Last night she fucked him. Good. She told me over the phone late in the evening. Their love is now a stain on the backseat of his Lexus SUV. Oh subtlety save me from the audaciousness of those fallen from Grace. Literally.
I lied yesterday when I said I was beautiful. Not aesthetically speaking, I mean. That could be true if you tell me so. But you can't reassure confidence to a female without positive male attention.
There are a lot of things I'm not in light of Grace's foray into sexual union. Let me spell those out:
1. I'm NOT a doormat who needs dick to feel like I'm a positive contribution to my gender.
2. I'm NOT a girl that feels like half a girl because a quarter of that same girl lacks a guy.
3. I'm NOT upset that I was the one who didn't lower herself for the sake of experimentation.
4. I'm NOT stupid enough to misunderstand that fucking has FUCKING CONSEQUENCES.
HOWEVER:
I AM a tad bit jealous.
Not for the pleasure either. Actually, it's all about knowledge. The sensory experience of knowing you and another human being are physically imparting an immense act of affection upon the other. The vestal virgin in me hides herself beneath a shroud of haughtiness and exaggeration. My comments and opinions may be nothing more than an attempt to conceal my deepest desire for instinctual release.
And I'm human. A flawed animal with the sacred fire of sexual ancestry that demands at least one dance through the tribal gathering of life.
Oh shoot me, I know. Philosophy has Jennette held hostage. Call 1-800-KISS MY WRITING'S ASS if you can't handle using nature's strangest invention: the brain.
I digress. Last night my subconscious spoke better than Freud lying on a velvet couch - monocle and all. There was an awfully vivid dream, one that I couldn't do justice to with the limited, abstract scope of words.
Alive in the stillness of my sleep there were relatives and friends huddled around a large wooden table. Above their heads were weathered glass windows, spacious and tinted to accentuate the dim glow of gas lamps positioned neatly in a row along the table's edge. It was a waterfront eatery of sorts, with conch-shells and clam shaped clocks lining the oak-paneled walls. Darkness claimed the sky, feeling as if it were the moment just before midnight on a seaside winter's eve. The air tasted of salt. My blonde hair unfurled at the edges, each curly lock straightening from the dank cold atmosphere that permeated our seating arrangement. From the flame's low light you could see sailboat shadows reflecting onto my olive skin, dwarfing me with their intimidating silhouettes. Outside on the inlet they bobbed gently, splashing tiny droplets of sea water onto the glass panels. Vanessa, my punk cousin (yes, she has hot pink hair and tattoos), was making out with her always silent boyfriend, Tom. They never came up for air, kissing passionately as they ignored myself and Joe, a neighborhood acquaintance of theirs. I've always associated him with the shore, you see. He and his on-and-off-again girlfriend Christine are part of Vanessa's posse of Mannesquan Misfits (a name only Jersey Shore dwellers would be proud of). I've missed them recently, and their presence in the dream signified all the more that change was coming for me. They have been there during the most pivotal moments of my life (Bleeding statue of the Virgin Mary? Go ahead, ask them about it), and their warm glances and unabashed displays of affection must mean I'm headed for spiritual fulfillment. Or something along those lines. Cause the next part made little sense.
"I'll have the clam chowder to go, please..."
2 AM. Dead silence. Sounds of drag racing reverberating from the Staten Island Expressway all along the suburban utopias and onto the windowpane of my humble residence. Fuck. What a bizarre dream.
You did this to me, Grace. You make me feel ugly. You make me feel childish. You make me...hungry.
Clam chowder, eh? Well, you know what they say about clams. I'm not Lesbian...honest.
Perhaps this all a grand illusion manifested by the jagged roads of imagination. After all, anything can happen when you're lonely, loose, low, and locked up in the maritime misery that is South Jersey, Even if it is all a dream.
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