Tensions ran high. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the side of my neck as we danced. My body was heating up next to his. Our hips kept the rhythm of the beat with each other, winding and grinding as the music played. Drawing his hands up to my rib cage, he leaned in slightly and whispered in my ear, “Come home with me.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the tingle made its way down my spine. I nodded, and he led me out of the club and into a cab.
I was content to have a night out dancing with my friend. I threw on a tired pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt. Spraying cologne more out of habit than desire, I gingerly left my apartment and moseyed myself downtown. Dancing makes me feel good, but I know better than to go out and expect to meet someone, especially anyone of substance. Most of the night, my friend and I tease each other. “Oh! There goes your man right there,” we joke, clearly pointing out someone immensely undesirable. I felt surprised when a smooth hand slid itself up my side and across my back. Instantly guarded, I tossed the hand away and looked to see who owned it. A layer of stubble, glistening with a light coat of perspiration, covered his brown cheeks. In the dimly lit club, his eyes, meeting mine, pierced the dark. He smiled a toothy Hollywood smile at me, “What’s wrong, papo?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to see who touched me.”
He smirked, “Is it ok if I touch you?” His voice had a rough tone, but his smile softened its sound. I found him smooth, charming, attractive. We exchanged names but then didn’t talk much.
I lost sight of my friend as we danced. He sent me a text after we had been dancing for a while, “He’s hot. I’m at the bar playing with the go-go boys.”
Later, in the cab, the tuning on our conversation dial moved to the intellectual station. He was smart, quick-witted, original. We waxed philosophically on topics that I can’t recall. This type of foreplay—that of the intellectual kind—doesn’t happen with just anyone. It only emerges when I’m with an educated, forward-thinking man of substance. We surprised each other with our cerebral pas de deux, perhaps equally questioning the impending decision to hook up. Although, this could just be me projecting.
The cab rolled up to a Harlem brownstone. “We’re here,” he announced. The sirens in my head sounded; I should turn back now. He’s cute. He’s smart. He’s living in a brownstone. He is not a hook up.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Bo-Bo Doll
When I was little, my cousin had a bo-bo doll—this big blow up clown that had a heavy base. Every time we hit it, the bo-bo doll would fall back and pop back up. At the age of five, this amused us endlessly as we giggled and smiled as the doll came back up for more abuse from our innocent fists. While this kept my attention and provided a great deal of amusement, by present bo-bo doll style of dating has grown frustrating.
Middle school teacher wanted to see me. I thought I knocked him out of my life when he sent me the awkward text message over the summer. Somehow, even in the midst of him dating the guy he thought was “more of what he was looking for,” he came back up from the floor, managing to text me over Thanksgiving. We only texted back and forth, not meeting up. This, however, was not a significant enough blow to keep him out of my life. After a concert, he met me while I was out with some friends of mine. He came to the back of the bar quickly, smiling as he saw me. Walking right up to me, he interlaced his fingers behind the small of my back and whispered, “I miss you.” He lingered on “miss,” emphasizing it, hanging on its meaning, using it to convey a deep longing. The bo-bo doll came up in full force.
I could have taken him home. I could have let him show me how much he missed me. I could have shown him what I knew he longed for. Instead, I asked him if his boyfriend would approve of him missing me and holding me and kissing my neck. He told me that he answers to no one. He’s a big boy and can do what he wants. He didn’t expect confrontation, and I didn’t expect to push him so much. As much as I wanted some male attention at that point, I let him know that I was too smart and had too much self-respect to be some other man.
The bo-bo doll came back from the floor vengefully. I called him to talk about the night. Was he drunk? Was he seriously trying to flirt with me when he had a man? Asking him why he came on to me went no where. In my mind, if you’re happy with the man you’re with, you don’t go around telling other men that you miss them. Something was missing from his life besides me. His man wasn’t giving him something or made him want something else. Without holding back, I let him know this. I honestly let him know that he was being unfair to his boyfriend. Then he told me that he missed me only as a friend. He was totally happy because his boyfriend “got his crazy.” And even though him and I could have made a great couple, there is nothing that his boyfriend doesn’t give him.
