Email disguising as love letters and vise versa

I begin to think that I could start to write love stories as if it was email exchanges. Imagine that it came from a woman to a man. And each email shows a little bit of progression of their relationship. Call it filler pages until my inspiration strikes....

So this is first such email.

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Baby,

Hope you got to sleep a little on the plane and you are having a wonderful trip.

I’m not used to this “feeling” business. It’s foreign and it frightens me. You told me that being with me sometimes overwhelmed you because you “lose control”. You must know that you are not the only one. You must think that I'm an idiot to admit that it sometimes overtakes me to the point that I wanted to cry. I hate that feeling because I don't know what to do with it, where to dispose of it, and how to express it because it's completely against everything I've ever taught of myself. To preserve me, I must not feel.

Shouldn’t these types of emotions dissipate as time goes on? Isn't it an universal rule that all lovers graduate into the territory of comfort, familiarity and contentment after 4 to 6 months (I have research statistics to back this theory up)? If that were true, what is then I'm feeling, you are feeling?

As I ponder about these things in an intellectual and detached fashion, my physical being continues to ache for you, as it first did when we met up six months ago, defiant of the universal theory above. 

----------------------------------

The film was fun, very memorable and I love watching porn while having you fuck me from behind. We ought to make it a new tradition of ours. 

You know that I enjoy our correspondence.  So please let me hear from you...but no need to write lengthy novels such as this one.

I miss you in an irrational way. 

From: the girl you fuck

The Vanishing Act - Chapter 2 (See "A Book" for Chapter 1)

He did not return her emails.

She did not think much at first, but after four tries and no response from him, she started to feel that whatever happened, was a mistake. She began to doubt herself, she realized that perhaps what she sensed that day, the closeness that they developed over him calling her “baby”, and the kisses they exchanged, were just her figment of imagination.

The trip to Sacramento or Boston was uneventful.  Her mother stayed in intensive care unit, but the condition was stable. She returned the next day to teach and then hopped on a flight to meet John in Boston. They spend a quite weekend together and then returned on Sunday night. John took off again on Wednesday for another trip, and she continued to teach her 2nd grade students. She had not heard from him.

Life, as she knew it, was just as mundane and predictable as before the “book”, as she now referred the event as.

He had responded to her first email, when she wrote briefly in Boston, out of guilt, out of curiosity, she wanted some level of confirmation that she did not just dream this event up, she also told him that she liked the book. He wrote briskly, “I am glad that you enjoyed the book. Take pictures. I used to live there, it’s a fun city.”

She had no idea that he had lived there, but those were not the kind of information they exchanged when they used to meet up together. They talked very little, when they did meet, they sipped coffee, had small talks, and he’d always leave abruptly at the end, as if he had some place to go, people to see, she would always feel that there were something unsaid, as if he wanted to say but he caught himself and stopped midstream.

She missed that. At least they talked. At least he responded to her simple emails, now he went quiet, silent, and four emails unanswered later, she felt awful, self-conscious, intimidated and horrified.

“He regretted this.” She would tell herself.  “This was a total mistake.” She would feel completely, utterly embarrassed one minute and ashamed the next minute.

“He does not want me or care about me or even want to be with me, this was just an act of impulse.”  She would tell herself.

Finally, on Friday, she received one liner from him. “I’m so sorry to be out of touch, baby, I’m leaving town for a project, and I miss you.”

He did not tell her where he was going, how long he was going for and when he’d see her again.

She couldn’t help but feeling rejected, deflated, and somewhat cheated. The last time they met, he had said to her that they’d try to see each other once a week, he’d try to see her the next week, and it’s been a week but he had decided to leave, and did not even try to explain why he had failed short to deliver his end of bargain. She had made herself available to him.

She felt like an idiot. She sat on that email; stared at it, try to respond in different ways:
Option A: “OK baby, see you when you get back. I miss you too.” – Too intense, too intimate.
Option B: “See you soon, don’t work to hard.” – Too noncommittal, too nonchalant.
Option C: “Have a great trip. Hope to hear from you on the road.” – A hint of dependency, a hint of lingering. Too weak.

She’d decided that she couldn’t possibly come up with a good enough response, so she sat on that email and did nothing for a couple of days.

He did not send a follow up message. He did not respond to her. He did nothing of that sort.

He simply disappeared.

