मलाई पहिले जमानामा लेखेको कुरा सक्काउन मन लागो है अब । कुन कुरा भन्छौ भने इ यहाँ गएर हेर ।
http://sajha.com/sajha/html/openthreadall.cfm?StartRow=281&PageNum=15&forum=271&threadid=43654#407469 अब मलाई स्टीरियोटाइप भो रामे भनेर जज गरे नि हुन्छ, होइन विचरा सोझो नेपाली रामे भने नि हुन्छ :)))))
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... contd ...
I arrived late that Friday evening, armed with a bottle of wine and messed up head of thoughts. I knocked at her door, officially starting a two day nightmare. Arianne was dressed in a tight black top with thin shoulder straps. Her pierced navel peered seductively from the bottom of her shirt and her voluptuous hips descended into a pair of dark blue jeans. I have to admit, she was stunning, and I say this because my heart kept on pounding its approval. Then there was me. My big frame felt almost skeletal in my jeans and T-shirt, and I kept my hat on because I was secretly afraid that she viewed my shaved head as unappealing. Normally, I parade my shaved cranium around proudly. It makes me look somewhat intimidating, or so I like to think. I had been shaving my head for three years, never thinking twice about it. Never before, in any relationship, had I elevated someone so high above myself that I felt small by comparison. It really was sick.
We drank some wine, and she played selections from her vast music archive. She reveled in music, citing her favorite lyrics in a steady stream that would have been considered annoying from anyone else. She did the same thing with movie lines. I just nodded and smiled as I tried to fit these idiosyncrasies into the mangled world that was Arianne's mind. Just as with her books, her taste in music, and the movie lines she recited, were small tests.
Arianne wanted someone who could fire back responses that coincided with her likes and dislikes, which is a horrifying expectation, especially given the wondrous diversity of thoughts, desires, likes and dislikes of every human being. She wanted a pre-packaged male version of Arianne, which was impossible. After all, there can only be one Arianne, and for that I've been thanking my holy stars every single freaking day.
Eventually, we went to bed, just as we had two weeks before, with me holding her close. Finally, we kissed. I held her left cheek in my right hand, and I marveled at how small her face was just as our lips met. Amazingly, it was a bad kiss. Honestly, I would have been better off kissing a ceiling fan set on high. Not that I was totally surprised by this. Everything leading up to that moment had been cold eggs on a countertop. There was no anticipation, only a forced connection of lips that actually felt cold.
"Well, that's it," I thought. "No chemistry here, obviously. The kiss is never wrong. I'll just pack up tomorrow and be on my way."
We went back to our embrace. There was no passion, no increased heart rate, none of the wondrous transformations that occurred with other women.
Arianne eventually pushed me back, smiled, and rolled away from me.
"Thank God," I whispered under my breath. However, there was still a part of me that hoped we could salvage a friendship and, if so, perhaps let it evolve into something it most definitely wasn't.
So, the next day, we went shopping, and my head hurt, but I would say nothing. It seemed that everything Arianne said made my head hurt worse, and she simply wouldn't shut up, so my head hurt to an unusual extent.
Our shopping excursion lasted only about half an hour, and it would be the last time we shared a good laugh, at least willingly. She drove back to her apartment and called her friend, Tasha, who was one of a group of her female friends who she referred to as "The Bad Girls." The girls were having a barbecue and a party for Tasha's boyfriend's birthday. It sounded harmless, and fun, but I knew there was more to it, and I was wary. Still, I rummaged through my new clothes and selected a nice pair of pants and an equally nice tee-shirt. For her part, Arianne underwent the bathroom transformation process typical to most women. When she was getting dressed and made up, Arianne was decidedly quiet, which was a major departure from the stream-of-consciousness conversation she engaged in at all other times. This was a good thing, because it gave my screaming head a respite from her inane blather.
"Do you think I talk too much," she asked with a smile.
"Not at all," I quickly answered, but in my mind raced a multitude of things I wanted to say: "Yes, you self-absorbed nightmare! I could be stranded on a desert for four years and be rescued and STILL not have as much to say as you do!"
Arianne put together ingredients for making brownies at Tasha's house, including two eggs, and we then went to the liquor store where we purchased a 24 pack of beer. That should have been plenty I thought. But, I hadn't yet met the bad girls and their friends. It wouldn't be enough.
Tasha lived in a typical east German neighborhood, with large trees that shaded white houses secretly rotting beneath dirty siding. On the porch of one of the many almost-white houses sat two women. Tasha waved to us. Tasha's round face was pleasant, with long brunette hair and a metal bead protruding from her chin. Her tongue, too, was pierced. She conversed freely, although she centered on topics that I only had passing interest in. Arianne, on the other hand, seemed transfixed by the conversation. The other girl, Tina, was a large red-headed girl who laughed easily but did not stay long.
