If I were a healthy, undamaged human, I suppose I’d be quite a specimen. (Are there any?)
The way my desire works baffles me.
I’ve written a bit about the latest object of my attention, a kinky, slutty grad student who describes herself as “conflicted, rambunctious, and insatiable.” Call her E. She wants me, she doesn’t want me, she wants me, she doesn’t want me.
My brain is crystal clear on what to do in this situation: run. Run away.
But there’s something deep, deep inside me, that wants to find a way to convert her ambivalence into enthusiasm, to succeed with her.
Never mind that rationally, consciously, I understand: her ambivalence isn’t about me, it’s about her. Her internal conflict has to do with her fundamental sense of herself: is she a kinky slut who collects sexual experiences? Is she an adventurous, self-actualized woman who chases her desires? Is she a vanilla young woman, just looking for Mr. Right, and gradually (rapidly?) tarnishing herself while she waits for him to arrive? (Or is she something darker, more compulsive, more driven, more akin to what I once was, to what I carry around within me?)
But I want two things, one conscious, one unconscious. Consciously, I want, as I said, to succeed, to triumph over her ambivalence. And unconsciously, I suspect (it’s just happened too many times) I crave the crashing disappointment of failure, of, once more, teeing myself up for a chase that doesn’t result in a catch. I’ve done it too many times, and I still keep going back to the well….
People are funny that way.