I wondered – as I had throughout our year off – if the intimacy we’d shared had been real. The whole thing had left me shaken and I still wasn’t convinced, even after Gar’s email, that it hadn’t all been in my head.

But, slowly, we found our way around. Against the postured austerity of the MPO, we recovered some of our daring – taking the piss out of the over-animated conductor, instigating false starts in applause between movements, stifling our laughs as someone in the row behind snored himself awake. And afterwards, settling down to Planet Terror – more our style – with far less hesitation than before.

Still, there were oscillations. All my talking before seemed to have been ineffectual at best, and counter-productive at worst. And now, I was at a loss. There was the residual jealousy too. Gar told me one night he was heading off early from Baroque for a dinner. That familiar twinge, the tightening in my gut. We’d cancelled the night before because he said it was late, and he was tired. When would it be my turn again?

I encountered the jealousy, raw, so I’d know it for what it was, and how I’d fare without support; not in theory, but with the damn creature digging its teeth deep into my guts. Maybe it was all part of some masochistic thought experiment, but it seemed like it would get me closer to knowing why.

But I wondered too if the reasoning would ever go away… if I could ever stay quietly with the jealousy. Not having to remind myself that it’s not his fault, that there’s no logical basis to the fear – that it’s just the surprise, being caught off guard.

But what would I do if not process? Maybe that’s just not me.

And maybe… it’s worth trying just once.

Then he posted some pictures from his birthday party, in silly poses with some other girls. And me looking god-awful in my one photo, and not even with him. This time, I silenced the rational voice, the suspicious voice and the angry voice – silenced all of them… and idled.

I waited for the deluge, the struggle. But nothing. Just a quiet, introspective, resigned calm, the fear and hurt seemingly suspended in formaldehyde. After a half hour of this levitation, I realized it was okay – realized I was okay, got bored, and stopped.

Then it was back to the reasoning. Creature of habit, so sue me.

Ultimately, I’m not sure I was right about anything – then or now. During the year of silence, there was only paranoia, suspicion and distrust to fill in the blanks. Wavering on what I was to him, everyone became a threat. And I can still see the scars.

But as I tucked myself into the space in his arms, Gar gave me a squeeze, bringing me back. And I remembered what a comforting presence he is, when I let my defenses down. Especially when he leans in towards my hair and breathes in deep. It helps to keep the past at bay. The silence recedes, and you can hear the tinkering, the rebuilding.

I stilled the impulse to respond, tried to focus more immediately on how to feel, how to think. I forced myself not to switch off as I read what he wrote — once, then again, three times. He said he didn’t know how. And I know it was a lot to ask…

But the control slipped. The radar widened too quickly, the cascading accusations in my head left no room to breathe.

So maybe it was all too much to ask — too much for you to be honest, too much for you not to be flippant, too much for you to be sorry, even now. Or maybe it’s all just a pathetic excuse. So you didn’t know how. And you just left it at that? What about me?

But I already knew the answer. He said he didn’t think it would have made any difference. Figured it wouldn’t have mattered.

I told him that it did. I told him that it fucking hurt. And I told him that I deserved better than that.

* * *

I was in the shower when the cracks gave way. When I felt my throat cramp up and my insides wrench. I didn’t fight back; not this time. No-one to see me, no-one to stop me; no panicked offer of consolation. Just me, no longer hiding from what hurt, knowing now what it was.

Not mattering.

* * *

We kept it behind us. Rebuilt on the ground under our feet. He didn’t want to leave without making amends – the email had been his first effort. And I realized I wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. But we had so little time left…

* * *

I re-read his email a few weeks later. No longer haunted by the vicious crisis of trust, I realized I’d looked past half of what he’d written, had not even recognized the assurance he offered. Nor had he been nearly as flippant as I’d imagined. The open relationship had thrown him –- mentally, he hadn’t been able to move past the physical aspects. But he didn’t blame me for it: “I couldn’t hack what you wanted. I know that you could argue till the fat lady sings as to why it shouldn’t need to be difficult, but it was for me. Just because.” At the end of it all, he said: “I regret now not having told you this a long time ago.”

And so, a few weeks late, I thanked him for his email, admitted I had been snappy in reply. I steeled myself for the dismissal, the hasty assurance that there was no need to mention it. But he caught me in the next breath: “I’m really sorry.” And all the preparation in my head was useless. Couldn’t thank him, couldn’t tell him how much it meant to me to hear him say it. I just sat there, my mind a blank.

He pulled us to safety with another joke. Something about head butts being a traditional Australian expression of regret.

I recently re-discovered these words in my journal under a January entry. A long time ago, but I remembered what it was like.

Distrust is ugly. It starts with a tightening in my chest, a widening of my radar. No wild accusations forming in my head; at least, not yet. Just watching warily from the parapets.