By the following week, she felt completely dizzy with unanswered questions.

She picked up the phone and called him. He seemed surprised to hear from you. “Oh hi, I can’t talk right now, I’m about to get into a meeting. Can I call you back? I will definitely call you back.” He said in earnest.

“Sure, call me back.” She felt encouraged.

The call never came.

Another week passed by. It was becoming clear to her that he had other things on his mind, places to be, and people to see. She realized all of that, whatever she had thought that their future was to hold, it was nothing nothing but an imagination.

She had a picture of him, the one singular picture of him, taken using her iPhone, when they met up a couple of years ago, out of random joke, when their relationship had been so completely innocent, she took a picture of him. She stared at that picture sometimes. He had worn those black architect glasses, blue eyes, he had wavy hair and he was laughing, about something. She liked his laugh, his smile and those fine wrinkles around his eyes. She liked to touch them in real life but she never did. It would appear to be too intimate, so she traced her fingers through the picture, and she looked at the picture, and wondered where he was, whom he was with, and what he was doing.

By the twentieth day, John called, he was overseas, in Düsseldorf for a sales meeting, and he had invited her to come along.

“I can’t, John. I teach elementary kids. They need me.”

“Honey, come and join me. We can fly to Paris for the weekend. Just take three days off, is all I need. But it’s completely up to you.” John could be persuasive when he needed to be, but he never imposed. He respected her too much to ever demand or request for her presence in any places. He made plans, calculated plans, and he had the emotional discipline like a soldier; he rarely ever showed affection. She liked that about John, until he came along. That burst of affection, the declaration of “I need you”, seemed to remind her of first and only serious relationship before John. Someone she had attempted to bury in her memory, for the last 18 years. Someone who she thought she’d marry. And then he came along with that sudden affectionate declaration, so sincere, so unexpected, and that level intensity awoke part of her that had gone dormant for the last eighteen years, and now with his lack of response, it all just seemed like a fluke.

He had disappeared into thin air. After promising her that they’d start to see each other once a week for coffee, after the kiss, after he had called her “baby,” he took off, just like that.

She felt a sense of betrayal, but there was nothing she could have done. He never really come close to be her lover, she and he had only friendship to go back to. She decided that John was the ultimate choice of future husband. Why risk something so concrete for something so intangible and so unpredictable?

The bag was packed. She called school, and asked for time off.

It’s time to get on with her real life.

The book, which he had given her to read, was now sitting in her bookshelf.

“Soon I’d forget about him. In about six months of time, I would probably hear from him, and we’d go and grab a cup of coffee, and that was to be the end of that. We shall not mention about the kiss.”

That evening she curled up in her bed, cried, for exactly what reason she couldn’t know. It was not a romance story, by  far stretch of imagination. It was more like a missed opportunity. She thought he came to his senses, she was unavailable, and he moved on. He had found someone else. “I was his stepping stone.”

That morning she finally decided to let him go. She would be okay. She was always a survivor.

Raining Day, San Francisco

You don’t do emotions. There always is going to be a gaping hole, between the stories you tell and excuses you make. I’m drawn to that.

I stop asking questions. I am not good at confrontations. I am not good at finding out why. I don’t want to know why.

I stop questioning about my motive. I am comforted by my duality. One seeks truth, honesty, communication and understanding; one seeks primal desires being satisfied but require mystique and unknown. I understand how passion is derived and therefore I do not need everything explained. The more I know, the less I feel. The less I know, the more I feel.

I sometimes hang on to every word you say to me. I sometimes forget everything you’ve ever said to me, and when we do get together, and when you use the word “we” I am astonished.  I have no idea that we are an unit, we are “we”. “We” is an intimate word, and “we” implies something more than I have ever hoped for. I see you, I see me, I have not seen “we”.

In those endless raining nights of San Francisco, I can hear your voice, telling me about the hiatus that we take – between the river rafting trip to now. So what is now, where is now, I ask. “Now is now.” You say. That’s what I will always remember, and that's what I will hear.

You don't remember this, and neither do I. But I read it somewhere, you used to say to me, "What is truth?" I don't know what is truth. I don't expect to hear truth from you.  I am drawn to that aspect of it. To not really know the truth. To not really be in control. I don't want to be in control. I like free falling, and not know if you will be at the bottom of my fall, catching me or watching me drop, break into millions of pieces. You won't shed any tears. You don't do emotions.

