Two people know as of this moment. One or two more will. I actually wrote a post about it, and in every version I came across as a madman. I can't have that now, can I? Especially if a potential mate is reading. That would just ... scare her.
I was having a discussion with a friend after work (not to be confused with dinner with She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, which was awesome on that great friend level that I have achieved with few people), and the topic of relationships came up. I was questioning the value of them. I don't think they evil, but I don't think they are all they are cracked up to be.
After the conversation, and after the incident outside Starbuck's, I started to ponder what She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named said about me and my tendency to be cryptic. I wasn't sure if it was as true as she said, but I've heard it before. Once had a great conversation about it with Knife Fetish Girl. And that made me think of where I got the name for She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, and I realized how symbolic that was.
Cryptic and symbolic. Yeah, I will own up to that, but I don't think it's as bad as one would make it out to be. It's a defense. If someone gets through and understands it, then they get to know me. If they don't, they stay more on the outside.
Some of my friends read me very well. I consider them dangerous, but not in the bad way. I think dangerous is a good thing. It is exciting. It is the pleading eyes, quivering thighs and orgasmic sighs in an oppressive dark. If they can be dangerous to me, the reverse is often true.
That conversation in the parking lot and the dinner the night before (coupled with the constant rumors that have been surrounding me lately) made me realize a few key things.
The importance of what I realized isn't important here. Truth be told, I don't want to take flack for it like I sometimes do. What is important is the power of conversation. Text messages and e-mails are fine for telling someone where you are or sending a fucking :). A conversation, though, where you watch eyes and body language, where tone is heard, where certain words roll off the tongue, where you delve into some heady subjects and come out spitting blood -- that's the stuff life is made of.
I'm blessed to have people in my life I can have heavy, detailed conversations about things like bondage, perversion, auto racing, violence, trepanation, amateur porn, '70s exploitation films, anarchism, introspection and its role in personal growth, cannibalism, political assassinations, self-mutilation, scheming, relationships, the complexities of torture, the symbolism of vampires in relation to oral sex, fascism, soccer, comic book history, the definition of evil, the social ramifications of Nazism and America's role in utilizing the breakthroughs those madmen realized, and so on. Those are some of the conversations I've had in the past month. A month. How lucky am I?
Pretty damn lucky.
Unlike the woman outside Starbuck's. The one who probably had to explain to the cops what I did. In character, I operate on a different level. I am a slave to the instincts of the character, the mannerisms, the words. While being in character I study how I react to situations, and how people react to me.
After dinner and the parking lot I have to wonder if I'm always in some sort of character mode ... and I'm starting to think I am. The conversations have been great, as I've said, but there was something said, something told to me that made me think about that.
To paraphrase, "You only tell people what you think they need to know."
And She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was right. Correct. Bingo. Pass go. Collect the cash. Nailed. Dead-on. The girl had mad skills with the observations (but can't properly call flirting by other females, it should be noted -- and that comment [if she reads it] will drive her mad). She was right, and the conversation in the parking lot proved it. I caught it in time and tried to right it, and when I did it was liberating.
To all of you have decided to grace me with some incredibly in-depth conversations where secrets are revealed and dissected over the past year -- I thank you. It may get a bit more interesting, as I think I don't care how much I reveal anymore.
Oh, and what I did to the drunk?
After she thought I was in a crosswalk she yelled at me, ""You're in the crosswalk, asshole!" I corrected her by yelling back that I wasn't. To which she replied, "Don't yell at me! I'll slap you upside your head!"
Not the best idea when I'm in character. So, I, being alone in the car at the time, yelled back, "I'll cut a new hole in you for someone to fuck!"
Then I drove away, still in character, laughing as the cops came out to confront her.
Yeah, this manuscript is going to be so fucking fun to write...