Semiazas
Feature Encrusted
Registered: May 2004
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Posts: 171 |
Semi's Love Life - A Glimpse
How I Break It Off
by Semi
So, a few of months ago I met an actual lady who didn’t reflexively kick me in the penis as soon as I introduced myself.
No, really.
When you’re as horribly socially isolated as me, this kind of occurrence is really noteworthy. Trust me. I’ve been removed from the presence of living, breathing people for so long that simple social awkwardness would be a step up for me. I’m a social train wreck. As Kobe would say, I “ain’t gots neetha skills nor game, nigga” (and unlike the rapacious Mr. Bryant I’ve got a tiny dick and an even tinier bank account).
I haven’t seen the sun in so long that my skin is a slimy translucent white that resembles something you’d more likely expect to find on an amphibian than a man. My eyes have become so myopic and weak that I can’t step outside before six p.m. without hunching over and shrieking from the sensory overload. “The yellow face, it buuurns us, master. Makes it stop, master.” Smeagol’s got nothing on me.
As if things weren’t bad enough, I’m generally fuckin’ hideous to boot. My head is five sizes too large for my body. The features of my face are all asymmetrical (I got one normal eye and one shriveled fuckin’ Radiohead eye, just to give you an idea), and what’s more, I’ve got Austin Powers’s dentition. As I’m sure you’re aware, that kind of thing doesn’t exactly help with the ladies.
Be that as it may, I was hangin’ out at my buddy’s place during a party he threw this past July and I met this woman.
My friend, simple words do not do this lady justice.
I only intended to glance at the door when she walked in. Glancing at the door is a habit of mine from wayback. Anyway, when I caught a glimpse of this lady’s face, something happened to my neck. No, again I’m serious. I don’t know what exactly happened, but I think my brain had already sent the signal to my head to bounce back into its original position almost before I shot the glance at the door. When I saw her, though, something visceral took over and commandeered about half of my neck muscles. The ensuing catastrophe involved a spilled drink, a major shooting-pain-neck-spasm, a “louder than it ought to have been” gurgling noise escaping from my tortured throat (convincing all the fence-sitters that I really was fucking loopy), and one brilliantly scattered bowl of chips (thanks to a peculiar leg-kickee-outy thing resulting from either the weird neck kink or a weeny-stim overload, I’m not sure which).
Oh, and of course, Ms. Beauty-Given-Flesh caught sight of the whole incident and locked her stare onto me, falling into wild peals of laughter at my expense. Gentlefolk, humiliation seemed a truly inconsequential price to pay for a sight as marvelous as that.
God, she was beautiful. I had never before seen a woman so perfectly, exotically, sublimely made. She was a Filipina. I knew that by default. My buddy and everyone at the party (except me…I’m Tito Semi) was a Flip, so her nationality was beyond question even before I met her. But, to describe her, damn. It’s difficult. When I initially glanced at her, the first thing that struck me were the huge brown eyes peeking out from this tiny, perfect, heart-shaped face. They were brown eyes that immediately smashed any love affair I’d ever had with blue or green. Lips that begged kissing, full and pink as flawless springtime rose-blossoms, moist and parted in laughter, immaculately white teeth arrayed behind them. Her skin was a deep, dark brown. Deep brown, man, like chocolate or coffee, and taut, firm, literally flawless, without blemish. Perfect. (Later, I’d come to marvel at how all the skin from her neck to her ankles would raise up in gooseflesh at the touch of my breath) And, her neck, long and delicate to the point of fragility. Her whole body was cast on a similar frame, lissome would be a good word, I think. Thin, sinuous, dark, with full perfect breasts, a diminutive waist, and a flare to her hips that brings color to my cheeks just thinking about it.
I cannot go on. My pants are getting too tight for me to safely continue.
