I know that I touched on the difficulties with my trip to see N in my previous post, but I'd really like to share with you the lurid details. You won't like me very much (if you make it to the end of this post), but hey, it's gross, it's entertaining, it's blogtastic.
I'd just like to say that I've learned many, many lessons this weekend with N. First of all, if a dude smokes pot 24/7 and calls it his 'medicine', walk away. Better yet, run. No good comes of a guy that can't approach the world sober. Second, do a smell check on the guy *before* you travel cross-country to meet him. Oh my god, the stink. I've been with potheads, I've been with smokers, I've even been with a man that drank a bottle - a full bottle - of Rum 151 EVERY DAY, but I've never been with someone that stinks as much as this dude. He took showers, but dayum, his pores were ripe with the noxious residue of THC and nicotine.
I know that I mentioned the breathing / phlemging in the previous post, but it was so gross in combination with the smell. And his kisses were ... *dry heave* so unnervingly horrible. It wasn't just the putrid smell of spliffy goodness, it was the viscosity of his spit, the slobberiness of his lips, the intensity of his passion for kissing me... oh jebus, I'm gonna hurl just thinking about it. I'm just gonna say it - it felt / tasted like I was french-kissing a snotty nose. And Mildred, that ain't hyperbole. God (or whatever) forgive me, I had to waive him through just to keep from throwing up in his mouth.
If we weren't kissing, he wanted to hold me. Tight, facing him while he breathed his snot / cigarette / pot breath onto me as I searched for some kind of reprieve into his hippie stink armpits. I'd turn away so that he was spooning me, but after a while he'd complain and turn me back towards him, kissing me to show his growing affection. *ahem* It's a small kindness, but I'll spare you the more intimate details of the night. Let's just say it didn't get any better.
I did finally mention something about his breath, and made a rather pointed reference to his body stink. I thought I'd hurt his feelings, but half a bowl later, all was forgotten and he wanted to cuddle again. I tried honesty, but there is no fixing a smell that results from a permanent habit. By Saturday night, I knew this wouldn't work. I said something about not wanting to have sex because it was just too much too soon, and thankfully he seemed to be ok with that. Unfortunately, that made him want to be more cuddle-riffic. Major backfire.
After fending off attempts at affection all night long, I'd had enough. But I couldn't tell him that we weren't going to work out because of his nasty body chemistry, now could I? I was upset by the turn of events, and by my dream deferred, so I parlayed that real emotion into a lie - I made it about me, not about him. I said that I couldn't stand to be touched, and that I just wasn't ready for a relationship. There was definitely sadness, hurt and anger on his part, but he also seemed to come to acceptance pretty quickly. I thought that maybe my plan to keep his stank away from me with tears of (real) pain and (faux) fear was working.
I'm often surprised at how wrong I can be. And let me tell you, I was way, way wrong. Sweet, lovable snotting, rheumy-eyed oaf that he is, he took it upon him self to attempt a diagnosis and to "fix" me. Which, you guessed it, involved lots of forced hugging and kissing - you know, to push me over the hump and bring me to a state of love and bliss. In his candy-coated, green-haze-filled fantasy land of free love and rainbow-sheened snot bubbles, where love fixes everything and sunflowers make bad thoughts go away, I would be his masterpiece.
I'll admit that some of what we talked about (and I was really big on the talking because you can't kiss and talk at the same time) hit me at my sensitive spots. We talked about Rev. Dave (another post for another time), we talked daddy issues, we talked religion. We talked and talked and talked, any thing to keep his stinking slobber off of my face. I guess the talking was good, but his privileged, trust-fund baby, rainbows and butterfly fart observations were almost as nauseating as his THC infused aroma. And by the way, the magical solution to everything is to smoke more pot. Which I did, just to make making sense no longer a priority.
In the middle of this, I sent a desperate message to my beloved Fancy Pants Lance, and his response frankly saved the weekend for me. "Honey, in situations like this, it is best to lay back, point your heels to Jesus, close your eyes, and think of handbags." Bless you, my gay best friend, I owe you a cocktail.
Anyway, I'm in the airport on the way home, and I will survive this latest attempt at finding love. Holy crap, the text messages I'm receiving from N are nauseating me from afar - "Can't wait to see you bloom like a beautiful flower!" "This trip is about the birth of the new, of living your dreams today!" "My soul will wake up your soul to help you find peace in your heart!"
Goddammit. Motherfucker, I'm fine. Really. You just stink to high heaven, and you need to get a fucking life. Please, please, I beg of you please - find another project.
I swear before all of my friends and the baby Jesus, that is the last time I lie about an awkward truth. This shit isn't worth it.