Gradually, I was introduced to the other bad girls. There was Katja, a playful redhead who was Tasha's roommate and a noticeably close friend of Arianne; and there was Anke, a ravishing beauty with pure German blood running through her veins and a noticeable scar on her chin, the result of a car crash years before. She brought her five month old son, Brandon, who was the most wonderfully content child I had ever seen.
I tried to make myself useful. I helped prepare and light the grill, and I cleaned up as the girls prepared a heroic amount of food. Then, the friends arrived. I was sitting on the porch sipping a beer when they piled out of - what Americans call - SUV. Tasha's boyfriend, Frye, the birthday boy, was I-want-to-be-black and dressed in bright loose clothing. He wore a wispy, spotty beard and he also had a metal bead in his chin. He looked every bit the gang-banger he said he had been in Berlin. But, he was amiable, in an immature way.
"Let's all get drunk!" he whooped, which was probably the best idea I had heard all day, and he handed me a large bottle of some awful alcohol which I obligingly sipped off. He then gave me a high five and asked my name. I told him.
In short order, I met T-hund (translated t-dog), a hyperactive man with huge hair, baggy clothes, and a wild flare in his eyes. I distrusted him immediately, and I made sure I knew where he was at all times. There were two 'actual' white guys in the group, both with more tattoos than free skin and a nasty habit of referring to all women as "bitches," "sluts," "c^^s," and "whores." Occasionally, they would mix things up and say a girl was "a slutty c^^t whore bitch." Finally, there was a smaller man nicknamed Fortune (also translated) , who I liked and felt at ease talking to. Despite his heavy Hungarian dialog, he was curious, and he was considerably less wild than the others at the party. His eyes were kind, and they flashed with a gentleness and a hint of sadness. He was very skilled at grilling, and he was quite proud as the burgers and bratwurst cooked under his adept hand.
They all drank a lot, especially Frye, who was determined to consume two large bottles of the vile brew he had me sip off when we met. I was asked to go buy another case of beer. I eagerly took the task. I needed to get away for awhile and just be alone. I even stopped for awhile and walked before completing my assigned task. I was feeling frazzled, but I was determined to see the crappy weekend through to its crappy conclusion. Things were sure to get worse before they got better, and I used my solitary time to brace for the inevitable.
I returned, and the house was in a massive state of disarray. T-hund and Fortune were wrestling in the yard in a drunken attempt to spank Frye 25 times in honor of his birthday. I carried the beer inside and found the only task that made me feel even remotely normal: I washed the dishes. None of the bad girls were drunk, mostly because they knew they had to remain somewhat in control given the state everyone else was in. Arianne approached me and asked if I was having a good time.
"I'm having an interesting time," I answered, and I left it at that.
She smiled and told me that Frye and Tasha had engaged in a threesome the night before with some "chica" they met at a bar. She then shrugged and went into the living room to talk with Tasha.
Finally, the food was ready, and everybody shuffled through the kitchen to fill their plates and then ambled out front to eat. The picnic table was full by the time I emerged, so I sat on the porch well away from everybody else. I ate ravenously. The day's events had unknowingly taken their toll on me and I wolfed down two burgers and a mound of potatoes and beans. Tasha stood up from the picnic table and invited me to sit next to Arianne, but I instinctively refused.
Mercifully, the drunken revelry started to wear on Arianne, and she suggested going back to her apartment to take a nap. There was no hesitation on my part this time. I was freakiing tired. Feeling drained, I opted to take a shower, shave my head, and dress myself in another new ensemble. I then curled up on a chair in the waning daylight and read a poem entitled "The Wild Party," a messed up piece of literature with complementary art that can only be described as disturbing.
Eventually, Arianne awoke and started sifting through her music archive.
"Oh, you have to hear this song," she announced unexpectedly and held up a CD. "When I was in college, I had just dropped acid, and I was on an insane amount of pot, and this song started playing. I can't believe I'm telling you this, but it was so good I just sat there and had an orgasm for the entire song. That's how wonderful drugs can be."
Seriously, how do you respond to an admission like that?
Arianne then inserted the CD, balled herself up on a futon, and told me to close my eyes and listen. It was a wild song, with vocals by Lou Reed, entitled "Heroine." It had intermittent series of slow and fast moving music and was capped off in a cacophony of confusing noise masquerading as music.
"Isn't that awesome?" she asked.