After getting smacked in the face by a bo-bo doll, you get a little dizzy. No one really expects the bo-bo doll to flip the scripts. So there I was, being lectured about how I just need to find someone that will get my crazy. I shouldn’t worry because I just have to believe and have faith, soon I’d find someone. Shocked and stunted, I sat on my bed, mouth agape, as middle school teacher tried to help me understand about faith in love.
We spoke for a little while longer before I told him I had to go. I walked around my apartment in a stupor. Had I really become cynical and bitter? It took me a few days to come to my senses. Of course I am cynical and bitter! How could I let him punk me into thinking that cynical and bitter is not an acceptable attitude for a single man in New York? I mean everyone knows I’m a hopeless romantic, but there’s a layer of salty cynicism that keeps me from writing hearts and names on the agendas of faculty meetings. More importantly, how did I let him steer me off the topic of his arguable infidelity? This is why adults don’t play with bo-bo dolls—all the back and forth just makes grown-ups nauseous.
Middle school teacher wanted to see me. I thought I knocked him out of my life when he sent me the awkward text message over the summer. Somehow, even in the midst of him dating the guy he thought was “more of what he was looking for,” he came back up from the floor, managing to text me over Thanksgiving. We only texted back and forth, not meeting up. This, however, was not a significant enough blow to keep him out of my life. After a concert, he met me while I was out with some friends of mine. He came to the back of the bar quickly, smiling as he saw me. Walking right up to me, he interlaced his fingers behind the small of my back and whispered, “I miss you.” He lingered on “miss,” emphasizing it, hanging on its meaning, using it to convey a deep longing. The bo-bo doll came up in full force.
I could have taken him home. I could have let him show me how much he missed me. I could have shown him what I knew he longed for. Instead, I asked him if his boyfriend would approve of him missing me and holding me and kissing my neck. He told me that he answers to no one. He’s a big boy and can do what he wants. He didn’t expect confrontation, and I didn’t expect to push him so much. As much as I wanted some male attention at that point, I let him know that I was too smart and had too much self-respect to be some other man.
The bo-bo doll came back from the floor vengefully. I called him to talk about the night. Was he drunk? Was he seriously trying to flirt with me when he had a man? Asking him why he came on to me went no where. In my mind, if you’re happy with the man you’re with, you don’t go around telling other men that you miss them. Something was missing from his life besides me. His man wasn’t giving him something or made him want something else. Without holding back, I let him know this. I honestly let him know that he was being unfair to his boyfriend. Then he told me that he missed me only as a friend. He was totally happy because his boyfriend “got his crazy.” And even though him and I could have made a great couple, there is nothing that his boyfriend doesn’t give him.
After getting smacked in the face by a bo-bo doll, you get a little dizzy. No one really expects the bo-bo doll to flip the scripts. So there I was, being lectured about how I just need to find someone that will get my crazy. I shouldn’t worry because I just have to believe and have faith, soon I’d find someone. Shocked and stunted, I sat on my bed, mouth agape, as middle school teacher tried to help me understand about faith in love.
We spoke for a little while longer before I told him I had to go. I walked around my apartment in a stupor. Had I really become cynical and bitter? It took me a few days to come to my senses. Of course I am cynical and bitter! How could I let him punk me into thinking that cynical and bitter is not an acceptable attitude for a single man in New York? I mean everyone knows I’m a hopeless romantic, but there’s a layer of salty cynicism that keeps me from writing hearts and names on the agendas of faculty meetings. More importantly, how did I let him steer me off the topic of his arguable infidelity? This is why adults don’t play with bo-bo dolls—all the back and forth just makes grown-ups nauseous.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Goldilocks
I guess my nice guy complex caught up with me. I’m not sure why I cried just then, nor do I understand why I sobbed so loudly. I suppose being the strong and stable one leads easily into being the discontented one. The cathartic rush of salty tears sobered me up, but not my friend. I suppose it’s just a good-hearted gesture to take a drunk friend home—this was, perhaps, lost on his roommate.
I was thanked, but still scolded for playing caretaker. I suppose the sharp vulnerability of being so inebriated that you cannot help but become the damsel in distress shocks some people into a more hardened response. This is not to say that I don’t understand such a reaction; not everyone can accept people being nice. And when I say “everyone,” I include myself.
