I need to stop saying, "I love you," when I'm drunk. But it's not even a lie. I'm not saying it to get laid, because given the circumstances saying that probably makes it more likely that the girl will get spooked out and decide against having sex with me. But I still do it.
And in that moment it's true.
Every woman—every goddamn, hip-swinging, soft-skinned, beautiful woman on this planet—represents a different me. Each one of them is a potential life. Choosing them puts me on a solitary path that only they can bestow. Every combination unique and each one will make a new me. There's a billion me's walking around this planet. String theory in a g-string.
And there, in that moment, drunk as can be—brain lubricated and capable of accessing the universe in its infinite glory—this potential me unfurls in her presence, her touch, her taste, her smell, and this excitement. I see the life she can give me. I see a new self and for a stale, withered fuck like me that’s a magical joy and an exceptional gift.
So as I stare into the future smiling at me from between her legs I see the evolution of myself and the promise of a new reality and I fall in love. And being someone who's recklessly honest with the moment at hand, out it comes, "I love you."
It's sincere and that's why it has never spooked a girl. Instead, they're touched in a weird, unexpected way. They know it's not normal, but they love it nonetheless. "Here's a man," they think, "that understands the power of our femininity. Here's a man who loves women—really loves them and who really loves me." Then we fuck like the mad.
Unfortunately, when I awake and the magic has faded into the invisible, my feelings have gone with it. It's not that the reality I saw stretched before me is simply inaccessible—it's dead—severed, withered and gone. That love nothing more than some metaphysical stillbirth lingering in the back of my mind and slowing sinking into the murky muck of the psyche. A misfired ejaculation.
Another me dead. Another love destroyed. Perhaps, I'm a time-travelling serial killer intent on wiping out every possible thing I can ever possibly be. The ultimate suicide. No more question marks. And perhaps the one girl who can save me is the one with the power to block my gaze into time and who delivers me the nothingness that I seek—a big, fat fucking question mark. Are you my great riddle?