Halloween is one of those holidays where place is important. Just like Times Square is practially synonymous with New Years Eve, or New Orleans with Mardi Gras, or Las Vegas with sketchy business trips, Madison just goes balls to the wall on All Hallow's Eve. It's the third largest annual party in the country, after Times Square and Marti Gras, and considering that Madison is only a fraction of the size of New Orleans or New York, we should totally get bonus points.
Sure, there are other Halloween parties around the country, and other colleges that have celebrations, but none have the history of riots, tear gas and pepperspray, the tripling of the city's population in a four block radius, and the threat of martial law if/when the party gets out of hand.
The creativity just pours out when it comes time for Halloween. I know people who started planning their costume this summer. Even straight guys get into the fun.
Sure, we may have our fair share of slutty nurses, but we also have people dressed as abortionists, complete with bloody dolls skewered on wire hangers. We have fey pirates, but we also had a dead Steve Irwin, complete with stingray (Crikeys! Too soon, mate!) We have guys dressed as nuns, but how many people dressed in a priest costume, with a cabbage patch doll attached to the front of his belt, with the name Rep. Mark Foley, ca 1965? Who else would think to dress up as a Magritte painting, with a grey suit, a bowler hat and a green apple drawn with face paint? How many Duffman did you see? Guys in drag is always a standard, but how many guys dress as Joan Rivers? Or Dora the Explorer? Or Betty Page?
As for me, originally I planned on going as a Monster in a Wheelchair (youtube) but when the wheel fell off when my friend brought it up from her basement, I was forced to improvise.
Fortunately, most of my friends went as a group costume, and being alcoholics in a party town, we all went as a shot. We had a Grey Goose, a dirty girl scout (and we spent the afternoon making penis-shaped cookies), a red Bull with vodka, a jello shot, and a pearl necklace.
So what did I end up dressing as?
A Red-Headed Slut.
(More Halloween stories to come tomorrow.)
October 30, 2006
October 26, 2006
Taming of a Mole
It took me forever to figure out who he looked like, but once it hit me, I couldn’t help but see it every time I went over there to help him out: he was a young, gay Joel Stein. Of course, after checking out his profile on facebook it turns out he is straight, and after wikipediaing Joel Stein, it turns out he’s straight too. Go figure. But that’s not my point.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m an English major, or if because my mom is a librarian, or if my time spent at a grocery store wasn’t as big of a waste as I had thought, or just because I love old books, but the job comes incredibly easy. For me, the hardest part of working at the library is shelving a new book in the middle of a row of old books; there’s just something aesthetically wrong about a glossy paperback betwixt dusty old tomes dating back to the 1800s. (Yeah, that’s right. Betwixt.)
The library is in the middle of a major shift; hopefully it will be finished by the time I graduate, but that’s tentative at best. We receive over 150,000 books a year, to say nothing about magazines, senior theses, compact discs, dvds, and those weird scroll things from Tibet. And once a floor becomes full, there’s a shift, where we rearrange the shelf height, pull out old unused books, recategorize books to different floors, and respace the books on the shelf. I was originally hired just to put returned books back on the shelves, a position jokingly referred to as a 'mole,' most of my time is now spent taking books from one part of the library and moving them to another. It’s actually a lot more complicated than it sounds, but I’ve taken a knack to it. Other people haven’t, and so I spent most of my time working with people who were hired the same time I was, trained the same time I was, and working with them on the shift, not technically supervising but usually asked to ‘keep an eye on ________ and make sure he’s doing things right.’
Joel (not his real name, but rather the aforementioned doppelganger) was one of those characters. I walked in, checked my schedule, and headed up to the shift, bumping into the department head while waiting for the elevator. He told me a few reminders and refreshers to pass along to Joel when I got up there, and when I got up there, I found out why.
