Archive for February, 2010

Tonight was an interesting night. I swung by Brooklyn’s office around 4 to drop off his iPod and winter hat which had been left in the rental car before heading home. We had some tea, chatted awhile, flirted a bit.  It was fun. We talked about my birthday on Friday night and what the plans were and I ran into a raging little queen I know whom I haven’t seen in ages. Since he knows me as a raging dyke, he was probably a little confused to find me with my legs entangled with those of a man and looking romantic. I’ll explain it to him later. I walked Brooklyn back to his office and jumped the train home.

When I was approximately 20 minutes from home, I decided I really wanted Pho for dinner.  I am fighting off a nasty head cold and Pho is usually just the thing. I texted a few friends asking who might be up for it and my old punker/surfer turned successful IT professional friend said a wholehearted yes. We met at the train station and he decides that we should go somewhere else. Suddenly my quick hour meal of steamy pho turns into 4 hours, nearly 5 hard ciders and some french fries and middle eastern food. Did I mention that it turned out the bar had a bad punk dj set up? Punk/surfer and I relived our old punk/industrial childhoods from 20 years before and laughed at the kids surrounding us. Many of these kids were in diapers, if even born, when we were out at clubs seeing these bands. I threw my shoulder out in the mosh pit of a concert before these kids were walking.

At some point I got up to use the bathroom, waited in line and some prick decides to kick his way through and cut in front of 6 of us. I called him on his shit and stuck my foot in the door so it wouldn’t shut. Fine, you wanna piss? Piss in front of everyone you fat fucking 20-year-old dirt “punk” in stretch skinny jeans, Reebok sneakers and leather studded jacket that you can’t zip around your enormous gut. Go ahead. So, he does and then he attempts to strut by, as well as any fat man in stretch skinny jeans can strut. I pee, sit back with my friend and tell him the story, pointing out the idiot prick at the bar.

Punk/Surfer Friend and I continue to finish our drinks and half reminisce and half make fun of the kids when suddenly the fattie “punk” is on the microphone next to the dj and beginning some diatribe he thinks is comedic. One of the things he says is something about the suburban girl who was like, umm, excuse me..about the bathroom. Hmm, you talking about ME fattie? UM? suburban? And he said it in this mousey voice. I’m like,”No, uh uh. No YOU didn’t”. Mostly, I was pissed because I was really aggressive about the cut at the bathroom and responded in a way to honor my industrial/goth punk and Brooklyn backgrounds by swearing at him and kicking the door open.

So, anyway, he finishes his little rant and next thing you know we happen to be leaving and he’s outside by the door. So, I’m irritated by his bullshit and so I slap him on the arm in front of all his friends and say,” so, did your little diatribe make your dick feel big?” as I walked by. He tried to talk smack to my friend and I but we are not having it at all. We looked at them, “dude, you don’t even know who John Peel is, let alone The Damned.” Let alone Throbbing Gristle!

As we walked back to the car, we laughed at their store-bought recycled era punk nonsense. 20 years ago we were doing the same shit they are, difference is, we were actually at some of the shows that they can now only listen to on their parent’s vinyl. Just because we opt to look attractive and conventional-esque now, rather than wear our freak on our sleeve like we did 20 years ago, just because we blend… don’t think you know us. I don’t feel the need to get their approval of my “street cred”, I am just more annoyed at the way the fattie tried to pass me off as some mousey suburban girl with long blonde hair saying, “umm, hi, umm, sir, excuse me. ” I have a strong inner freak flag and I can wave that bitch. I’ve been a Dom, I’ve hung with hardcore, industrial, and punk legends AND I have cleaned up well enough to have spent time with political dignitaries from other countries. I may look Anthropologie meets Brooklyn to your Hot Topic meets your Uncle Pete’s closet but I have dirty secrets and piercing scars that you can’t see. Don’t judge books. Sometimes the ordinary ones, have the richest ingredients and the strongest verbal left hooks.