I feel like taking a hiatus. Again. In the rain, in the life that without you in it. I like the distance, both emotional and physical distance that you have created between us. In the distance, confronted by the unknown, I write stories about you, me, we, us.

I like looking afar, staring into the abyss that the other me is in. The other me, stuck in a black hole, waiting to be rescued; for that quantum leap, waiting to be released, from that darkness that is known as longing. "Longing for what?" If you were near, you’d ask me. I have no immediate or definitive answer. "Just longing." I'd answer.

But I know that I’ve always longed for the past, longed for the present to be gone, longed for an alternate future where you are present, with me, always.

The obligatory pause

I shall continue to write. These stories are time capsule of a sort. They serve as the semi-autobiographic recording of our moments together. If and when you choose to leave me, if and when we finally part ways, promise me that you'd always remember me as the person in those stories...

North Beach - love, lost

I remember walking home from the bus station one night, I cried that night. That particular evening, it was dark and all of sudden I was weeping uncontrollably.

I had not felt that way for nearly seventeen years.

That person who had caused that much pain, had moved away, finally. For the last fourteen plus years he lived in North Beach, right by the Marriott Hotel, not far from the Fisherman’s Wharf, in a flat. I google stalked him. The only person.  I knew where he worked, from which year to which year, when he had a child and everything in between, I watched his video on Youtube, I remembered thinking, I still loved him. I knew nothing about him, but I loved him.  The love that lasted seventeen years. A young girl’s love that turned into a middle age woman's obsession. He finally moved. I had suspected that he’d eventually return to his roots.

I tracked him on Tweeter, and I never spoke to anyone about him. He was the one secret that I wanted to remain in my heart. Deeply buried.  I had not written about him (up till now), I had not talked to my shrink about him, and I had not mentioned him to anyone. Those who knew about him, had all faded away in my friends’ circles. None of my girlfriends had met him. He was the ghost that would forever haunt me.

I hardly remember anything about him. I knew that he was Swedish American. He had longish hair when I met him, he spoke with an East Coast accident, and he called me, fondly, a “party girl.” He took care of me, and he wanted me. He was ambitious,  and his life evolved around building up his career and establishing connections. I was, rightfully so, an after thought, perhaps one of his many after thoughts.  He had succeeded in all the ways he wanted to succeed, and I thought, but he was still sixteen years older, which meant that he would be fifty-five at this point.  But dear god, I loved him. It was not meant to be a rational thing. It was the once-in-a-life type of love.

I had since moved on, long moved on, for years, other than the thought of “let me never bump into him in North Beach”, when I was in the area, I had not thought of him. I knew his street address, and I often wondered if he would be there, perhaps pushing a stroller, perhaps walking his dog, if I just walked on that street. I wondered if he did another Alcatraz swim, and above it all, I wondered if he ever thought of me.  For that very reason, I avoided North Beach whenever I could. It was a part of town I could do without. 

I thought perhaps he did, remember, because he accepted me in LinkedIn last year. But I said nothing.  I didn’t ask how he was doing, what he was doing, but he had since moved back east, and I had since decided that I could return to North Beach.

Those were the private thoughts. I think we all have that one person, that led us down the rabbit hole. While we might come out unscathed, we wouldn’t come out the same. I had loved and lost. I learned that there was that irrational emotion called obsession, and deep inside of every rational being, there was a side, when the right buttons were pushed, one might go insane.  He was the button. He was the only person I would google for. He was it. But he was gone. Just like that. I could now go back to North Beach, and never worried about running into him again. We had communicated over the years, until 2002. By then he had moved back to San Francisco, and set his roots in North Beach.  We talked about our lives. We promised to meet up and have a drink. I was working in the city then. But I never did follow up with that promise.

I pretended those conversations never occurred. I pretended the last communication took place in 1998. When he wrote, “I’m leaving tomorrow. And that says it all.” I never quite figured out what he meant by that. I was working in Palo Alto at a client site when I read his email, Palo Alto was when we first met. I cried until all my tears were dry. 

To this date, I remembered those exact words.

There was an English man, who was exactly one year younger than he, who was and is still a venture capitalist, did his undergraduate at the same school as he did his fellowship, and he had asked me out, for years we went out, and never once did I pay any attention to his intention. I thought that whatever he had, it was just not enough. I wanted whom I couldn’t have. It was not wealth that I was after. It was always that rare connection.