Joel, it turns out, had never worked this part of the library before, and so I went around and showed him where we keep the rags (libraries can get incredibly dusty), how to work the ends of the rows, make sure to check the top shelf for stragglers, the easiest way to keep books flush, and other basics. He was full of ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ and kept fidgeting, his hands constantly in his back pockets. Throughout the conversation he kept looking me in the eyes, but once I looked back and we made eye contact, he quickly looked down, or closed his eyes in an incredibly long blink before looking away.
He went to work on one part of the shelves, and I went down and worked on the other part. I could hear him humming and singing quietly to himself, not really forming real words but just ‘ba da dah bum bah.’ We’re allowed mp3 players, but mine ran out of battery the day before and I don’t know why he didn’t have his. Every so often I’d catch him looking my way, but then darting back, dropping a book ‘accidentally on purpose’ and breaking his glances.
I went and brought a cartful of books over to him, and showed him a few mistakes he had made, like how these books weren’t properly flush, and it’s better to switch shelves on even numbers. He just smiled and said OK and kept putting books back on the shelf. I noticed that the shelf looked kind of dirty, wiped it with my finger, and asked if he remember to wipe it with a rag before he started putting the books back.
“No I didn’t remember well I didn’t think that what you said was that I didn’t have to until I just thought that you’d come tell me if I was doing it wrong and I wondered about it but I’ve never had to deal with this before and…”
He kept going, a mile a minute. His hands were in his front pockets now, and as he talked his body became more and more concave, and by the time I interrupted him and told him it was no big deal, he’d just have to grab the rag and do it now, a bystander would have guessed it was some yoga pose. He looked awkward and aloof all at once, like those heroin-chic models that were so popular ten years ago.
While he was dusting, I tried making small talk with him, but it was like pulling teeth: So what’s your major? “History.” What kind of history? “African.” What made you decide on African history? “I dunno.” What year are you? “Freshm.” (He didn’t bother to say the entire word.) Are you in the dorms then? “Yes.” Which one? “_______.” Do you like it? noncommittal shrug
He eventually fixed things, and we finished up without a hitch. As we took the elevator down to the workroom to grab our stuff, I bit the bullet and asked the question.
“So, are you gay or are you just… kinda awkward?”
He just stares at me.
“I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t feel comfortable or whatever; I’m just curious.”
“That’s a weird question.”
“I guess. I’m usually not so blunt about it.”
“Well then.” I was hoping he’d say more, but that was it. The elevator was filled with silence, with only the occasional rattle as we passed each floor. Finally there was a ding and the doors opened.
He grabs his coat and leaves. He looks at me, smiles, and does a backward nod of the head in a “see-ya” sort of fashion, and I was left standing there in the empty workroom, trying to figure out what just happened.
But then I had to rush home because America’s Next Top Model was starting.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m an English major, or if because my mom is a librarian, or if my time spent at a grocery store wasn’t as big of a waste as I had thought, or just because I love old books, but the job comes incredibly easy. For me, the hardest part of working at the library is shelving a new book in the middle of a row of old books; there’s just something aesthetically wrong about a glossy paperback betwixt dusty old tomes dating back to the 1800s. (Yeah, that’s right. Betwixt.)
The library is in the middle of a major shift; hopefully it will be finished by the time I graduate, but that’s tentative at best. We receive over 150,000 books a year, to say nothing about magazines, senior theses, compact discs, dvds, and those weird scroll things from Tibet. And once a floor becomes full, there’s a shift, where we rearrange the shelf height, pull out old unused books, recategorize books to different floors, and respace the books on the shelf. I was originally hired just to put returned books back on the shelves, a position jokingly referred to as a 'mole,' most of my time is now spent taking books from one part of the library and moving them to another. It’s actually a lot more complicated than it sounds, but I’ve taken a knack to it. Other people haven’t, and so I spent most of my time working with people who were hired the same time I was, trained the same time I was, and working with them on the shift, not technically supervising but usually asked to ‘keep an eye on ________ and make sure he’s doing things right.’
