The First Thing I Need Is Mass-Hysteria
But even though I was comfortable with his hand holding my palm to his chest while he slept for five more minutes, my brain could not form a continuous string of events leading from when I left the house until that moment.
What had I said?
Things started popping into my head, and I knew I had said them, but I couldn't remember what had come before or after:
I told him I liked him, and that he was cute and sweet - about five thousand times. Who says stuff like that?
I told him he kissed like a guy who doesn't kiss a lot of girls.
I hope it wasn't an insult.I have no reason to think that he didn't enjoy being the object of my desire Friday night. I have no reason to think that he believes I'm a brazen hussy. I have no reason to think that just because he got his -- from a lonely, drunk-ass, stranger --that he's not going to call. But I don't like how I behaved.
I had had four drinks in forty minutes. He had one. I kissed him up against a chain link fence on the corner of First St. and Second. Ave. and I remember thinking that he looked like his head was spinning.
Things have been coming back into my memory slowly.
I told him I'm alergic to spiders. I told him that I'm afraid of falling, but that my ex-boyfriend used to stand on my toes and push me backwards. He said,
"Doesn't it suck when people figure out your weaknesses and target them?" This boy has no malice (I think I told him that).
He said I'm totally hot, I taste like alcohol and cigarettes, I have soft sweaters, I'm sweet, and I'm a good kisser, and that that's all he knows.
Swell.
I wish I just stayed up all night talking to him about the meaning of the universe, learning more about each other, and building up a personal desire to get it on, instead of a generic one.
See, I had a generic desire to be made to feel sexy, I even wrote that here, and I allowed him to become the recepticle of my pent-up energy. Usually I don't really give a damn, because for years I haven't hoped to see a guy again, and again. But I do want to see him again.
Some of you will get this: his middle name is Michael. Fuck.
I apologized and he told me not to, and that he'd talk to me soon. He apologized for taking me to see Harry Potter.
Oh, and he admitted that yes, he got that quote from the Onion, but it wasn't a contrivance to impress me: he's interested in the subject matter and the interview was pertinent.
Here's the other reason why I feel like shit, though: because I don't have a clue as to what is going on inside my head and heart right now.
I have operating simultaneously the mechanism of, "I could marry him but it's never going to happen," and "something's going to happen but I'd never marry him." I've always said to love the one you're with, but I've never actually had to put it into practice. My heart is in Tennessee, but this guy Jon dazzles me a little.
Now here's the rest of the weekend:
I left Jon at around 8:15 Saturday morning and took a train back home. It was 10:20 when I walked in and I had a wierd sensation when I saw my bosses: like they should be mad at me for staying out all night and not calling. It's really strange to live with a family that you don't live with.
I slept until 4:00, took a shower and went back into the city.
I looked in all the shop windows on 5th Ave at the Christmas decorations and watched the ice skaters in Rockefellar Center and I closed my eyes to imagine I was Meg Ryan and that some dashing, well-established, philosopher would invite me into his horse-drawn carriage for a moonlit tour of Central Park 'neath his Merino wool throw as said things to make me feel as though every event in my life had been for the purpose of getting me to that moment.....
Then I remembered I'm no better than a red-neck beer-bitch who requests songs like, "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw."
Time for a party? Absolutely. I took a cab into Brooklyn (which is probably where I'd live if I got my own place here) where Liza and Jen (two of my cousin's best friends) live. I had coffee with Liza last week, and it was one of those moments where we wondered why I'd been living here for four months without us kicking it yet.
It was one of those parties with people in every room, music keeping a steady beat, alcohol in endless supply, converstation in an easy stream, and people were dancing throughout: not in groups, but just a smattering of individuals dancing alone. I met people that made me laugh, and after we got trashed we sang Bon Jovi and GNR, and I felt like I was back in Tennessee for a minute.
Anyone of my friends in Tennessee would have felt at home at this party.
People kissed me and told me they loved me and that I was in.
I'm glad they think I'm in, because I thought I was in, and I would hate to have to convince them I was in, because I'm gonna start acting like I'm in, I feel in, it's good they know I'm in.
I met my cousin's best friend, too. Okay, my cousin, Shea, lives in California, now, but grew up East Coast. He's one of my favorite people in the world -- a snow-board instructor, sushi chef, and he sends me compilation tapes all the time -- and so the bond of Shea is very strong. Anyway, I met his best friend, then didn't stop talking to him until he left: a little over an hour (?); no sense of time when drinking.
Very attractive. Listens to hip-hop. Is a professional tree-climber (talked about that for a long time). Has a degree in philosophy. Is my age. We exchanged phone numbers with a sense of obligation that as Shea's best friend he must make me the cousin feel welcome in New York. He said he'd offered his number for Shea to give me months ago, but I never got it. I couldn't help but feel that he thought I was attractive, too, though.
His name is Nathaniel. How fucking funny is that?
I got into a conversation around four a.m. with a boy named Miguelin who had perfectly manicured eye-brows but he was straight. He said one day he would return to the Dominican Republic, and then a moment later he told me he was born in Queens.
Right on.
I stayed all night. We went to breakfast at a diner: five girls and this other guy who knew my cousin, Gabe. I ate about forty-seven pounds of food when I realized that it was Sunday morning and I hadn't eaten since Friday night: WAY TO GO, FUCK HEAD!! (I am my own worst critic).
There was this one girl there, Megan, who I realized had gone to school with me fifteen years ago when I lived in northern Vermont. Suddenly I remembered the names of about five people who I was friends with there, and she knows them all. I was trippin. It was unexpectedly pleasant, to say the least.
We drank more beer, because the second keg wasn't drained.
We went to the park and played football, and then played on the swings in a park. We watched a professional bull-riding rodeo and all showed our rural roots (my companions are from Vermont). We cooked dinner, and then around seven I took a train back out to the suburbs.
I think I found some girl buddies.
I think I am a retard.
I'm going to stop feeling sorry for myself, though.