So to this date, I remembered how he smelled, how he felt, and how I never could be the same, since he was in my life.

A Book

In 2009, I fell in love with the BBC mini-series North and South, and then I read the book written by Elizabeth Gaskell in 2010 while vacation in Europe. I absolutely loved the era and the unconsummated love. I always thought a proper love story should start slow, and then gradually build up. It's not in the words that were said, but in the actions the characters took, or not take. I still remember the scene where John Thornton said "Look Back, Look Back." Margaret did not. They finally reunite at the train station. I think I was born into the wrong era. I liked the way a relationship progressed over the years. I don't like a sudden surge of passion or departure. It felt more forced and short lived. I also liked the character Margaret, she was a very strong individual, had her own thoughts, and was proud. Men should be more attracted to women who are their own people. She did not back down and she always spoke her mind. I could identify with that. So this was my first attempt of writing something more subtle. 


"Here, you'd like this book." He handed her a book from his book shelf.

She was about to take off. So was he.

"I should be so lucky to have you as a friend." He said, his eyes were fixated at something, but she couldn't tell what, and she couldn't be sure if he was talking to her or the invisible person in the other room.

"Why?" She asked, surprised by his comment.

"You'd have such an easy time making friends. New ones." He said.

"But I don't want new friends. I want you. I always want you." She appeared to be hurt.

"Then, I shall be your friend. Always." He sounded resolute.

"It's settled then." She took the book from his hand. The book cover had a Japanese stencil, like a silk painting and a weird sounding name. She questioned his judgment. It would not appear to be something that she'd like to read. But she didn't say anything.

That earlier afternoon, they met up for coffee, near his apartment. Then he took her back to his apartment.

It was middle of the day. She's an elementary school teacher. He an architect. They had made a plan to meet up later that evening. But she had to go and visit her ailing mother that evening. He had to go and watch his son. He's divorced and sharing custody with his ex-wife. She lived with her boyfriend John, an internet guy, who owned a firm in the SoMa area.

The two of them had been friends for some time. There were moments where they thought they'd eventually end up together, but that moment was gone.

"It's a luxury to meet up in the middle of the day." He commented when they met up at the corner coffee shop.

"Yes, indeed. I had a short day, thankfully." She replied, sipping her non-fat latte sprinkled with nutmeg.

"I like this place. It's quiet." He had ordered a dry cappuccino. He's wearing a pair of greenish glasses, his hair had gone gray, she noticed it for the first time, it used to be golden, shiny, and she always wanted to run her hands through his hair, but it would appear to be too intimate. Something friends would not do. But she had that sudden urge. So she touched her mug, while looking away, pretending that she had not noticed his hair, pretending that she had not thought of running her hand through his curly, unruly hair.

"How's John?" He asked.

"He's fine. Away again. He's gone to Boston." She answered.

John, her boyfriend of five years, who lived with her, but was rarely around.

"What are you doing this weekend?" He continued with his questions.

"I plan to join him. He's asked me to come this time." She was getting uneasy. He's just a friend, but somehow, leaving him to join John felt like a betrayal.

"I'm going to a concert, this weekend." He seemed to say this to assure her that it was OK for her to be away, because he was busy too.

"That's great. Who's watching Richie?" She asked.

"Baby mama is back on Friday." He said.

She wanted to ask who he was going with but she knew she was not in a position to ask such things. She never asked what he was doing, who he was doing things with, what he was like outside of their interactions. It felt at times they were carrying on an affair, even though they were technically just friends.

"I have something for you. In my apartment. Would you like to come with me?" He asked causally.
"Sure. I haven't been to your place for a long time." She was getting up from her seat. He walked over, and put on her black trench coat. Her long wavy hair was caught inside the coat. He pulled her hair out of the coat, and said "there."

"Thank you." She wanted to loop her arm around his, as they were walking out. It was as if he knew that already, so he put his arm out, and waited for her. She hurried her steps, and looped her arm around his, they walked out of the coffee shop, her arm in his, and remained in that position until they arrived at his apartment. It was natural, but instinctively, she knew friends didn't do that. Lovers, yes, but friends, no.

"Here, this is a book for you. I wanted to give it to you, I think you'd like it." He handed the book. The book with Japanese stencil on the cover.