Joel (not his real name, but rather the aforementioned doppelganger) was one of those characters. I walked in, checked my schedule, and headed up to the shift, bumping into the department head while waiting for the elevator. He told me a few reminders and refreshers to pass along to Joel when I got up there, and when I got up there, I found out why.
Joel, it turns out, had never worked this part of the library before, and so I went around and showed him where we keep the rags (libraries can get incredibly dusty), how to work the ends of the rows, make sure to check the top shelf for stragglers, the easiest way to keep books flush, and other basics. He was full of ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ and kept fidgeting, his hands constantly in his back pockets. Throughout the conversation he kept looking me in the eyes, but once I looked back and we made eye contact, he quickly looked down, or closed his eyes in an incredibly long blink before looking away.
He went to work on one part of the shelves, and I went down and worked on the other part. I could hear him humming and singing quietly to himself, not really forming real words but just ‘ba da dah bum bah.’ We’re allowed mp3 players, but mine ran out of battery the day before and I don’t know why he didn’t have his. Every so often I’d catch him looking my way, but then darting back, dropping a book ‘accidentally on purpose’ and breaking his glances.
I went and brought a cartful of books over to him, and showed him a few mistakes he had made, like how these books weren’t properly flush, and it’s better to switch shelves on even numbers. He just smiled and said OK and kept putting books back on the shelf. I noticed that the shelf looked kind of dirty, wiped it with my finger, and asked if he remember to wipe it with a rag before he started putting the books back.
“No I didn’t remember well I didn’t think that what you said was that I didn’t have to until I just thought that you’d come tell me if I was doing it wrong and I wondered about it but I’ve never had to deal with this before and…”
He kept going, a mile a minute. His hands were in his front pockets now, and as he talked his body became more and more concave, and by the time I interrupted him and told him it was no big deal, he’d just have to grab the rag and do it now, a bystander would have guessed it was some yoga pose. He looked awkward and aloof all at once, like those heroin-chic models that were so popular ten years ago.
While he was dusting, I tried making small talk with him, but it was like pulling teeth: So what’s your major? “History.” What kind of history? “African.” What made you decide on African history? “I dunno.” What year are you? “Freshm.” (He didn’t bother to say the entire word.) Are you in the dorms then? “Yes.” Which one? “_______.” Do you like it? noncommittal shrug
He eventually fixed things, and we finished up without a hitch. As we took the elevator down to the workroom to grab our stuff, I bit the bullet and asked the question.
“So, are you gay or are you just… kinda awkward?”
He just stares at me.
“I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t feel comfortable or whatever; I’m just curious.”
“That’s a weird question.”
“I guess. I’m usually not so blunt about it.”
“Well then.” I was hoping he’d say more, but that was it. The elevator was filled with silence, with only the occasional rattle as we passed each floor. Finally there was a ding and the doors opened.
He grabs his coat and leaves. He looks at me, smiles, and does a backward nod of the head in a “see-ya” sort of fashion, and I was left standing there in the empty workroom, trying to figure out what just happened.
But then I had to rush home because America’s Next Top Model was starting.
October 23, 2006
Midterms Study Mix (Heavy on the BastardPop)
1. Pumping (Loud and Clear)--DJ Cheekyboy (Black Eyed Peas vs. OMD) (mp3)
2. Wait Until You Taste Rain Man--Doppelbanger (Kelis vs Franz Zimmer)(mp3)
3. Best of Luck--Nickel Creek (mp3)
4. Requiem For Usher-- Doppelbanger (Usher vs Clint Mansell) (mp3)
5. Wrapped Up in Books--Belle and Sebastian (mp3)
6. Heavy Metal Drummer--Wilco (mp3)
7. Brazil is Full of Love--DJ Earworm (Bjork vs Death Cab for Cutie vs Cat Power vs Cornelius vs Chris Issak) (mp3)
8. Lost in the Supermarket--The Clash (mp3)
9. Everything is Everything--Phoenix (mp3)
10. Me and Giulani Down by the Schoolyard (A True Story)--!!! (mp3)
(Top Ten songs on my iTunes for the past week while studying for my unjust midterms.)
