Dealing Flesh (30 page)

The possibility of falling into renewed enslavement to his magnetism concerns me.

“Kiss me, honey,” he urges as I sit down on top of his lap.

I really, really want to, but I hear Tough Gal mumble that if I break down now, everything will fall to shit. Therefore, I stay clear of his lips.

“Why do you fight your feelings? You know you want to kiss me,” Ken whispers, giving me that seductive grin that has always made me more than weak in the knees. I do not answer, but instead, I fill him in on my plans of moving to Seattle for a potential job opportunity that I applied for weeks ago.

“Why are you running away from LA? You know what they say, right? If you can’t make it here, you can’t make it anywhere.”

“There is nothing left here worth sticking around for. By the way, why DO you want me to kiss you?”

“Um…just ‘cause.”

Tough Gal:
Wake up call
.

“Hop in. I want to show you the horses and the ranch I bought in the mountains.”

I gasp for air.

Tough Gal:
Don’t proceed further
.

Romy:
Damn this sobriety business. I need to be with my man.

Franziska:
I know you love him, but he falls into the category of unavailable people now, meaning, you may want to use caution. Breathe. Pray. Ask for guidance.

Scaredy Cat:
Yeah…I am not going through that hell again…letting him drag me back to Confusion Land.

“God, please help me,” I silently pray. A question crystallizes.

“Do you live on that ranch alone?” I ask.

“No, there are others.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

Seeing my ruffled forehead, Ken admits that he has not necessarily been a saint since we broke up. But he vows his current status to be one of a hundred percent singleness and availability.

“Ken, I love you and always will, but I just don’t think I can come along right now, especially knowing that I’m going to move away and all.”

Romy:
Here you go again, fucking up my life.

“If not now, then what are you doing later? Wanna grab a movie and snuggle up at my house like in old times?” he asks.

Tough Gal:
Don’t fall for it.

“I’m meeting a girlfriend for dinner. Depending on how late I get out of the restaurant, I can call you afterward, and we might still be able to meet then, okay?” I utter.

Romy:
Forget meeting with Marina.

Franziska:
Ah, ah, ah. You’ve sold out girlfriends before just to be with the guy. There is nothing you can do to screw up what is meant to be. So, by all means, meet with her.

I give Ken a quick kiss on the cheek and despondently tear myself away. As soon as I sit inside my car, I call my mentor. Talking to her takes the edge off but once I hang up, the hamster wheel inside my head starts twirling again.

At dinner with my friend, I can barely hear a word she says. My brain is being saturated with thoughts of the possibility of Ken and I meeting once I finish my food. Nervously, I gorge down the last bite on my plate, put the fork down, and call him.

“Hey, it’s me. I am wrapping it up with my friend and was wondering if you still wanted to hang out like you had mentioned earlier?”

“I can’t now. Besides, we probably shouldn’t warm things up if you are leaving town anyway.”

Romy:
Ouuuuch.

The conversation ends. Upon getting home, I cry myself to sleep.

A new day arrives. I receive confirmation to come out for test work in Seattle. Moved to tears, I leave Ken a message saying that I, indeed, am leaving, and that I wish him a nice life, or something of that nature. Getting back to my apartment a few hours later, I spot his number on the caller ID, but there is no voicemail.

Romy (crying):
Can’t you see he does not want me to go
?

A few days later another letter from the Seattle company arrives, telling me that after reviewing my resume a second time, they believe I no longer make the right match. I’m sitting on the living room couch and stare outside the big bay window, watching heavy spaghetti string rain pour down onto the sidewalk in front of the house. Sure to catch Ken on a day like this, I dial his number.

“Hello,” I hear a grumpy voice answer.

“Can we get together? I want to tell you something.”

“I am at the race track. Call me back and leave your number so I can get back with you later,” he says with noticeably slurred speech.

Doubt Cloud:
What happened to hitting redial? And shouldn’t he remember my number by heart after all this time?