But I start to wonder which of the ones I’ve already let in are Trojan horses. The suspicions gather form, build a sickness in my gut.

Jai and his psychological games, reducing people to mind tricks. Was that all I was? Loup taking what he needed, always demanding more. Spineless shit. And Gar. Gar started it. Cheating on me. Just another cunt for his pleasure. Fuck. That fucking hurts.

The memories sting, and I can’t trust that they all didn’t just want something from me. Beyond the reach of reason now, the venom reaches a peak.

So what does Khui want from me. I don’t know. Was it just the pictures. Fuck. What about me? I had so much riding on you. What about me? Don’t fucking touch me. Leave me alone. All of you. You’re all the same.

Can’t trust the answers they give, the support they offer. Because no matter what they say, the vicious little voices argue that they would say that.

Then, the anger and resentment abruptly shatter; all I am left with is this crushing hurt. What about me? How did I get it so wrong? And in that moment, I would give anything to make it stop.

Even being poly.

* * *

Loup left the country a while back. Online conversations took a bizarre turn a a couple of months later. He began interrogating me about my plans for the future, became frustrated when I didn’t have a firm answer, asked me again and again what he had meant to me (and I mean again and again, despite repeated assurances). He would tell me he had fallen desperately in love with me and grown dependent on me, once declaring he wanted me to be the mother of his children — sending me into panic mode. Yet a breath later, he’d throw snide and hurtful barbs, the argument would inevitably escalate (we used to fight terribly even face-to-face, so no surprise) and he would become enraged when I tried to end the conversation — threatening once to strangle me.

Huh. I remember one of our early exchanges I’d documented, when I was lulled by his power, when I’d wanted him to be bad. But he triggered my flight response with his parasitic neediness and erratic impulses. Finally, when he told me he was planning to come back to Malaysia (again without a job offer), I told him: “Don’t look me up.”

* * *

Jai sent me an SMS just before he headed back off to Melbourne. “Didn’t get to hang out much,” he said, “but I’ll see you at the end of the year. Hopefully Ed will be around too. Take care.” Ed’s a mutual friend — I’ve known him since childhood and Jai seems to be in cahoots with him. Strange recognizing that the two of us are closer to Ed than each other, despite the whole fuck buddy thing. Yet, while I may hold Jai’s drug-soaked perception of the world in some disdain, it eases knowing that at least he’s not, you know… insane. And I’m quietly satisfied with that, for some reason. So I reply: “Have fun and take care of yourself too. See you when you get back. Drop me an email sometime.”

* * *

Khui is still Khui. I offered to send him some recipes the last time he went on safari. He never stops joking that he has to keep a close eye on us Chinese tourists, since one or two will inevitably hop back into the van with a turtle or penguin in tow. In those moments before sleep, he’s in my thoughts more than any other.

* * *

Gar is in the background, pops into my gchat window from time to time, or comes over to say hi when I’m at Baroque. But for the most part, I’ve lost interest. When things aren’t going well, I still get angry thinking about what happened. But the inexplicable yearning is gone. And it happened so quietly that I hardly noticed it leave.

A few nights ago, I was standing with one of the Baroque regulars when he asked Gar if he was going to the singles’ night. Gar said: “Um, yes… but only for a little while”. Hah. I’m so glad I didn’t come up with that ending myself. It would have ruined the surprise.

Not that distance matters, as I’ve mulled over with Adde. I keep telling people I find comfort in distance, but I think it’s misplaced. The people I feel closest to just all happen to be far away. So distance is irrelevant, really. It’s just a coincidence.

And proximity doesn’t necessarily get you any closer to those who might intrigue you, however superficially. Take my anonymous crush. Curiosity had bitten Adde at my brief mention and his questions signalled that my enigmatic one-liners simply would not do: “Smart, nice, cute? Tight butt? Jet black eyes? In league with the forces of darkness?” I sure as hell hope so, I’d responded.

But the anonymous crush has become an urban legend of sorts.

One night, he’d stood in front of my table at my bar (let’s call it Shortbus) for the entire duration of a performance. Packed room, see. We made eye contact of the noteworthy sort (I think) just once. But I was surrounded by 6′ tall guys (Din on one side, my brother on the other) and he by relatives (he was there to support his cousin who was on stage). So no further contact was initiated.

At least, not directly.

We know cutie’s gay uncle is a regular here, so Din and another guy friend called him over to inquire about prospects. Without my bloody permission. Gay uncle was, of course, curious as to who was asking. (Remember, no assumptions here. Plus, the other guy asking is also gay.) As my intervention-happy friends turned gleefully to me, I snapped: “Din.” Din is straight, of course.

