Cardboard Box

Inhaling chocolate covered pomegranate berries, I watched Michael Stone as he talked on my i-Phone screen and told me about the wise use of sexual energy.

“Sexual energy is not personal,” said Michael Stone. Apparently sexual energy doesn’t belong to anybody. This is an interesting way of looking at it. My sexual energy feels very personal. And if I’m not the one who wants to hump the bed, who is? Michael Stone says that despite living in a world where sex is everywhere, few people are willing to talk about it. I tend to be one of those people. Along with shit, masturbation, and menstruation, sex is one of my favourite topics. 

“You are different from anybody I’ve ever met.” People tell me this all the time. Either the phrase triggers my Special Person Syndrome or it makes me feel uncomfortably odd. How come everybody says that?

Odd? Me?

“Well, you are different from everyone else,” a friend told me over coffee. “Most people have boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I thought. “Should I look into getting some of those?”

 

My 60-year-old Jewish therapist from Westmount used to describe some of my sexual endeavours as “Sport Fucking.” “So you’re just using each other for sex,” she'd say. In English, they call this a Fuck Buddy. My Quebecois roommates call it un ami d’oreiller. A jPillow Friend. Sounds kind of nice.  People say that it is easy to treat your Pillow friends like objects. But I wonder if sometimes it is easier to treat a person like an object within the context of an official relationship. Now that you are MY boyfriend, shouldn’t we have sex whenever I want? 

One Sunday morning last April, the Boatman picked a civil war documentary over having sex with me. He made a valid choice, and yet, it took me about three and a half weeks to get over this. If the Boatman had been a Pillow Friend, I feel like it would have felt less personal. With Pillow Friends and Fuck Buddies, whoever it is has no obligation to you. You have to respect what they’re willing to give or take. Pros and Cons.

Michael Stone says that every sexual relationship builds something, even if you don’t make a baby. What are you building, and with who?

Simon used to say, “We’re not writing a book, we’re writing our lives.” Well, the book is done. He’s dead. I’m not. I love writing letters. It is one of my favourite kinds of writing. As a child, I was an excellent pen pal. So far I have already had at least three romantic relationships that were based almost entirely on writing letters. It is so fun. But sometimes I am too charming, too creative. I send too many locks of hair. (One is far too many.) I also tend to send stickers. Who knew that grown men adore stickers? Me. When I turn thirty, I will stop sending grown men stickers. I will look into getting some boundaries.  

Exciting Whale Stickers


Dollarama Gold

It’s like we can’t get close enough.” In bed, I have noticed that many people say this. Our tummies fuse together. Still we want to be closer. We may as well just write letters because we’ll never get close enough anyways.

 

This is a letter to Simon from “The Little Savage and the Hermit.” I wrote it one third of the way into the book, at which point Simon thought it would be a good idea if we flipped the narrative on its head by turning ourselves into squirrels or airplane seats or something similarly groundbreaking. I didn't turn us into anything and the letter was supposed to help set boundaries. It didn’t exactly work. The Wise Use of Sexual Energy also means treating all beings with dignity. The year or so I had with Simon was not my best era for treating all beings with dignity. Poor Simon got the brunt of it. But he really liked this letter. It is called, “Cardboard Box.”

Cardboard box

Dear Simon,

I am eating salad again.  These days, I am eating a lot of seaweed.  It goes right through me.  I know that you find my digestive system tiresome.  I find it tiresome too.  I’d apologize, but there are more important things to say.

 No self-respecting person would read your last letter, mix gin and energy drinks and then appear at your doorway to fuck.  Turns out I’m not a very self-respecting person. Sure, it counts, even if I was drunk, but it will never happen again.  I’m sorry that I set shitty boundaries and pissed you off.  Now it’s my turn to use Italics. 

             I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.  Unless it’s in a letter, I never want to hear from you again.

Perhaps you were trying to inspire me to turn myself into a cardboard box and drastically redirect the narrative.  Not necessary. I am already a cardboard box.  I always have been.  The reason I didn’t want to continue the narrative was...  I can’t tell you, it’s against the rules.  Too self-absorbed.  So you don't get to hear the story about the park bench and the man with the hole in his liver.  This summer, emotionally dependent guys came in packages of two, and my solution was to throw both of them out at the same time.

I saw a picture of you on Facebook with Marcel, the man who drives a power wheelchair who I got you a job with. Marcel's giving you a low five.  He looks a little dazed and delirious. I can tell he loves having you on his team.  Did you coordinate your black shirts and blue pants on purpose?  Your smile is large and goofy and ridiculous and your eyes are bright.  You have a long beard, as though for the last two weeks you’ve rolled out of bed without having time to do anything except run to the metro to get happy with Marcel.  I’m glad I gave you that job, even though now I’m financially desperate and essentially unemployed.  My job at the swimming pool has been put on hold due to a leak.  Throughout my frantic job hunt, I’ve applied for a few adult gigs on Craigslist. Dominatrix, Threesome, Cleaning Lady in Lingerie.  I don’t own any lingerie. Only yoga clothes.  The Threesome man just got back to me.  He asked if I had a friend who could join us.  No, I don’t.  No friend.  No friends.

I’ve been teaching yoga to weightlifters.  That’s probably about all you want to know about that.  I also wrote some articles for a website that would pay me if enough people read my stuff, but not enough people do.

My last bad news is I’m seeing a new shrink.  He says I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Madonna Whore Complex and Gifted Child Syndrome.  I sort of hate him so I drink vodka cocktails out of Mason jars before our sessions.  That’s the good news.  Also, I am about to roll up my duvet and hump it.  But before I do that, I want to make amends.  You’re probably right that it’s best we never see or hear from each other ever again, except for in letters.  That said, I don’t want to be that girl you never talk to anymore, who you pretend not to see when you run into her on the street.  I don’t believe in that.  I never want to be that girl, and you’re not that guy for me.  If I ever see you again, I will smile and say hello.   

Erica.

The End.
Besides exciting whale stickers, Dollarama has all kinds of titillating outlets for your sexual energy.

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