Archive for relating


Posted in cusak, real life, thoughts with tags on Mon, 08 Dec, 2008 :: 342/50 :: 13:26:56 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

Sometimes I wonder where my Prince Charming is.

Don’t get me wrong, I love both my boys very much…but every so often I want a white horse, shiny armor, and a sunset. I, however, have to come to grips with the idea that this is an unrealistic fantasy.

The boys send gifts. They take out the trash. They let me watch the movies I want to watch, and don’t even complain when it takes me an hour to get ready…to go to the grocery store. They love me, and they’re in love with me, and they do everything they can to show me and make me happy.

Which is why I feel like I sound like an ungrateful loser for whining about this.

Cusak points out that he’s got romantic plans in the wings, that we’re waiting for financial instability to pass. But some part of me is pretty sure that given that we both like our creature comforts, and that supporting two adults in an apartment is pretty expensive, that statement is a bit like saying “I’ll get to it about when the sky turns green.” I’ve never been good with the “wait for Christmas” mentality, and it’s much like that on a cosmic scale.

It seems greedy to want this, when the sex is good and I don’t have any complaints about his living habits. I feel like I’m telling myself I should settle, only it isn’t settling if I think he’s mostly perfect…right?


I’m just a whiny princess who needs to get the hell over herself.



Posted in cusak, language with tags , on Wed, 05 Nov, 2008 :: 309/45 :: 13:45:34 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

Etymology: c.1230, “an emotion of the mind, passion, lust as opposed to reason,” from O.Fr. affection, from L. affectionem (nom affectio) “inclination, influence, permanent state of feeling,” from affec-, stem of afficere “to do something to, act on” (see affect (n.)). Sense developed from “disposition” to “good disposition toward” (1382). Affectionate in the sense of “loving” is from 1586.

“They’re out-cute-ing us,” I whined petulantly. Most men would recognize this as the girlfriend’s plea to demonstrate affection, to soothe her jangly nerves and reassure her that she was. Cusak laughed, and turned to one of the guys and offered to snuggle with him. I, unwilling to be outdone began snuggling with the girls indiscriminately, as if offended by the PDA I had seen, and trying to place it back in its social box.

But secretly, I have to tell you, I’m a sucker for it. I am an affectionate person. I snuggle randomly, capriciously, on a whim. I touch, I kiss, I hold hands with. I hug hello and goodbye, leaving all whom I have as much as a comfortable acquaintance with (much less true friendship) in a cloud of clove smoke and (most days) vanilla with my passing. It defines me, this public affection, this easily shown allegiance given through even casual gestures.

And I expect it from my lover.

Cusak admits to me that holding hands is big for him. That any public touch at all, however slight, is mountainous from where he was. That he fears losing me because this is a hurdle for him. And I smile, and nod, and promise I won’t leave him over this (I won’t, now. I never promise him the future, we’re both too cagey, too wary, too often betrayed by such promises to risk it.) I watch him sleep, I listen to his breathing, and even in the medicated silence of the late night I wonder to myself what I have to change about me. To make myself accept. To become perfect. To create a comfortable space for him to express affection, or a space in which I no longer care.

I poke at the exposed bit of this mentality, picking at the scab. Peeling it back to see if there’s fresh, pink skin underneath yet. But there isn’t. Inside, the five year old who is my id still feels unclaimed, unloved, unheld. Because no one sees her when she is. Because she is just accepted as a part, as naturally falling into place as his girlfriend as his t-shirt falls into place as a post-ironic expression of his sarcasm (“Smile, Jesus loves you,” the yellow smiley face proclaims).

It is the same part of me that recoils to know a friend of his, however far from my hearing dislikes me and refers to me even in passing as icky, the part of me that refuses to put her hands on her hips and do something about it, but instead sulks in the recesses of my mind while I tell her not to. While I rationally dissect the situation to prove to myself that she is just my id, and I owe her nothing. That the freudian complications of my emotional state are built up to give me something to be actively neurotic about, like breathing — an autonomic function.

