This entry bought to you by:
(bottle) Almost completely black. Huge heaping head. Heavenly smoked malt aroma. From under the massive layer of foam, some chocolate notes rose and made themselves known. The mouthfeel is a lot thinner than I was expecting. Flavor is intensely sweet. Some smoke in the finish. After the first few sips, I became numb to the sweetness, and the nice overall balance of the beer became evident. Quite yummy.So, that was good. It's certainly no Alaskan Smoked Porter, but it'll do in a pinch.
So, I've been toying with this idea all day. This idea of writing something completely honest and straightforward.
Just as sort of a test. To see what might happen if I took someone's words and interpreted them as truth. Words saying that honesty and openness are paramount to her.
I don't think the truth would be appreciated. I think that it would be seen as a series of dismissals and denials. Or even worse, as a mere subset of the real truth.
Why even bother?
Because I could be wrong, that's why.
So, here goes.
Two or three or four times a week, I sit at The Pub during lunch, and I listen to my friend bad-mouth men. I listen to her tell me that all men are assholes, that men only want sex from women, that men are lying backstabbing bastards. That there are no good men in the world, that they're a bunch of apes who are nothing more than a life-support system for a penis.
I sit, and I listen to this. I even nod at the appropriate times. At least a part of me does. The friend part. That's the part of me that climbs out of bed late at night to go where I'm needed, just because I'm needed. That's also the part of me that exits unannounced, lest some word or action or facial expression betray some unauthorized thoughts or feelings.
That guy, that Dave-as-a-friend guy, he's a pretty decent fellow. I think everyone should have a friend like him. I know that I wish I did. Even if he is kind of a pussy.
But there's another part of me, sitting in that bar two or three or four times a week. The part that's not a friend. The part that's a man. The part that wants to jump up onto the bar and scream in frustration when he hears those hateful and hurtful words. And defend himself as the man that he is. A good man. A decent man. Not a lying backstabbing bastard who only wants sex. More than a penis life-support system. Much fucking more.
But, problem is, she doesn't think of me as a man at all. If she did, she wouldn't be talking to me the way she does. She probably wouldn't be talking to me at all.
My hair is, after all, the wrong color.
That's fair, I suppose. She has the same name as a whore I used to be married to. So that makes it even, right?
Look, this frustration of mine isn't even about my friend. She and I, as woman and man, would have many more forbidding obstacles than my hair and her name. This thing with her and me - it's just the most fitting and most current example of what frustrates me.
Why can't I be both? Why can't I be a friend and a man? Why must I fucking choose and, if I refuse to choose, why then is that choice made for me?
I sit at the bar several times a week, listening to my friend bad-mouth men. And I empathize and I nod at the right times. I do these things because I'm her friend. But I also think about what it might be like to kiss her lips, or hold a hug for a few seconds or minutes longer than necessary. I do these things because I'm a man.
Why, I wonder, why can I have a friend who's also a woman, but I myself can only be seen as friend or as a man. Not as both. Never as both.
It frustrates the hell out of me, and that's the truth.
Now, let's see how that truth gets misinterpreted.