so very alone…

I haven’t seen the FedEx girl since Wednesday. If I close my eyes at night, I can see her perfectly. During the day, with all the other distractions, her image fades from my mind and gets so distorted that she doesn’t seem real. Whenever that FedEx truck pulls into the parking lot, it’s all I can do to not run out to greet it, like back when the ice cream truck chimed through our neighborhood. When she hops out of the van, it all comes back in a flash of warmth. She’s a goddess.

Those cigarette breaks are the best part of my day.

I haven’t seen Janet at the racquetball courts since the time we played. I keep hoping to see her so that I can give her a gift that I got for her. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to spend much time at the gym because I’ve been working late. Most of it isn’t actual work. I’ve been monitoring other workers’ internet habits, which is an addictive time sink. I’m getting to know my co-workers.

I called Bertha a few times to apologize again for suggesting that she should lose weight. She hasn’t returned my calls. Here’s what I meant to say — her telling me to fix my problems by going to therapy was as stupid as someone telling her that she should lose weight by being dragged in mud behind a jeep. It’s actually a good analogy if you think about it. Both techniques may or may not work, but they definitely involve humiliation that far exceeds any benefits. The problem is that she took it personally.

And I shouldn’t have called her names. I used one name that rhymes with her real name — if her name were Trumpet, it’s as if I called her a strumpet — and I called her a savage dictator. She shouldn’t have called me a “wretched thief” and a “mealy slug.” I need to get thicker skin to cope with these lovers’ quarrels.

Isolation score: 5

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Bertha and I made love again last night, and then we had a huge argument. Here’s the understatement of the year — I don’t get women.

Bertha knock-walked into my condo last night and acted as if everything were perfectly fine with our relationship, as if a week hadn’t passed since our ferocious coital embrace.  The thought crossed my mind that perhaps she considers Wednesday our dedicated night of love-making.

She must have seen the puzzled look on my face, so she said, “We must trust in life’s sacred spontaneity.” Then we made love. It went off better than last time in that none of my key body parts were crimped, but when I asked to be on top, Bertha said no because she’d had a bad experience that way. When I asked if I could be behind her, she said that position is “reserved.”

I went through another wild flight of emotions during that 10-minute period. If I had written this before our argument, I would declare myself to be the luckiest man in the world, and I’d ask for advice on wedding rings. I was fully alive.

Then she told me — quite matter-of-factly — that I had obvious problems with intimacy, and that she was going to make an appointment for me to see a certain therapist.

I don’t want to get into the rest of it. We were mean.

In my defense, I don’t like being told to see a therapist, especially right when I was basking in the glow of sexual intimacy. I definitely shouldn’t have said the things I said, especially the part about her needing to lose weight by being towed by a rope behind a jeep. I meant it as an analogy to what she said about me, and she thought I was criticizing her for being overweight.

I wanted to apologize or at least explain, but I couldn’t stop crying, so I just called her names, and then she started calling me names. Some things just can’t be unsaid.

Isolation score: 4?

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Most of the time, I don’t understand how I won a Bloggie. I suspect that people voted for my blog over well-designed, well-written, uplifting blogs…like Greeblemonkey, Das Becca, and That Night…as a joke. You know, kind of the way you voted for Carrie as prom queen because you thought it would be funny to pour pig’s blood on her.

Has anyone else ever wondered how that scene would have played out if Carrie didn’t have telekinesis? She would have walked home and started a blog about how crappy her life was, that’s how it would have played out.

But you know what? Yesterday I got a package in the mail.

It’s beautiful. I find myself looking at it more often than I probably should.

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By this time next week, I should have enough of an understanding of my job that I could technically start working from home more often than not.

And "technically" is the key word in that sentence, because I probably will still be working from the main office, even though there’s no technical reason I should. This is because Devin, my boss, has given me a couple tasks he wants me to start working on that don’t have much to do with my job description.

First, he’s asked me to start calling to his attention what he calls "substantial abuse" of the company’s generous open-Internet policy. Which is to say, right now there are no blocks on any sites here, and Devin wants to know who’s screwing around too much.

Which means, incidentally, that from now on whenever I am at work and doing non-work surfing, I will do it using my personal laptop and a Verizon Wireless Aircard. I wouldn’t want anyone spying on me like that.

Anyway, the other task Devin has given me is to start getting to know some of my fellow employees. He says that I keep to myself too much. he also says I ought to keep a lookout for "disloyal behavior."

In other words, I am Devin’s personal rat. Just what I always wanted.