2. Wait Until You Taste Rain Man--Doppelbanger (Kelis vs Franz Zimmer)(mp3)
3. Best of Luck--Nickel Creek (mp3)
4. Requiem For Usher-- Doppelbanger (Usher vs Clint Mansell) (mp3)
5. Wrapped Up in Books--Belle and Sebastian (mp3)
6. Heavy Metal Drummer--Wilco (mp3)
7. Brazil is Full of Love--DJ Earworm (Bjork vs Death Cab for Cutie vs Cat Power vs Cornelius vs Chris Issak) (mp3)
8. Lost in the Supermarket--The Clash (mp3)
9. Everything is Everything--Phoenix (mp3)
10. Me and Giulani Down by the Schoolyard (A True Story)--!!! (mp3)
(Top Ten songs on my iTunes for the past week while studying for my unjust midterms.)
October 16, 2006
FollowUp
It's funny how events that really should have been turned into stories fail.
For example, I tried far too long to tell the story of the straight guy who held my hand on the way home from the bar, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. It just took too long, trying to set up the major characters and the storyline of five hours of drinking. For the record, he's amusingly confident and closeted. It's basically turned into a game each Thursday night, seeing how far he goes and still professes his heterosexuality.
Examples:
He had a conversation with one of my friends, the self-professed "Samantha" of our group. Her shirt left little to the imagination. A few minutes after they talked, she pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, "He's the first guy tonight to look me in the face the entire time. He didn't look at my boobs once!" Her tone was a mixture of incredulousness and indignace. I mean, I could see her areola. At first I thought it was her bra, but then she adjusted herself, and no, that wasn't her bra, that was her.
N. (his acronym until I find a better nickname for him) and I tried to convince two of our friends to go home with each other (we proved successful, except that he passed out before anything happened). N. would say things like "If you don't sleep with him, I'm tempted to myself," but yet got offended when she said that he if wanted, she would step down and let him go for it.
He has a girlfriend. His facebook profile proves this. However, she is not attractive and lives in DC. Also, his facebook profile says that he majored in Gender Studies (he's now a first year law student).
He's a tickler, at least to guys. He tickled me twice, and a friend of mine once. After he tickled me the second time, I proceded to give him a wet willy (I should probably mention that my method of getting my two friends to sleep together was taking shots with the guy, a jagerbomb with a tequila shot for a chaser). He tried to pants me in retaliation, but I was wearing a belt and my ass is far too round for pantsing to occur. So, in retaliation, he fondled my junk for a few minutes.
I would try harder to out him, or slip him up, or get him drunk and sleep with him, except that he has a habit of wearing black mock turtlenecks, and I just can't support that.
For example, I tried far too long to tell the story of the straight guy who held my hand on the way home from the bar, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. It just took too long, trying to set up the major characters and the storyline of five hours of drinking. For the record, he's amusingly confident and closeted. It's basically turned into a game each Thursday night, seeing how far he goes and still professes his heterosexuality.
Examples:
He had a conversation with one of my friends, the self-professed "Samantha" of our group. Her shirt left little to the imagination. A few minutes after they talked, she pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, "He's the first guy tonight to look me in the face the entire time. He didn't look at my boobs once!" Her tone was a mixture of incredulousness and indignace. I mean, I could see her areola. At first I thought it was her bra, but then she adjusted herself, and no, that wasn't her bra, that was her.
N. (his acronym until I find a better nickname for him) and I tried to convince two of our friends to go home with each other (we proved successful, except that he passed out before anything happened). N. would say things like "If you don't sleep with him, I'm tempted to myself," but yet got offended when she said that he if wanted, she would step down and let him go for it.
He has a girlfriend. His facebook profile proves this. However, she is not attractive and lives in DC. Also, his facebook profile says that he majored in Gender Studies (he's now a first year law student).
