Our meeting was almost perfect, despite the fact that we were both in committed relationships at the time. We were working on a student film together, and on the first day of rehearsals the director asked the two of us to stand in for the actors. Before I even knew his hometown, I was hugging this boy, taking in his scent, marveling at the electricity passing between us as we embraced. We stayed in this position for a few minutes as the director paced around us, discussing shots set-ups with the cinematographer. He and I spoke in each other’s ears, and I was captivated; never before had I experienced such an intense physical attraction to a boy. Especially not my current boyfriend.
He and I became close friends. He was my confidant, and we took to sneaking off together during lulls in filming to go for long walks in the night air. I bared to him my soul, and he gave me back massages when I grew tired. I kept denying that there was anything going on between us, despite the fact that I’d broken up with my loser boyfriend and was an aching, lonely soul.
I met her once. He brought her to set one day, proudly showing her off. It was eerie how much she looked like me. Same frame, same curly hair, same glasses. Except she had a nice rack, whereas I am flat-chested. She was “beautiful,” as he described her. Her name was Anna.
I hated her.
She, in my opinion, was hideous - the ugliest, most deplorable female I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her, but instead chose to glare at her from across the room. Look how happy he is. Look how happy SHE is. I wanted to vomit, and then I wanted to take my clenched fist and ram it straight into the side of her ugly little head. I wanted to tear her apart. I wanted her to suffer.
Despite the fact that he had paraded his trophy girlfriend around in front of me, he would not leave me alone. And I was all too eager to push her out of my mind and let him in. He began to visit me at my apartment. It was always very innocent, at first. We would watch a movie. We would talk. And then he would tell me how beautiful I was.
I fell into his trap without thinking. Before I could reflect on my actions, we were holding hands. Then we were lying down in my bed, staring into each other’s eyes in awe. Then we were standing on my rooftop, underneath the sparkling stars, touching foreheads as I wished with all my heart for him to tell me he and his girlfriend were breaking up.
They weren’t breaking up. He loved her, he reminded me.
Then he began touching me, feeling me, sending shivers of sensation up and down my body. It was intoxicating, and I fell under his spell as he grabbed me and drew me to him. He kissed me, passionately (I’m wanted! I’m wanted! …my pathetically insecure mind exclaimed with glee), and then he leaned down and whispered in my ear, confirming all of my hopes: “I want you.”
I threw myself at him, gave him everything I could, desperate to prove how superior I was to that deplorable creature he called his girlfriend. Night after night I cast away all my reason and set out to complete my mission to make him forget her altogether.
We did not discuss the problem at all. Weeks went by, and he still had that vile little girl waiting for him in Irvine. Sometimes she would call while we were together. Part of me died every time.
Finally, he confessed to me that he had a history of cheating on his girlfriends. That girl I loathed, miles away? She had helped him cheat on his previous girlfriend. At one point in high school, he was sleeping with three different girls at the same time, without their knowledge. It figured: he was charming, talkative, wild with sex. The quintessential player.
One day, he came to my door, eyes ablaze. His stone gaze spoke of nothing but hatred. Quietly, he informed me that he had finally broken up with Anna, who he still deeply loved. And it was my fault.
I stayed with that boy. He had ensnared me so tightly that I could not let go, so I stayed by his side, even during the period of time when he could not look at me because I had caused him to cry. He cried when he broke up with her. He’s only ever cried three times in his entire life.
Months later, we were in the throes of happiness. We spent the long summer days together, building on that spark that drew us together. I envisioned my future with him, the darkness of the origins of our relationship fading into a dream. I was floating.
Then, one night, we were making love with more intensity than ever before. It was blissful and wonderful how close we had become, how deeply I loved him.
I told him so, and he replied, without pausing, without thinking: “I love you too, Anna.”
I don’t think most of us wake up in the morning thinking about the miserable shit we’d like to befall our former neighbors, friends, or lovers. I'll go even further and suggest that no one plans on hating what we know another person loves -- but sometimes it turns out that way. Thus, I can’t shake the idea that sometimes we just aren’t supposed to like a motherfucker. Sometimes you just look down at 14 months of bouncing baby boy and think, “I wouldn’t mind if you fell down some stairs.”
I didn’t go into this blind. I play dumb sometimes -- better safe than sorry I figure -- but this time I knew full well what the stakes were. I knew what he meant to his mother: she adores him. We fast became friends, and she told me in a moment of heartbreaking vulnerability that he literally saved her from suicide. She didn’t know her purpose before him. Because of that knowledge, I never smile at him. I don’t want him feeling comfortable around me. The one time we made a connection, he giggled and wanted me to pick him up. A few minutes later he came back and hugged my leg. “He’s never done that to my guy friends before.” That would have been a good omen to a more honorable man, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at it so positively. I only saw a liability: if the kid likes you, then she’ll like you, and then you’ll have to get “serious.” Never that. Serious men are miserable, and I didn’t want to be a long-term serious man. Not this soon.
