Haunted By Our Feigned Affection

In Anton Chekhov’s story, “The Lady with the White Dog,” is about an adulterous relationship. When the lovers first leave each other he writes, “And he thought that now there was one more affair or adventure in his life, and it, too, was now over, and all that was left was the memory…She had called him kind, extraordinary, lofty; obviously, he had appeared to her not as he was in reality, and therefore he had involuntarily deceived her…”
What strikes me about these lines is their ability to evoke the horrifically complex emotion that is tied to illicit, unfounded, or unintended affairs. Those starved for attention feast on the affection of another, even for one night, though they know, in parting, that it was never genuine, only a part played out by both parties’ mutual agreement to make sexual interaction not only seem allowable, but absolutely necessary.
In the past (as this blog and past columns can attest) one night stands occurred at a much higher frequency then steady sex with any one person. Though that has declined since moving to New York, there have been recent events that perfectly encapsulate this sense of empty displays of affection for the sake of maintaining a charade.
Though the young actor and I had never formally met ‘in person,’ our online conversations had ranged all over the map from silly and superficial to intimate and personal. So the decision to have him over did not seem like inviting a stranger to my home. After cleaning and preparing us a full dinner, we sat on the couch, wine glasses perched an arm’s length away and stared blankly at the movie. Though unlike two strangers seated next to each other on the train, it was initially as awkward as a junior high locker room. As we grew more comfortable, the movie got more romantic, the wine began to work its way into our blood or all of the above, affection came more naturally and before I knew it we were cuddling and kissing as if we’d been together for months or at least weeks.
After the movie our assumed connection extended to the bedroom but lacked the true heat or genuine desire and seemed more fueled by red wine, gratuity and general horniness than an innate connection to each other.
The next morning, as he dressed and left to go, I had that same sinking feeling Anton so perfectly captures, ‘I will probably never see you again.’ Though it sounds pessimistic, I’ve left my fair share of bedrooms and had others flee mine enough times to know the low rate of recidivism.
But the difference between my life and the story is that the characters in Anton’s story are separated by a distance of hundreds of miles with no means of communication, though the memories of their affair haunt them daily. We, on the other hand, are haunted by our bedroom ghosts in the multitude of sources online. I don’t want to harp about how much it ‘sucks’ to see an ex’s relationship status change from ‘single,’ or that though we have blocked them on AIM, we still see their pictures all over our friends’ albums, or that the news feeds inform us of their every move, and their ‘available’ status on gchat has the ability to burn a wider hole into our soul every moment they don’t send us a message, because we all obsess over these things enough. It’s enough to live with the memories of whom we’ve loved and lost but can be absolute torture when these are continuously updated by our nefarious technology.
Alas, what are we to do to quell the constant reminders of what might have been or what almost was? Should we shun the ubiquitous social networking sites, remove any ‘friend’ that’s entered our bed and block these offenders on each messaging service? Well that seems quite foolish; many of these conquests, defeats, and amiable truces are more if not only real to me because they exist online, whether or not our ‘friend details’ reflects the depth of our connection. We have the pleasure of triumphing in their failed relationships, their recent weight gain, or their apparent inability to secure a ‘real job,’ although we would never admit it. Nor would we admit that that the pictures of an ex and their new paramour make us want to wither up and long for the days when it was as simple as crossing their face out in our yearbook.
So these too remain, an inextricable part of our romantic lives. We keep them close so one day they can see how ‘happy’ we are, or perhaps can reconnect when they are suddenly interested in ‘whatever I can get.’ At the close of Anton’s story, the lovers’ reunion has been achieved but their future is still uncertain. “It was clear to both of them that the end was still far, far off, and that the most complicated part was just beginning.”
I was convinced the boy I dragged home not so long ago was a tourist, until he mentioned something about having to get back to Hells Kitchen in the morning. I thought for a local the “Thank You” note he left was a bit overkill for a one night stand, I must have been more generous than I thought. But his friend request on Facebook later proved that he was indeed from out of town. I guess that is one ghost that will only appear online, but the net’s ability to make even this slight reunion possible makes the task of moving on and finding love seem very complicated indeed.