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We agreed on a place and time. Talked several times during the day as I did laundry, showered, changed three times and finally picked up the rental car. He makes me smile. I save his texts for days because they are cute, honest, sincere and without pretense. He recites poetry verses or makes an ass of himself, only I don’t think of him as an ass, so it just endears him more deeply to me. He lets me know that he is thinking of me and that it made him smile and for that he is thankful. Who does that? We talk about wanting men or women, partners, lovers, etc that will bare themselves to us, but then we are turned away by it. The rawness somehow ugly. Brooklyn isn’t ugly though. It’s a calm quiet storm within him, but more about that later.

I text him that I was stuck on the wrong end of a drawbridge and will be there closer to 7.  He texts back that he is leaving his house in 5 and that he wins. I seethed in humor driven competition. Damn him! I am 5 minutes away, perhaps 7. I take a wrong turn and panic, damn, he is going to get there first. I finally find my way and then the parking lots are full. I am pleased however to see that his car is not there. Hmm, perhaps I can still win?! Just as I am trying to back out of the lot a couple approaches their car to leave. SCORE! I park, dig in my purse and pull myself together. I am almost to the entrance when I glance behind me and see him approaching. Ha Ha, I win! He gives me a quick kiss, even though we agreed that discretion in his own town is important. The impending divorce is not public knowledge and his ex just found out he is on a dating site. I don’t know how she could handle that he has met someone on the dating site. Although, women aren’t blind. I am sure that she suspects something, his behavior must be changed a bit.

The bar where we meet is packed. There are no discrete places to sit for a drink and so we decide to go elsewhere. We wander around the neighborhood a bit and end up in a friendly neighborhood pub. At the bar we stroke hands below the surface. We laugh, smirk, talk and stare at each other… still a little more obvious than not BUT hands stay below, where no one can see them. I admire a young girl who walks by, roughly 3 years old. The dad jokes with me that I can have her. I say, well, I don’t live in a little town like this, I live in a bigger city and I have a dog, how is she with dogs? The man then flirts with me a bit, funny that he does so in front of Brooklyn. Ballsy. He asks if Brooklyn is my husband, I laugh and say no. My boyfriend? Friend? Date? I just laugh. He then asks how Brooklyn is doing. As in, is he a good date? I laugh and look at Brooklyn, smile and respond to the ballsy guy,”He’s great. He’s awesome actually.”  The ballsy guy smiles, nods and says goodnight before heading back to his table. We finish up and then start walking over to the theatre for the show. I try to pull him into an alley for a kiss but he realizes he doesn’t have his ID on him and that we might need to run back to the car if they ask for it at will call. They don’t and I tell him that he missed out on a perfectly good kiss because he was over thinking.

We are the youngest people in the audience. The median age appears to be 65.We are relieved when the lights go down, allowing us the freedom to be affectionate without concern. He strokes my hands and wrists with his fingers and we lean into each other. He laughs and whispers in my ear that it is ironic how this is the longest he has seen me go without a smile, and that we are at a comedy show. Neither of us find the comedian’s routine to be that funny. However, he knows his audience and the crowd loves him. We just sit there laughing at each other and the people surrounding us. We are thankful for intermission. I rush down to the bathroom and when I get back to my seat, I cannot find him. I send him a text asking where he is, only to have him texting me back to join him for a drink at the bar on the first level. He flirts with me and keeps calling it our first date. I remind him that we have hung out 4 other times. He smiles and decides that he is going to call every date our first. He then proceeds to set me up for a fake interview for a book he is doing on Brooklyn. My face hurts from smiling.

