I’ve seen so many faces
These hands have lied before
I’ve kissed so many lips it’s blocked my mind
I’ve whispered bullshit nothings
I’ve cried alone at night
I thought I found the one a million times

Do you know how to lie with only your hands?

“What?” I hear you cry. You’re all confused. You probably assume that a lie involves speaking, or at least writing shit down. It doesn’t.

I mean, where in the dictionary does it say lying has to be verbal? Well, maybe in some dictionary it does, but all it says in mine is that to lie is to deceive. So, if we go by that little definition - which obviously we are because I’m in charge here - then there’s not a single thing says the lie has to come in the form of words. You can deceive with a look. You can deceive with your hands. You never even have to think of opening your mouth to say shit; you can lie your ass off without muttering a word.

I’ve done that too though, don’t get me wrong. One might go so far as to say I’m excellent at it, but I find that the key to a good lie is all in the body language. Some people can’t hide the nervous twitch or they look too stiff or you can see it in their eyes – you know that they’re trying to feed you bullshit. It’s the little things that really make for a good lie, and if you overlook those then your ass might as well tell the nasty old truth.

What makes a good lie? The right amount of eye contact is key - not too much or too little. You also need to be smart enough about body language to match your stance to the mood of your lie. There’s no point pretending you’re not angry if you look like you’re about to put your fist through the wall, and if you’re trying to convince somebody you have no idea what’s going on then looking too nonchalant (or alternatively overdoing the jitters) is a dead giveaway.

But I was talking about hands, wasn’t I?

I lie with my hands all the time. When you want somebody to think you’re really interested in them, it is definitely body contact that’s the key. I mean, throwing yourself at somebody doesn’t do any good because then you just look desperate, but you need just the right touches in just the right places. That little brush of your hands, or that light playful touch to the arm, bumping your knee against theirs accidentally on purpose… but the hands with the words, that’s the killer.

Do you know what the easiest lie in the world to tell is? It’s those three little words: “I love you.”

I guess part of that is probably the fact it’s so easy to delude yourself about the whole gig that you end up telling the lie because you’re dumb enough to believe it yourself. That’s not what I mean though. People are so damn willing to believe the person offering these declarations of love that they practically do the liar’s job for them, but you can still really hammer it home with a few bullshit nothings and some carefully chosen body contact. That’s the difference between a good liar and a bad one. Any bad liar can convince somebody they love them because, like I said, people want to believe them. A good liar, however, can make you hold these truths self evident with just a look and a touch.

Believe me, I have told more than one girl this lie - I should know. I dread to think how many girls I’ve kissed – the number I’ve slept with is not small, so the number I’ve kissed has to be a hell of a big one. It’s not hard to kiss pretty girls. Once upon a time I used to be kinda shy and couldn’t even bring myself to do it on the first date. Now, partially due to the amount of them throwing their scantily clad selves at me because I’m famous and shit, I find it a lot easier. Practice makes perfect.

It’s pretty simple, really. You look into their eyes, and you bite your lip a little like you’re nervous. You let your hands trail up and down their arms, ever so lightly, like you’re not entirely sure. Maybe you take her hands, maybe you pull her into a hug, maybe even a little kiss if the mood so takes you. Then you tell them you love them. You look nervous but hopeful, with just a touch of a manly attempt at seeming cool – they find this cute, because it’s a signal of the true vulnerability beneath. Or, to be accurate, the non existent vulnerability you’re convincing them they’re seeing because you’re a good liar.

Of course, I can tell a million lies with my hands even before we get to that part. Passing her a drink and letting our fingers collide, maybe taking her hand for a moment to lead her to the bar, leading her forward by the small of her back… it’s pretty much child’s play. Don’t understand why so many people are such crappy liars.

But, let’s be fair… I bitch about people being so ready to believe this lie, but why am I so ready to tell it? Why is anybody? It’s not just a means to sex, no matter what some people will tell you, because believe me if you want no strings sex you can have it. So why the production and the performance with convincing somebody to fall in love with you, mislead them into thinking it’s reciprocated? Okay, maybe if you’re that desperate to score a particular girl who won’t give it up otherwise, but few of us are Nick Lachey and ready to stick a ring on the finger before getting some... unless of course we mean it. But we ain’t talking about people who mean it, we’re talking about liars.

