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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 3, 2005 || 12:01 am

May was quite a month.

[ed note: The following recounts what was alluded to in number ten over here. I sat and scribbled it on the side of a country road late at night, rain slamming down everywhere. Sometimes you have to write a letter before the words go skittering away into emotional holes like sand crabs on a beach. Only, unlike those crabs, the words don't poke their heads out every day. Sometimes they leave altogether, because your insides hiss "Git!" at them. Your insides want your outside to be able to function; they are about saving the system.

I tried to audblog all this that same night, but the words would not flow right, falling clumsily and block-like out of my mouth. I called red, because he gets it when I am like this, and because he --like me-- is a lover of words and of passion and of star-crossed loving that goes on No Matter What. Plus, he's just nosy and found the audblog file not ten minutes after I fucked it up at least four times, listened to it, and called to leave me a voice mail saying it stuttered his heart.

When I read it aloud to him, I did so without much thought and with no regard to reason, just like I felt when I'd written it some thirty minutes before. Afterward, he let go a long exhalation and said, "Sugar, slow the hell down. Words like those are meant to fall heavy and lazy on a body's heart, not be chunked like rocks at the head." Or something akin to that. He gets wordy when he's been drankin'.

I told him that these moments wear me out, even as much as I love them in that bitter, pining fashion, so I try to run headlong through them as quickly as possible.

He asked when I would post it.

"Wellll," I said, "This is a letter."

"Huhhh-ney, come on. You've posted letters before."

"I know, but I would imagine that people get tired of hearing this shit."

"Don't you get it? That's a big part of you that keeps people coming back. Even when you have it put away, people sense it about you and they wanna drink that stuff up. Post it."

It was not so long ago that I wrote 'you can't doubt words of a drunkard / evenifyouknownottotaketheiradvice'. 'Cause drunkards mostly tell you the truth, unless they're trying to rook a pint out of you. Most times, they even tell the truth then, because they can't fucking help it. A drunk is usually a drunk because he is all too familiar with truth and wants to get past it just a little bit, even if it means sour cotton wadding in his mouth, kidneys dripping lead and an oompah band in his skull later on.

But I digress. Your momma should have already told you these things. That's not really what I'm here for. I'm here to unzip my skin and flop out my insides for you. SO, as a helpful means to an end, I've dimmed the lights, poured some of my daddy's plum wine into the overpriced but gorgeous crystal, and set the teevee to that station that plays The Best Soft Rock Hits Of The Sixties, Seventies and Eighties! (If, by the end of the last sentence typed, I don't agree, I'm writing those fuckers for a refund.)

For some reason, I feel I should note that Dan Fogelberg kinda makes me feel old when I listen to him. But they don't fucking write love songs quite like they used to, so I feel no shame in telling you that when he croons, it fucks with me mightily. Here I go again, readery darlings, taking the advice of a drunk. While I'm under the influence of the Seventies Best Soft Rock Hits. Thank you for once again indulging me, and for showing up with a spoon to eat up my fleshy heart. I hope you find it sweet but not cloying, filling and not draggy.

And as a postscript, I think some of you need to be reminded that you are somebody's 'IT PERSON', forever and ever amen, whether you are fully aware of it or not. If you're lucky, not, because then it's only killing one of you, and not the both of you (as has been my humble experience).

Oh, and: You boys, you fucking tell the truth. Stop trying to be so hot-damned brave (or your perception of it) and just tell the truth.]


So what is it about running up on me some years distant that makes men lie about what they really think, how they really feel? It happened again tonight….first you, and now him. (Although it’s occurred before, but mattered not-so-much, geddit?)

Well, he was from eight years ago; we met on the job and apparently one day I said somthing that jerked him to attention and burnt the notion of pursuing me into his brain. (Honey, I looked even better then than when we met — all the baby had melted out of my face; I was cheekbones and set jaw and eyes ablaze).