Through a friend of a friend, I acquainted myself with a guy who seemed to have his shit together. I of course had to check all references because a problem-free man is such an anomaly that I couldn’t assume that an apparent lack of problems actually proves results. Despite my prying, I couldn’t find a thing to complain or gripe about. He had a good job, interesting things to say, a sense of humor—all the necessary things.
We went on two great dates. Deep conversations mingled into witty banter and then back to intellectual foreplay. Yet, after each both dates, I went home without letting my mind linger on how great the night went. I didn’t fantasize about him; I didn’t indulge the teenager girl in her notebook drawing. I stopped myself in thinking about what I missed from the “total-package” he seemed to offer.
I liked our late night phone class best. We talked a good while about our days and let our discussion meander. The eagerness in his voice came clearly through my phone. In planning our next date, a pause came. He cleared his throat and continued, “. . . and then after the movie, I though, maybe, you’d like to come and spend the night with me if you want and think you’d like to . . .” He rambled on and a bulldozer slammed what was missing in my face: swagger. He talked and my realization of just how corny he was snowballed until I envisioned Ned Flanders on the other side of the phone.
Feeling like Goldilocks, I reflected on my newly found insight. How can I complain that all the men I meet have too many problems when I only turn around and say the man I meet without problems is boring? Not wanting to be a hypocrite, I went on the date, intending to enjoy his company. We had a good time at the movie and even held hands—my ultimate desire in a movie. Things would be just fine after all.
Back at his apartment, the cuteness of our movie watching ebbed as we flowed into a break in our sexual tension. Clothes came off; hearts began to race. I bit him lightly on his neck, maneuvering his arms to the wall. I turned him around and kissed his neck from behind. Looking down, the glimmer of light from the street illuminated a great horror. My jaw and libido simultaneously hit the floor—he had an ashy back. This was the breaking point. Corny I can handle, but a silver back is just unforgivable. Feigning drowsiness, I rolled over and called it quits.
I was thanked, but still scolded for playing caretaker. I suppose the sharp vulnerability of being so inebriated that you cannot help but become the damsel in distress shocks some people into a more hardened response. This is not to say that I don’t understand such a reaction; not everyone can accept people being nice. And when I say “everyone,” I include myself.
Through a friend of a friend, I acquainted myself with a guy who seemed to have his shit together. I of course had to check all references because a problem-free man is such an anomaly that I couldn’t assume that an apparent lack of problems actually proves results. Despite my prying, I couldn’t find a thing to complain or gripe about. He had a good job, interesting things to say, a sense of humor—all the necessary things.
We went on two great dates. Deep conversations mingled into witty banter and then back to intellectual foreplay. Yet, after each both dates, I went home without letting my mind linger on how great the night went. I didn’t fantasize about him; I didn’t indulge the teenager girl in her notebook drawing. I stopped myself in thinking about what I missed from the “total-package” he seemed to offer.
I liked our late night phone class best. We talked a good while about our days and let our discussion meander. The eagerness in his voice came clearly through my phone. In planning our next date, a pause came. He cleared his throat and continued, “. . . and then after the movie, I though, maybe, you’d like to come and spend the night with me if you want and think you’d like to . . .” He rambled on and a bulldozer slammed what was missing in my face: swagger. He talked and my realization of just how corny he was snowballed until I envisioned Ned Flanders on the other side of the phone.
Feeling like Goldilocks, I reflected on my newly found insight. How can I complain that all the men I meet have too many problems when I only turn around and say the man I meet without problems is boring? Not wanting to be a hypocrite, I went on the date, intending to enjoy his company. We had a good time at the movie and even held hands—my ultimate desire in a movie. Things would be just fine after all.
Back at his apartment, the cuteness of our movie watching ebbed as we flowed into a break in our sexual tension. Clothes came off; hearts began to race. I bit him lightly on his neck, maneuvering his arms to the wall. I turned him around and kissed his neck from behind. Looking down, the glimmer of light from the street illuminated a great horror. My jaw and libido simultaneously hit the floor—he had an ashy back. This was the breaking point. Corny I can handle, but a silver back is just unforgivable. Feigning drowsiness, I rolled over and called it quits.
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