Monday, June 21, 2010

Tongue Tied Up

They leave me reeling, women do. Tongue tied up and hurting. I know this may not be the most original subject for a piece. It certainly isn't an original predicament for us men. But I swear to the Goddess, every time I talk to these here girls feels like the first time. Each conversation begins with me not knowing a damn thing about speaking to women. Like I'm sailing in uncharted waters with no map, no depth awareness and no destination in sight. And if I like her, let's through in some shallow reef beds and a squall on the way, shall we?

I wonder if there will every come a time when I can breeze through a conversation, hitting all the right notes with precisely the right rhythm. Instead, even when a conversation is going well, and her hands keep fixing her hair, and my smile keeps getting Cheshire wider, I feel like I'm a musician performing a piece that I've never played before, but one the audience knows intimately and refuses to let me look at the sheet music. Too dramatic? Well how about a song they've requested only without telling me. I'm supposed to guess what they want to hear. And I can't mess up neither, because then smiles will disappear and frowns parade out the door.

Dear Lord, if I didn't love the delicious awkwardness and slow conversation tango of it all, I would no doubt have taken vows of chastity and secluded myself upon a forbidding forbidden mountain-top with only my ice-hard nipples for company, the second I hit puberty. Now there's an image! I still remember the first time I saw that first girl smile, when I was a boy, and had no idea why a girl I've seen smile before, has suddenly smiled like she's never smiled before. And what's going on in my pants? Do we ever really outgrow puberty, or does it all get camouflaged under practiced poise and what-we-think-to-be Humphrey Bogart swagger?

I can get them to smile. I can get them to laugh. I can stare into their eyes without feeling cliched, and with absolute certainty, and absolute joy, get lost amidst the twinkles. What I wanna know, what I'm writing to understand, is what in the name of Cupid's waxed testicles happens to me after that? Is it that I snap back to a banal, unpalatable reality so abruptly that it ruins my optimism and poise? Does my cynical mind fast forward through scenes of the entire relationship/association to come, up until the ultimate undramatic uninspiring end (whichever end of the uninspiring spectrum it may fall) and revolt in denial, and in desire for an Indiana Jones romance complete with bullets whizzing by and fisticuffs aplenty and hot Nazi torturers and eternally witty banter throughout?

I know not. But I need an intervention, or a clue, right fucking now. Life cannot be a Milan Kundera novel, and it shouldn't. I don't think I have the maturity or the joie de vivre to see that much drama through. I'd probably ask for the check and chicken out at her doorstep.

Ha! At least I amuse myself. It's either that or prescription pills and a silly looking psychiatrist. Pray for me...

3 comments:

  1. :) Glad I'm reading your blogs again... the first thing I do when I switch on my PC in the morning... hoping there's a treat of a blog waiting...

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  2. Thats the best written complaint ever :D..
    Apologies on behalf of my tribe...but i'll tell you a secret, You dont need a clue or any intervention...you'll know if you listen to that pure reverberating voice and shut out the devil on your shoulder. And the ones who are worth the effort only need laughter and some true good love....its that simple...throw is some drama and an indiana jones romance(?)- perfect :D.... (write more so i can send my vishesh tippani!)

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  3. Jones romance complete with bullets whizzing by and fisticuffs aplenty and hot Nazi torturers and eternally witty banter throughout?

    nazi.. was a killa expression.
    a very very artistic piece.

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