Bitch Kitty Racing

At some point the trauma of your last relationship has faded and you are ready to begin dating again. You start looking around and going on platonic dates, or dates without heavily romantic overtones. Just hanging out, more or less.

Then the point comes where you start to become a little lonely, craving deeper intimacy. You know you’re not ready for it yet, but the craving is still there, and the longer you go single the more insistent the gnawing becomes. You tell yourself to wait, to be patient. You tell yourself that Sunday nights, those nights when you and that someone just lie around on the couch in your pj’s and eat takeout while watching movies, will happen again.

You can’t rush intimacy. It grows at a slow rate, and grows slower with every relationship. Trust issues rear their ugly heads, or perhaps they’re actually believability issues, as in, “This has happened a few times before. How do I know it’s real?”

Then another craving starts, a craving for sex. You don’t necessarily want to reproduce, but you’d at least like to practice the reproductive act. As an adult, you know damned well that easy sex is anything but, and has serious emotional ramifications if what you’re actually craving is intimacy. Easy sex just leaves you feeling sad in theses cases because you wanted something more. Even if you decide to just get laid you have to pick a partner carefully, one who is on your page and won’t read anything more into it, one who isn’t slutty enough to pose a health hazard, and one who won’t text you eight times a night looking for more.

What a conundrum! You want intimacy and aren’t ready for it, you want sex but don’t know if you can deal with it, you want intimate sex but can’t have it without a relationship and you can’t have a relationship because you’re not ready for intimacy.

Zut alors!

I was actually contemplating these very arguments while sipping a Martini in a crowded Friday night bar. I was watching the mating game play out and taking notes when I spied a very odd threesome sitting at a table just within earshot. I had to stare without staring; they were so strange looking! If I thought it was possible I would swear to you that what I saw sitting at that table, sharing a bottle of Absinthe, was a brain holding two leashes, attached to which were a heart on crutches and a libido that kept swiveling its head and looking at every woman in the place. They were in agitated conversation, and every so often the brain would jerk the leads. When I listened more closely, I could hear that they were discussing the very thoughts that wafted in the periptery of my head.

The Heart was speaking: “What about Emily? We’ve dated her quite a few times. She’s even spent the night.”

Brain replied, “She told us she doesn’t want a boyfriend.”

“I know, but we hold hands all the time and she’s so pretty!”

“Are you new?! Doesn’t. Want. A boyfriend.”

“But . . .” pleads Heart.

“No! She doesn’t want that kind of relationship. If she did, she’d probably say something to the effect that she wants a boyfriend. Telling someone to go away is a very ineffective method of attracting someone, and chasing someone who just told you to go away is masochistic stupidity. No!”

“But we see Emily at least twice a week! She must want more!”

Brain shook his lobes sadly. “Do you remember, my muscle-headed little friend, seeing Alice four times a week? Do you remember her telling you at the beginning she didn’t want a relationship? Do you remember falling in love anyway? Do you remember how badly that ended?”

“Oh. Yeah,” said Heart. “That sucked.”

“Yes. Yes it did.”

“Hey, what about Brigit? She’s nice, we hold hands all the time and she’s so pretty!”

“God, you’re slutty!” exclaimed Brain, amazed at Heart’s quick change in target.

“I’m not slutty. I’m popular.”

“Yeah, I guess sluts actually try to get screwed; you just wind up that way.”

Heart pressed on, “But what about Brigit?”

“Brigit lives in Ireland, dumbass. She’s just here visiting.”

“But . . .”

“We’re not moving to Ireland.”

Heart was silent for moment. “Oh! I know! Candice!”

“Coworker.”

“Pheobe?”

“Moving away in six months,” says Brain.

“Janine?”

“In a relationship.”

“But . . .”

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Brain sipped angrily on his drink.

Heart was not to be deterred. “Well, what about . . .”

Brain shut him down. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Am I going to have to put a shock collar on you? Zap you every time we meet a woman? Relax. Wait. Be patient. There will be someone appropriate at some time in the future, and I will not have you running amok and otherwise involved when that time comes.”

“So, uh, we’re looking then?”

“Jesus! No! Where the hell did you get that?”

“You said, ‘There will be someone appropriate . . .’ That means we’ve started looking.”

“You can’t even walk right yet! Stop it!” said Brain, with a particularly vicious jerk on the leash.

Libido’s head finally stopped swiveling for a moment at the correction. He interjected, “Dude. It’s time. Let the little guy go.”

