You're My Favorite Motherfucker

Jaime is a stereotypical geek, and a self-described asshole. He has a penchant for Eggo waffles with ice cream atop them, a description that makes me shudder every time I think of it. He has a penchant for online games and is currently unemployed in another state. We met on a website for people with... unusual interests.

He's also the only softie I've ever been attracted to.

He looks even better on webcam, for his hair--like mine--looks pure blonde in the weird filtering that goes on between broadband. Out of the depths of his nerdiness he can somehow conjure an outrageously sexy look that seems to sum up all the wickedness in his black heart--a gaze that never fails to make me horny.

We came together through writing. I told him that I kept a journal, and, naturally, he wanted to see the bits about himself. Somehow, wanting to trust, I let him convince me.

It was a scathing entry, with his every flaw, every bad habit, on display. Too much.

He wrote back that it was funny, and true. He decided that I knew more about life than he did, wanted me to show him things. After that we seemed to be bound together--he began making comparisons between us, called me his stepsister.

We're both needy, I told him.

His personality is an odd mix of daring and complete weakness. I've conversed with him on webcam, watching him drink alternately from two water bottles, one of them containing straight vodka, the other water (he never mixes). Eventually he will excuse himself to the bathroom that I can see in the background. He will return to announce that he has just thrown up, and we will keep talking.

In short, Jaime is a disaster trembling on the edge of either getting worse or improving. At the moment, it is partially held in check by his poverty and the isolation of the rural area in which he lives. Since he has a wit and a command of language equalling my own, we have both agreed that he has enormous potential.

He just needs, erm, guidance.

We IM a lot:

JAIME: Ah, Look who it is
The only person who talks sense
Good to see you

MOLLY: the only?

JAIME: well, my mentor is in crisis I believe, and is rarely here
so her council is missing
and my girlfriend.. makes no sense whatsoever

For Jaime, drama makes the world go around. I listen to him, introduce him to bands like Snake River Conspiracy, and take a stab at showing him better ways to live. He counters with videos of Princess Leia bellydancing--for if there's one thing we can meet over, it's appreciation of pretty women in all different sizes.

After a month or so of this talk, we wanted to meet to end our prospective dry spells. We talked of signs and he bought Magnums. After hanging out for a week--a whirlwind tour of New York that involved a blur of burlesque shows, the loss of my credit card and Jaime throwing up on my host's couch--no signs had appeared. The Magnums remained sealed in their box.

During our first meetings he had unvoiced a disappointment in my complexion and the size of my belly. The sign, then, I said bitterly, would be when I became prettier and he managed to grow up.

But we are both perverts. So we still talk. He calls me "Wench" and "Brienne of Tarth". I call him The Valiant Bastard. He posts sexy pictures of himself on the pervy dating website where we first became acquainted, and I leave him private entires on my Livejournal, to which we both have access. It serves as a support for him, an outlet for his intellectual ranging, and for me an outlet where I can talk about all my perverted desires. It works.

For now.