Karl F.
I only write about men I've stopped going to bed with. Sometimes, I will have lost feelings for them and in turn, forgotten the colour of their eyes, the way their voice sounds, what words or lies were spoken in the dark.
Sometimes, I remember. Sometimes I will remember their kisses or their smiles, their scent or lack thereof, the light that went off when we said goodbye for good.
Karl F. (here, I break another of my rules. His name here is only a part of what his true name really is-he is too public of a person, and I cannot break another family just because I am angry-his name will remain with me, but I'm sure if you read this someday, mon cher, you will know it is you, and you will come to understand. I can only hope so.) was another man I met on a random search one day through an online dating site. I cannot begin to tell you how shocked I was that he also matched with me: why would someone so handsome, so cultured lay his eyes on a girl like me? Frankly, I never knew, and I guess I will never know-he never replied, and if he did, I can't remember anymore.
I asked him for his number and we started to talk via WhatsApp. I hold on to those conversations, as they show me sides of myself I never thought possible. I was sexy, confident, smart, not shy or silly, not a girl anymore-I was driving a beautiful, smart man crazy over me and I had no idea how I did it. All I know is that it was real, however wild it may seem now. It was real, because we spent hours talking about his days, his family, his work, my life, my parents' fading before my eyes. I fell in love with the man behind the voice: I wished to find someone so dedicated to his family, his work was his passion and oh how I was waiting for each new message, like some forbidden lover coming to bed. I wanted him badly-I wanted to feel him over me, inside me, whispering the same words in a language I couldn't speak but understood enough of to feel a fire burning in me for him-I wished that those flames could reach him, wherever he was.
We spoke in English, in French, in a combination of German and Dutch and sometimes, Spanish-he was deep inside my mind, and I was seduced by his wit and thought more than anything.
His eyes-I still see them. Blue, cobalt, with soft wrinkles and sometimes, a ghost of a smile crept in them. I wanted to make him laugh so much-he said he was a single father and his long-term girlfriend was around, but he was the father and the mother for those kids. I admired him even more, and passion burned like a flame, with the same intensity of admiration and intelligence. We made plans to meet for when I went to Europe (no, I won't say where to), to walk around cities and get lost in them. Cities-a common obsession. His to plan them better and make them livable. Mine, to write about them. We made so many plans-and then one day, we finally met. I was so scared, so unsure.
Would I live up to his expectations? To his idea of what I looked like, how I would be like in public and especially, in private? We went to walk, to lunch, then back to the room. It was rushed because his youngest was sick. But it was still sweet, and passionate. As much as I try, I will never forget the pirate staring at me with a mixture of fury and despair while he came, quickly and almost with reverence. Talking continued, almost daily. Then tragedy struck down my door with the illness of my father-days too dark for me to remember. They are not the subject of these words-I could not thank him enough, in any language, for the support and strength he gave me every day. I wish I could have told him that-his words and support became a lifeline, when all I wanted was to die for what happened. Looking back, I realized I made a mistake.
We had separate lives, and it worked fine that way. When I involved him so much in what was so tough and such a burden to bear, I created a bond that he didn't want and probably didn't need in his life. I became a burden, I involved him too much-there are things we should keep to ourselves, and tragedy, as unspeakable as this one, should have been one of them. I can't tell you how sorry I was, and still am sometimes, Karl. Ik ben drovic.
We met a second time, and months of silence took their toll on my nerves. Liquid courage my ass. I drank so much that I passed out, and I drank not just to forget but rather to silence the voice of uncertainty, of being unsure he wanted me as before. He had (said he had) a migrane and therefore was unable to perform. We promised each other to stay in touch, to keep a flame alive. But I knew, even then, that so many threads can break because of time, of distances, of life that gets in the way. I was unable to tell him in those following weeks that my father needed another surgery, that I knew he wasn't just holding a girlfriend but a wife. A wife whose existence he denied. I felt something in me break-the love and passion I felt started to fade, and were replaced by red-hot anger. Why would he lie to me? Why would he deny her? What kind of man does that to the mother of his children? I am no stranger to second hand love, but such an act of cowardice made me understand why it was so rushed, so hidden. Why there were barely any calls. Why he denied constantly my requests to friend him on social networks. I started to fall out of love and into my own void, so safe and secure, so well known. I needed a man, not a child-throwing excuses and empty words into the air.
I wanted to face him, to tell him how angry and sad and unconvincing his lies were, so we met again for a third and final time. I was unable to-he was thinner, he smelt of cat piss and he had told me enough of his miseries to make me pity him, which is something I NEVER want to feel for another soul. He avoided being alone with me, and shunned my kisses away saying that there was no time. That he had to leave but if he were to stay, he would not stop. A part of me wanted to believe him-the other walked him to the door, cursed him silently and cracked a heart open so his memory would fade through it. I came back and found his silences even more revealing than his words. No responses to my messages became the realest response. What was I expecting anyway: a life, a future?