One stiff drink, one long kiss and we began to illustrate the word ‘torrid’ in all its naked glory — he was to me sexually what you were to me every other way. We fucked and fondled and sucked and groped each other for hour upon hour until one of us would literally cry out, “Enough! My God, enough!” and collapse into a spent heap, limbs tangled and akimbo. We’d smile across my three-hundred dollar linens and talk for a while, low and lazy, before I’d get up and push one or the other of us out the door.

He loved me fiercely, and while I loved him in a fashion befitting the oldest of friends (deep and warm), I was not also IN LOVE with him; alas, he could not boast the same. He was kind and passionate and corn-pone hilarious; he was sharp as a fucking tack in that common-sense country way and he had a loyal, tender heart.

Leave it to me to sledgehammer it — the whys and wherefores of it are not of much importance, as I have surely aggravated you with enough details already.

So there was a friend-of-a-friend to whom I was giving a ride this evening and as we waited for her in the drive, there he strode across the yard… I just glanced at first, then something about the way he moved brain-checked me and set the dots to connecting: ZIP-ZIP-ZIP and oh, recognition and before my sense of propriety could leap to the forefront and tell me different, I was tilting my head out the window and calling his name.

He didn’t miss a beat, recognizing my voice instantly, and his stride got more purposeful as he neared the car. I stepped out, we embraced long and warmly, smiling earnestly at one another upon pulling back. There was catch-up conversation, which led to catch-up questions, which led to the aforementioned lies.

At first blush, he told me that he was happy, just as you had. I was so, so glad, just as I was for you. I wanted to know he was satisfied and fulfilled and loving his life. I wished nothing less for him.

I introduced him to Debby, the girl already in the car with me, and as I did, I placed my hand alongside his cheek, looking into his eyes, and smiled tenderly at him. “We are very dear friends,” I said to her, and I saw it then.

Something in his eyes got up and hitched, telling me he’d lied. Telling me that I was his ‘It Girl’, ‘The One’, whatthefuckever, and that his heart was far from done with me.

Then when I dropped Ella off to her husband later in the night, that boy from the past took his leave from their dining room. He asked me to step out of the car and see him one last time. There in the first warm rain of this season, he took my hand and admitted he’d lied: He was in no way happy and a great deal of that was because he loves me even yet — still bears the dual torches of “LOVE” and “IN LOVE” and cannot bring himself to set them aside because, even in spite of the agony they cause, they still warm him, delight him, comfort him.

I took him into my arms then, there in the dark, and embraced him with all the things that are good in me, feeling as if somehow I was supposed to comfort him. He held me right back and –his lips placed on my neck– began to cry. (I wanted to scream and run away, because GOOD LORD! I never expected him to be a cry-er.) It is a powerful, breath-sucking thing to witness a man crying. Even moreso to hold him as he does so. It sort of fucks you up a little, because it gets in there and scrambles your insides around. Or, at the very least, rearranges a couple of things. And it bonds you further to him.

So he loves me, still finds himself wanting me, still asked if we could see one another. How I would love to meet him for drinks every now and again –he still looks like Matthew McConaughey, the pretty bastard, and I still regard him fondly– but the fact that he feels no less would make it selfish for me to use up his company conversating and laughing while not promising him a future with me.

Aaaaand, (because he is he and not Thee) I told him no.

Now I sit here on the dark, rain-slicked roadside, perplexed and somewhat heartsick. Why do you lie to me, men that I love? (& in your case, want so damned badly) Why do you find false bravado (which is the same animal as caution, silly fool, and not a far cry from cowardice) necessary? I COME IN PEACE! I COME BEARING THE BEST HEART YOU’VE EVER KNOWN! IT COMES WITH A MATCHING BRAIN AND PERSONALITY! Lie not, and be ye not afraid!

Sometimes, dear-sweet-infuriating You, God taps me on the noggin (with a ball peen hammer) and says, “Lemme show you a little somethin’, girl.” Such was the case tonight. It wasn’t him standing there in the rain, beseeching me after he’d not been honest. It wasn’t him encircling me, falling on me, mixing his salt drops with the sky’s.

