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Maybe I’m Just a Sucker

September 28, 2009

We never really fought, not in the true sense of a knock ’em down, drag ’em out, name-calling, swear-word tossing argument. But, we had our differences and a good, solid stream of misunderstandings. This, I suppose, was healthy, although the way we let most issues hang unresolved was not. Disputes rarely concerned “typical” subjects, the sort of easily polarised male-vs-female positions laid out in couple counseling books (wanting babies or not, wanting a new sofa or not, wanting an engagement ring or not). But, despite my open-minded position on porn–go nuts! watch all you like, so long as you don’t expect me to enact proscribed sexuality, and so long as it’s never a substitute for getting it on with me–there was one thing we couldn’t settle.

My computer. Specifically, porn on my computer. My answer was “not for any reason, under any circumstances.” Disrespectful to leave a trail of skeezy keyword searches. Inconsiderate to trigger a wave of porno spam. Not to mention viruses, my privacy, the chance that something on there will one day be seen by someone else (i.e.: neither him nor me; for instance my mother, a friend, a computer repair guy who will glance over his glasses and give me a lewd nod). This is what your own computer is for. Not mine. Not ever. If you sleep over at my house and you get up later than me in the morning and some things need taking care of, I dunno, raid my underwear drawer, use your imagination, remember fondly some porn you viewed the other day at your own house! But, do not seek out fresh stuff online using my computer.

And yet, there she was, day after day, long after we’d had this explicit “no means no” conversation. The same blonde woman, ass high, tits low, come-hither smile and dead-looking eyes, waving her plucked and polished crotch at me, day after day, when he swore he’d never checked out those sites. She appeared in my in-box, desktop shortcuts, my browser history. I deleted her, and yet, she returned. Like someone was inviting her in. I took the high road, suggested perhaps there had been some confusion, that I meant any and all porn, including emails, free offers, pop-ups and links and sidebars and everything. I was assured of course, of course, there had been no viewing of (any more) porn. Not since I laid down my request.

And yet, there she was…still. I weighed my patience against my anger, in a “choose your battles” fashion. Was it really, honestly, worth getting this angry when really, the porn itself wasn’t the problem? Was it more important to have boundaries respected, or to let it go and move on? Did I care that the porn was on my computer, or that someone was disregarding how I prefer to conduct things in my home? How justified was I in blowing my stack over a few naked ladies, and for that matter was I angry about the naked ladies, or the broken word? I couldn’t make up my mind, and shoved the issue aside for other things…

…until the afternoon I came home from the office with hours of freelance editing awaiting my red pen, nothing in the fridge or pantry, a mountain of laundry that absolutely could not wait, not if I wanted socks and pants for  the next morning, and, his evidence all over the place in the form of the unmade bed, breakfast dishes abandoned next to the bathroom sink, towels on the floor, and the computer still humming, left on all day to rack up the electricity bill and waste my Internet time. And…there she was…along with a thick, gluey streak, whitish-blue, sprayed from keyboard to desk drawer, slowly drying to pale cream over the dark paint. Oh. My. God.

I was already shouting when he answered his phone, sounds from his office wafting down the line. I like to believe I’m a patient lady, but there’s a place called Too Far, and we took a trip there that day. In addition to patient, I’ve been known to be easily taken by just the right style of charm. But, in my gut, I believe the story he told–at first I suggested he go fuck himself and a handful of other rude things, but eventually cooled off and honestly, I believe it was a streak of yoghurt, splashed there post-shower, while he air-dried half-wrapped in a towel and shoveled down granola before realising the time, then dropping everything all over my apartment, hurried into his clothes and bolted out the door.

Maybe I’m just a sucker, but the way he laughed sounded sincere. And, even if it was a lie, since I’d touched the splash with bare hands and held a finger to my nose to sniff before catching on, I prefer to believe it was spilled Harmony Organic and not a spill prompted by the online blonde and her creepily buffed parts.

One Comment leave one →
  1. October 2, 2009 12:36 am

    This is a true story about boundary trespass with intent. What a good warning.

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