"It was all right," I answered, but the truth was that it made me nauseous. The music didn't make me nauseous. The music was, in fact, exciting and different. What made me nauseous was the thought that there was a point in Arianne's life when her small body was so totally polluted with drugs that her poor mind couldn't discern between sexual activity and a song. At that moment, I really wanted to know who she would have been if she hadn't spent year after year in a drug induced existence. I'm betting she would have been an amazing creature. But, we'll both never know. Drugs killed that amazing creature years ago. As it was, she believed she was amazing, but she wasn't. It was sad, and I was briefly mad at the world for the way that she was.
Arianne then started getting ready to go back to the party, and she emerged 20 minutes later looking gorgeous, seductive, and alluring. And none of those adjectives were meant to attract me. She wore tight black velvety pants, a tight black top, and a red leather jacket. Her ensemble was capped off with a metal chain she dangled around her waist. Sure, she looked almost like a prostitute, but I wasn't going to say anything, because I didn't honestly care any more.
I should have simply opted to stay in the security of the apartment, but I wanted to see this nightmare through to its conclusion. It was nightfall, and we went back to the party.
It was then that I met Mildred. She was sitting on the porch when we returned, and she gave Arianne an approving whoop and holler, and she shot daggers through me for having the audacity to show up with her. Mildred had a pretty but tough face, with too much make-up, particularly around the eyes. She had short blonde hair with too much hairspray. We didn't have much to say, and I cut my pleasantries short once Arianne and Mildred cozied up to each other. I walked to the refrigerator where I knew a beer awaited me. On the way, I met Tasha and asked where the guys were. She said they went to play basketball. Briefly, the thought of those drunken messes attempting basketball seemed genuinely amusing to me. No sooner had I enjoyed my only amusing thought of the night when the SUV again pulled up outside and the wasted men practically fell from the doors. It was ugly.
Chaos ensued for half an hour at that point. A large marijuana joint was passed around, of which Mildred, Arianne and myself declined. Frye, having completed his drinking goal, fought with Tasha over the stereo volume. T-hund, dangerously high on alcohol and THC, searched everyone's eyes looking for an excuse to start some sort of fight, any kind of fight. Fortune was lamenting the fact that his "tantee" (his aunt?) was angry at him for drinking so soon after ulcer surgery. Arianne and Mildred heightened their flirtation (yes, flirtation), even as Frye made overt drunken attempts to attract Arianne. Eventually, a large group that included Frye, Arianne, and Mildred disappeared into the bathroom to do only God knows what. It was only 9 p.m.
It was eventually decided that we would go to a local bar where a live band was playing. I was recruited to carry Frye to the back seat of a car because he could no longer walk. Drunken bodies are among the most unwieldy things in the world. As I played the part of the sober do-gooder for the hundredth time that day, I kept thinking about how much I wanted to be the drunk guy being carried around. At least I would have had some fun.
Arianne drove Mildred and me to the bar, with me sitting obediently in the back seat as the two girls talked closely, virtually oblivious to my presence. My self-esteem slipped to a level somewhere below human, and I started to feel uncomfortable with myself. The bar was crowded, and the band was great. I made a mental note of where my crowd of acquaintances was gathered and I went to sit at the bar. I needed more than anything to get away, if even for a minute. I ordered a liter of Warsteiner beer, and I asked the bartender to make it coming after an interval of 13 minutes.
The same drama that played out at the house carried over to the bar. Frye stumbled from table to table introducing himself to people who didn't want to meet him. He then stood up on a table until bouncers ordered him down. I did everything to focus on how good the band was.
I eventually re-joined the group of acquaintances. The band finished playing too early, and we made the decision to go to a dance club. The dance club was a raucous mix of every background, and I had a pretty good time. However, our stop didn't last long because Tasha discovered that she had lost €80 at some point during the night and she was going to backtrack in a hopeless attempt to find it. T-hund and Frye were passed out in the back seat. Fortune was nowhere to be seen. Arianne and Mildred decided to visit one last bar, and I simply HAD to see what those two vixens had planned for the night. Mildred continued to hate me simply for being alive, and I returned the favor.
We arrived at a small dance club, and I was vaguely aware of what kind of establishment I was about to enter. It was a gay bar, and at 11 p.m. it had transformed into an incredibly gay bar. I had been in such bars before, but I had been with friends I knew and could depend on. Once again, I was hopelessly out of my element. Arianne and Mildred wasted no time going to the dance floor where they gyrated together in a display that would have intrigued me if I didn't have guys trying to dance with me every four minutes. I sought refuge at the bar, where the bartender said I could have whatever I wanted, on the house. I'm apparently a BIG hit in gay community.
I ordered a Becks and was about to pay for it anyway when I was approached by my next male hit of the night.
"You shouldn't be drinking alone," he said.
"Sometimes that's all I want to do," I explained.
"Would you mind if I drank with you?" he asked.