There’s nothing resolved, we both just went to sleep.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Mon, 13 Oct, 2008 :: 286/42 :: 19:24:57 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

A good word for the addiction I find myself with, this constant craving for his company. He looked at me in the grocery store today and said, “I love you.” As is my habit, I murmured that I loved him as well, and he smiled. Shook his head. And emphasized, “No, I love you.”

Girl-body came early this month, and with it a host of neuroses. I’ve been feeling less myself, and fearing that it’s unattractive to him, so this has been good to me and for me.

And of course I miss him.

This has meandered, so rather than torture the entry any longer, I shall simply post it.


Posted in cusak, real life with tags on Sun, 21 Sep, 2008 :: 264/38 :: 11:55:36 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

The ex used to be a rock star. I was his rock star girlfriend, not really a rock star in my own right, but definitely cooler because of my orbit around the little blonde sun he was. We’d go to parties, and he’d be popular, and people would get close to him to get close to me, and the whole thing would be kind of tawdry and ridiculous.

I tried being a rock star while I was dating him, but if I got too popular and out in front, it seemed like he’d feel the need to diminish me, because he was supposed to be the “name” in our relationship.


Last night Cusak and I went out to an event. And I realized that we’re rock stars together. He doesn’t feel the need to make me play smaller, to frame his performance with my own. He plays off me, and I play off him, and the whole thing makes the both of us a little cooler. A little more fun to be around.

We got in the three-way flirt last night, a couple of times, and I’ve also realized he’s really good at it. He can play off me in ways I’m not used to. It’s nice having a boyfriend who knows how to be a good wingman while maintaining his position as my boyfriend. This seems to speak well for my future in this relationship.


Drama continues elsewhere…but I think they’re just jealous of what I have.


Posted in cusak, thoughts with tags , on Sun, 07 Sep, 2008 :: 250/36 :: 18:24:53 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

“I’m going to do bad things to you,” he murmured in my ear last night, hand in the small of my back, heat diffusing along the thin silk.

“Will you cuddle me afterwards,” I asked.

“Will you beg?”


I don’t think he knows just how much I think about him. About how often I visit the thought of his hands or his shoulders. About how in the lull of a quiet moment at work I close my eyes, bite my lip, and let the feeling of his skin on mine become the center of my universe.

More baggage than I want to unpack with him, but it’s not fair to keep it to myself. I have to tell him, sooner or later, because if I keep it to myself, I can’t blame him for not giving me what I want or need.

Right now though, I just want to curl up, with his hand between my shoulder blades, my head tucked under his chin, breathing in his scent.


He did do bad things to me.

And I begged.


Posted in cusak with tags on Tue, 02 Sep, 2008 :: 245/36 :: 21:01:09 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’m irritated with myself, really. I hate feeling jealous, and when I do it’s such a hard thing to control. I’m sitting here seething, unable to share it — because what would that really accomplish besides end in two people being upset.

Feeling like this is just so frustrating.


Posted in bruce wayne, cusak with tags on Wed, 30 Apr, 2008 :: 120/18 :: 19:22:07 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

It’s a constant, the absence. No matter which one I’m in bed with, I’m aware that the other isn’t there. I close my eyes to brown ones, wake up to blue, it doesn’t matter. I’m conscious of it.

Complimentary, and different. One is like gravity, always there, always pulling. Needs me, and isn’t afraid to make it clear. Tells me so, asks after me, puts me on a pedestal. Holds me up and says I’m perfect. (I’m not. I’m flawed. We’ll get to that eventually, sometime when I’m ready to dig into the dark night of my soul.)

The other seems like he could leave me behind. Maybe that’s the appeal. That as I am aware of the distance, I know it closes by choice, not habit or addiction. I wonder if it’ll ever be bridged. I wonder if he holds me at arms length to keep from getting hurt by the fact that there are two of them.

I won’t tell either, but I need them both. I need the reflection of myself as perfect, flawless, sparkling like a diamond in the sun. And I need the space, the freedom, the impossible single moments of romance, tumbled up in silence, broken apart by laughter as we both flinch from intimacy. I’m addicted to the conspiratorial whispers and the praising tones.

Everything is found in the cracks in between.