He's a tickler, at least to guys. He tickled me twice, and a friend of mine once. After he tickled me the second time, I proceded to give him a wet willy (I should probably mention that my method of getting my two friends to sleep together was taking shots with the guy, a jagerbomb with a tequila shot for a chaser). He tried to pants me in retaliation, but I was wearing a belt and my ass is far too round for pantsing to occur. So, in retaliation, he fondled my junk for a few minutes.
I would try harder to out him, or slip him up, or get him drunk and sleep with him, except that he has a habit of wearing black mock turtlenecks, and I just can't support that.
October 13, 2006
"I'm Money"
Last night, at the bar, a straight guy fondled my junk. Later, he walked me home, holding my hand, and gave me a kiss on the cheek goodnight.
I've found that the more details I give, the less interesting the story becomes. So I'm going to stick with the minimalism.
I've found that the more details I give, the less interesting the story becomes. So I'm going to stick with the minimalism.
October 5, 2006
Familiar
“You look familiar—have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I lied.
Well, I suppose technically I didn’t lie. We hadn’t met, in real life at least. We had “flirted” once on a popular online “dating” site, two words I use lightly in this case, seeing as how I’m a good boy and have never even heard of websites dedicated to casual sex, let alone have a profile on a few of those sites.
I recognized him from his picture online, but he didn’t me. It’s a wonder what a haircut, a five-o’clock shadow and glasses can do to disguise yourself.
It was last semester when we talked, a late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. I had gotten sick of my friends and feigned a headache, and decided to log in to one of those aforementioned ‘sites’ to relieve some stress and get my mind off of things. After only a few seconds of being logged in, he expressed an interest and I replied quickly, drawn to his short hair, strong jaw, and abundance of shirtless pics which showed an athletic, tanned body, with a decent amount of light chest hair.
He could host our ‘encounter’ and lived only a few minutes away. He asked if I had any more revealing photos, and I sent him a picture of me in my underwear, taken by my roommate from last year, about to throw a pillow at him. I should probably mention that it was 3 AM and we were all drunk and having a ‘gay’ old time. It’s not a great picture of me, but it makes my ass look amazing. I emailed it to him, and he replied with a curt “Sorry—I only like thin guys.”
I’m kind of bent over in the picture, so it looks like I have more of a belly than I do—it’s not really a belly, but it’s no six-pack either. I like to say that I don’t have love handles, but I might have infatuation handrests, but most people don’t think that’s as clever as I do once there’s vodka in me. There’s slight definition, especially in the right light and if I stand up straight, but in this picture, it’s all just sort of hanging out there, au natural. Most people could realize that my body posture would make anyone look flabby, but he called me fat!
That was the first night that I’ve ever got drunk alone. OK, so I was already a few sheets to the wind when I first logged in, and basically it was just a nightcap, but still.
I wish I could say that he looked chubbier in real life, or that he had acne-pockmarks on his cheeks, or that he had experimented with some odd facial hair arrangement, but if anything, he looked better. Tanner. More elegant. Even though he was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, there was something old-fashioned about his demeanor, like a 50s leading man.
“So what’s up?” I explain my situation, how I’m just at the library to steal wireless, since I’m too poor to have it at home. He gives me a little laugh, more polite than anything, and says that he’s just taking a break from an Econ assignment.
The line moves forward a bit more and I look up and decide upon my drink. I’m at the library with the coffeeshop in the basement, otherwise known as the ‘hookup’ library. A few years earlier, Playboy magazine had mentioned this specific library as one of the best places to meet members of the opposite sex in the country.
“Oh, are you an Econ major?” It’s pretty much the standard getting-to-know-you question, and even though I hate it, I’m not very good at small talk. I’m even worse when I’m trying to decide what to do: tease him and then drop him, like he did to me, or take him home for a bitter ‘nyah’ fuck, or get his number, or what. My arms are folded, which I know is improper body language for when you like a guy, and I make a conscious decision to move my hands into my back pockets, and then return them when I decide that it will help cover up whatever belly he thinks I have.
