It’s a voice that slays us, her tone dark and mysterious, her vibrato delicate and succinct. Yet snide. Flippant, even, cause fuckers, she’s not going anywhere.

This is what pulls our hearts out of our chests.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

The first spot was a curve on her cheek near the corner of her lips. It would only appear when she was smiling a certain way.

I have this picture of her reclining on the chaise with her head thrown back on the pillow in laughter. It’s horribly composed, and I can hear her telling me how weird she thinks she looks in the picture, but it captured the expression perfectly.

The smile wasn’t particularly alluring. It was goofy even. But that’s what I loved about it. She was this angel, this siren, this muse to the world, and I was the only one who could see her like this; cheeks pulled back, giggling uncontrollably, burying her head in the pillow from self-consciousness whenever I pointed out the spot and tried to kiss it. I was the only one for whom she let her guard down, even if only for a passing moment. It was so adorable and intimate at the same time.

During his Emmy-award winning performance, Kill the Messenger, Chris Rock has a hilarious bit on the differences between men and women. He sums it up succinctly:

Women cannot go backwards in lifestyle. Men cannot go backwards sexually.

An example he uses for women is the first time they get into a nice, warm car after clubbing, waving bye to their friends who are waiting for the bus in the cold. After that, they can’t be with a man who doesn’t have a car, or as Rock puts it, “That’s how the fuck you roll for the rest of your life”. This extends to guys with their own places, then guys who take them on vacation.

On men, he says, “Once we get the sex we like, that’s how the fuck we roll. I like my coffee like this, I like my steak like this, and I like to fuck like this…Ladies, don’t get mad at us. Get mad at our ex-girlfriends. She’s the one that [sic] spoiled it for everybody” because if your ex-girlfriend licks your ass (again, his example), you expect your current girlfriend to do the same.

For me, the same is true for girls in general, but not just in these aspects. I can’t be with a girl who refuses to try exotic foods or refuses to give unconventional music a chance, who wouldn’t recognize the effort I put into my presents, who wouldn’t cherish the love and affection I give, who wouldn’t understand me, or wouldn’t laugh at my stupid jokes, because I’ve been with girls who are a combination of open-minded, appreciative, romantic, on the same wavelength as me, and actually find me funny (when not completely awkward).

That’s why this entire idea scares me.

I know most people get more flexible on things about their mates as they head towards (or beyond) the marrying age but I seem to be moving the opposite direction. Each girl I’ve been with has been an improvement over the last. Now the bar has been raised so damn high I don’t think I’ll ever get there again, and I’d rather be alone than compromise or settle.

My standards are getting higher, and I can’t go back.

Only a few people know I have a fascination with voices, diction, and accents. It’s for this reason that I tend to save my voice mails. Well, that and the fact that they can be an interesting time stamp, because what’s said in them can offer such a tangential view of your life. Here are two good ones in the past few weeks.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

The first is John, and now that he’s single, he’s available¹ on Saturday nights. I happen to be both these things as well, though him much more recently, so having him approach me about my availability is awesome.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

The second is Heather, who has one of the nicest voices I’ve ever heard. It’s always soft and so sweet, with a slight tinge of raspy that gives it a bit of sexiness. Though, as a very shy and modest person, she would probably blush and smile if you ever told her.

1. This term between us usually refers to talking on the phone, playing a game, and watching a few videos. [↑]

Usually, when people ask me why it was so special, I say “When it worked, it worked really well”.

What I really mean to say is,

“It was the way her kisses would travel down my spine. The way she wore her hair differently every time I saw her. The way her cheeks would round so endearingly when she truly laughed. The way she could look beautiful wearing dresses, or jeans, or my old pajamas. The way the tantalizing golden down traveled along her lower back. The way her body felt against mine when I pulled her close.

It was because she brought me green tea bubble bath when I was home sick for three days with strep throat. Cause she loved trying new things, like taro dumplings, and ha gow and sui mai and tofu flower, and bubble tea. Cause she would buy me bengal spice tea, and hand creams, and soaps, and flowers for no reason in particular.

