorry
there Toots, but I want to explore my… options.” Does one smile, shrug shoulders and continue,
after one has been so snubbed? My mind
was a whirring cosmic fire of unrest.
I just find the whole topic unsettling, because it is so far
from my romantic ideal. To use James
Fleet’s expression, from Four Weddings and A Funeral, I rather hoped it would just be “Thunderbolt City,” and he
would forget all ideas of anyone else, as I would. And nothing would corrupt this mutual feeling
of yearning, not conflicting schedules, not friends of the opposite sex, not
long absences, not all the little fucking stupid things that are thrown up by the projectile vomit of our past; that there would be this mutual acceptance.
I suppose that’s what happens when it is Thunderbolt City. Maybe the ones that get so easily
derailed, and need such contracts and verbal reassurances, are the ones that were
never headed anywhere anyway.
Regardless, it makes me sad. Sad
that I've never asked for this conversation, but that maybe it would have saved many hurt feelings. This oral tornado would blow in and sweep misunderstanding up and away.
I have discussed this with a few friends this week.
“So…Shera, Princess of Power, what’s your take on
exclusivity?”
“Non-negotiable. I sat He Man down and said, ‘Look, Mister,
are we together, or are you screwing every underage cutesie at the Backyard Ale
House on a Saturday night? Because if
you are, ding ding, stop the bus, you are getting off. And not with me.’” I applauded her bravado, but knew I could not
be so forthright. Mainly because, I am
not sure I would like the answer. If one
asks, but is told there are others--gulp!--is it so easy to walk away if one is invested?
I asked my dear male friend on his take, “Absolutely, there
needs to be a conversation.” He said
adamantly. “I wasn’t always like
that. But I got burned, and that means
now I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket, so-to-speak. I can date more than one woman at the same
time with no remorse.”
And then there was a third and final take on it, without me
even asking he told me clearly where he stands, because he will not even allow
the female he is dating to have male friends—even if her intentions are well
meaning and she only has eyes, lips, heart, longing for him. He has little trust in her, because of his
prior experience. Can a partner not have friends of the opposite sex? Can she/he not meet him/her for an uncontracted, but understood, mutual friends drink? Do we need to classify every interaction we have just to make sure intentions are interpreted correctly? "Hey, Will, Buddy-oh-friend-of-mine, fancy meeting for a beverage and a non-sexual-interaction-because-we-are-friends-who-don't-share-bodily-fluids?" Not every male-female friendship turns into Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis reaping the benefits!
GAH! I would that we
could start every relationship as if we’ve never dated. As if this is new and we haven’t become
jaded, mistrustful, cynical and sad. Forget what has gone before, damn it! That's not to say don't learn from experience, but don't assume the new partner will be like the old. We are individual, different human beings, who strive for success and make mistakes; we are largely just as confused as each other, because, guess what, we are not mind readers!
Trust, jealousy, longing, contracts. I suppose, the conversation--however
unromantic it is, as much as I’d prefer to plunge my fist down my throat and
rip out my heart as more eloquent proof—is necessary. Maybe there are so many mixed signals these
days that one simply can’t trust the organic process. Maybe there needs to be that clarification
that both are singing from the same hymn sheet.
That one is not getting overly invested in a heart that is overly
invested in many other mutual funds. And
maybe the triple-fisting girl, swaying slightly in the reflection of the
bathroom mirror, was right all along, her unromantic, practical negotiation stamping on my open heart.