So today I made a point of introducing myself to two people in the company. First was Stan. Stan answered every question I asked him without giving additional detail, and he never asked me corresponding questions. In other words, he didn’t observe the rules of office chatter that even I know and obey. When I asked him how he liked working here (just following orders), he said, "It’s a really excellent job. Definitely the best place I have ever worked. I especially like Devin’s innovative approach to business."

It sounded rehearsed. Like I wasn’t the first guy he’s answered that question to.

Mary, the other worker I talked to, freaked me out. I never even got to my standard non-invasive questions. As soon as I told her my name and shook her hand, she did this intrusive intentional eye contact thing and said with a big smile, "Do you love Jesus?"

"What?" I asked. I couldn’t have been more surprised if instead of saying that, she had flicked me on the nose.

"Do you love Jesus?" she asked.

By now my fight-or-flight response was in full effect.

"I guess so." It wasn’t a bad response, considering how little time I had to prepare it. Not enthusiastic, but also not an outright denial. Stay low key and disengage.

"I have some literature you might enjoy," she said.

"Right now I need to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later," I replied, then pivoted and left.

I know that no matter what, I am going to have to dodge Mary whenever I see her from now on.

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This last one wasn’t as big a lie as some of the others I’ve told. The real truth is that while I went to the book club, I didn’t really give that speech. Here’s what happened. I mumbled something about an upset stomach and asked to be excused. Instead of going to the restroom, I just walked outside. And kept walking.

Soveryalone.com regrets the incident.

While I’m in full “radical honesty” mode, I’ll mention something else I’ve been doing that may reflect poorly on me.

The woman who drives the FedEx truck is perhaps the most stunningly gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. To say “words can’t do her justice” isn’t doing her justice. If her face could launch a thousand ships, her body could launch a thousand rockets. I hope you get the picture.

She’s pretty.

I know exactly which times the FedEx truck is supposed to stop by the back of our building. I even bought a pack of cigarettes so it looks like I have a reason for standing around near the back door. (Fun factoid: Cigarettes are nearly impossible to steal.)

Whenever she pulls up in her truck, I feel like I’m peeping into heaven. I’m awestruck and wildly aroused. If the FedEx truck doesn’t come, or if there’s a different driver, I get angry, smash my lit cigarette into the railing, and curse under my breath.

Don’t get me wrong. Unless I win the lottery, I have no chance with this woman. If she’s Galadriel, then I’m Barliman Butterbur. She is so far out of my league that I don’t even torment myself by threatening to talk to her. Every part of me agrees that I have no chance, so I’m free to just stand back invisibly and admire.

Is it just me, or do other adults act this way? Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Unless your answer is yes. Then by all means, answer.

One more thing to get off my chest. I also swung by Walmart and picked up a sleeping bag and camp stove to go with the inflatable air mattress. That was oddly thrilling.

Isolation score: 4

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I picked up B. at her place. I arrived at 5:30, fifteen minutes early, because I hoped to get in some private time with her. Instead, she just seemed irritated. “I’m not ready yet, just stay in the living room, OK?” So I sat there, reading the amazon.com reviews of the book she told me they were going to be talking about: Nobodies: Modern American Slave Labor and the Dark Side of the New Global Economy .

“I figured it would be a women-oriented novel,” I had said to her. “Like The Woman in White or Bridget Jones’s Diary.”

“I wish. Every so often, someone decides it’s her job to educate the rest of us on some pet peeve.”

Hearing B. say that was really helpful. I now had an orientation I’d take toward the book. B. was against it, so I’d be against it.

“How many other women are bringing their boyfriends, do you know?” I asked.

“You’re the only man coming, Harlan. I’m pretty sure this is the first time any man has ever come to any women’s book group.”

I wanted to ask why she invited me if she didn’t want me to go, but I already knew why. It was because in her mind, I had begged to go. I also didn’t ask why she was using sarcasm with me instead of her “radical honesty,” because I knew the answer to that, too.

We went to a Japanese place. As an aside, I’d like someone to please explain to me how Japanese food has replaced Chili’s as the kind of restaurant everyone can agree upon. I would have loved an Awesome Blossom and cajun chicken alfredo. Or maybe that’s TGIFriday’s. Either way.

I ordered teriyaki chicken. It wasn’t half-bad. Most people ordered sushi. I have a theory that nobody really likes sushi, because I have never seen anyone eat sushi when they’re by themselves. People eat sushi to impress people they are with.

