Returning Bunny's Scarf

          

      My immune system has been weakened this entire month, partly because of what I’m fighting off in Mexico, and partly because I’m consciously trying to cut HIM out of my heart; I feel healthy, vitality, strength and inspiration when I think of him warmly. I feel connected to a higher source, love, The Infinite light of expansion. Our souls are oddly linked in all of this, yet his body cannot tend to my womanly needs, his phone cannot call me, nor does he say the right words. He always says just enough to not kill our connection entirely. And this will always be the game. He will never be mine. Ever. And I don’t want to be his little side-show toy he can pick up and put down whenever he pleases. Every cell in my body is trying to break free of this pointless pattern. I literally have to kick him out of my heart, my body, my cellular memory. 

I call him one last time, because I’m sad, almost immobilized by my trauma, by pushing him out of my cellular memory of him. If he can’t be mine I certainly can’t make room for a new Man until he is out of my body and psyche. So that process of lost hope, of giving up and letting go has begun.

“I’m sad,” I say in my voice which barely has enough energy to emote the words from my mouth.

“Why are you sad?” he asks me.

“Because I miss you,” I reply honestly.

“That’s understandable, what else?”

I may have come up with some other bullshit excuse, but mainly I’m sad because he is no longer in my life, nor does he have the capacity to be.

We small talk for a while, he’s in a decent mood, but his words fly over and under my heart, and I don’t’ really care to understand his words in this moment. Eventually we get to weekend talk, and he asks me if I know of anything going on this weekend.

“Do you know of any parties?” he asks a seemingly harmless question in his Croatian accent.

My heart drops, because even though I know of a party and would love to play with him there, the end result is always the same. He comes close only to leave, he flirts only to keep the tie going, but he never comes quite close enough. I am always dissatisfied, and disappointed by the lack of his desire to have me. He would just be a disruption in my night, a distraction to being in my center and just being myself.

“Yes I know of a party.”

“Where is it?”

“My roommate is having a birthday party at her new house. But I can’t tell you where that is because you’re not coming anyway.” I reply in a dry voice. If I invited him I would spend the entire night in expectation that he arrives, and he never will. I ‘m tired of playing this game. I don’t want to provide him social entertainment for a night.

He’s pissed, “It’s just a fucking party hAhA.”

Well to me it’s not just a party. It’s another opportunity for him to hurt me, to measure up short, to dance in and out of my life, but never does he stay. Or kiss me, or really touch me.

The conversation goes downhill from here. He thinks I’m being territorial, or that I’m not inviting him because my friends don’t like him. I’m not inviting him over the sheer fact of self-preservation. I can no longer be destroyed by his insanity if I don’t play the game anymore.

We hang up the phone in an awkward moment. I ask him plainly if  he will ever be mine. We have a text war that ends in harsh words, and him asking me to never contact him again.

I send one last text that shows a picture of two kittens cuddling, and that I will always remember him in this way; soft, pure, full of love and light, just like the first cuddle we had where he filled me with his soul and he never let me go. I will remember his love like precious kitten and bunny love.

Hours go by and my body feels freed. Freed of this dynamic, this constant push and pull.

Then a text comes in. from him.

“I will never be yours. Sorry. Love you. D.”

Huh. Words that frighten and delight me, that feed my need to be connected with him even though he’s not right for me; addicted to a drug that will never satisfy, that always fades out. He will never be mine. I’ll focus on that. He will never be mine. Never.

I reply, “I can see that, feel that and know and completely understand that you will never be mine. And I unconditionally love you for who you ARE and who you ARE NOT. “

We joke back and forth for a while. He tells me he hates me, that I’m a slut. Which is his way of saying “ I see you, accept all of you, and I love you.” Those are our code words for love. I tell him I’m not a slut,  that I’m becoming a nun and moving to Mexico so I can be God’s lover.

“You are like my sister. Fuck. Why? Why? I hate you.”

I make a few other jokes. It’s much more effective on him than being upset at him. Lightheartedness is always the way back into him.

And then the honesty breaks through.

“fuck haha. I really don’t know what is happening inside my head… I think I’m loosing all prospects of being human. Every day I see my soul dispiriting…fuck it’s so fucked up.”

“Sorry you’re so fucked. Wish I could UN-FUCK you.”

The conversation ends. But there is one last piece of him remaining with me; his scarf that he gave to me when he dropped me off at the airport last July; my first New York trip, of which before I left he said that we had “crossed the line.” That this wasn’t ordinary love. This was something different. We almost had a relationship, and then it was destroyed. The scarf was filled with his lovely scent and I wore it every day in New York to feel close to HIM. Little did I know that when I returned it would all be over.

