There must be something wrong with me. Here I am, at my peak, having paid my professional dues and living a simple and uncomplicated life and what do I do? I look for the most difficult parameters under which to have a relationship.
This is not a new thing.
Let me explain. I’ve always been told that I’d have nothing to worry about—I’ve got the “right” complexion, I speak the right way, don’t drag my knuckles and don’t repulse myself when I look in the mirror. These “assets” acted as my security blanket as I matured, but conversely I’ve also come to realise that I’m a mental masochist. For some strange, warped reason I thrive on stress. Not all stress, just that brought on by difficult women.
No docile woman for the Lyricsman. It’s always been the strong-willed, extremely opinionated woman that I’ve sought and that is where the bacchanal begins. From the get go, as a teenager it’s always been the female that I would have the most difficulty with that drove me mad with desire and made my life, honestly, an excerpt from the “Little Shop of Horrors”.
I’ve had my head busted. I have been chased by irate parents and threatened with death. Most severely, I have been afflicted with “tabanca” or love sickness more times than I choose to remember. That’s scary. Everyone is entitled—no, you are expected to have one tabanca. Not the Lyricsman. At last count, somewhere in the early 1990’s, it was three.
You’d think that I’d learn, especially as I’ve spent the last seven years influencing how other people think, their buying trends and their perception of society. Guess what?
Here I am: 28 years old, divorced and doing alright and what do I do? I find a woman who, according to my friends, is “real stress”. She’s beautiful, intelligent, fun to be with, sexy and she kisses amazingly. So far, so good right? Here’s the problem though: Due to past life experiences in this life—on both parts—we can’t get emotionally attached.
“So why bother?”
Because she makes me feel good and I do the same for her. It’s weird though. Because of the parameters set at the start, every day is an adventure and, in my defence, if I hadn’t learnt to “deal”—as she puts it—or if I were to take her seriously or as seriously as I’ve taken others in the past—I’d be as uncontrollable as her hair.
Most importantly though we’re friends. We talk about everything under the sun and advise and comfort each other as necessary—the attraction is there and growing. As much as we choose to deny it. One of our mutual friends describes the relationship as the “most drawn-out foreplay” she’s ever seen. Maybe, maybe not.
It’s fun though.
That’s the crux of mental masochism—having fun through stress. I’m sure I’m not alone. So if you think or know that you’re a mental masochist let’s get together and talk.