Well, I’m chiming in again. This thread has gotten pretty deep compared to the initial question, hasn’t it? But it’s a good discussion on feelings and coming to terms with the strangeness that is both a curse and a blessing to a lot of us. Anyone who has been part of the BE-buddies long enough knows my old story, and it still haunts me every time I do anything related to my dreams about the physical possibilities that fire that part of me that dwells in desire.
Short recap for the uninitiated. I once met a girl who was a little older than myself, someone who had been a feature dancer and had left to get her degree in Art. Smart, statuesque, beautiful, and troubled. But frankly, and I won’t lie about it, the first thing I saw were her boobs. I began tutoring her in the software that she needed to learn, and became a good friend, then later a very close friend. Then, out of the blue, she called me at work and asked if she could come over and “fuck my brains out”. I should have said no, but that part of me that wanted to see her naked overrode the part of me that decided what right and wrong was. I let her come over. Out of respect I won’t go into details except to say it ended with drama I could never imagine happening in real life, including an attempt on both of our lives. Something inside of me decided that having this beautiful physical specimen wasn’t worth the drama and fear it brought to my life, and I began avoiding her. She kept calling, asking for help, and I wasn’t there. Maybe if I’d been more concerned about the person inside than the casing that she came in things might have ended differently, but ultimately it ended with her asking her parents “why can’t he love me?” at the dinner table right before she put a .38 caliber pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger. Obviously, there will never be anything I can do to alleviate all of the guilt I feel, though I know her problems started before I came along. I just happened to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
So, that being said, there lies a problem difficult to reconcile in my desire. I’ve never understood depression, I don’t know if it’s because of confidence or foolish optimism, but I’ve only been to that dark place a couple of times. I have fallen hard for a couple of women I’ve met online, but I think that my experience has made me more considerate of what the person I care for needs, instead of my own selfish desires. One of two of them might even read this thread. I have made a habit of pushing them away, finding someone else for them better suited, or just closed them off – and I think the lingering fear of a repeat performance has a lot to do with that. But I also know that hope and optimism in the face of that looming cloud that might become depression is a must, not an option. If you don’t try it’ll never happen for you. That’s the only sure thing, like I’ve already stated in this thread. It might never happen, but it won’t be for lack of trying.
The problem with having a fetish for women with extreme bosoms is difficult when you have guilt issues. When I see a woman who well endowed I feel that rush of physical lust that boils the blood and starts the heart thundering, and I don’t feel guilty about that. I didn’t choose to be like this, but I accept it. But I’ve learned that if what’s on the inside doesn’t make that fire grow hotter – physical passion burns out quickly, and can leave a nasty pile of ashes. We all want understanding, and it’s difficult to explain yourself to a woman, who is used to being objectified or defined by her abundance, that you initially entranced by that without coming across as shallow. That’s the catch-22. You need to be physically attracted, and then hopefully you’ll discover that what’s inside is as beautiful as the outside. But more than that, you want to be able to look into someone’s eyes and have them look back, knowing who you are and what drives you physically, without judgment, but with understanding and maybe even acceptance – and in a dreamer’s world she shares your feelings.
I don’t know if I’ll meet a girl in the real world who shares these feelings, but as an artist, knowing that she at least exists out there, somewhere, gives me enough passion and hope to keep pursuing a fool’s dream. And I’m just fine doing that. Call me Don Quixote, but an artist needs a muse, and if she’s forever untouchable so be it. Sure it hurts when you don’t get the girl, especially considering all the promises made in movies and storybook fantasies. But sometimes you have to just throw your hands in the air and feel it all, the pain, the hope, the faith in the wonder of it all, even if it’s all a dream. I had a professor who told me “Life is a series of mind-numbing pains and failures interspersed with brief moments of beautiful clarity and joy”. I think that might be a bit pessimistic, but I understand it. Live for the moments that shine, no matter how far apart they are. I’d rather spend a lifetime of painful disappointments clawing after that one perfect, thundering, clarified moment when someone looks in my eyes and understands and shares all this weirdness; than turn inward to avoid the pains that will find you regardless. At least by keeping that warm spark alive in yourself you will respect yourself for trying. Numbness is not better than pain. At least in pain you’re gloriously aware that you are alive. Let it fuel you to change into a person who won’t have to face that same pain again. Maybe it’s just me, but I used a lot of the pain I felt to make myself stronger. Just another Nyquil-induced musing on a frigid morning.
Johnny Swell