I don't know exactly when it started, but I think it was inevitable for my mood toward him to change from indifference to enmity. The straw could have been the day he paused from spinning around the living room to audibly shit his pants: something he found hilarious. Maybe it was the 7am Baby Einstein wake up calls (we both hated being alone, so I slept over sometimes); maybe their lie reflected my own. We were both faking it: those tapes wouldn’t make him any smarter, not even marginally, and no matter how tight I held her at night, I couldn’t convince myself that I was not, in fact, making a dangerous mistake. “Friend, my ass. This is how women get hurt,” I thought. “This is how bad relationships start.” Maybe I was jealous that he could be with the woman who loved him; the one who loves me is half a country away.
So here I am (or was, as it’s finally over), it’s morning again; I'm waiting for the bathroom. I’m looking at her drooling, slack-jawed, $10,000 paperweight, and can’t help but picture gently placing an index finger between his big, vacant eyes and pushing backward. I wonder if he’ll topple like a stack of alphabet bricks. He waddles over, carrying a little green cylinder. He was tired of sucking on it and wanted to roll it across the room. He looks up at me, and holds it out for me to play with, but his grip isn’t strong enough and it falls to the floor. He tries to pick it up, but my foot beats him to it: a little kick sends the thing clattering across the den. He looks hurt. I feel very satisfied.
We live in a society that has rejected the idea of "black"and "white", right and wrong, good and evil. Most people don't even agree that such old-fashioned notions like "the truth" even exists. Perception is what rules our world, and not just any perception, but your perception. However, even though we believe we live in a world of technicolored gray - very rarely do we actually explore those real life experiences from which we draw these conclusions. In these series of stories we will explore what it is that makes our world grey, what inspires our moral relativism. Often we encounter moments in our lives that do not make sense - where our actions clash with our values - where what we thought we believed starts to crumble. Many times these moments are traumatic, sometimes they are funny, often they are surprising, but they are always moments where we are at our most human. Many of these stories will contain anti-heroes, will have no clear morals, and may very well be disturbing. Good.
The purpose of the Boundary series is to cause the reader to question, to empathize with another persons experience, and perhaps even be comforted by how deeply flawed we can be - how even really good people can do bad things - how we sometimes give in to our animal urges - how we are most often fully alive right at that point where we are in the greatest danger of losing our humanity.
We encourage all of our readers to dig deep within themselves and write down their own boundary experience(s) - at the very least comment on the experiences of others. If you do write a story you can send it to artstarblog@gmail.com.
Thanks for supporting Art Star and always remember "you can't fake real".
-smartblackboy
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The first slogan of Art Star was "where the best young artist's live and play"
It was a solid slogan. It indicated that there would be a level of excellence associated with the blog (best) and that the focus would be artistic. It also showed that the blog would have lots of content (live) but would also be fun (play). Finally it showed that the emphasis of the blog would focus on a younger demographic.
The second slogan of Art Star was "where the best young artist's and thinkers live and play"
I had realized that some of our writers weren't artists and neither were a lot of readers. However, there was definitely an eclectic vibe to the whole thing, and it was becoming fun and we didn't want to limit anybody.
The third slogan for Art Star was "where we're never caught chasing cool".
While the first two slogans attempted to define both the writers and the readers of Art Star, this third slogan actually started to get at core values. Most everything the blog was doing was unconventional. From having multiple writers, to not having a set subject matter, to how we were growing, isn't what is recommended. The blog was definitely eclectic but not necessarily trendy. It reflected the opinions and interests of the bloggers - in a holistic sense - you might get a post about politics, pop culture, religion, music, sports, etc.
But the value was that the people who write Art Star are real people who are genuinely interesting and have lots of different interests and tastes. We aren't always serious, or always artsy, or always anything. We are just ourselves and not trying to live up to any sort of ideal. The bloggers write about whatever is on their mind - there isn't an agenda - not even "coolness".
The fourth and fifth slogans are "unofficial" slogans from the Art Star facebook group.
They are "fresh good news" and "damn those boi'z gud". These slogans represented a new emphasis in the blog to highlight emerging talent (fresh good news) and the fact we were starting to realize the impact of our previous slogans (damn those boi'z gud).
Our new slogan is "you can't fake real".
This slogan might be here to stay. It both attempts to define and transcend what Art Star is - and also what it is not. It holds the guidelines for which we judge our content. Like "coolness" realness is something that you either have or you don't. You can't manufacture it, you can't bottle it, you can't sell it - all you can do is recognize it. In a world that is constantly bombarded with illusions (hollywood) , with fake press releases, with marketing campaigns that sell absolutely nothing - we wanted Art Star to be different.
We want it to be a place where smart, talented, creative people can share their ideas, their influences, and their opinions with each other and our readers.
We want to expose our readers to other people who are doing "real" things that we like and admire.
The quality of Art Star is more a reflection of who we are as "real people" than of any overarching agenda or purpose.
It is rooted in the belief that just as we try to be "real people" our readers are also "real people" as well.
We aren't always one way, we change our minds, we like different stuff, we have lots of interests, we have dreams, we have aspirations, we fail, we love, we struggle, we try to do good, we can be mean, we can be ugly, we can be great.
This is who we are.
This is something we can't fake.
This is Art Star.
