February 18, 1995
Last night when I got back from Santa Barbara and called Teresa, she said, “I was thinking on the way home how weird it is. I mean, you’re everything I ever wanted, and you love me so much. And you know how you say I’m so pretty? Well, I was looking in the mirror, just trying to see it. You know, I’m not really pretty.” And as she spoke I was making little cooing noises of approval, except to object indignantly when she said she wasn’t really pretty.
She’s very appealing in her movements and manners and expressions–graceful, lively, with fine expressive eyes and beautiful wide high cheekbones. Perfect boobs. Thick, shining black hair. Is this pretty? I don’t know. I guess she is sort of androgynous to other people, though I would never think of that. The only time she’s been seriously threatened for being gay was when she was walking along holding hands with the only boyfriend she’s ever had, and some guys started calling them faggots and chasing them. This was partly because her hair was so short at the time, and she’s never had much of a butt to speak of.
I just got off the phone with Teresa, and I think my feelings are hurt! I was trying to get her to tell me stories and plying her with stories from my own past. I asked her if she’d ever had the experience of having sex and then after the sex having all the attraction dispelled, and she said, oh yeah, plenty of times she just wanted to slink away, and then I asked if it ever happened when the sex was really good, and she thought for a moment and then said yes.
“When? What was the situation?”
“Never mind. I’m not proud of it.”
“Well, you got me all curious.”
“Just never mind.” And when I offered to tell her again how Tracie and I got together, she said, “I’ve heard this one.”
“I’ll bet I’ll tell it different this time–did I tell you how her hands went numb?”
“Yes! I’m not going to tell you anything more, so stop bribing me.”
“I’d forgotten all about that.”
“Let’s just change the subject.” But then neither one of us had anything to say, and there was a long, dull, nerve-racking silence, and finally I suggested that we hang up, and so we did.
And now, just a second ago, I called her back and said, “You’re annoyed with me!”
“I really thought you were.”
“Yeah, I guess I was sort of.”
“Well, you can be annoyed, but I wasn’t doing anything very wrong.”
“It’s just when you keep pushing a subject that I don’t want to talk about.”
“Oh.” We parted on good terms. I suppose I was annoying. I hate those silences of hers. It’s so scary when she’s not delighted with me.
She called back to say she’s sorry, and I said, “It just scares me a little when you don’t adore me every single second–I know I was a pain in the ass.”
“I do adore you every single second.”