One day, I noticed he had removed me from a social network. I asked him what happened and I got angry-I gave no time to respond. Instead, I said what I should have said so long ago. That I was hurt that I was no longer a friend, someone to talk to. That I was tired of asking for friendship, for a connection. I could not beg for him to love me or to make me a part of his life if he didn't want me there. I thanked him for being there when I needed support, but I wished I could have been there for him. I still am. Then I blocked him and cut all ties. I ran away from his answers, if there ever was one. I didn't want them, and I will never need them.
But I still keep voice messages. I still keep written words and promises made in the dark. I'm a romantic-even if my heart breaks with every memory I see, with every pirate of cobalt eyes I imagine staring into my eyes.
EDIT: Last year, I went on holidays to his city while living in another continent. I was walking along a main street in his town, when we stood face to face. I remembered I had cried that day in a church, asking all the higher powers to rid me from his ties and memory: how I had confided in a woman who worked there and knew him and the wife about him. I hadn't told him I would be in his city, nor did I start any contact with him in any way: I did, however, send him images of the cities I went to, in hopes that he would come to terms with seeing what I saw, what cities would be created through these images and shared experiences, past and present, of them. I wrote him letters: they were sad and lovely and filled with so much love, never hate, never a bad word. I wanted to understand and I wanted answers, but then again, why answer someone who never meant anything to you more than a twenty-something fuck? The silence that came after these letters should have been enough for me.
I said nothing to him as I saw him stare at me in silence. I was livid, but quiet. I did not make a scene, but instead I ran for it. I knew he wouldn't be alone, and the last thing I wanted was to destroy lives of people that had no right to know about this, because it was ours and so private. I wanted nobody to corrupt that memory, if that makes sense.
I wrote to Karl one final time, saying goodbye to him and promising I would never ever contact him again, that I acknowledged what had happened and why had I chosen to run instead of walking into my own pain and my own past. Silence again was a beautiful response to fade into memory, into a void where I will not follow.
Then again, as I said to him in my final letter, love heals. It is a fucking monster, but it is a beautiful one. It devours us, and it makes us better people (and sometimes worse). It is a true healing force, and one I wish to keep with me as long as I can. Even if it's unrequited love, it means I was able to feel and have all these wonderful things with me. It means so much to me-and if we could not share it, I am happy I had you along the ride.
Love heals, K. Love heals.
Sometimes, I remember. Sometimes I will remember their kisses or their smiles, their scent or lack thereof, the light that went off when we said goodbye for good.
Karl F. (here, I break another of my rules. His name here is only a part of what his true name really is-he is too public of a person, and I cannot break another family just because I am angry-his name will remain with me, but I'm sure if you read this someday, mon cher, you will know it is you, and you will come to understand. I can only hope so.) was another man I met on a random search one day through an online dating site. I cannot begin to tell you how shocked I was that he also matched with me: why would someone so handsome, so cultured lay his eyes on a girl like me? Frankly, I never knew, and I guess I will never know-he never replied, and if he did, I can't remember anymore.
I asked him for his number and we started to talk via WhatsApp. I hold on to those conversations, as they show me sides of myself I never thought possible. I was sexy, confident, smart, not shy or silly, not a girl anymore-I was driving a beautiful, smart man crazy over me and I had no idea how I did it. All I know is that it was real, however wild it may seem now. It was real, because we spent hours talking about his days, his family, his work, my life, my parents' fading before my eyes. I fell in love with the man behind the voice: I wished to find someone so dedicated to his family, his work was his passion and oh how I was waiting for each new message, like some forbidden lover coming to bed. I wanted him badly-I wanted to feel him over me, inside me, whispering the same words in a language I couldn't speak but understood enough of to feel a fire burning in me for him-I wished that those flames could reach him, wherever he was.
We spoke in English, in French, in a combination of German and Dutch and sometimes, Spanish-he was deep inside my mind, and I was seduced by his wit and thought more than anything.
His eyes-I still see them. Blue, cobalt, with soft wrinkles and sometimes, a ghost of a smile crept in them. I wanted to make him laugh so much-he said he was a single father and his long-term girlfriend was around, but he was the father and the mother for those kids. I admired him even more, and passion burned like a flame, with the same intensity of admiration and intelligence. We made plans to meet for when I went to Europe (no, I won't say where to), to walk around cities and get lost in them. Cities-a common obsession. His to plan them better and make them livable. Mine, to write about them. We made so many plans-and then one day, we finally met. I was so scared, so unsure.