So, she comes to me across the room, laughing and saying something that I can’t piece together because my brain’s too busy trying to imagine what she smells like, tastes like, feels like. She says something a second time, and I hope I’m at least smiling at her because my mind’s busy wondering how her body would respond to a firm handling, and the part of me that’s still somewhat gentlemanly is painting visions across the inside of my skull of this wonderful little lady wearing a grass skirt (and nothing else) on the shore of a perfect island paradise that I’ve only had the great good-fortune to see reflected in her smile (but nevertheless, I swear I can feel the sea-spray on my chest as somewhere waves are crashing around me) and as I struggle to the surface of reality, fertile valleys of my mind completely unpolluted by either drug or alcohol, wearing a rictus of frightened passion I blurt out, “Jesus Holy Christ, God bless the Philippine Islands!”
She laughed and offered for a third time to help me clean up the mess I’d made. I accepted, and despite my normally insurmountable wall of introversion, we began to converse at great length.
I never expected her to be intelligent. Physically beautiful women seldom are. What a pleasant surprise! We sat and talked about everything from poetry to music, film, philosophy, and even ended up rappin’ about Thermopylae, Sparta, and Lycurgus’ Laws. She reads, and not Cosmo, either. She’s an ardent fan of history, religious texts, philosophical treatises, and feeds and tends her brain with certain dignity. And even though the whole time we were talking I just KNEW she’d eventually bring up her fiancé, husband, or boyfriend (at the very least), she never brought up any of them. She was single. SINGLE and vibin’ heavily on the S-dogg’s lazy eye.
Yeah.
So, I managed to ask her for her number without splashing anyone with my drink or conducting any major acts of inadvertent physical comedy and was pleasantly surprised when she unhesitatingly whipped that shit down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. Not only was her cell number on there, but her home number was on it, and her work number, too. Christ! Paydirt! And, foolishly, I reciprocated in kind.
Foolishly, I say, because, despite the fact that this delicate piece of living art and intellectuality ardently and hungrily explored every conceivable act of physical intimacy with me for the next couple months, and aside from the reality of her unfailing ability to not only follow me through some of my more obscure conversational topics, but to lead me to places and revelations that sometimes left me stunned and awestruck, she soon expressed one major-league and thoroughly intolerable flaw.
She called too much.
Now wait. It’s worse than you think. Let me explain.
At first, we had the obligatory five-hour conversations, you know? That’s sort of what you’d expect, I guess, although I hadn’t really experienced anything quite like that since high school. Soon, however, she started calling me first thing in the morning (morning for her is night for me. I work the major-league graveyard shift, baby). Not long after that, she started calling me repeatedly, over and over again, throughout her workday. Now, this is the time I like to sleep, mainly because it’s the only chance I get to do that sort of thing. This girl called and called and called from work despite my admonishment, urging, begging, and eventually my commanding her to cease.
Perhaps three weeks into our relationship, things took an even more bizarre turn. Now, up until this point she’d visit me pretty routinely, maybe two or three times a week (she lives about seventy miles away from me, see) and I’d visit her on my weekends. Suddenly, she started appearing at my home without warning or invitation. That disturbed me a little bit, but the fringe benefits were well worth it. What really started pissing me off was when she started calling off from work to spend even more time with me. This happened at about the four week mark, and it drove me up the wall. “Spending more time with me” meant fucking me to death when I really should have been sleeping. Seriously, mah niggas, working for ten hours a day and fucking for twelve more everyday for a week can take the wind right out of your sails. I’m a human being for chrissakes, not the goddamned sperminator.
Still, I was under the spell of her. What I wanted mattered not at all, even to me anymore. This succubus, this wretched insatiable genius of sensuality had me wrapped firmly in her velvety grip and there was no place else on earth I’d have rather been.
Until.
