The Three and Eight

There was a certain epic to the whole waking up next to my stunning ex on my previous birthday. This conflictive moment of familiarity, lust and despair. One last blowjob, that opened the curtains to a sex act in the tone of a swan song. Our sweaty bodies coming in closer, as my hands read every inch of her skin in a goodbye that concluded in a final, anticlimactic ejaculation. A wet spot left on the mattress, that was dry by the time we finished our breakfast and she left to -supposedly,- never coming back. It was marvelous. Cruel. Hurtful, yet mystical and worth telling for generations to come.
What the fuck did I wake up to today? My phone, with a couple of spam emails wishing me a happy birthday. No real people dropping a line until much later in the day. No drama, no hatred, no abuse. Just… Nothing. A cold, empty, and barely used space in my bed. The smell of my farts, dissipating in my enclosed, airtight bedroom. My hands reaching nothing but wrinkled up sheets that once touched the skin of a “her” that was no longer in existence. Or, rather, in presence.
It’s 21:34 PM and there’s nothing remarkable to say about my 38th birthday. But, why should there be anything, really? I think I just grew accustomed to always have a lover by my side when the clock would point a new day and a new year in my personal timeline. Not now. 21:37 PM and the chances of a lover coming out of thin air are diminishing by the second. Not that I was getting closer to anyone.
I did have a match with a 23-year-old Dane last week, on some dating app. She was way under my threshold of attention, but goddamn, she fucking changed my mind very quickly. Her very pronounced curves and abundance of skin in her shameless, body-positive pictures on Instagram were a fire-starter in my pants. I even drew and painted her, overcome by a similar inspiration and desire that my beautiful Norwegian ex-girlfriend arose in me. Unfortunately, my new fuck-buddy to-be quickly ran out of excitement to meet up. I guess my pathetic attempts, after all these months of sexual frustration, did not help. And here I am, looking back when I should be only looking forward.
But maybe this low point I hit, this constant anxiety, loneliness and boredom are the calm before the storm, the revolution. These sleepless nights and exhausted mornings are a preamble for joy, rather than just misery. My romantic draught, the perfect breeding ground for a new love. And this full-color gray in which I navigate today, will give way to a whole new range of colors. Not in my paintings, no. In my life. In my heart. Music louder than this white noise of monotony, of dealing with trauma and the tedious existence within the confines of COVID-19 and the zeitgeist.
Here’s to The Three and Eight! ¡Salud, mierda!

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