There’s a classic scene in storytelling where two characters are in an intense intimate moment, perhaps having sex — they’re getting really into it, moaning, making noises — and then one of them passionately yells out a name.
But not the name of the person they’re fucking.
Oops.
Sometimes this is done intentionally, to piss off the other person. To elicit reactions. Make that other character angry, or make them realize how much they’re being used. Hurt them. But often, it’s an accident. Our character yelling out the name is not in love with the person they’re with. (Or at least, not horny for them.) They’re in love with (or horny for) someone else. This scene finally breaks the long pretense, revealing where their heart is directed.
I think about this because I sometimes forget my lovers’ names.
Not, like, that frequently. But more than I would’ve expected. Several times a year? I’ll look at them and have this moment of intense blanking. Which one are you? I’ll wonder. Alexander? Andrew? Max? Saul?1
The options don’t always come to me quickly. Sometimes I’m just confused, and it feels like there’s some wave of men’s names behind a glass wall, waiting to crash down upon me. A few trickle over the wall, entirely random. People I have never dated. Daniel? Sometimes I’m simply empty, a soft confusion pillowing around me as I wait one, two, three, four beats, knowing that the right name will slip back to me soon, and vaguely wondering if this is some early sign of brain trouble.
Perhaps this happens to us all the time, and it’s simply more salient when it’s a loved one’s name. A loved one’s name is supposed to be a precious, precious word. You are not supposed to lose it, not even for a moment.2
I have been called the wrong name before. People love to call me Rachel. I’ve been called this on the dance floor, in conversations, at work, and, yes, while fucking or in the sweet snuggling after. I think perhaps once it hurt, and now it simply feels like a fact of the world that I will be called this name.
(I’m 99.9% a Rebecca and 0.1% a Rachel, I start to write. But no. That gets into complicated questions about whether I let the world define me. Do I acknowledge the truth it shows me — I do love this perspective — or stand up for what I feel inside? I feel like 100% a Rebecca, and the world is wrong.)
I’ve also been called my partners’ ex’s name a few times. I think these have tended to come out in bursts of frustration. Something about the energy of our interaction is bringing to mind old battles, old enemies. They get confused.
I’ve never been mad about it. I understand.
A few times, I have called my partners the wrong name. Out it goes. A wriggling fish I awkwardly tried to hold onto, but I let it escape. Whoops. We look at it flopping on the floor, surprised.
I apologize for dropping it. They’re not mad either. They understand.