"Go ahead," I said, wishing for all the world that I had some friends with me. "But you should know ahead of time that I'm totally straight."
"Do you realize where you are?" he asked somewhat amazed. "You're probably the only straight man here."
This was not comforting information, but he dropped the matter at that and walked away. I sipped the beer and watched Arianne and Mildred dance together with a growing number of like-minded women. I also was hit on by three other men in quick succession. I've turned down male advances before and, for some reason, I always feel like I'm doing something mean. So, I felt pretty much like a jackass by that point. Still, I'm straight, and there's no subtle way to state that fact at a gay bar, at least none that I know of.
Finally, Arianne approached me and asked me if I was having a good time. She didn't mean it, and she didn't care, but it was probably the only question she could entertain at the time.
"I was just thinking," I said.
"About what?" she asked disinterestedly.
"About whether there was any real reason for me to come down this weekend," I finally admitted.
"No," said Arianne as casually as someone after a large meal rejecting dessert, "Probably not."
Of course, I already knew that, but I was curious as to what she would say. Not surprisingly, it was a typically emotionless and distant response. I smiled, shook my head, and sipped my beer.
Mildred approached, scowled at me and offered her hand to Arianne. Arianne took it mindlessly and they went to the dance floor to resume their taunting gyrations. Mildred grabbed Arianne's hips, and Arianne caressed Mildred's hands. Men were kissing three feet to my left, and a man without a shirt was grabbing another man's crotch to my right. All of this was occurring in the flashing and rotating lights of the dance floor. It was like a gay version of "Who Wants to be A Millionaire."
"Do you want to go out and dance," asked a voice to my right. I managed to slowly turn my head. An inebriated and overweight man stood looking at me.
"I'm straight," I said so fast I wasn't sure if I said it at all.
"No shit?" he said in disbelief. "Then what are you doing here?"
"I thought I was here with a friend," I stated without inflection.
"Well, you're damned hot," he offered. "Are you sure you don't want to dance?"
At that point, I figured, "why the hell not?" So, I went out and danced with the fat gay man named Steve. I should stress here that it was NOT a slow dance. Rather, it was a fast disco-like tune that didn't require male/male touching of any kind. However, It wasn't long before I was surrounded by men, eager to ply their best pick-up lines on me. My shaved head was apparently a bug light for gay come-ons. I quickly realized that my decision to dance was not particularly one of my better ideas.
A few men made brief hand contact with my butt as I shuffled hurriedly to get myself off that meat market floor, wrestling myself free just as the last song of the evening concluded.
Arianne approached me and asked me if I was okay to drive. I snatched the keys from her hand and moved quickly to the door. However, I had to wait for the girls to go to the bathroom. Of course, they went together, and my mind entertained all of the things they may have been doing during the 17 minutes they were in there together.
Arianne asked Mildred to come back to her apartment with us, but she refused, much to my amazement. I dropped Mildred off at the party house from earlier in the day. She shook my hand and said it was nice to meet me, and she didn't mean it.
We finally arrived back at Arianne's apartment and I prepared to sleep on her futon.
"Aren't you going to sleep with me?" she queried sounding hurt. Despite the screaming noise ringing in my ears telling me not to, I slipped under Arianne's bed covers.
She crawled into bed and wrapped her naked body around me like some sort of diabolical serpent. It wasn't a sexual embrace. It was more of a utilitarian hug that gave her a male shoulder to rest her demented head upon.
To me, she was a carcass of the woman I had fallen for via e-mail all those months before. That false girl was dead, and the twisted mess of past drug use and uncertain sexual exploration was all that remained, and I held her without emotion.
"I'm sorry that we didn't work out," I said, and my voice seemed unnatural to me. She murmured her assent and crowded closer to me. "And I think you're a pretty messed up woman."
"I don't think so," she said sleepily defiant.
With that, I detached myself from her embrace and rolled away, sleeping fitfully for several hours, my dreams hounded by countless images of every surreal event of the preceding days.
I awoke at 9:30 a.m., and I silently showered and packed. I should have left without a word, but I went in to wake Arianne and say good-bye.
"Why are you leaving so early?" she asked.
"I want to get home," I stated plainly. "I hurt a little, and I want to feel better, and I can't do that near you."
She didn't hear me, I don't think, but she reached up her arms and pulled me into her in a surprisingly strong hug she didn't want to relinquish, and I felt for her, but I couldn't stay. I pulled free, and she kissed my neck.
The sun was shining as I walked outside. The early summer air was hot and heavy with indifference.
Romance is fickle, and everyone at some point has to decide whether they want to pursue something they know to be unhealthy. I did not. I put on a pair of sunglasses and walked towards the station.
It was early, and the journey was long.
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