I ring him back this instant, leave my info, but a return call remains amiss.

~~~

Months later, I am on the line with Leslie this morning, a mutual acquaintance of Ken and me, someone I still occasionally ride horses with.

“I was eating out last night. And guess who I ran into?” she says.

“Ken?”

“Yeah. During our conversation, he revealed that he lives with a girlfriend.”

Tears shoot into my eyes. Trying to hide the
Armageddon
-like feeling inside me, I carry on with the dialogue as if nothing is the matter. Mucus forms inside my nose and throat, making it increasingly harder to keep the “who cares” act going. I let a few more seconds go by and then politely end the conversation.

Romy:
I wished they had a procedure in place that could erase people’s past memories, like surgically creating amnesia, or something. I feel so betrayed. How could he do this to me??? How could he?

Franziska:
Why don’t you visit your support group tonight? You may find some peace there. Around now may also be the perfect time for some thorough housecleaning.

At the crack of dawn, following Franziska’s latest suggestion, I go about sanitizing the entire apartment from ghosts of the past.

Franziska:
Cleaning house is only the tip of the iceberg, but the sooner you get going with it the quicker you’ll feel better.

For starters, I toss all items that appear to have wrong motives attached to them or invoke bad or sad memories into a large garbage bag. Next, I sift through piles of photos, business cards of “Just-in-Case” contacts, and love letters, some of which I have been holding on to for more than a decade. At least three quarters of all pictures and absolutely all letters, with the exception of Ken’s, land inside the plastic sack.

Franziska:
You may want to look at the remaining ones again in a couple of weeks or months and see if you feel like throwing out even more.

My former trick book ends up inside the plastic bag as well.

~~~

Christmas Day comes. Late that evening, I load the bag that grew much in circumference since the last time into my car. It now holds additional things, like the diary I kept during my time with Ken, nearly all of the pictures that depict him, and most of his letters, except the “trillion-dollar-card.”

I take off for a mountaintop that I know has individual fire pits set up at a special spot. Reaching it, I sit down at one that overlooks the valley.

Now that I’m settled in a little, enjoying the sublime views, I begin pitching one item after another into the hypnotizing flames. The symbolism of letting go, watching the bondage of my past turn to ashes in front of me brings tears to my eyes, making me feel raw yet, at the same time, feather light.

**Jumping ahead with this story for just a moment—I find out a couple of months later from Mother that the very evening that I’m sitting on that mountain top, my beloved Oma Trudy takes her last breath in a nursing home in Germany. The synchronicity of my childhood ally passing on a night that I let go of a huge part of my past moves me immensely. I am so sorry I never got to spend more time with her.**

A few weeks go by. I am staring at the white platform stripper shoes on top of the upper walk-in closet shelf. Pictures of old times come to mind. I reminisce for the next thirty seconds.

Romy:
I doubt I’ll ever wear those again.

Franziska:
Glad to hear you say that. It pays to know that displaying items on your body or putting yourself together in ways that set a man’s sexual fantasies into motion destroys all chances of having him initially fall in love with you for your heart, your virtue, your character, and your innocence. Wearing those will never get you the love that you are seeking.

Romy:
No convincing needed here. I have no desire to wear anything sexy for any man other than Ken, ever.

Franziska:
Having a nice exterior may not necessarily be a bad thing, but using it for the wrong motives is. It’s all about what you do with it. If it is connected to a pure authentic heart, operating from sober motives behind your words, actions, deeds, and body decorations, you won’t have anything to worry about.

Romy:
That’s good to know, but
I won’t need to wreck my brain about that for a long time to come, most likely never, because I doubt I could ever love another. So what’s the point of worrying about how I look at all?

Franziska:
Who knows? Just in case you happen to change your mind someday, know that your feminine powers are never to be used lightly. Less is always more. Forget the exterior and what its external gifts can harvest. By universal law, one always gets exactly what one asks for. So think strongly about what kind of message you want to deliver as you move across this earthly plane.

