Having my way with Ulysses

Queen’s Hotel, Queen’s Hotel, Queen’s Hotel. Queen’s Ho . . .

As the scribes will persist, the few readers there are in the world are going to have to change their roles and become scribes themselves.2:14 am

He took me to the most beautiful hotel in the city. Historic. Stunning suite. Honeymoon suite: one king sized bed. I had put him off for a long time, knowing he was wife hunting. He was twice my age: I was no wife. I will be no wife. I can’t even call myself anybody’s girlfriend.  I’m focusing on something else, I’d say. You can sleep with me but that’s it kind of thing. I know what I want (I don’t know) and I know who I want (yes, I know). Who I want hasn’t happened and doesn’t look likely. What I want (the want I know I want in addition to the who I want) is experience. I want an interesting life. That’s what I want above all else so yes I said yes I will, yes. I’ll fly there. Fly me there. I’ll fly there and spend the weekend with you I said, but I’m not having sex with you. We’re not having sex. I told him straight up. I want my own room. I know I am easy but I am no whore. Of course, he said. He said of course. What of course? Of course. I let it slide. Get the ticket and I’m not missing any work. We’ll have fun, he said. I’ll take you here, I’ll show you this, we’ll do that. It will be like a normal first date and no sex. Who says a normal first date means no sex? With the one I want we would have sex and no date, so don’t give me normal first date. Don’t give me normal I don’t say. I go. I’m spotted in the airport by a co-worker. I lie. Going to see a friend in that direction. But this airline only goes this direction, he says. Why would I lie. I get there. Flowers and a limousine at the airport. We dine out awkward with flowers, my backpack in the limo. He says his mother will love me. He says he can’t wait to introduce me to his mother. His mother is the best woman imaginable and I am just like her. Is she trapped too? I’m trapped. I understand now I am trapped. What a stupid idea. How in the fuck am I getting out of this. I’ve always wanted a wedding barefoot on a beach he says. I am not shitting you this is what he says. Holy fuck. I don’t know what kind of wedding I want. I don’t want a wedding. I don’t know this guy. The guy I know works for the company. I talk to him on the phone every day. At work I talk to him on the phone. Half a minute have a good one nice day. He is thought generally to be a great guy. He is a great guy. Who the hell knew he’d be this too. I eat. I think. He hangs out with twenty year old guys when he comes to town. He surfs he says. He bikes. He’s training for something. His friends his age have kids he says. I have a negative bank account. He has my return ticket. We eat. We go to the hotel. Beautiful hotel. We go to the hotel. My backpack gets taken up. We get taken up. I’m wearing work clothes: casual business casual, plane stained. The elevator people are smartly dressed, looking at the man and the half his age whore heading for the honeymoon suite with a backpack. There’s a whore in the elevator with us they think. And here we are. One bed. No other room. No mention. Isn’t this suite sweet he says. Suite. He has tickets to this tonight and also that just in case I’d rather that. Do I have something I want to change into? Yeah I say. Give me a minute will you? Alone will you? Just give me a minute alone. He retreats to the balcony, but he’s still all over me. I don’t have any fucking idea what to do. I am alone. Solitary. I’m thinking. There’s a desk in an alcove. Behind the bed in an alcove. I need to think. Paper. Nice pen. Keep the pen. I’m writing. I’m thinking and writing. I can do this all night.