Penises: nothing but trouble

Dear Fauxhawk,

I don’t understand what’s going on with us. First, you’re lovely (pre-trip). Then you’re absolutely horrible (post-trip). Then you’re ridiculously wonderful (this week). Seriously, are you sniffing Sharpies again? I don’t know which Fauxhawk I’m going to get at any given moment because, brother, your emotions are all over the place. Should I be cautiously optimistic now that you’ve finally figured out what you want and are saying all the right things? Or should I chalk this up to competitive instinct because you know that there is someone else in the picture? I want to believe in your sweetness but I just don’t know what’s real.

I love you, but this is a major mindfuck. What I am I going to do with you?

Love,
P.

P.S. Thank you for the presents – I’m totally going to use the bleach. And the imaginative Pressure Box made of crumpled computer paper and spray starch – it’s definitely going to come in handy.


Dear Dermonster,

I think I finally understand what’s going on with us. You are about to leave your lovely, comfortable life in Geneva and move to Uganda with this German chick. She loves you and wants to follow you. And this totally freaks you out. So you email me, stir the pot a bit, and then we both begin to wonder about what would have happened if I hadn’t left you by the United Airlines gate in Heathrow. We both wonder what would have happened if you followed me and banged on my door until I opened it. But we never did that. I was too busy crying in front of the television and you were too busy frothing about the “so-called state of Israel.”

So here’s the thing: this is not about me. We missed our chance a long time ago. This is about you and your (almost) crippling fear of monogamy. But here you are – you are about to do something very, very brave with someone who is finally willing to get on your program. I’m proud of you. Go with her and try to be happy. After all, you’re 48 and you don’t have much time left with a full head of hair.

Love,
P.

P.S. Vivi just called you “Dirtmuff.” That’s fucking good.


Dear Blue Eyes,

I don’t understand what’s going on with us. How can you be so sure that tu m’aimes when you’re busy playing Robinson Crusoe somewhere in Zanzibar? I know you’re French and everything, which practically means you were born reciting Baudelaire and eating bon bons, but holy Moses. Don’t get me wrong - I think you’re totally fab, but you scare me. And by “you” I mean what you represent – an ocean of separation, agonizing choices, and leaving everything behind. But there is also the hope for a clean slate and a relationship that makes me feel fully myself.

When we were in Addis Ababa together, I had a dream in which I laughed and laughed until my belly ached. That was it – just laughing, just joy. I think about you and am reminded of the potential for happiness. And it scares me.

Love,
P.

P.S. I’ll see you in Paris. Please provide bon bons and Baudelaire. I’ll bring the baboon.


Image: Pictures of Walls