Pristina
: Love your words of wisdom. It all makes a whole lot of sense.

Romy:
So I take it, all of that’s adjustable when two people truly love each other and are committed to one another exclusively.

Franziska:
What people do when alone in private is between those two individuals. All you have to ask yourself when you are about to do something is ‘is this going to hurt someone, something, or yourself?’ Only you know that answer. Things will be totally clear if you have a solid moral code in place.

Pristina:
How do I get one of those…moral codes?

Franziska:
You will automatically acquire it if you stick to this path and make efforts to befriend the highest power in the Universe. It will assist you with finding what serves you best, if you seek it with all your heart and put it first in all your dealings.

I sense a delightful peace befall me. Tirelessly, I sort through everything I own again, leaving nothing untouched this time around. Each shoe, garment, lingerie, or accessory that can potentially serve as a palpable sexual lure ends up in either the charity basket or trash. Even my once so adored padded bras I clung to for getting others to think I had more to offer than I naturally do, and any and all thongs bite the dust. A deep sense of serenity comes over me now that my apartment turns into a sleaze-free sanctuary and I am wearing underwear that covers all or at least most of my bottom.

~~~

The three-year mark of resisting the behaviors that can easily drag me back to hell finds me. Although I dated a few guys over the course of the past year, I am nowhere near letting a man close to my heart. Every time I attempt to even picture myself with someone new, heavy sadness seizes me and constricts my throat.

Realizing that tomorrow is my belly-button birthday, I kneel down in front of my bed tonight and pray:

“Dear God: For my birthday I have only one wish: to run into Ken to clean up my side of the street and, of course, get an idea of how he is doing. If, for any reason, you can’t grant it, I understand. I truly only want what You want. Align my will with thine. Amen.”

My birthday comes and goes. Another day passes. I spend several hours shopping for apparel in the fashion district downtown Los Angeles this afternoon. Back in my neck of the woods, I swing by a client’s house to look after their furry ones.

I park the Mitsubishi in front of the residence around 4:30 p.m. Stepping out of the vehicle, my gaze swerves to the sandy open field by the park that’s roughly three hundred feet away. I see a gestalt that is working a horse on a
Longe
line. I snatch the client folder and disappear inside the red brick house.

Getting back out forty minutes later, I notice that the person is still training the horse in the same spot. In a hurry to meet with my mentor for another writing assignment, I open the door to my car to enter but a subtle noise that sounds like yelling from further away stops me in my tracks. I shift my head and see the figure rush in my direction, shouting something. I take a couple steps toward the person, but instantly reduce my speed.

Romy:
I’ll be damned. It’s Ken.

My body trembles as I hear him call out my name repeatedly. I long to shed tears of joy, kiss the ground, jump up and down, but know this is not the time to show God how much I am touched by having been granted my wish. Ken and I march toward each other in slow motion, sort of like they do in romantic screenplays.

“God, please give me the words,” I pray, followed by reciting the serenity prayer over and over, until Ken reaches me. I stick my vigorously shaking hands inside my pants’ side pockets in the hopes it will make them stop.

“How are you?” he says simultaneously pulling me into his embrace. I unlatch my arms from my trousers and join into the friendly gesture. Two seconds pass. I step back.

“How come your hands are shaking? Do I excite you that much?”

Romy:
Oh, God, how I miss that compelling humor.

“Very funny,” I say with a pinch of defiance. “Well, I am just so surprised to see you today. I really don’t know what to feel right now.”

“I wanna show you something,” says Ken, leading me by the hand. He brings me to the pinto mare that is tied to a trailer several feet away.

“Say hi to her.”

I lovingly rub her soft snow-white face.

“She’s a real beauty. So what’s new with you?” I ask as I keep petting the horse.

“Ahhh, you know, the usual, not a whole heck of a lot, really.”

“Since I got you in front of me, I want to say I’m truly sorry for the ways I acted and the things I did when we were still together. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I was just going through my own stuff back then,” I say.