I went, one fateful day, to fetch my address book and call a friend that I’d not spoken to in well over a month. Strange, I thought, since he used to call almost daily to chat with me. Where had he gotten to? In my sex-addled haze, I’d not thought to pause and wonder what had happened to him. Even stranger, my address book was nowhere to be found. Odd, I thought. No address book was a new one. That shit never got up and walked away before. Good thing for me I keep all my contact info backed up on the PC, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought, anyway. Unfortunately, when I logged on to check my ancient database of phone numbers and addresses, all of the information had been inexplicably deleted.
All of it. Poof. Gone.
Being a relatively laid-back kind of dude, I thought little of it, ascribing such things to the vagaries of computer-karma and whatnot.
Still, not to be deterred, I climbed into the old automobile and sputtered on down to my buddy’s house. Boy, was he surprised to see me! It seems that he and a couple of other friends were pissed off at me. When I asked why, he said that “changing your telephone number without passing the new one on to your friends in over a month” was a fucked thing to do.
What? I hadn’t changed my number. Being one of those technological throwbacks that still eschews the ownership of a cellphone, I relied on my home phone number for basically all my outside contact with the world (however limited that may be). Why would I change my number? All it took, however, was a quick phone call to what used to be my number from my buddy’s phone in order to convince me that he was telling the truth. My number wasn’t my number anymore. What the hell had happened?
Well, you know what had happened, dontcha? A little sleuth work on my part turned up the fact that my dear, sweet island-lassie had called and had my phone-number changed without my consent. Shit, I don’t look at the bill, I just pay the damned thing. It’d been that way for over a month and a half before I discovered the discrepancy.
Going a step further, I grabbed the phone-book and looked up the numbers for the three local locksmiths in the area. Sure enough, the first call I made turned up an invoice (paid in cash by MY WIFE at the time of services rendered) for a “First Key” for my front door (don’t ask me, my old key still worked like a charm), and an impressioning job for my car.
GLEAH! She had keys made to my house AND car! Apparently, she had decided to take this step after being left here on one of the evenings I went to work. See, I’d never leave her a key, and always carried the only set I own in my pocket at all times (and, of course, one spare car and house key in the wallet, just in case).
When confronted with these horrible revelations, she went on to reveal that not only had she changed my telephone number and nabbed my address book, but she also went down the list of women’s names I’d had in it and left nasty, harassing messages with the lot of them. ALL the women in the book, like…my fuckin’ boss, fer instance.
Yeah.
She went on to say that she couldn’t help it, she was “obsessed” with me, in deep and profound love with me, “needed me to go on living,” and furthermore she felt that it was not only “well within her rights” but completely natural for her to “stake her claim” by informing all of my female acquaintances that they must totally and immediately fuck off or face the consequences.
Growwwl.
So, I’m sitting here writing this after changing my phone number yet again, paying exorbitant fees to have the locks in my car changed ($750.00), and having my house re-keyed ($185.00). It’s been a week and a half since I started the de-Charina-ing (yes, that’s the succubus’ name), and things have only gotten more bizarre since.
Everyday for the past week I’ve been receiving flowers and candy on a regular basis. Not little arrangements, either. My house looks like a fucking arboretum. I’m getting several “forgive me” and “I love you” cards everyday via the good old U.S. mail. And, last night, on one of my only nights off during the week, she showed up underneath my bedroom window…
…with four mariachis.
I shit thee not.
Bass guitaras and accordions plugging away, horrible weeping tenor-mexicano nortena style aye-aye-aye singing, and the whole nine yards.
I fucking hate that shit.
Honestly, part of me wouldn’t mind letting her in and making the sweet, sweet love to her again (anytime’s the right time for humpin’). All I’ve got to do is look at her and all kinds of man-stuff starts grinding into action inside of me. Gah.
I’m not entirely sure what to do, but in between furious bouts of masturbation I’ve managed to come to the conclusion that sooner or later one of us has probably got to die. I’m pretty sure that if I do let her in, it’s gonna end up being me.
-S
Last edited by Semiazas on 09-15-2004 at 01:16 PM
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09-15-2004 01:08 PM