I somehow kept this piece of plaid and beige fabric all of these months. And I don’t want it anymore. I want to return it. I don’t want any remnants of him in my soul, my psyche, my heart. If I am really to let him go I have to let go of any chance of hope that someday he will change and love me the way that I want to be loved.

I must return this scarf, and calling and planning with him is pointless, so I make a plan to stop by his house and tie it to something on his entrance where he will see it.

Last night I made a trip to West Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner. Then I killed some more time and grabbed a beer at a bar. My heart was racing when I ordered the beer because on some level I KNEW that I would see him, and I needed some alcohol to soothe the edge of my heart; to brave him. I finish my beer and my conversation with a Comedian who has always been obsessed about cock size and made a documentary about his cock enlargement operation. We laugh, but he is much too drunk and annoying, and I walk to my car, knowing I am making one last trip to HIS house, to return any last hope, to let him go, to end this crazy story.

I drive, my mind focusing on my end goal, James Blake playing on my stereo “Limit to your Love” and I drive to his street, the entrance to Runyon Canyon and park my car, my heart racing, body vibrating. I sit in my car and perfume up the scarf. If I’m going to return it, I still secretly want to seduce him back to me, for him to smell it and think of me. I walk out of my car, my mind in a confused blur as to where to put this thing. I think I decided I was going to tie it to his garage door, and UP DRIVES HIS BLACK LAND ROVER, HE OPENS THE GARAGE AND I FOLLOW HIM IN.  What the fuck? What are the chances…and yet somehow I knew. I always know with him.

He skids into the garage and slams on the breaks. Someone is in his parking spot and he’s upset. He gets out of the car, he still doesn’t see my 5 foot 8 frame standing to the side. I’m not sure how  it’s possible to miss a woman staring at you in your garage, but hey he’s always been extremely self absorbed. He speaks with his neighbor for a while, they are working out details of some kind. I wait patiently, yet perturbed that I don’t have him alone; there is a disruption to our closure and I won’t get his full attention.

Finally he turns around and I speak because he still doesn’t recognize me in my sideways golfer hat and glasses.

“I’ve come to return something to you.”

He walks towards me and I place the scarf around his neck. It doesn’t have as much meaning to him as it does to me. He almost laughs at my gesture of closure.

“Haha I gave this to you as a gift, not as a promise of my love.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want it anymore, I want you to have it back.”

“You can try to say good-bye to me, but it’s not about who you can live with. It’s more about Who you can’t live without.” He’s trying to hook me back in, to reel me into this dynamic. To me it’s about treating those you care about with dignity and respect, and to be in integrity with your words. A breach of integrity kills love to me.

“I don’t share the same philosophy.” I can’t give him ANYTHING, or invest my soul into not being able to live without him.

“It’s not about philosophy.” He replied passionately, like he has stated the law of gravity or something.

“You have other things of mine.” As if I’m going to go run and get them and leave them on his doorstep.

“Sorry they’re in storage.” He’s trying to create another reason as to why we would meet up again. I don’t really want to create that opportunity.

We hug and say goodbye. He holds me for as long as I want, but it’s still somewhat awkward. His man smell rubs off on me and carries me all the way home.

“I guess I’ll see you at Burningman, or on the dance floor. But I don’t know which one!” He’s jokingly buoyant, light. This does not affect him emotionally like it does me.

And I walk away. I walk away from the man in black, the man in which every part of him is a seduction to my soul; his posture, his tight Euro-Tribal pants, his eyes, his demeanor, his words, even his forearms make me weak in the knees.

I drive home to Venice, in a daze, just focusing on my music, on my power, on this release. How we’ve always been fun and playful even in the hard times. Perhaps we will always be friends, just not now.

Exiting the 1- highways to Venice, I am filled with words of satiracle heart-break. I text him.

“Apparently we can live without each other.”

“Love you and…???” He’s not buying into my rejection.

“And nothing. The end.” I reply dryly.

“No…and

 I will always love You.”

His words have his soul behind them and they dance inside my phone, carry the vibration of his Heart. They are words that I feel for a moment, but I don’t allow myself to get so lost in them.

“If you love it set it free.”

Sitting on my Virgin America airplane ride on my third work trip to New York. I always enjoy it when people ask me why I’m going to New York. I always reply with the simple words,

“To work.”

And then they ask “what do you do?

“I’m a dominatrix.” I’ve started to embrace this term more and more.

Yes I am going to New York to get paid. To get paid for my powers to deeply seduce men into submission. I have never had so much fun in my life as I’ve had in this work.