With me, I think… I think it’s that brief, shining possibility that when I see a cute girl and I’m attracted to her… maybe she’s the one. Maybe this is the one who’ll make me mean it, or at least keep me happy enough to stick around for a while. I’ve got to that point a few times, kidded myself that I finally got it right, but every time it’s blown up in my face and I’m the sad bitch left crying. So, whenever I go out, every time I first lay eyes on that pretty girl, I relive that moment where there’s that possibility that she might… just might… be it. The one that makes me forget all who came before and who might come after (insert orgasm joke here).

You’d think after the millionth time I’d have learned, but if people haven’t learned not to be such suckers for ‘I love you’ after centuries of heartbreak, doomed love affairs and cheaters then I think I can be let off the hook. We all gotta be a fool for somethin’, right?

I let a stranger love me
I gave away my pride
I bit my lip so I could block my mind
I’ve called your name to others
Just like a spinal chord
Severed and broken but the spark still tries

You’d probably never believe I used to be a serial monogamist, right? Just like you probably had a hard time believing this cynical lying dude ever used to be too shy for a first date peck of a kiss. Then again, a lot of people seem to have trouble believing the great Justin Timberlake could ever be a player. I think I just have one of those innocent looking faces. I’ve never looked like a bad boy in my life, though it’s not for lack of trying. I think girls look at me and think I’m safe or something.

Which, I have to confess, probably helps with the lying: I have credibility.

I used to be a serial monogamist, until She Who Must Not Be Named. Now, I’d been cheated on before and it hadn’t fucked me up more than temporarily, but She really did a number on me. She not only managed to cheat on me, but She managed to do it with somebody I respected and trusted, somebody I really looked up to. I loved her more than any of the rest, was more convinced that this time I’d found the one than with any of the rest, but then She managed to betray me even worse than the rest. It’s always a kicker when you get cheated on, but there’s levels of betrayal and picking somebody you’re close to hurts more than some stranger. Not only do you get a second person’s betrayal, it kinda ups the ante on your girlfriend’s.

Yes, I know, being treated badly is not an excuse to treat others badly and blah… blah... blah.

The sad part is I still have this girl on the brain. It really fucking irritates me that I do, but there it is. There is no way in hell I could ever forgive this chick. No way in hell. It was years ago and frankly even if I could forgive her, She and I have both changed far too much to ever fit back together. Okay, I swear I’ll resume saying the word ‘she’ normally any second now, I’m sorry. Just hate using her name.

It’s just… she left this big gaping hole. Maybe she didn’t turn out to be the one, but she did a pretty Oscar worthy performance of acting like it. How precisely do you go back to just dating around after that? How are you ever supposed to be satisfied with just hanging around a few pretty girls after you know what it’s like to be burned up with passion for somebody? I mean, I know some guys do it, but I don’t get how. At least, I don’t get how you do it and be honestly cool with it. Maybe it’s relief that you’re out of the delusion?

Fuck, does that mean I’m still under the delusion?

I have to admit, I’ve kind of turned into a whore since I broke up with her, but no more so than a lot of single guys my age so I’m not bothered about that. I’m a red blooded guy and I like sex, big whoop. The part which fucks me off is this weird charade I make with these girls that maybe they got me for longer than it takes the novelty to wear off. I don’t get that. It’s not like it’s necessary, I think 75% of them would sleep with me even if I informed them I wanted a one night stand and they could take it or leave it.

So why the pretence? Why am I ever trying to convince any of them that I love them, why the need to lie with my hands or lips or any other body part I might possess? I’ve slept with a ton of strange girls, none of whom have a chance in hell of sticking around, and I’m playing along with their little hope that maybe they’re going to be the one who’s different, the one who makes me stop, the one who makes me get over Her.