"OK. If you say so." She always listened to him. He had given her good advice over the years.

"I am happy that you made time for me. I like seeing you." He said to her earnestly.

"I like being with you. I always do. I want to be with you." She said it out loud. She wanted to say this for a long time now but she never had the guts.

"I like being with you too. Being with you makes me happy. I am lucky." He said.

"Then we shall see each other more." She said.

"Yes we should." He nodded his head.

They ran out of words to say to each other all of sudden. Seeing, seemed like an operative word. Seeing, did not mean that they'd become anything more than they were today, seeing, only meant that they'd meet up for coffee sooner than every few weeks.

"I should go. I need to head to Sacramento tonight, my mother is sick." She started to head out.

"Wait. I had another book for you, let me just look around one more time." He said suddenly.

"OK." She stood in the living room, looking at his family photos. She had never met his family, nor his friends. She had no idea what he was like outside of their limited interactions.

"You looked so young." She remarked.

"I was young." He laughed.

"I like the way you are now. I do." She assured him.

"I know, baby." He replied.

She was stunned. She thought she heard it wrong. He'd never called her "baby."

He walked back from the other end of the bookshelf, he appeared to be disappointed. "I couldn't find the other book." He said.

"No worries. I have a book to read. Plus I have a kindle. I read pretty much everything on my kindle nowadays." She decided not to pursue her curiosity over the use of the word "baby" by him.

"OK. I agree. I read mostly on mine too." He walked over. His eyes were dark blue, not unlike her own. She was feeling a bit melancholy. She didn't know when she'd see him again, and whether the use of word "baby" would come out of his mouth again.

"Let me at least drive you to Cal train. I need to head back to pick up my son from daycare anyway." He said to her. He ran his architectural firm not far from John's office. That was how she first met him. He was buying coffee and she was buying coffee for John, she always helped John out, she was the caretaker of the relationship. He bummed into her, he apologized and she said it was OK and they became friends.

"OK. Thank you." She felt that she should remain formal. They had always a very proper relationship. She wondered if her arm looping into his changed all that, she wondered if he called her "baby" because of it.

"When will you be back?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Monday. I think. I have class to teach on Monday." She was already wondering why he was asking her that.

"I shall see you next week then." He looked straight ahead as they were walking towards his car, parked on the street between 7th and Brennan.

"OK. Next week then." She nodded her head, and looked relaxed for once. Meeting schedule with him had been completely random over the years, but she enjoyed each meeting and looked forward to the next one. She wondered what made him to want to see her more often. They usually managed to meet up every so often, but not once did they meet more than once or twice a month. At the most.

They walked over to his car, and he opened the passenger side of door for her to get in. John never did that. She didn't expect John either, but with him, she expected it, and he did it without asking. She couldn't figure out what it was with the two of them. It was as if there was an unwritten code. It was as if they had belonged. They had always been in sync.

He got into his car, and started the engine. Just then, he leaned over, and kissed her. She was surprised by it all, she didn't push him away, either. She had, somehow expected it to happen, at some point, but she just didn't know when. As it turned out, "when" was that precise moment. She found her kissing him back, while asking him, "Why?"

He put his arm around her, while pressing on with the kissing.

"Because I need you." He answered.

"I'm happy when I see you. I am happy because of you." He kissed her some more and continued his sudden declaration of emotions. Emotions she didn't know he possessed.

She was afraid of asking him why he "needed" her. She didn't seem to want to know, nor did she care. She needed him too. The word "need" had a different connotation than the word "want". He did not use the word "want". He chose word carefully, as he often did.

She let him. Until he was done, kissing her.

"Baby." He held her tiny hands. She felt weak. Sudden dizzy spell hit her.

"I have to go. I need to catch the 4 o'clock train." She broke free of his hold.

"OK." He released her hand and started to drive.

Pretty soon they arrive at the train station.

He did not get out of the car. His eyes were looking ahead. He was deep in thoughts. She began to worry that he had changed his mind. She was feeling a sense of panic.

"I need you too. I am decidedly a happier person because of you." She came clean.

"Then it's settled. We will see each other next week. Tell me how you like this book." He said.

"May I?" She had the sudden urge to follow through her earlier impulse.

Without getting his approval, she ran her hand through his hair and pressed her lips against his; his lips felt warm and moist, a hint of coffee.

"Your hair is turning gray. I like it." She finally let her private thoughts known to him.