It was because she liked taking photos of me too. Cause she would remember the things I wanted when mentioning them in passing so she could look them up and buy them for me later. Cause she truly appreciated the gifts that I gave her. Cause she spent so long preparing for my birthday last year, even though she knows I don’t celebrate it. Cause she helped me seek therapy for my anxiety issues. Cause she came with me to concerts when I didn’t want to go alone. Cause she loved The Mars Volta and Shane Watt as much as I do.

It was the way she could create so many beautiful things with her hands, using paint or chalk or toner or lead or metal or chocolate. The way she supported me and my photography. The way we would take turns choosing movies and watched them together, even though our tastes were so different. The way she got along with my friends and loved my cat.

In her, I had found the person I was looking for my whole life, and she held me captive every moment we were together.”

But I never do.

One time, she suddenly asked me, “Have you had sex with anyone else?”, which she used to imply as between the last time and what we were about to do. It was a valid question, since we’re both sensitive to the proliferation of Cupid’s itch and Venus’s curse.

I was insulted that she asked, because at the time I felt like sex with someone else would have been cheating on her. As uncommitted as the relationship was, she still had my heart, and consequently, other parts of my body as well. I’m also not like that, and it takes a lot before I decide to be intimate with someone. But at the same time, I was flattered that she thought I would or could, a little boost to my ego that is rarely ruled by machismo or testosterone.

“I haven’t either”, she reassured, which was something I naturally assumed of my modest muse, so it was of little comfort to me.

I should be happy. Or feeling bittersweet, at least. On the one hand, I’m thankful to have had the chance to share so many things with her:

• listening to Bring Me The Disco King (Lohner Remix), as she sat curled in my lap in the darkness of my room
• runs for bubble tea before settling in for the night with a movie or two
• a road trip to Toronto, where I got to introduce her to my friends, Pacific Mall, and dragon’s beard candy
• parties at Pat and Jen’s, with board games, Rock Band, delicious food, amazing people, and general silliness
• moments like this
• looking into her eyes while our bodies were locked in blankets on the living room floor
• reading my favourite parts of The Prophet to her
• just the two of us going to dim sum on a beautiful Saturday morning, and introducing her to a medley of new dishes

But there’s one thing I regret, and that’s not being able to spend the night with her, for she had never slept over, you see. Sure, there were times when we stayed awake well past sunrise, with only the touch of hand and flesh as silent dialogue, my desire to prolong the pleasure driving my will to stay awake to every moment possible with her. Those are some of my favourite memories. But the sleep that eventually took us was only our bodies passing out briefly from exhaustion, and when we woke, she’d be gone soon after.

There are other things I wish I had had the chance to do while it lasted — sharing a relaxing bath, photography and video ideas, getting involved in a deep co-op game — but none of them were as important as a night spent sleeping together.

A long time ago, I wrote about how a girlfriend helped me figure out the importance of the night because of my earlier romances, and the situations that never let me share something as simple as sleep, the most intimate of intimates.

In a relationship, sharing the night is more important than sharing fluids. Falling asleep with someone is an acceptance of trust, a way of saying that we’re comfortable enough to drift into our subconscious minds.

Perhaps it was my fault for keeping her awake. I wonder now, if on one night, I should have let myself sleep, instead of letting our passion take us long into the next day.

(A brief continuation of my diagrams for heartbreak.)

She was looking through some of my photos when she asked, “Is that the girl you like? The one on the swing?”

“Yeah”, I said. Then, “Like? Liked?”, because I wasn’t sure.

“You still like her. If you’re questioning it, that means you still do.”

Damn.

There were patches of skin on her body that would build, and turn white, and flake.

She was always self-conscious of those areas, to the point of tears, but I called them my kissing map, as each patch would lead my lips to the next. In the dark, the spots revealed themselves in their texture, like delicate wounds. How different they tasted, how strange that skin felt against my own.

I would always kiss those spots, in hopes that my lips would convince her that she had nothing to be self-conscious about around me. To ease, and share their burden.

To acknowledge that she was flawed, as we all are on earth, but I still loved and accepted her, despite it all.