Would I live up to his expectations? To his idea of what I looked like, how I would be like in public and especially, in private? We went to walk, to lunch, then back to the room. It was rushed because his youngest was sick. But it was still sweet, and passionate. As much as I try, I will never forget the pirate staring at me with a mixture of fury and despair while he came, quickly and almost with reverence. Talking continued, almost daily. Then tragedy struck down my door with the illness of my father-days too dark for me to remember. They are not the subject of these words-I could not thank him enough, in any language, for the support and strength he gave me every day. I wish I could have told him that-his words and support became a lifeline, when all I wanted was to die for what happened. Looking back, I realized I made a mistake.
We had separate lives, and it worked fine that way. When I involved him so much in what was so tough and such a burden to bear, I created a bond that he didn't want and probably didn't need in his life. I became a burden, I involved him too much-there are things we should keep to ourselves, and tragedy, as unspeakable as this one, should have been one of them. I can't tell you how sorry I was, and still am sometimes, Karl. Ik ben drovic.
We met a second time, and months of silence took their toll on my nerves. Liquid courage my ass. I drank so much that I passed out, and I drank not just to forget but rather to silence the voice of uncertainty, of being unsure he wanted me as before. He had (said he had) a migrane and therefore was unable to perform. We promised each other to stay in touch, to keep a flame alive. But I knew, even then, that so many threads can break because of time, of distances, of life that gets in the way. I was unable to tell him in those following weeks that my father needed another surgery, that I knew he wasn't just holding a girlfriend but a wife. A wife whose existence he denied. I felt something in me break-the love and passion I felt started to fade, and were replaced by red-hot anger. Why would he lie to me? Why would he deny her? What kind of man does that to the mother of his children? I am no stranger to second hand love, but such an act of cowardice made me understand why it was so rushed, so hidden. Why there were barely any calls. Why he denied constantly my requests to friend him on social networks. I started to fall out of love and into my own void, so safe and secure, so well known. I needed a man, not a child-throwing excuses and empty words into the air.
I wanted to face him, to tell him how angry and sad and unconvincing his lies were, so we met again for a third and final time. I was unable to-he was thinner, he smelt of cat piss and he had told me enough of his miseries to make me pity him, which is something I NEVER want to feel for another soul. He avoided being alone with me, and shunned my kisses away saying that there was no time. That he had to leave but if he were to stay, he would not stop. A part of me wanted to believe him-the other walked him to the door, cursed him silently and cracked a heart open so his memory would fade through it. I came back and found his silences even more revealing than his words. No responses to my messages became the realest response. What was I expecting anyway: a life, a future?
One day, I noticed he had removed me from a social network. I asked him what happened and I got angry-I gave no time to respond. Instead, I said what I should have said so long ago. That I was hurt that I was no longer a friend, someone to talk to. That I was tired of asking for friendship, for a connection. I could not beg for him to love me or to make me a part of his life if he didn't want me there. I thanked him for being there when I needed support, but I wished I could have been there for him. I still am. Then I blocked him and cut all ties. I ran away from his answers, if there ever was one. I didn't want them, and I will never need them.
But I still keep voice messages. I still keep written words and promises made in the dark. I'm a romantic-even if my heart breaks with every memory I see, with every pirate of cobalt eyes I imagine staring into my eyes.
EDIT: Last year, I went on holidays to his city while living in another continent. I was walking along a main street in his town, when we stood face to face. I remembered I had cried that day in a church, asking all the higher powers to rid me from his ties and memory: how I had confided in a woman who worked there and knew him and the wife about him. I hadn't told him I would be in his city, nor did I start any contact with him in any way: I did, however, send him images of the cities I went to, in hopes that he would come to terms with seeing what I saw, what cities would be created through these images and shared experiences, past and present, of them. I wrote him letters: they were sad and lovely and filled with so much love, never hate, never a bad word. I wanted to understand and I wanted answers, but then again, why answer someone who never meant anything to you more than a twenty-something fuck? The silence that came after these letters should have been enough for me.
I said nothing to him as I saw him stare at me in silence. I was livid, but quiet. I did not make a scene, but instead I ran for it. I knew he wouldn't be alone, and the last thing I wanted was to destroy lives of people that had no right to know about this, because it was ours and so private. I wanted nobody to corrupt that memory, if that makes sense.
I wrote to Karl one final time, saying goodbye to him and promising I would never ever contact him again, that I acknowledged what had happened and why had I chosen to run instead of walking into my own pain and my own past. Silence again was a beautiful response to fade into memory, into a void where I will not follow.
Then again, as I said to him in my final letter, love heals. It is a fucking monster, but it is a beautiful one. It devours us, and it makes us better people (and sometimes worse). It is a true healing force, and one I wish to keep with me as long as I can. Even if it's unrequited love, it means I was able to feel and have all these wonderful things with me. It means so much to me-and if we could not share it, I am happy I had you along the ride.
Love heals, K. Love heals.
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