I didn’t care about the food, though. Not really. I just wanted to hold B.’s hand. Show that we were connected. Every time I did, though, she’d reach for her drink or otherwise be occupied. Was she embarrassed of me? Had I offended her? Nobody in the book club asked why I had come along, so I expect B. had already given them an explanation. I started thinking what the email must have looked like:

“This sad sack I’ve gone out with a couple times doesn’t want to be alone tonight, so I’m going to throw him a line and let him tag along, OK? I’m really sorry, and promise it won’t happen except just this one time.”

They talked for about ninety minutes before they even got to the book. Long before then, I had finished my chicken. And I had given up on holding Bertha or inching my chair close to her.

One train of thoughts, a mantra in a way, kept running through my head: “I wish I was home. I wish I was in bed, under the covers. I wish I was alone.”

Everyone was going around the table, offering their insights into how awful it was that in this day and age there was what amounted to slavery anywhere, much less in America. Acting like this book had touched them deeply.

Bertha was right there with them, expressing forceful indignation.

Meanwhile, I was thinking: “I just want to go home. To bed. To be alone. To watch TV.”

And strangely, during one of those lulls most conversations have, it occurred to me that I could have this wish, very easily, by following Bertha’s advice. By being radically honest.

So I took a turn talking

“I don’t think any of you are going to change your lives after reading this book. In fact, by eating in a restaurant, you’re probably supporting something close to slave labor. I think the real reason you’re discussing this book is to appear intellectual, when what you really want is to be entertained. You could have both of those things in a good graphic novel like The Watchmen, but you’d never stoop to reading one of those.

“Meanwhile, I’m here because I wanted to be with B., but I’m not really here with her at all, and I hate crowds. So there’s no reason for me to be here, and I’m leaving.”

And I left. I just drove home, figuring B. could get a ride. When I got home, I turned the phone off and I locked the door.

And then I turned my phone back on and unlocked the door, because really what I wanted was for her to call or come over.

But she hasn’t. Not Saturday night, not today. And 95% of the time I’m certain that I’m glad of that, and then I’ll hear something and think it’s her and my heart jumps. But of course it isn’t her and then I’m stuck with the realization that I do want her to call me or come over even if it’s to yell at me for embarrassing me in front of her friends. Because then I can ask her why she doesn’t love me anymore.

Isolation Score: 10

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I just assumed that B. and I would be going out last night. I mean, we’re in love. Of course we’d want to be together. So maybe I took her time for granted when I called Friday afternoon. “How about we go back to that great pizza place tonight?” I asked. And then, I assumed, back to her apartment for sex!

Assumed, assumed, assumed.

“I’m sorry, Harlan, but I’ve got other plans tonight; I’ve had them for a while,” Bertha said.

“Oh, OK, no problem,” I said, even though it was a huge problem. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing special. Going out with some friends from work. But one of them’s my manager, and it wouldn’t be good for me to change plans.”

There was something about the way she said it. The way she said “Nothing special” very slowly, with a pause before she continued, like she was stalling while she made up her story.

“I didn’t ask you to change plans,” I said.

I was being mean on purpose. I’ve been ditched enough times that I know when it’s happening. And I knew for sure that’s what was going on, because she didn’t acknowledge the slight or engage in a fight. She was too busy being relieved she was off the hook without additional questioning.

The only question is one I am afraid to ask her: who does she prefer over me?

Anyway, this morning I called her up and she said she had plans again for tonight. “Do I need to make reservations a week ahead now?” I asked.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “I’m going out with some friends from my book group tonight. You’re more than welcome to join if you like.”

“Great. What time should I come by?” I asked. I knew she hadn’t expected me to take her up on it. What guy in the world would want to go with a bunch of women, all who know each other, when he knows only one of them?

“Come by at 5:45. We leave at 6:00.”

So I’m about to meet B.’s friends over dinner. I leave in half an hour. Unless I decide to kill myself first.

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Apparently, I created some confusion in yesterday’s post, so I thought I’d clear up matters by answering your questions. 

Wolverines in a dryer?

Now that I look back on it, it’s possible that I was exaggerating. If someone were watching us through a window, I doubt “wolverines in a dryer” would have come to mind. After all, B. was on top of me and we weren’t exactly tearing at each other or even changing positions. The thing is, my heart was tumbling inside my chest, and for a brief moment I felt like a wild animal, so I’m sticking to it.

Was it her vajayjay that smelled like fish in and old shoe?