He’s got his hands in his front pockets, which ride a little low. When he turns to check the clock, he exposes a few inches of tan flesh as his tshirt gaps. Goddamn that’s nice.
I step up and order my white mocha (yeah, I’m gay) while he steps to the other register and orders a plain coffee. His drink comes up first, and he fiddles with adding sugar. I get my drink, and go to grab a lid. I walk up and stand probably a bit too close to him. Our shirts definitely touch, and I can sense him tense up and look around. He shifts his weight away from me.
“So where are you sitting?” I inquire, and his eyes slightly widen.
“Well, I’m sorta sitting with someone actually.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but the way he says it, its without-a-doubt loaded with some connotations. Whether its friends or a boyfriend or girlfriend or someone else he’s flirted with on an earlier cup of coffee, I can’t tell. His knees slightly buckle, and I notice that he’s much more inward looking now, instead of the confident, upright guy he was five minutes earlier when he was introducing himself. I’m guessing he’s closeted, even though he has a face pic up on that aforementioned site. He seems vulnerable now, and it’s adorable.
“Oh, ok.” I search his eyes, and he’s undeniably on guard and not sure what to do. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out and touching the outside of his bicep, mostly to see how he’d react to being touched, but still wanting to play a little coy and masculine. His eyes open and his mouth agape. His hands start to shake a bit, and I can hear the coffee being swished about in the paper cup.
“I-I’ll look for you when we’re done. M-maybe we could... h-hang out later sometime.” His voice cracks a bit on that first I. It’s fantastic.
“Sure. Go head. I’ll probably be on the third floor near the windows, but I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Cool.”
“See ya in a bit then.” I smile, take a few steps back, and turn towards the stairs. I look back as I open the door to the stairway and he’s still standing in front of the sugar packets, staring very intently at his coffee as he stirs in the cream and sugar packet. He looks briefly up in my direction and then returns to his coffee.
I waited for almost 90 minutes and he never came to find me.
“No, I don’t think so.” I lied.
Well, I suppose technically I didn’t lie. We hadn’t met, in real life at least. We had “flirted” once on a popular online “dating” site, two words I use lightly in this case, seeing as how I’m a good boy and have never even heard of websites dedicated to casual sex, let alone have a profile on a few of those sites.
I recognized him from his picture online, but he didn’t me. It’s a wonder what a haircut, a five-o’clock shadow and glasses can do to disguise yourself.
It was last semester when we talked, a late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. I had gotten sick of my friends and feigned a headache, and decided to log in to one of those aforementioned ‘sites’ to relieve some stress and get my mind off of things. After only a few seconds of being logged in, he expressed an interest and I replied quickly, drawn to his short hair, strong jaw, and abundance of shirtless pics which showed an athletic, tanned body, with a decent amount of light chest hair.
He could host our ‘encounter’ and lived only a few minutes away. He asked if I had any more revealing photos, and I sent him a picture of me in my underwear, taken by my roommate from last year, about to throw a pillow at him. I should probably mention that it was 3 AM and we were all drunk and having a ‘gay’ old time. It’s not a great picture of me, but it makes my ass look amazing. I emailed it to him, and he replied with a curt “Sorry—I only like thin guys.”
I’m kind of bent over in the picture, so it looks like I have more of a belly than I do—it’s not really a belly, but it’s no six-pack either. I like to say that I don’t have love handles, but I might have infatuation handrests, but most people don’t think that’s as clever as I do once there’s vodka in me. There’s slight definition, especially in the right light and if I stand up straight, but in this picture, it’s all just sort of hanging out there, au natural. Most people could realize that my body posture would make anyone look flabby, but he called me fat!
That was the first night that I’ve ever got drunk alone. OK, so I was already a few sheets to the wind when I first logged in, and basically it was just a nightcap, but still.