“Oh, great,” sneered Brain. “Tweedle-Dum made the party, too.”

“Don’t make me flood you with hormones, squishy.”

“Don’t force me into celibacy, dickface. Time for what?”

“Sex,” said Libido. “Sex.”

“Really,” said Brain. “And whom do you propose as the willing recipient of our emotionless ardor?”

“I really don’t care. Anyone. What about Emily? She’s totally hot.”

“If we sleep with Emily, Little Mr. Bloody Pants will attach himself to her and will probably never walk again when it ends. You know damned well he likes her, and you also know damned well how easy he is.”

“So? Just get him so drunk he doesn’t remember it.”

“Firstly, at high levels alcohol is a vasoconstrictor, meaning you have a high probability of being useless. Secondly, if we’re that drunk we’ll wake up next to her and Heart’ll know what happened. Thirdly, if we wake up next to her and I’m too hungover to control you, you’ll have sex with her again and he will definitely attach himself then.”

“You always say that sex is better with intimacy.”

Brain jerked on Libido’s lead.

“Ow! Don’t do that again.”

“Then don’t be stupid again.”

“How is that stupid?” said Libido angrily.

“Because, prick, for starters, if Heart is hung up on someone he can’t have he’ll spend all his time moping and you’ll get even less than you’re getting now. He’ll be so sad and drippy that I won’t even be able to think. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to do anything at all, we need to work together.”

“You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry,” said Libido, suddenly contrite. “Let’s make up. Here, let’s have a toast to teamwork!”

“To teamwork!” They drank.

Perhaps it was the effects of the Martini I was drinking, but as I watched Brain call for another bottle he suddenly became a little fuzzy at the edges, a little indistinct. Heart seemed to develop a thin shell, like he was suspended in a thin layer of ice, while Libido appeared much sharper, almost feral. I rubbed my eyes, but they still looked the same. I leaned in and listened more closely.

“What if we had sex with someone we didn’t know that well?” asked Libido, refilling all three glasses. “Y’know, just to keep in practice?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now,” answered Brain.

“I’d kind of like to, though, “said Heart. “I’m lonely, and maybe a little companionship would help to ease the pain.”

“I mean, really, Brain, look at you,” said Libido. “You can’t even think straight, it’s been so long.”

“Well . . .”

“Come on, Brain!” said Heart. “We haven’t even flirted in God only knows how long. Look at all the attractive people here.”

“Let’s say we were going to think about doing this,” said Brain. “Whom would you two retards propose?”

“So we’re going to try?” said Libido. “Finally! This deserves a drink!”

“But only, only if this drooling idiot doesn’t get involved,” added Brain, indicating Heart.

“I’m the idiot?” said Heart testily. “Really. What makes you so smart anyway? Why are all of our relationships so screwed up? Huh? I’m not the one who stresses out and overthinks every little thing she does. I’m not the one who frets and worries about what the definition of the relationship is, or where it’s going. You are! You’re the one who screws everything up! You’re the fucking problem, here! Not me!”

Brain angrily jerked on the lead, but Heart quickly stood up in defiance.

“Whoa, guys, whoa!” said Libido, moving between them. “Calm down here! Just relax. We’re all in this together, remember?” He poured out three more glasses. “Come on, let’s just have a drink, you know? We can think about sex later.”

“I really hate you sometimes,” said Brain to Libido. “I am so fucking sick of having to consider you.”

“Look, I’m not the problem here,” said Libido. “You are. Heart’s got a point. It’s your thoughts that control us.”

“Hey!” objected Brain. “I’m not the one who wants to bury his head in half the women we meet!”

“Yeah, but be that as it may, you are the one who dictates how we do it. I just want sex. I’m relatively innocent. I don’t have preferences or proclivities. You’re the one who needs to have sex a certain way, or with certain body types, or with certain things involved. Not me. You.”

“Look,” said Brain, standing up again. “I’m not the one who can’t control himself.”

“No, you’re not,” replied Libido smugly. “You’re the one who can’t control me.”

Brain yanked the leash hard enough to bring Libido to his feet, but Libido was expecting it and used the motion to leap over the table punching as Brain fell backwards. Heart came at Brain from the other side, kicking and stomping him, grinding him in the shattered Absinthe bottle. The table fell over in a cracking of wood, the waiters became involved, the other patrons hooted and shouted in glee at the spectacle.

I closed my notebook quietly and slipped out the back door.