I need to be more careful with language. A few weeks ago, I mentioned that B. had a little bit of light brown hair on her arms, and some of you guys act like she’s Sasquatch.

When it was over, I smelled a pungent odor that took me by surprise, though not in a bad way. We were both sweaty and sticky, which took me off guard. I just didn’t express it well. So please stop telling me that B. needs to see the gynecologist. The bedroom did smell a bit like a men’s locker room in the aftermath, but there’s nothing wrong with her “hoohoo.”

Why would you feel the need to lie and tell us you bought XXL condoms?

I wasn’t lying. Do we have to go over this again? I admitted — to my everlasting shame and torment — that I am not well-endowed. Yes, I bought the XXL condoms, but I didn’t use them, nor will I ever use them, unless I develop a case of elephantitis. In fact, that wasn’t the first time I’ve bought XXL condoms. When I’m feeling particularly insecure, it makes the checkout experience more tolerable. 

I used Lifestyle Snugger Fit condoms. (Don’t be mislead. The condoms aren’t for smaller penises. They just offer a tighter fit. See?) No, I didn’t buy them, nor will I ever buy them. Admitting that I use Snugger Fit condoms on an anonymous blog is one thing; buying them from a store in front of real people is a whole different matter.

WHAT HAPPENED to the camping mattress?

It’s still in its package. I have no use for it whatsoever. A few months ago, I would have picked up a tent and sleeping bag soon afterwards to create a matching set, but I really feel like I’m changing as a person.

Love?

Yes! I don’t want to fight this feeling.

Ok and now I can’t stop laughing at all these comments. the readers are so much better than the author!

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

censorship: alive and rampant at soveryalone.com

I assume the commenter named “maybe” thought I deleted his comment because he didn’t see it right away. I also assume he was referring to the previous “maybe” comment  that says, “she almost got fucked in the ass.”

I have a question for you, “maybe” — Why would you be upset if someone deleted that comment? Did you spend a lot of time coming up with that line? I can only speculate. Maybe it started as “I really think that that woman damn near got butt penetrated by you, guh!” And then you used your superior editing powers to trim it down to its current lean state. After your time-consuming composition efforts, you looked to admire your brilliant comment, couldn’t find it, and concluded that I deleted it. Is that what happened?

As I mentioned in comments, I haven’t stopped a single comment from coming through. Have no fear, your first amendment rights are protected here at soveryalone.com.

The only time I’ve ever blocked comments is when people pretend to be someone they’re not. If someone is posting as Richard or B. or my sister, I don’t want other readers thinking people in my life are really making those comments. I’m especially concerned for Richard because he may be reading this blog. (Hi, “Richard”!)

Comments by people like “maybe” really don’t bother me. You’d think they would, but I’ve spent so much time on the web over the years that I know you can’t take flamers personally. For whatever reason, people just love to jump on the Internet and fling insults. I used to do it myself. The only time a comment has hurt my feelings is when someone criticizes me in a thoughtful way that’s at least partially right. That drives me nuts.

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It’s official. B. and I made love last night. I am no longer a virgin. Despite the pain, it was a sacred moment that I’ll never forget. Both of us laughed, both of us cried, and all at different times.

The odd thing is that I actually feel different today. It seems like a huge weight has been lifted from me. I feel NORMAL. I can’t tell you how great that feels. I’m blabbering.

Here’s the story. I had a bunch of nervous energy, so I left work early and went over to Walmart to buy some flowers and a copy of Atonement. Since there was no way I was going to risk a repeat of last week, I paid with cash. And since I was going to be standing in line with my purchases in full display, I also picked up an inflatable camping mattress and some Durex XXL condoms.

Back at the condo, I broke my old habit of never locking up when I’m home. I dead-bolted the door so that B. had to ring the bell. When the doorbell finally rang at 7:59, I froze on the couch. Part of me wanted to hunker down and not answer. When the bell rang a third time, a different part of me seemed to carry my body to the front door. For the rest of the night — or at least for most of it — I felt split like that, as if the sheltered part of me just decided to sit in the back seat and watch the other part of me go.

B. was wearing the same dress she wore when she ate the bad eel rolls.

She and I hugged and patted each other. I handed her the flowers and DVD. It looked like she wanted to say something, thought better of it, and said, “Thanks. Let’s go.” Then she turned around and started walking in that weird way of hers, as if she’s stumbling under the weight of a backpack filled with bricks. I followed.