I wish I could say that he looked chubbier in real life, or that he had acne-pockmarks on his cheeks, or that he had experimented with some odd facial hair arrangement, but if anything, he looked better. Tanner. More elegant. Even though he was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, there was something old-fashioned about his demeanor, like a 50s leading man.
“So what’s up?” I explain my situation, how I’m just at the library to steal wireless, since I’m too poor to have it at home. He gives me a little laugh, more polite than anything, and says that he’s just taking a break from an Econ assignment.
The line moves forward a bit more and I look up and decide upon my drink. I’m at the library with the coffeeshop in the basement, otherwise known as the ‘hookup’ library. A few years earlier, Playboy magazine had mentioned this specific library as one of the best places to meet members of the opposite sex in the country.
“Oh, are you an Econ major?” It’s pretty much the standard getting-to-know-you question, and even though I hate it, I’m not very good at small talk. I’m even worse when I’m trying to decide what to do: tease him and then drop him, like he did to me, or take him home for a bitter ‘nyah’ fuck, or get his number, or what. My arms are folded, which I know is improper body language for when you like a guy, and I make a conscious decision to move my hands into my back pockets, and then return them when I decide that it will help cover up whatever belly he thinks I have.
He’s got his hands in his front pockets, which ride a little low. When he turns to check the clock, he exposes a few inches of tan flesh as his tshirt gaps. Goddamn that’s nice.
I step up and order my white mocha (yeah, I’m gay) while he steps to the other register and orders a plain coffee. His drink comes up first, and he fiddles with adding sugar. I get my drink, and go to grab a lid. I walk up and stand probably a bit too close to him. Our shirts definitely touch, and I can sense him tense up and look around. He shifts his weight away from me.
“So where are you sitting?” I inquire, and his eyes slightly widen.
“Well, I’m sorta sitting with someone actually.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but the way he says it, its without-a-doubt loaded with some connotations. Whether its friends or a boyfriend or girlfriend or someone else he’s flirted with on an earlier cup of coffee, I can’t tell. His knees slightly buckle, and I notice that he’s much more inward looking now, instead of the confident, upright guy he was five minutes earlier when he was introducing himself. I’m guessing he’s closeted, even though he has a face pic up on that aforementioned site. He seems vulnerable now, and it’s adorable.
“Oh, ok.” I search his eyes, and he’s undeniably on guard and not sure what to do. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out and touching the outside of his bicep, mostly to see how he’d react to being touched, but still wanting to play a little coy and masculine. His eyes open and his mouth agape. His hands start to shake a bit, and I can hear the coffee being swished about in the paper cup.
“I-I’ll look for you when we’re done. M-maybe we could... h-hang out later sometime.” His voice cracks a bit on that first I. It’s fantastic.
“Sure. Go head. I’ll probably be on the third floor near the windows, but I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Cool.”
“See ya in a bit then.” I smile, take a few steps back, and turn towards the stairs. I look back as I open the door to the stairway and he’s still standing in front of the sugar packets, staring very intently at his coffee as he stirs in the cream and sugar packet. He looks briefly up in my direction and then returns to his coffee.
I waited for almost 90 minutes and he never came to find me.
October 2, 2006
The Good Boy in the Grade School Photograph
stands akimbo, top row, his smile
wider than all the others. In his eyes
a twinkle enough to cause a lens flare.
I imagine he bounced up the risers
with antelope grace—leap and bound,
leap and bound. His head is tilted
a full forty-five degrees. He stands
proud and excited. His shirt is pressed
to perfection, tucked tightly into brand-new
Spiderman underwear his mom bought him.
He barely realizes he will be an abomination.
wider than all the others. In his eyes
a twinkle enough to cause a lens flare.
I imagine he bounced up the risers
with antelope grace—leap and bound,
leap and bound. His head is tilted
a full forty-five degrees. He stands
proud and excited. His shirt is pressed
to perfection, tucked tightly into brand-new
Spiderman underwear his mom bought him.
He barely realizes he will be an abomination.
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