The weekend started out innocently enough.
Recovering from a hellish, hectic week with a glass/bottle of wine and a movie on my couch when
we got into a text conversation (I'm not telling who texted who first - I'm working on teaching myself self control). I knew he’d been studying like a madman for a big test later this week, but thought with the newfound honesty about our situation, inviting him over to chill out would be no big deal – and don’t worry- I made it sound like no big deal. Which it isn’t really. I’ve lost any expectations for moving in a forward motion with this one. The ball’s in his court now, told me he’d text me the next day, and not surprisingly didn’t.
The next day, went to meet some friends to slam/sample some beers at beer fest. Ran into two boys I knew in Junior High and haven’t seen since. I would estimate the ratio of men to women at this event to be about 4:1. Unfortunately, I also discovered that the ratio of short men to tall men was also 4:1. Two of the former, dressed alike/the same; brown shoes, jeans, navy blue trenchcoat, navy blue button up underneath; struck up a conversation with me. Assuming they were together I felt comfortable and divulged more than I probably should (I NEVER do that;). We talked about sex; they asked me if I’d ever had a threesome. Anyways, one thing led to another, and they wanted my number to set up some type of sexual fantasy that they could probably never live up to. They were also quite shocked that I thought they were partners, and vehemently started defending their manhood by using terms such as ‘gangbangs’ and the like. I’m not fooled. The blonde one with the piercing blue eyes had something on me though---we’ve met, I’m sure of it and so is he, but we have no idea where. Strange. The night ended at a Blackalicious concert; one of the guys who had come with us was puttin down, but I was not picking up, and I gloriously left him when he thought $20 would be too much to see the rap genius. Ran into my ex’s cousin who I’d been friends with for years until he asked me out. Luckily, I don't remember this late into the night.
The texting started early the next day. After a fucking freezing cold 9 holes of golf (a great excuse to drink at 10 am) I started getting texts from I-know-you-from-where? bobsey twin #1, as he continued to ponder where we might know each other from. I suggested we’d hooked up one time and don’t remember, but he thought a brainstorm over some drinks might be a great idea to find out. Meanwhile, the swarthy Italian one with dark chest hair was texting me to suggest the same scenario. I should have known they both would fail on the follow through, and at the end of the night, I-know-you-from-where? bitched out to go to his parents for dinner and fall asleep on the couch with his sweatpants on.
After drinking for a full 24 hours, quitting was not in the cards and I became immersed in a twilight zone inhabited by every boy I’d crushed on/sexed/dated/loved/flirted with. Walking into the pub, I was confronted with a face I’d seen and recognized many times before—but again, no idea how.
“AXEL!!! How are you?” No light of recognition in my eyes, but as he closed in for a hug, I felt comfortable and knew I knew him.
“Don’t you remember?”
“Remember?”
“You know, Whistler, you on the bar, topless?”
I’m as red faced as an obviously shameless girl can be.
“Wait? Were we with the Skate and Party Club? Do you know Dan?” (Dan had been the president of the Skate and Party Club in University and we’d dated briefly).
“Yeah! I’m Shawn, don’t you remember?”
Obviously not, but we caught up and later outside, he gave me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received.
“You know, you have a great set,” he says, pointing to my chest. “Perfect nipples,” he muses. “They’ve been seared into my brain ever since. Um humm.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes, remembering.
I’m hoping this is what everyone remembers from that night. And thinking it would be nice if every other guy who’s witnessed me topless has the same memories.
I knew,
when I saw him, he would never approach me. He tends not to, in public, unless he’s inebriated. Maybe he never knows what mood I’ll be in - sad, reproachful, happy. He retured to the bar an hour later, after I'd thought he'd left for good, and I bit the bullet and approached him. I hadn’t seen him since our emotion less/filled encounter in December, and since I’d heard he’d had a terrible accident and been in the hospital. I may or may not have cried at the thought of this and my happiness over seeing him all right. Otherwise, it was an easy conversation, too easy. Probably why I don’t go out of my way to initiate, even though I have his phone number, because it just feels so natural, it makes me wonder why we’re not together. And apparently everyone else who sees us together feels the same: his friend was making goo goo eyes at us, the like I haven’t seen since elementary. Moving to another venue left me wanting more, but knowing I couldn’t have it, I wanted to go before I lost control (Like I said, I'm working on this).
Upon arrival, I’m confronted with my dream Jake-Gylenthall-just-came-out-of-the-dumpster-with-hot-moles-on-face-man. I have confirmation
his name is, in fact, Lauren. He probably has confirmation that I’m a crazy stalker. It’s really too bad I remember every moment of our first meeting and can regurgitate it with such a dreamy tone. Never say, ‘We’ve met (insert name here)’ to someone who you’ve fleetingly met once, dreamt about ever since, but who clearly does not remember meeting you.
Wrapping my weekend up with the late night calls and texts I should never answer (and didn’t!), the weekend made me wonder if this town is just too small for a shameless romantic like me.
Standing outside of Ironwood with some boys, waiting for a cab and I feel slimy running down my leg. I look down and it’s been hit. With an egg. As full moons encourage somewhat bizarre events and irrational behaviour, I’m not surprised. A little shocked though. It hurt, swelled up like a goose egg right away and the bits of eggshell made it bleed. Not the type to cry, or whine, or let a car load of shit disturbers ruin my night, we rambled on. Unfortunately we rambled into my shoe breaking; getting asked to leave the bar because, apparently, you can’t only have one shoe at the bar; and an altercation with a chubby, cocky shithead who pirated our cab and then laughed in our faces at what he did. Simultaneously asking the cabbie not to leave and screaming at my date to get back into the cab while he tries to beat the crap out of a shithead is not the ideal ending to a night.