To my vitriolic delight, gay uncle exploited this newfound knowledge as an indicator of Din’s orientation and availability… for himself. (For the next few weeks, Din attempted to woo me into becoming his bar girlfriend, if only to keep him at bay. Not that gay uncle would be so petty, I’m sure, but the thought has probably not crossed Din’s mind.)

Anyway, that was pretty much it for my anonymous crush. With such a shallow point of connection, even I know it was a purely aesthetic thing — he had powerful arms and was dressed like a dirty backpacker, too cool to care and all that. I vaguely remember sexy eyes and cheekbones too, but to be honest, I’ve sort of forgotten what he looks like.

What’s tantalizing about this urban legend of mine is that he’s technically within reach (via gay uncle) but also technically out of reach because, you know, that would be stalking. So, yes, it’s the intrigue that keeps me going, the idea of this man that I’ll, in all likelihood, never see again. Because I think the people who are here, next to me — I should be ashamed to say this, I suppose — there’s no mystery to them anymore. No secrets to unlock.

I’m also using the urban legend to keep Din at bay. We’ve turned our platonic dinner and movie “dates” into a weekly event and I’d hoped to develop a new model (purely for my own reference) out of our relationship — the guy I go out with without going out with. But his laughing attempts of late to get me to be his conditional girlfriend (and his repeated insistence that urban legend must be gay) are rather transparent. He’s a decent guy, tall, good-looking, architect by profession, idealistic tendencies under restraint. Marriage material for someone, someday. But no spark. No intrigue.

As Adde might say, the forces of darkness passed him over.

He came across rather forcefully as the young and angry sort. And as someone who, in his pursuit of certainty, sometimes mistakes (or wilfully substitutes) inner conviction for empirical contiguity. Like the “fact” that life is truly meaningless because he truly felt it while tripping on one of his recreational drugs.

Then there’s his penchant for using psychological tricks to manipulate people, which he shares like dirty secrets.

I suppose — if life is without value, then people are without value. If nothing else, there’s that logical consistency. Even if it only connects the dots between the most unsavoury cliches.

That was the point of disconnect. Hopelessly sapiosexual, there’s no greater turn-off than a mind that doesn’t realize its own potential for self-parody. Guess I’m not too fond of the idea of being one of his psychological experiments either.

Suddenly I have no more interest — not in him, not in the notion of capture. And I realize I can take my own goddamn pictures.

What a way to flip off the overbearing moral institutions of this country.

But I would have walked right past him had he not planted his newly-acquired breasts firmly in front of my face and drawled: “Hello, daaaahling.” Wig a la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, little black dress, toxic levels of make-up, and abovementioned tits.

“Holy shit.”

So my verbosity fails me. His work done, he smirks, turns his back on me and sashays up the stairs. Lekka, undeniably the ugliest woman I’ve met, still out-sasses every girl there that night.

I sit down at my table with a couple of straight guy friends, both of them first-timers at this bar, and caught off guard by the nature of the night’s festivities. Din — my drinking kaki, also straight, but enough of a regular here that none of the antics tonight will surprise him — comes running up, evidently pleased with himself. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, grinning like an idiot.

“Din, dear, why are you wearing lipstick?”

He gestures vaguely to someone who had presumably put the notion in his head (and the lipstick in his hand). I giggle. Din’s homophobia is no secret, so this is an unusual turn in self-expression for him.

He notices one of my friends regarding him with some curiosity, and his defenses spring up. “Stop looking at me like that, man, I’m straight!” he snaps.

Jack’s expression of surprise gives way to relief: “Oh you are? Thank god, so am I. So… what’s with the lipstick?”

* * *

I recall a passage in Ethical Slut about just such a place — a safe space for every sexual identity, that blurred the boundaries and made it illogical to assume anything. Most of the time, you simply had to ask — about interest, about preference, and so on.

I’ve wondered what that means… If it frees you to play out any role, or if it places a weighty responsibility on your shoulders to know — precisely — who you are, and to have a ready answer. I certainly don’t (know, that is). And playing… well. More soon about my first serious crush on a woman.

But that night, these questions are far from my mind. As I walk past Lekka, I take my liberties and pinch his ass. He regards my lack of originality with some disdain. But for me, there’s delight in recognizing that it’s not so lonely at the so-called fringes.

I submitted Defiance under NSFW Pics & Videos. Check out the other pics in the series too — Hiding | Contrast | Halo | Final.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #112? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Fighting The Dominatrix Stereotype
“She wanted a man for a boyfriend, not a doormat.”

From afar
“Say my name, over and over.”

Steely Dan*
“My body is flexed, and held in place, and the onslaught is relentless.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Pic(k) of the Day

Editor’s Choice
A Brief History of (My) Fucking

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Other pics: Contrast | Defiance | Halo | Final