Some men struggle to describe what love is. Me? I can’t even feel it. Which brings me to this exact moment when the woman I’ve been fucking for the last couple of months makes the unilateral decision to modify our agreement—and if I don’t comply, it’s over.
“I thought we had a connection,” she repeats. “I’ve never felt this way before.”
Can we pause for a second?
What Martha infers is that I’m the first lover she’s had who isn’t a selfish bastard. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Sex is more enjoyable when you put your partner’s pleasure before your own. Personally, it turns me on to know that the woman I am with is high on endorphins because of me.
Now, fast forward to this moment. I can tell her one of two things: “You should be careful about who you invite into your bed,” or “I was upfront with you when I said this won’t be more than sex.”
There’s no use in discussing this any further. It’s over.
I put on my pants and walk toward the staircase. I slip on my sneakers before climbing down the stairs.
Why do people complicate everything?
Life is simple.
Relationships should be easy, not some crazy affair where you have to play a part. Perhaps that’s why I don’t fit well with anyone. Sometimes, not even my family.
One thing I can guarantee, I’ll never apologize for being myself.
Women expect romance. Most of them define romance as all those clichés that happen in chick flicks. Guy running through an airport to ask for forgiveness because he is a dumbass. Or through the streets of Manhattan. Let’s say I follow the entire narrative of romance and make a woman fall in love with me. I mean really fall in love, not just the ‘high on endorphins, please give me another dose because I can’t live without an orgasm’ kind of feeling.
What happens next?
I can’t guarantee that I’ll be in love too. And If I do fall, what am I supposed to do with it?
Hypothetically speaking, I let my guard down, give away my secrets and my entire life to one person. Nothing guarantees that the person I trusted will not come back to destroy me.
Again, I’m not speaking from experience. Unless my mother counts. She left my father when I was five. However, I’ve witnessed many divorces and broken relationships to know what I’m talking about. I’ve watched people falling apart, helplessly, as their worlds come crashing down.
In all fairness, I accept that not every relationship ends up in catastrophe. There’s my father’s second marriage. He found a good woman who makes him happy—more like they make each other happy. My stepbrother and his wife are yet another couple who seem to be content. I don’t like them, but they’ve been together for ten years.
That’s when the theory about soulmates comes into play. Because these couples make it through everything.
Maybe the idea that there’s one person who imprinted with another before the beginning of time is real. Or, perhaps, it’s some false ideal we want to grab onto so Hallmark can sell more Valentine’s cards during the month of February.
Either way, I’m not sure how this heart-soulmate-love business works, or if it’s even real. Honestly, I don’t care to find out. The closest I ever got to that moment when a person sees someone and feels like they were punched in the stomach and can barely recover was when I was still living at home.
There was this girl I used to see around the neighborhood during the holidays. Perfect smile, always wearing colorful clothing. She had a whole happy thing going on for her. Every year, I’d see her around and get that sweaty-hands-heart-pounding feeling. I never knew where she lived. Getting closer would’ve been kind of creepy because she was young or maybe too short.
Who knows?
I never met her, and yet, sometimes, I still think about her smile.
It was contagious.
When you saw her, you just smiled with her.
No one has ever made me smile the way she did. Maybe that’s why I can’t open myself to anyone or settle for anything but the best. That feeling that closed up my throat when I saw her… I’ve never felt it again.
Continue Reading Wrong Text, Right Love
Didn’t Expect You
Nyx
All my adult life I’ve been fighting to be somewhat normal. To be the most conventional one in the family—or the only one for that matter.
My parents are…different. My three siblings… Well, they aren’t like our parents, but they stand out easily in any crowd. Not me. Or at least I try to stay away from people’s radars, unlike them.
While we were growing up, my parents believed we could learn more from the world than in a classroom. Were they right?
The jury is still out deliberating.
One thing I can say is that my dad is one of the wisest, most clueless men in the world. I understand how ambiguous that sounds, but my father isn’t like any conventional sixty-three-year-old guy. Octavio Brassard is unique among any men. He lives by his own rules and has a license to teach young adults about ancient civilizations.
According to Dad, we’re here to learn how to love, how to live, and how to preserve this world. Not that we, the human race, are doing a great job at any of those things. He insists that the most important moments in our life happen unexpectedly. That’s why we have to stop and smell the roses. Maybe one of those special moments is the one that transforms our lives.
In that split second, we could find our destiny.
He’s a philosopher, a poet, and one of the most loving people I know. He pushes us, his children and students, to believe in ourselves and always pursue our dreams. Take life by the balls. And no, my father doesn’t believe in censoring our language.
Something else I learned from my parents is that family comes before anything and everyone.
This is why I’m spending my weekend working with my oldest brother, Eros, who like my father, is a dreamer. He doesn’t like to think much about the bottom line, rather what he can do to change the world.
“I could be with Persy drinking margaritas,” I protest, as I go through the partnership proposal he received from LNC Investments.
I could spend my time with my sister, who I haven’t seen that much during the past couple of months.
“Persy is actually drinking some strawberry lager Dad made,” he corrects me. “It tastes like fruity shit.”
I glare at him. “I like fruity shit.”
“Fruity doesn’t mean refined,” he informs me. “You two need to learn to drink better brands and less sugar.”
Sighing, I finish reading the contract. We’re never going to agree on the subject. He thinks spending a thousand dollars on a bottle of single malt is better than drinking margaritas. We’ll have to agree to disagree.
“Listen, you shouldn’t be signing this,” I suggest. “Persy and I will amend her book deal and—”
“It’s going to take me years to recover her investment,” he interrupts me. “These guys don’t need the money right away. She does.”
He is right. Our sister lent him her savings. The amount included the advance she received from Blackstone and Morgan Press, the publishing company that bought the rights to her next book. A book she doesn’t want to write because it’s off-brand and forcing her to divulge more about her life on social media than she usually does. I’m trying to fix her current contract so she can change the title and the subject. But if we can’t come to an agreement, she’ll have to give the money back so I can terminate the contract.