That bubble has been cruelly burst on more than one occasion when I’ve said Her name while we were doing stuff. Sometimes it’s because I was the sad fuck imagining my ex girlfriend who disappeared so far into his own fantasy that he forgot he wasn't actually with her, but sometimes I swear it’s like it comes out of my mouth entirely on its own.

Seriously, it just flies completely unbidden from my mouth and my brain is like ‘don’t look at me - I got nothin’ to do with it.’

I guess it’s like when you sever a nerve or something. There’s nothing there to pick up the message, but it doesn’t stop ‘em trying to send it. I think somebody forgot to inform my mouth that I’m not with her any more and no matter how many times my eyes or my head or my ground up heart have tried to tell it, it never gets the memo. Thus I can say her name while I’m inside of somebody else even if I haven’t thought about her in a week.

Maybe it’s just slips upon Freudian slips, but let’s not go there.

But they don’t know you like I do
They don’t see the good inside you
They don’t lie in bed and join you when you’re dreaming
They don’t see your softer side
Who’ll be there to turn your light on?
Who will try to wash away the stain that love has left us?

I think it’d be easier if I hated her.

I tried to. Lord knows I tried to. I said some shit and I made her cry, and she didn’t deserve a lot of it. That should tell you something right there. She deserved a great deal of shit from me for what she did so if I managed to say enough hurtful things to her that the majority of it was undeserved… well. I guess now I’m the asshole. I thought it would make me feel better, watching her feel the kind of pain I was, but it did absolutely nothing to fill the great big hollow that’s been situated right around my chest and stomach since I found out she’d betrayed me.

Like I said, she may not have been the one, but she did an award winning impression of it. Nothing I could ever say or do to her could change that. It can’t take away everything she was to me or the void I’ve felt since she was gone. I live in fear that nothing’s ever going to. My biggest fear isn’t spiders or heights or all the usual shit, it’s that I’m going to spend the rest of my life feeling her absence.

She was never perfect (as she made abundantly clear when she fucked my good pal), but she always felt perfect for me. She was just the right size to curl around at night to go to sleep. She was just the right amount of goofy to entertain me and the right amount of serious to satisfy my deeper yearnings. She was laid back enough to be low maintenance, but strong enough to kick my ass into shape if I needed it. Fuck, even our fights were pretty good as far as fights ever go. Alright, she could be forgetful and a little needy and occasionally a little bratty, but it’s not like I’m perfect either.

Again, something proved in spades by the fucking break up.

She’s not seeing anybody right now either. Me and my big mouth said a lot of shit about her, as you will recall me mentioning, and I think the world has looked on her as damaged goods ever since. She hasn’t done a lot of dating since we split and she’s been chirpily giving out the independent woman line, but this guilty part of me wonders if it’s forced independence. I’m wondering if my fairly slanderous ramblings have put guys off.

That’s not fair. She did me some wrong, no question, but she was good to me once. Or maybe I’m a big hypocrite right here, falling for the same shtick I was complaining about earlier… maybe I just want to believe at some point she loved me. I just… I was there to watch her sleep and I was there to see how cute she was with bed hair and all that shit. I was there to see her when she was low or feeling shy and not the person the world usually sees, so I know pretty damn well she’s not the bitch she got portrayed as. Nobody’s that good a liar.

I don’t just wonder how anybody’s ever going to take her place in my life. I wonder if any man is ever going to take my place in hers. Maybe she doesn’t have the kind of gaping chasm of a hole in her being that I do, maybe it’s a pointless question. I just occasionally like to torture myself wondering if whoever picks her up next is going to treat her like I did, or better, if he’s going to be able to wash that man right out of her hair. I’m a masochist, apparently.

Maybe that’s why I play along with these girls who want me to love them. Maybe I want me to love them too. Maybe I’m just looking for somebody to finally go Ghostbuster on this past relationship’s phantom ass and push it from my mind.

God knows I’d like this void filled up.

Doesn’t anyone fill the void?
Doesn’t anyone kill the joy?
Doesn’t anyone take the place of you in my heart?
Doesn’t anyone fill the void?
Doesn’t anyone kill the noise?
Doesn’t anyone take the place of you?