We head back upstairs to the show, hoping that we have missed enough of the second act to make it bearable. Barely. On our way out we thank the comedian for a fun evening and head outside. As I try to extend my car reservation, it appears someone else booked it close enough to my reservation to give the night a wee  bit of bummer. I extend for as long as I can and decide, sometimes the late fee is worth it. We end up parked at the beach, in February. Standing in the sand, we kiss for a few minutes until my hands and ears go numb. It’s beautiful and in warmer weather, I am so there. We end up in the backseat of the car listening to Shudder to Think and making out. Nothing too dramatic. Hot, but also sweet. Yes, I do at some point maneuver a hand grab so I can have an idea of what I am dealing with. Apparently, much to my happy findings, the Catholic Polish have a thing or two in common with the nice Jewish boys I have known. Now, the backseat of a Scion isn’t all that roomy, let me tell you. But it’s nice. We don’t say much. We often don’t say much to each other. It’s as if we have the close comforting familiarity of old friends. Old friends who happen to be very hot for each other. I told him that I was planning on keeping him. That I ripped the tag off and threw away the receipt. He inquired about what I would do when he breaks, won’t I want to return him then. I laughed and explained that duct tape fixes most breaks.

We spent the remaining few minutes before I had to leave curled up together awkwardly. We just closed our eyes and enjoyed the quiet. The next 40 minutes were a whirlwind. He is roughly 49 minutes from my house , we were ten minutes from the location I map-quested originally, so add-on another 10 minutes. He drove us back in the rental to his car and led me to the highway on ramp. The car needed to be back in a half hour. I am an hour away and have 30 minutes to get there. I call to let them know I will be about 10 minutes late and speed down the highway going close to 90 for most of it. I make it there in a hair under 40 minutes, including a pit stop at my house to drop off my laptop so I am not carrying that home on the street at 2 am asking to be mugged. We text back and forth a few times as I walk home, he had asked to hear from me, to make sure I arrived safely. Knowing how fast I was driving, he was worried. He left me cute messages and then we said our good nights. We talk everyday now. Is this strange?

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So, I finally agreed to a movie and make out night with the 25-year-old. We picked up take-out from a local Whole Foods, I grabbed a tea from a coffee shop and then we headed back to his place. We set about watching Royal Tenenbaums and then a few too many episodes of Spaced on Hulu, which 25 had never seen. he wasn’t even familiar with Simon Pegg. HELLO! Hot Fuzz! Shaun of the Dead! Spaced?!!! I loves me some Simon Pegg.

Anyway, I’m there. I’m on his couch. He’s got the green light .And… nada. It isn’t until the last two episodes of Spaced that he finally decides to try to cuddle. Granted, I am not entirely there. I am a little distracted. I was supposed to be spending a steamy evening with Brooklyn in the backseat of a car on the beach. NO, not THAT steamy. As you may recall,the ex-wife stomped on those plans as soon as we had solidified them. So, here I was, with a plan B. I hate plan B’s because they aren’t fair to the person who ended up in that slot. Yet, there I was, willing to give him the chance he kept asking for and alluding to. He didn’t try to kiss me, he didn’t even pet me in a way that was suggestive of his desire to kiss me. It’s as if he completely froze up at the bat.

On the way to the train he finally gives me a little kiss. Boys, boys, boys. What are we gonna do with these nervous boys? This one is quickly migrating into the friendship sector. Ok, honestly, he probably already is there but I have been trying to give him a couple chances since he has tried for so long to get me to treat him like a man, rather than as a 25-year-old.

The 4-year-old black boy who started flirting with me on the train over to 25-year-old’s place has a better chance of dating me at this point, he had the moves, the guts, the lines… the 4-year-old was smoooth. He sauntered over to me after we made eye contact and sat in the empty seat next to me. He then looked up at me and said, ” Hi”. Simple and direct. I like it. I returned the greeting.  “I’m Marcus”. I smiled and told him my name while shaking his hand. A few seconds later, “so, you havin’ a good night?”. I started laughing, his mother was a few seats down cracking up at him as well. “Why yes Marcus, I am. Are you?” “Yeah, I’m on the Choo-Choo”, he replied.  Can I marry this boy now? He then asks me a few more questions and finally I ask him,”Marcus, are you flirting with me?”  He then looked up with these big brown eyes through huge thick black lashes, smiled shyly and said simply,”yes”. The 4-year-old has it figured out. Perhaps men lose their skills once puberty hits? This 4-year-old has it all figured out though. I’d date him, if I was 30 years younger.

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