I thought we were going to dinner, but she drove straight to her apartment. Just as well. My stomach was in spin cycle mode. B. had the lights dimmed and she was playing what I thought at first was classical music but was really musak. I know this because I recognized the tune of “Wicked Game.” We both drank from wine glasses that had already been poured.

B. hadn’t said much all night. In fact, I asked if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong, she said. Was she angry with me?

“No. I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want you to talk. I’m in a good place right now. I’m going to open my heart to you. And you open your heart to me.”

She led me by the hand into her bedroom. More than half of her bed was covered with stuffed animals and pillows of all sizes and shapes. The room smelled like peach candles. Oh yeah. Even though I may lose a number of readers with strong moral values, I feel compelled to warn you at this point that what I write may contain information of a sexually graphic nature.

As we took our clothes off, my head was spinning and my heart was pounding. A debate between warring factions raged inside my head. B said something like, “Remember — It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.” I didn’t know if she was talking to me or to herself.

It was one of those contradictory experiences in which time seems to be standing still yet the moment is over in a flash. As we finished undressing – by the way, things would have gone a lot faster if I had a pair of scissors — B made that weird look where she wrinkles her nose and flashes her teeth. We kissed and rubbed.

Then we climbed onto the bed.

While I have hardly any experience with sexual intimacy, I’ve seen my fair share of sexual acts, and I’ll just go ahead and say that it looks a whole lot easier to do on film than in real life. Putting the condom on was no problem. It was the next phase. I don’t want to be too graphic, but let’s just say I was aiming wrong. In fact, I got so frustrated that B actually laughed.

With B’s help, I finally went inside. At that point, instinct took over and I started bucking comfortably with B on top of me. She made strange bleating noises that made me laugh. We got into a rhythm that made me feel like I could go for hours.

Then it happened.

My brain shut off. I was thinking in shapes and colors. All I know is that I felt a deep connection to B. I’m sure my eyes rolled back in my head as I gave myself over to sensual celebration. We were like two wolverines caught in a dryer.

The magic moment didn’t last long. I don’t have the kind of brain that can be shut out for long. While still moving in rhythm, I started thinking about who B. had been with before me. Even though she had never mentioned previous boyfriends, I was sure I wasn’t her first lover. How many men had she been with? One? Three? Thirty-seven? One hundred and thirty-seven? Who were these hundred and thirty-seven jerks? I imagined them dragging the panties off a young B. in the back seats of cars or in dark basements, and I hated the horny bastards. Damn them!

I changed my position to get a better angle, and something bad happened. I came out of her a little bit and she landed down hard on Little Harlan. It felt like it bent in half. I rolled to my side and tried not to yelp in agony. Tears came to my eyes. I said I was sorry.

“Are you OK?” she said.

“I think so. But I think I’m done for the night. Sorry.”

We lay in bed together, both of us wet from sweat. I never realized that sex was so messy and wet – and warm. It was all very wonderful and very strange, from the sacred intimacy to the odor of dead fish inside an old man’s tennis shoe. I hugged B. She was crying tears of happiness.

I’m in love.

Isolation score: 0.0

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All last night all today, I haven’t been able to get that stupid guy out of my head: the one who told me that I had dropped my smile. Every time I run through that event in my mind, it just makes me angrier and angrier.

How does he know that I don’t have a perfectly good reason to be frowning? What if my sister had just died? I should have told him that: "Oh, I’m sorry I’m frowning. I’ll try to be more cheerful about my sister’s violent rape and murder yesterday. Thanks for the advice."

Why was he intruding on my personal space? Is it because I look shy? An easy target? I sometimes think about what happens to school bullies once they leave school. I think this guy is the answer to that question.

What’s it to him whether I smile or not? Here’s the answer: he didn’t care whether I was smiling, he just wanted to make a fool of me for his friends. What kind of asshole does that?

I assume we work in the same building (but not at the same company), so even though I’ll mostly be working from home after the first couple weeks, I’m bound to run into him sometime soon. When that happens, what should I do? Confront him? Figure out where he works and what he drives, then start arranging minor but annoying property damage?

What really pisses me off is that this guy probably hasn’t thought about this event since it happened. He probably does it twenty times a day. But he’s spoiled a full day for me, and I can’t focus properly on tonight.

Speaking of tonight, though, I have at least thought the basics through. Flowers, restaurant, condoms.

Also, I practiced putting condoms on, too, so so I won’t screw that up. I can’t say that I’m much of a fan of how they feel, and at least a couple of times I’ve gotten hairs pulled as I rolled the damn things on. Maybe I should shave my penis?

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