"Good, baby." He returned her kiss and then said "You gotta go. You don't want to be late for the train, for your mom."

"Yes, I should go." She jumped out of his car and waved goodbye as he pulled away.

She hopped on the train and got settled in a seat by the window.

She opened this book that he gave her. It was about a married woman, leaving her husband, for another man.

How to decouple gracefully - relationship break-up take two

For my clever friend. Your discussion with me inspired me to write this piece.

Yes you can tell I'm still a bit peeved about this woman friend defriending me on FB because she broke up with her guy who is a friend to me.  I suppose she had to make a choice and I am of course not her friend to start with. I liked her. I had a connection with her, I thought she was super cool, nice and hip.  But at the end of the day, I suspect she pull the plug because he did not want to get to the next stage (see my prior note the Unmarriable Man).

I had a revelation - it came to me but not independently. It came through a discussion, I'll leave it at that (and my first paragraph give my friend the credit he/she deserves so there). But I think it's such a marvelous idea (well, it's as marvelous of an idea as anything at 12:30 AM PST).

Here is my proposal to people are in a relationship (but not married).  Can the person who is initiating the break up give the other person at least 2 months of advance notice? Sort of notice when you give to your employer and let them know that you are interested in pursuing other opportunities but it's best that you don't tell them too much beyond that. Just tell them that you will stick around to tie loose ends, to transition your knowledge (in this case, ease the pain of the person who's about to get dumped), and be a genuinely good person and show that you are a trooper until the end. Like I did with my prior employer.  You leave on a GOOD NOTE.

We'd all agree job interviews are like dating. I was going through a dating experience with my current employer. The dynamic of push and pull, the getting-to-know-yous, the I-like-you-little, I-like-you-a-lot, I-like-you-madly, the playing-hard-to-get were just too much. It was an intense experience, but in the end it worked out, because it was meant to be (as they say in successful relationships that often resulted in marriage and children).

So when you decouple, why can't you treat it like a graceful exit of leaving your prior employment? Unless you are an asshole, in which case, well, good riddance.

But as they say in the corporate world, you don't want to burn any bridges.  And as I'd always advise my younger girlfriends, rather than trying to meet someone new, why not be green and recycle your old liaisons (one girl reported to me recently that she just started seeing two ex'es at the same time and things are working out greatly - because she just wants to have sex and those two are already known quantity. She thanked me by buying me coffee.)

So having said that, why not exit gracefully by giving your partner a respectful period of notice?

I'd like to propose at least 2 months notice. Tell her/him that you are considering pursuing other opportunities (granted, that other opportunity may have already availed him/herself and you are already going steady / committing to that one - liked a signed contract to start your new job in a week), and that it's best that you part ways soon. But you will be there for her/him, and that whatever it is that she/he needs, you are still the go-to person. You will ensure a smooth transition, you will ensure that she/he finds a suitable replacement, in fact, you may even want to offer to help her/him to interview for your replacements. Be her/his wingman, take her/him out, and help her/him finding your replacement and even offer some on the job training to ensure a smooth transition.  Offer some support, sexual support, emotional support, and even a little cuddling to help the other person to feel that you still care a great deal, and it's really not their fault (it's because it's an easier commute - hmm... better not use that excuse but you get the gist), it's yours. You care a great deal of her/him, you are so damn lucky to have met her/him, and it was the best period of your life, in another word, lie through your teeth if you must. The goal is for that other person to feel that you valued her/him, and that it was truly a difficult decision and he/she thought very hard before making that decision.

That would make your soon-to-be ex feel good.

Because here is the thing. You don't really want to burn bridges. You don't know what your life would turn out with your secondary opportunity. What if you make a terrible mistake and you already pissed that person off so much they won't even look at you? What if in the future, you want to get in touch with that person because you do like that person as a friend? What if you grow older and you decide to adopt what I had advocated in an earlier paragraph and you wanted to try to recycle?

A friend had told me that for men, sometimes after certain age, they look back and examine their past dating life and wonder from time to time who might have worked out, had they been in different places, had they been more in sync with one another then.

That logic applies here. Bottom line is - you don't want to burn any bridges if you don't have to. Give your partner the graceful exit, help her/him find your replacement, or at least give her/him some notice and be extra nice (because no one cares what you were like before, but they will remember how you exit a job/relationship), so that when you leave this period behind your ex will appreciate you as a person.

