Best. Kiss. Eveh.

[m_lo_ol_m]

I make it a point to be somehow involved with QACON each year, whether they know it or not. For QACON12 back in April, I volunteered my time, and mostly checking off as many of the availability boxes as possible, I naturally got stuck with the 10:00pm to 1:00 am shift as list checker at the door for the Saturday night afterparty. I say 'stuck' because a normal person wouldn't want to do the job. For me, it was a perfect excuse NOT to hit the dance floor and make a fool of myself like I attempted to do when I was free for the 9:00pm to 10:00pm shift. I say 'attempted' because I didn't hit the dance floor, but I managed to make a fool of myself there anyway.

Anyway, so I'm relegated to the check-in table, trusty conference list in hand. By the time my shift started, pretty much everyone who was going to show up had been checked in, wrist-strapped, and was pretty sloshed by whomever it was that bought for them from Kip's upstairs. There were a few stragglers and in-and-outs-- if they were drunk and Asian, I just let them in.

"How's it going here?" he asked as he and his companions came in. "How's the table?"

"The table's good. Sturdy, strong, lots of sexy people." Not sure why I said that. I'd had a little to drink too. I waved them all in.

I did what I could to make my time enjoyable. Well-- not true. I could have easily left and danced, but did everything but, my volunteering duty safely tucked between my legs. The check-in table had become the repository for tens of backpacks, jackets and what not over the course of the night, so I randomly put on someone's jacket and hat that were laying around for fun. The jacket was red, I think, and too small. It was pheromonally a guy's; that thought warmed me. The jacket warmed me too, so eventually, it came off. The hat was baby blue and said "UCLA." Ten minutes passed.

He came up to my table again, searching for something.

"Hey, that's my hat!"

"Er, yea, it is."

As he leaned in to take it off my head, he kissed me.

*  *  *

(That's the only way I can describe what went through my mind that first second: "*  *  *")

Then:

OhShit!WhatTheFuck'sHappening?WhatDoIDo?WhatDoIDo?ShouldIPullAway?ShouldILeanIn?What'sGoingOn?Oh,FuckThereIsAGod!ThisMustBeWrong.IWantIWant...

Is it possible to hyperventilate and not be able to breathe at the same time?

His lips were perfect, soft yet firm. A woman's lips are soft, but mushy. His were like the way a good pillow's supposed to be, cradling your head yet supporting your neck so you sleep just right and don't wake up walking around like a parapalegic the next morning. He was skilled. He gave it just the right amount of suction, just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of wetness.

I kind of just sat there; I didn't really respond nor reciprocate. Nor did I pull away nor push him away. I had it in my mind that somehow kissing someone this young is a bad thing. Like it's illegal or something. I mean, what, right? He's likely an undergrad, so he's like, what, 23 at most? I didn't want to ever be accused of taking advantage of someone. I mean, like, I'M supposed to be the adult here. And this kid could be my son.  But FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK, he rocked my world in those 3(?) seconds, in ways both orgiastic and dreadful. The repercussions were and are still astounding and complex. (Is this what straight people feel, and is this what I've been missing all along? How sad is it that I'm finally feeling devirginized at 46? The most pressing: Why don't I feel this good kissing my boyfriend?) I wanted to pull away, but didn't want to pull away. I wanted his tongue touching mine, but didn't dare open my jaw. I am by no means an adult yet-- this proved it.

I'm not sure when he stopped. I suspect he said "Bye" as he left with his friends because I think I said something like "See ya" back. "See ya" as in "I WANT to see you again sometime but I'm sure this was just a fluke, so thank you and I really wish you a good life."

I assume he took his hat.

I didn't know what to do. I desperately licked and bit my upper lip, where his had been, to try to catch some taste, some essence of him, but to no avail. If sweaty dancing Asians smell like Tide®, it makes sense that their saliva would taste like spring water.

OK, OK, let's calm down here for a sec. Let's get rational. He's drunk. It's late, so he's probably desperate. Yea, that's it. He's drunk, and it was dark, and he was leaving because he had to puke. Of course. And tomorrow night, downing two hangover Motrim in the back of his friend's car on the way back to LA, they'll make fun of him for kissing that creepy old white guy that was hanging around all conference. He'll deny it-- either actually not remember from being so drunk, or lie about it. Whatevs...
I bit my upper lip raw for something, anything.

The place cleared out promptly at 1.

Click to view

I tried to see if there was some kind of clean up needed, cuz, hey, I'm a volunteer, but mostly, I think, I wanted to avoid running into Mr. Blue Hat. No more help needed, so I went out to my bike. I wasn't drunk anymore, not that that $3 whiskey shot would have kept me tipsy all night, but the event that transpired put me in a state of mind that it didn't even matter if I was drunk or sober. My bike wouldn't start. I needed a new battery, but usually if I waited for about 10 minutes after trying, it would eventually crank over. I took off my helmet. It's hard to look cool when your battery's dead, and you're worrying about having to call AAA who only jump motorcycle batteries on a whim.

I saw Mr Blue Hat. What do I do? I wanted really to do what any other 16-year-old girl would do, hug him, squeeze him, suck on his toes and follow him around like a lost puppy desperate for his next meal. (I realize 16-year-old girls don't suck guy's toes. This buys into my theory that het relationships don't really exist.)

Fortunately, Mr Blue Hat seemed caught up in blabbing with whoever it was he was blabbling with. He walked around a bit, then headed back upstairs to Kip's. I tried my bike again; no luck. I turned around and there he was right next to me. He kissed me again. I was trying so hard to NOT be the predator that I felt I was being preyed on. Not that I minded.

"So, you're a volunteer?"

"Yep."

"You'll be at the brunch tomorrow?"

I hadn't planned on it. Seeing as I'd volunteered the entire previous Friday and Saturday, I took the time off specifically so I wouldn't feel like I've overstayed my welcome. And despite the fact that I now wanted to, I already had plans. (Trust me when I say if you're going to come out, come out EARLY to avoid losing such flexibilities.) I lied.

"Yea."

"Good, see ya then." His voice was all soft, low and tender. Yea, that sounds tacky now, but I've no other way to describe it; it was sweet. I'm not sure-- he may have had his hand on my shoulder. Again, I wasn't sure exactly when he left. I know I watched him walk away and around the corner on Telegraph.
My bike started. I got home and the wife was pissed at me for staying out past when I said I'd be home. Whatevs..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"...What!? You blew him off?!" my therapist screeched a few weeks later.

"But... but... but, I thought you said that guys under 25 were off limits."

"Yea, for ME! And this guy came on to YOU! Oh, geez, you need more work than I thought..."

I seem to have this fear of younger guys. The whole age-disparate relationship is such a taboo in our society, yet, in the gay world at least, plain old gay relationships are taboo anyway, so what's one more? I mean, I know 2 guys my age in such relationships, and the other guys at the Pacific Center that know about it don't say anything-- but it makes me cringe for some reason. Maybe it's because one of the negative connotations of being a rice queen is that you're a closet pedophile. Maybe it's just because I'm socially at the level of a 16-year-old. Maybe it's just an extension of simply hiding my gayness all these years-- I'm grasping for some kind of new secret to place in the empty dungeon where my gayness once resided. Internalized homophobia; can't relate to people who remind me of me; desire simply of 'otherness'? My therapist says I show signs of being abused as a child, that being one of them. Also, I worry too much.

I'm going to need to go on a real date with a 20-something, if only to verify my expectations that I'm too immature myself to be someone's 'daddy,' yet too old to give a shit about the latest BritBeyonGaHanna single. But first, I'm going to Netflix "Chris and Don: A Love Story."