It wasn’t him there, lips tasting my neck one more time.

It was you. You. I can see it even now in my mind’s eye: You weeping against my flesh, panicking my head and provoking my mercies all at once, further embedding you in that place that no one else will ever occupy because I cannot evict you from there, even should I want to.

I hold no illusions about us, fine and sweet Yankee boy — none at all. That is why I can say with complete surety that we will be restored to one another one day and there’s not one single fine fucking thing either of us can do to prevent it. It’s just meant to be, and that’s all. Therefore, I will not try to skirt it (and if you’re smart, dillhole, you won’t either) and I’ll try not to wreck myself on all the piney, girlymush bullshit in the meantime. Alright then.

I love you,

Your It Girl.

9 worked it out »

  1. Jennifer 6.3.2005

    I’d forgotten about your ability to make me stop breathing. I swear, the whole world stops when I read things like this from you.

  2. Suzanne 6.3.2005

    Good Lord, do I G E T I T… and Jenn’s right – you do know how to make a girl hold her breath! My For Ever It Boy passed away a few years ago – cannot begin to explain how empty that makes a girl feel. The one who pines for me as his It Girl? A hometown boy, whose friendship is deeply missed – but I finally did stop being selfish and let him go about his life and try to forget about me. Last I heard from him was a card with the words to “Drops of Jupiter’ written out… strange choice of poetic words for a 40 yr old man and yet it all seems to fit – for both of us.

    Thanks for sharing the letter…

  3. john 6.3.2005

    You stirred up a battery of brain activity in this boy. Not an uncommon occurrence in my time spent in this particular part o’ webspace. In what may have been a year or so ago my Grandfather was telling me that love is a choice and we get attached to our choices. He’s probably the most pragmatic person I know and from that conversation I learned that I had more of the romantic in me than I realized. Certain aspects of my life had went long without exploration that I was charting courses out of such darkness the Lighthouse of Alexandria would have been but a lightning bug off the bow.

    I have inched my way a little further towards knowing when to latch myself to the mast or abandon ship, but I’ve never regretted the trip.

  4. redclay 6.4.2005

    oh, honey. out loud this sounds just like a bowl of sugar. you know, with blood in it.

  5. skillzy 6.4.2005

    Oh, the pain of being an I.T. Person, and not an It Person. On the plus side, I have multiple partners, and have been the I.T. Person to family members without the fear of breaking any laws, or grossing anyone out.

  6. redclay 6.5.2005

    i can’t stop reading this. one day we’ll lay on a car hood. i’ll throw an arm around you, and you’ll tell me one just like this.and you will. your accent a melody i have heard from the cradle.

    and when you get done. i’ll kiss your forehead, and ask you. to tell me. tell me the part where love comes back. tell me just that part.

    and you will take a deep breath.

    and tell me.

    “shut up. and get me a beer, you freak.”

  7. MerryMadMonk 6.6.2005

    “It Girl”. Somewhere in Texas. We were young and broke and wild, but we had it all. All that we wanted, more than enough.

    We saw one another again .. about 10 years and 2 weddings later. And we both knew that we would never be happier than the time we were walking among the mesquite and bluebonnets and the world was ours. Looking at me with those Central Texas blue sky eyes. Damn.

    Squirrel, you know who you are.

  8. Lothregast 6.6.2005


    Haunting. Truly. The story which lies so deeply imbued in many of us… just spelled out like that. My IT girl will never know, and that is the source of, strangely, my grandest pain, and sweetest thoughts. I am printing this to go in my ‘journal’ of sorts. Every time I read it I will sigh or cry. Duality expressed in poetic anguish.

    Yours Always,


  9. Christie 4.3.2010

    I’ve become your blog stalker and have spent days reading all your posts. This one kicked me in the ass and heart. Which, in this case are one and the same. My IT guy committed suicide 20 years and 1 month ago. The pining never quite stops does it? I still feel him calling me home and that draw is damn near unstoppable sometimes. My love for my husband and children keep me here until the good Lord makes that call, then I shall join him at home.


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