Because, trust me, you don't want to be in a position where you look back, and realized that you are totally fucked up, or if you are lonely and that ex of yours was a super good lay and now you can't go back to her/him because you broke it off so suddenly.

So that's my theory.

Don't exit left, soundlessly, be a man(woman), own up to it, give some good notice, and write a lovely departure note to boot. Because really, who knows what will happen in say a matter of a decade or more? You may find the person whom you broke up with, was truly your soul mate, and you were just too idiotic to see it at that time.

And if you had given a good notice, the door, as my former employer told me once when I left, is always open for you, my dear. Come back anytime.

Check.Mate.

The unmarriable man

So here is what I know: when a man is over 45, has already a child (children), divorced or never been married, chances are, if you are looking to get married, he is not your target. He will not get married to you, unless you are a super hot 22 year old (which you are not) and he's going through a midlife crisis, or he's a statistical outlier, which can happen. But chances are - he's not an outlier, and you are not the love of his life, and if you are, he still does not want to get married.

Here is the thing - men who have gone through the children thing, and have their shit together, in their 40s, or 50s, the thing that drive them to get close to you, is sex, not marriage.

You, being the girl who still believes in marriage and happily ever after, need to pick one or the other. You have a higher chance getting hit by a bus than getting married to an unmarriable man. But you can still get happily ever after, if you just let go of that marriage thing.

You can have fun. Lots of fun, if you just let go of your desire to get married.

You wonder why I feel this way? Well, I have been defriended by a gal, a really nice gal, who was a girlfriend to someone who is a friend of mine, and he's divorced with children, she's never been married, and I think she wanted marriage, and he - not so much. I imagine. I should probably ask him though. I'm bitter. I like her. I like them together. I want to see them getting married. I know that she had high hopes. I know that she was hoping that they'd get married.

But I know men. I've known men in their 40s ever since I was in my early 20s. I like men in their mid 40s because I never thought I'd get married. They are the unmarriable type so they were perfect for me. So when men reaches that 45+ milestone, the women who want to get married, probably should think about their options.

Here is the thing. Why get married? Really, what do you gain from marriage? Marriage is a piece of paper. I can tell you, it is only useful if you desperately need to change your last name so your ex-boyfriend who is a Defense Intelligence Agent (aka a spy) can't find you and hunt you down, that's it. But what's the chance of that? How many of you dated a spy? I suspect if you are reading this, you have not dated one, or nearly married one, or had been thoroughly investigated by the U.S government because you were the fiance of a spy and you were not a U.S. citizen at the time. But I digress.

If I was not married ("yeah it's easy for you to say" - you say, and you are right, it is easy for me to say), I would probably stay not married. I don't think the marital institution is a good one. It's only there because it's a traditional way to raise a family. If you don't get married, you don't get divorced. if you don't get married, you can date multiple people at the same time and not have to worry about the dreaded word "cheating", you can take off and do whatever you want (not that married people don't do that, I do that for instance), you can have fabulous sex, all the time, with different partners (so I'm assuming), and you can go out on dates and fall in love with different people.

You can have a great relationship with a man - just don't expect him to change, or to get married, to walk down the aisle with you, arriving at that beautiful trellis covered with white climbing roses right by that blue than blue ocean. But, you can be free, you don't have to be the evil stepmother, you can be that cool, pretty aunt to his child(ren), you can buy nice presents to spoil his child(ren) with, without having to ever endure the weekend brunch duty. And even if you did, you could make those eating and making Belgium waffles a sexy event by wearing his white button down dress shirt and your boy brief, you'd look sexier than the Sports Illustrated model with your hair tied up. You can be sexy, be desired, dressed like his fantasy girl, smell good and not ever have to worry about him seeing you in that dreaded old pajama, or wonder if it's too much to always walk around naked - because you don't live with him, don't live with him. You can be that wonderful, confident, smart, worldly woman, and never have to worry to be taken for granted.

In his 40s or early 50s, he will be self centered, lives in his own world, he will not chase you always, he is set in his ways. But he is less likely to fool around. He does not have the energy to fool around.

So why not do the French woman do? They get better as they age. They love their own lives. They don't get clingy, they don't get demanding, they don't ask the man to define everything, they don't have to know what tomorrow is like today.

