The new year brings the strangest anxieties
The first time we met, the thing I wanted to do most was dance with her. I don’t think even she knows why she talked to me or asked me to come with her and her friends to go dancing. But she was on a semi-date and when the woman who was all over her left to go to the bar, I asked her if she wanted to make out with me. She looked at me like I was a bizarre idiot and said, no. But if no one could see her put her hand in my back pocket what could be the harm? After all I did have a nice ass. So in lieu of making out, I asked her that. And she did. She copped a feel before coming to her senses. Her friends came back. They had beers, I had whiskey. And the next thing I knew I was in a cab, passing her a bottle of Old Grandad across the purse of her semi-date.
The music was thrilling and pulsing and arousing. And I was restless to the point of mania. She started to dance with me but stopped. Her hanger-on chewed my ear off asking me what I thought her chances were. What I wanted to say was, None, you idiot. Because I’m here now. What I said, though, was, “Just tell her how you feel and don’t mince about.”
She turned me down thrice. But she didn’t dance with the waffling weirdo, either. Every number when there wasn’t a glass in my hand, there was a hand. I danced with everyone in the room. Two a.m on a Sunday morning. And all I had to show for it was a wet shirt, four less ounces of Old Grandad and a phone number for her work.
The second time I met her, she didn’t even talk to me. I spent the entire evening amusing her best friend. When it was time to leave I held her jacket up for her. She took it from my hands and shrugged it on as she walked out the bar. I watched the sequins on her jeans pockets wink at me as she walked away to the cab.
The third time I met her I played the host at her annual barbeque. No one knows where she went for two hours. But I can mix a mean martini. And there was mint and rum. And tons of food. Some of which I cooked. Nobody in the room knew who I was or what exactly I was doing there. If you’ve ever done stand up, you know it isn’t easy to keep forty people happy. That night she asked the stragglers dumping the cigarette butts out of the wine glasses to go dancing. Two Wild Turkeys into taking over the dance floor, she still wouldn’t dance with me. Four Coronas later she was ready to leave. And I walked the four long blocks to 8th street just to walk off the booze.
The fourth time we met I had just treated myself to a haircut and manicure, just so I could feel better about not getting my way. I probably shouldn’t have been studying Attic Greek in a dyke bar, but at least she was laughing. And by the time I started talking about catastrophic fantasies and actors with borderline personalities she was touching me casually. I knew things were going well when she asked me if I wanted a tequila. Another shot later I decided I had to do something. So when she returned from the loo, I told her that I wanted to kiss her. And then I did. My skin was hot and my heart was beating like mad. Several minutes of non-conversation later, she asked me to go home with her. I held her hand. Glad for the end of resistance, like Molly, I said yes. Yes I would. Yes, I would love to.
The next day she sent me to work wearing her shirt and not a touch of make-up to cover the bruises on my neck.
We did dinner. We did lunch. We did brunches and cocktails. And lockdown weekends and naked Sundays and disturbing the neighbours and changing from the 7 train to the N and doubling back from Queens to Manhattan at 11:30 at night to spend time. And then we did dancing.
I’ve folded her laundry. I’ve cooked her breakfast. I’ve inflicted my family on her. I know how she likes eggs. And I’ve kept my hand on her mouth to keep her quiet as she came when her friends were on the other side of the door. How in fuck do I tell her I’d rather go dancing alone?
The music was thrilling and pulsing and arousing. And I was restless to the point of mania. She started to dance with me but stopped. Her hanger-on chewed my ear off asking me what I thought her chances were. What I wanted to say was, None, you idiot. Because I’m here now. What I said, though, was, “Just tell her how you feel and don’t mince about.”
She turned me down thrice. But she didn’t dance with the waffling weirdo, either. Every number when there wasn’t a glass in my hand, there was a hand. I danced with everyone in the room. Two a.m on a Sunday morning. And all I had to show for it was a wet shirt, four less ounces of Old Grandad and a phone number for her work.
The second time I met her, she didn’t even talk to me. I spent the entire evening amusing her best friend. When it was time to leave I held her jacket up for her. She took it from my hands and shrugged it on as she walked out the bar. I watched the sequins on her jeans pockets wink at me as she walked away to the cab.
The third time I met her I played the host at her annual barbeque. No one knows where she went for two hours. But I can mix a mean martini. And there was mint and rum. And tons of food. Some of which I cooked. Nobody in the room knew who I was or what exactly I was doing there. If you’ve ever done stand up, you know it isn’t easy to keep forty people happy. That night she asked the stragglers dumping the cigarette butts out of the wine glasses to go dancing. Two Wild Turkeys into taking over the dance floor, she still wouldn’t dance with me. Four Coronas later she was ready to leave. And I walked the four long blocks to 8th street just to walk off the booze.
The fourth time we met I had just treated myself to a haircut and manicure, just so I could feel better about not getting my way. I probably shouldn’t have been studying Attic Greek in a dyke bar, but at least she was laughing. And by the time I started talking about catastrophic fantasies and actors with borderline personalities she was touching me casually. I knew things were going well when she asked me if I wanted a tequila. Another shot later I decided I had to do something. So when she returned from the loo, I told her that I wanted to kiss her. And then I did. My skin was hot and my heart was beating like mad. Several minutes of non-conversation later, she asked me to go home with her. I held her hand. Glad for the end of resistance, like Molly, I said yes. Yes I would. Yes, I would love to.
The next day she sent me to work wearing her shirt and not a touch of make-up to cover the bruises on my neck.
We did dinner. We did lunch. We did brunches and cocktails. And lockdown weekends and naked Sundays and disturbing the neighbours and changing from the 7 train to the N and doubling back from Queens to Manhattan at 11:30 at night to spend time. And then we did dancing.
I’ve folded her laundry. I’ve cooked her breakfast. I’ve inflicted my family on her. I know how she likes eggs. And I’ve kept my hand on her mouth to keep her quiet as she came when her friends were on the other side of the door. How in fuck do I tell her I’d rather go dancing alone?