boundaries

questions better left unasked
calculus teaches you that the line described along certain points may only push itself along certain limits, inexorably defined by the equation or function it is bound by. i learned that the hard way.

i firmly believe that sexual orientation is indeed preference, born of a series of interaction and response to a host of stimuli one's whole life, particularly during one's formative years. we all start with equal propensity toward homosexuality, heterosexuality, bisexuality; develop preferences within, among and along the borders of these distinctions.

so. today. i almost completely fucked up a friendship over a stupid question. alcohol is not a better friend than someone of flesh, blood and feelings.

sometimes, when you ask someone about their identity and self-definition, it crosses that line in the sand between what can be discussed openly between friends, and what gets you told to fuck off. in retrospect, there were at least two or three, maybe seven or eight warnings, before the final die was cast. by asking the unaskable, have i cemented the end of a friendship? was there even a friendship to begin with?

i really should be banned from getting drunk.

unaskable questions. should remain unasked, is the moral of the day.

my on-going project: no working title
There are five of them. A lawyer, two engineers, a doctor and a magazine freelancer. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. They've been friends for years, mainly due to circumstance. In an anonymous city of transents and constant change, frequency of interaction begets friendship. They are friends of friends whose paths intersected at some point, and now they meet every now and again due to one thing: an unmitigated lust for the written word and an obsession over the sound of their own voices. Maria, sophie, eric, catherine and ed.

Sophie takes a sip of her drink. The dinner, as other events before it, has proceeded as expected. A word or two about the government, a comment here and there on world affairs, a bray of laughter, an exclamation of indignance, a sly remark, a caustic comment. It was familiar form of a home.

Ed is absent. But he had a story to tell and Catherine dutifully brought a copy, which is passed around and read with half an eye by each of them.

Maria goes through the text as the conversation meanders over Ed's absence. She notices that Ed refers to a short but telling account of the brief affair they had two years ago. Marie fumes internally, careful not to manifest her distress. If she and Ed had agreed on anything, it was to keep their dangerous liaison out of their writing and away from any scrutiny. She arranges her face before looking up. Ed has written about the patterns that her skirt had left on her thigh that first night. The bastard is making her blush.

"He's gotten a little self-indulgent, no?" she says archly.

"That's hilarious, coming from you", drawls Sophie, tapping the edge of her cigarette into a makeshift ashtray. Maria makes a face at her. Maria hates smoking indoors and barely tolerates Sophie's penchant for chain-smoking at their soirées.

"there's hardly enough tell of his sexual exploits in this one," Eric snickers.

Sophie rolls her eyes and grabs the paper. "We've been over this before. Ed's frankness when it comes to sexuality is braver and more honest than anything we've written. Any of us." She juts her cihin in Maria's direction. "Virgin maria is discomfited? that's not a surprise."

"I'm not a prude or anything remotely similar. He's broken the rule about not writing about us." Big mistake. Eric pounces on it and asks what she means.

While maria flails around for a reply, Sophie interjects her assent. "Thinly disguised, I'm pretty sure I'm 'Anne' and eric is 'Marc'." She grabs the paper and reads aloud.


i need a hug