Tomorrow is unknown. You take that marriage thing out of the equation, tomorrow is damn good. I am married, but I still like the unknown tomorrow. I don't like the known future. I still want to be surprised.
So don't break up with someone because he does not want to get married to you after 6 months together, or a year, or two years.

Trust me, marriage is overrated.

Sex, on the other hand, is always underrated. Have some fun. Stop worrying. Stop defining things. Stop trying to figure out if he's the marriable type.

If he's 45+, have child(ren), divorced or never been married, chances are, he won't want to get married, not to you, not tomorrow, possibly not to anyone. He is the unmarriable type.

And that's OK too. Trust me!

Men don't do emotions, write accordingly

(Straight) Men don't like drama. Don't start the sentence by saying "I feel..". If you have a problem, fix it. Don't write a long paragraph and describe how you wish this or that, or worse, how you were hurt.

When I was dating in my 20s, I very rarely confronted men, discussed my feelings, told the person I cared about how much I loved (well, whatever that meant) him or how much he hurt me. I just moved on - sans the occasional insanity: I was sometimes caught up by the moment. Which I must admit, in retrospect, I was quite ashamed of it. In those rare situations, I was probably considered a psycho, clingy, demanding bitch.

I write creatively. I'm told by my female readers that they can sense the passion and intensity through my writing. When I write, I take on a different persona.

In real life, I find myself relating to Sookie Stackhouse the most, of course a fictional character. She is cool, she loves with passion, she moves on, and she has a strong sense of herself, and she does not let emotions bog down her life. She lives a full life, She is a care taker, but she does not dwell on things. She therefore is always loved by many (men, vampires, shapeshifters, and werewolves). Because not once does she lose herself in the "love" process. Men like women who ultimately is comfortable in her own skin.

In conclusion, the persona in my writing is a passionate, intense, sensitive one who longs for the till-death-do-us-part grandeur of love. In real life, I prefer drama-free, I'm cool as a cucumber, and I can stand to be warmed up a little by others, maybe one day I could be a toasty chestnut.

Unsatisfied Desires

Early October 2011. A rather chilly San Francisco night, the night was getting longer. 

6 P.M.

A man and a woman met at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

They came upon a painting.

"It's by Salvador Dali. I love Salvador Dali." She was happy with the discovery. She was excitable. On edge.

"He's always been my favorite." She repeated herself. He heard it the first time. But he did not interject. He was always polite.

The piece was the only Dali piece in the museum, as far as she could tell. It's titled Les Desirs Inassouvis (Unsatisfied Desires).

"What does it mean?" She was puzzled.

She failed to make the connection between the title and the art.

"You see, there is the penis, here is the vagina."  The man said, while pointing to the different parts of the art piece. His hand was strong, delicate and well manicured. he traced the fine lines of the art piece, up and down. His voice was soothing, calming, and non-emotional.

He was describing the anatomy of the man versus woman. He was being matter-of-factly, technical, accurate, and precise, as if it was a modeling exercise.

She wanted to know why the desires were unsatisfied. She had studied up on Dali - the artist was volatile and passionate. Since her twenties, she had loved Dali, she could relate: her desires, dark secret desires, often went unsatisfied as well, not unlike Dali.

Where the man saw the human anatomy, she saw the impending volcano eruption.

It was at that precise moment, the woman had a strange but daring thought. The thought that perhaps all of her unsatisfied desires, past, present and future, non-conventional, conventional, traditional, non-traditional, fantastical, whimsical, exhilarating and tantalizing - may be satisfied by this seemingly emotional detached man.

She was right.

That night, the woman's unsatisfied desires, satisfied.

Her world had decidedly changed since that night.

The man, calculating yet caring; sensitive yet removed, had taken her to places she'd never been before. She now, traveled freely between the land of fantastical and land of mundane. 

She still had not asked the man if his desires were also satisfied. 

She wanted to tell him, one day, when the moment was right, that she too wanted to satisfy every single desire this man ever wanted - known, or not known to himself.

You see, she had finally, found shelter. There, she built a nest: her emotions, no longer needed to be bottled up; her desires, no longer went unsatisfied. There, she would wait, patiently, for the man to come home.

One day, his hand holding hers, they'd visit the piece in the museum again. She'd ask him to explain to her what that piece meant. And in the end, she'd tell him: "Thank you, for taking care of me, all this time."