While I formed some close friendships through nonstop fucking and various BDSM experiences, most of those interactions were simple transactions, a form of mutual prostitution without money changing hands. They didn’t ding Joe during his streak when the Yankees had an off-day or a rainout. Note that the streak excludes days when I was on the rag, which I think is fair. While I knew I had been promiscuous, I had no idea that during the years 2003-2005 I fucked at least one person every day for five-hundred-and-seventy-three consecutive days. I’m always inclined to analytics, so I looked for patterns in the hope of discovering something about myself. I had kept a diary during my nonstop sex years from college to Seattle and spent a good chunk of my time perusing the contents.
While I flirted with depression, I still had enough in reserve to try to make the best of my circumstances, so I opted for self-study. It’s the kind of environment that forces you into one of two states: lingering depression or deep self-reflection. I’m sure it didn’t help that I thought they were all pretty fucking weird, as it’s likely that my feelings about them leaked through my pretty-girl façade.Īnd then there was the rain, month after month of cloudy, shitty days. Most of the men found me intimidating because of my assertive tendencies.
Most of the women at work hated me from the start because I was pretty, well-dressed and wore make-up to work. The place is an introvert’s dream, a culture built around superficial pleasantries and small cliques of close friends who want nothing to do with newcomers-especially Californians. I knew no one in Seattle except my aunt, and Seattle people are very hard to get to know. Maman left after the Red Sox swept the Rockies, and Dad departed about a week later.Īs I was driving home after dropping him off at the airport, I never felt so lonely in my life. The sense of loss was tempered for the first month because Dad and maman stayed with me most of October as we fixed up our little fixer-upper during the daylight hours and spent the evenings watching the playoffs and the Series. Because the company happened to be in Seattle, I had to leave behind my birthplace, my childhood home, the stomping grounds I had known all my life and the comfort of having my best friends and parents close by. After several years of fucking around (literally and figuratively), I finally found work in a company with French operations, one of the criteria I always kept in mind when I entered the workforce after college because I wanted to live in France someday. One October ten years ago, I moved to Seattle. The endless cycle of yin and yang continues, and all is right in the universe. April has never been the cruelest month for me, as the sounds of fastballs exploding into catcher’s mitts or flying off the bats of sharp-eyed hitters fills me with joy and reassurance. October features the excitement of the playoffs and the World Series, but when the last out is recorded I always feel a sense of loss, knowing that Spring Training is five long, cold months away. I think the pattern was implanted in my brain thanks to baseball. October has always been a month of change for me, and as Peter Marris wrote years ago, all change involves loss.
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