Magic Vaginas

I try to never be jealous- frankly, I don't look good in green.


That's why I was consumed with raging fire when John very publicly courted and moved in his new girlfriend, Sam. She's way prettier than I could ever dream of being- so she must be a better human, right? And in all the turmoil of hating her, I hated myself for being jealouse: I broke up with him, I should be fine with him having another girlfriend. God knows, he wasn't faithful while we were together, why would I think that he would spend more than a second single after I left. Either way, that's not the point.


The point was, I hated her for having sex with John in "our" bed. I'm not sure why that really bothered me...it wasn't even really my bed. I tried not to let him know that I was jealous: I wanted to be the cool ex-girlfriend. So, he doesn't know that I hate her, or her reportedly fantastic vagina.

While sitting around at work, waiting for a timer to go off, no doubt, I was thinking about Katrina, and that little apartment, and all of the endearing things about the time we spent together being underwater: everything from "our" bed to the battleground to his mother's house to the diner. I kind of got misty, and I'm not really sure why: I have definitely moved on, I have a new and improved boyfriend (well, somewhat improved, and no longer new), I'm happier now than I ever have been, and for the love of all that is good and holy, I haven't thought about him in forever.

And then, all of a sudden, I got this really really comforting thought: "our" bed was underwater, covered in mold, and can never be used ever again.


Thank God.


I mean, he's still with the magic vagina, and that doesn't really bother me, anymore. My own vagina insecurities have been mostly resolved, and frankly, I don't care how good her bits feel to his bits. The issue is more that I have a lot of memories tied to that bed, and don't think that I mean dirty instances: I mean that we spent a lot of time just hanging out at night...talking, reading, working, etc. It was a haven, really. And I shuddered to think of her bedding down in "our" bed. Now she can't, haha. They have a new bed, and that's fine. That's their bed. Not "ours."


But all of this talk about magic vaginas and beds isn't the point. A dear friend (whom, I regret to say, has drifted from me) managed to get back to New Orleans and take pictures of a few things: mostly damaged property from our old neighborhood locales. She mentioned that she got a picture or two of my apartment building, and I was only mildly curious to see it...I really wanted to ask her if there was any way she could make it out to Chalmette and get a picture of John's place...Because, I don't care what happened to the Calhoun St. apartment: that meant nothing. But John's place...John's place was special, and I want to see the ruin myself. I want to see the grave of "our" place.

He says he'll never go back. He seems quite content in Houston. He's always wanted a good excuse to get the fuck out of Chalmette...and so I find it quite comforting that the little apartment that was the stage for so many emotionally charged moments and strong memories (or both fantastic and deplorable things) is gone, and will never play host to him. This is entirely selfish and childish: but the silver lining of that fucking hurricane is that fucking house is gone.




And while I sat during dinner, staring at this new boy, one thing kept nagging me: why did I still care? It's been a year and a half since I moved out of that shithole. I have a functioning mate. We're sitting in a diner having a wonderful meal discussing future plans. Why do I want to see the ruins of that place so badly?