Not Worth Remembering

Not long after I started rehab, I looked up an old friend, a perennial favorite. “Hi, I missed you,” and we were off.

She loved talking about old friends, old places, old events, old ideas, old music, but every time I tried to remember anything remotely romantic or sexual, she insisted I had misremembered or exaggerated. Getting a little paranoid, I checked my journals to make sure I hadn’t misremembered or exaggerated.

My private journals are private for a reason. In them, I discuss the things I can’t discuss with anyone as frankly and as reality-based as I can, particularly with women. With women, I can discuss the mysteries of the universe, but I can’t discuss how I feel, not with any accuracy. I do lie. I lie with impunity, not about events, though, about feelings. I’ll say “I love you” when I don’t, and I won’t say “I love you” when I do. Where matters of the heart are concerned, I cannot be trusted, but I don’t lie about sex.

I don’t even particularly like sex. There are very few times when I’ve been able to just let myself go and feel what I feel. Most of the time, responsibility looms huge in my mind. I keep spermicidal condoms in my car because being careless with sex can change three lives, and if I like someone enough to take her clothes off, I won’t take that risk.

There’s also the issues of a woman’s reputation and her self image, her feelings about trust and men can be remarkably complicated. Sex isn’t for the weak. A gentleman makes sure he’s responsible before even considering if he’s in love.

In my journals, you can tell when I start to think “hey, maybe I’m in love!” and when it switches to “that one was a dud, boys. Time to reload.” Part of the problem might be that I wasn’t trying to be in love; I was trying to be a responsible gentleman. That’ll take the magic out of it.

I’m told I’m a good kisser, but I’m told this by people who wanted my approval, a favor, or a loan, and sometimes all three. I learned not to trust sweet words, they can be false.

If I speak sweet words, and some gentle creature points it out, I say “It’s just a poem. Don’t laugh.”

So, why wasn’t I worth remembering? Did that hurt, or was I just confused and curious? I honestly cannot say.

I was divorced, and she was divorced. I joked that our exes should get together. She laughed, but she didn’t remember kissing me. If she did, she wouldn’t admit it. What was it I did wrong?

A divorce shot her self-confidence. I spent a year trying to build it back up. She didn’t believe me when I said she was still beautiful, so I made a list. Maybe it wasn’t very convincing. I always make lists. Why wasn’t I on her list? She talked about other boys, why not me?

I hate ever admitting that maybe someone’s relationship with me wasn’t based on me, but on some false image of me, or worse, what they can get out of pretending to have a relationship. To be fair, I don’t make it easy to get to know me, but maybe that’s just a smokescreen, so I have something to blame when I wasn’t worth remembering.

I don’t hold it against her. At this point in my recovery, I’m not sure how possible a “normal” sex life is, and I’m not anxious to try. At my checkup, my doctor asked if I wanted pills to, you know, help things along.

“How much do they cost?” I asked. “What are the risks?” I asked next.

I have a bottle. I’ve never tried one. I’m a little nervous of what it might do. The ads say, if you have an erection that lasts more than six hours, call the doctor. If I have an erection that lasts more than six hours, I’m calling the newspaper.

Maybe she’ll remember that.