[“I have a loose interpretation of the word “easy”.”]
Fourth of July:
What I really like about being in college is the fact that you’re young, working, and starting to think about economics and how they pertain to your life for the first time. Which leads to all sorts of fledgling grown-up conversations. At this point, though, they’re mostly still about things like drugs and making money quickly the easiest way possible. (For awhile, I was planning on making a t-shirt that had a picture of a rotary road-sign in the middle that read: “I’m unemployed because I live on a rotary,” on the front, and on the back followed up with, “There are no corners.”) Tonight’s conversation dealt with the pyramid scheme of the drug world, and how when it comes down to it, it still follows the basic laws of economics and can learn from basic Human Resources.
“I went there because although the price was higher, the quality and customer service were better,” I told my friends of my favorite (now ex-,) dealer.
“But the customer service wasn’t as good as you would have liked,” Madison followed up doggedly, remembering the fiascos and escapades surrounding my infatuation with Jersey Blunt.
“Yeah, it wasn’t full-service,” Alli followed up.
Economics and innuendoes. Who ever knew they went so well together? This is one subject I could get passionate about if it lets me speak tongue-in-cheek. Flaccid economy, stimulus plans…really! My night was made when I was able to work “I’d like to horizontally integrate with him,” into common conversation.
Third of July:
Last night, on the third of July, I got to hang out with (almost) all of my old Soho Boys. They may be bona-fide juvenile delinquents, they may be terrors to society, and they make smoke and drink and swear too much, but they’re MY boys, and I love them all. Deep-down, they’re all really good people.
Some, I love more than others. Jersey Blunt happened to be up from, (you guessed it,) the Dirty, and it was the first time I’d seen him since I propositioned him stoned via text at the end of the school-year. It was interesting to see him again—I got the familiar jumpy stomach that indicated suspense and pleasure, but not the same rabbits-gnawing-on-my-stomach-lining excitement that Perfect gives me. We slipped back into Ebonics easily enough, something that I had to try really hard to drop when talking with Perfect as the confused looks indicated that words like “wylin” and my common greeting of “ayo” did not compute in his Vermont farm-boy language. While Perfect is wholesome and wheaty, Jersey is nefarious and so Italian white-bread his caterpillar eyebrows beg to be wiggled up and down insinuatingly, as they are so often.
This did not stop me from letting him give me the biggest and warmest hug I’ve received since, well…Perfect almost a month ago. This also has not stopped me from deciding that Jersey Blunt goes on my Sexception List. You know—the list of people you’re allowed to sleep with even if you’re with someone else. Though technically I may not still be “with” Mr. Perfect, I am a very monogamous (go figure,) girl and usually can only withstand deep and abiding and usually sexual feelings for one man at one time. Hence, why I am probably one of the safest girls ever to not be worried about cheating on a guy.
But Jersey. There’s so much unfinished business there—he wanted me, I deferred due to job circumstances (I may have been his advisor at the time…) and then by the time I rolled around to deciding it would be ok to sleep with him on the DL, he had gotten tired of waiting and moved on to greener and more easy pastures. Still, all it takes is one look to realize that that person would still love to go hog-wild with you.
Jersey is that person for me.
And speaking of Mr. Perfect…
The name of the game is LIMBO, as called by two outside witnesses. He’s got me totally bent over, and not in a good way that I like. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not 100% out of one either. We waver somewhere between 60 and 40. Some days, I am pretty sure that he’s absolutely trying to cut me completely out of his life, possibly to make room for one of the visiting French girls who took pictures of him stripping down to go skinny-dipping. (Every time I log into Facebook, I see his naked ass, clearly taunting me, saying “haha—you won’t be seeing me anymore!” On the up-side, though, I have now seen him naked from every angle due to this picture, so I suppose I should be thankful.) On these days, I am pretty sure he’s sexting them, saying things like, “I have never been with a French girl, but I have always wanted to!” (Just like my “I have never been with a girl who has garters, but I have wanted to!” that he sent me. Exclamation point for my heavy-heartedness!) Other days, when we’ve spent a few hours texting each other back and forth like normal, The “how low can you go” thing works really well, too, seeing as the man just makes me want to drop all of my standards and feelings to the floor to be allowed to keep some sort of closeness with him. A relationship? I was willing to sacrifice it for the sex. Sex? I was hesitant by coerced into letting it go for continued friendship. My dignity? Pretty much gone already.
…And The Future:
And oh? Did I mention? I get to see Perfect for the first time in both 22 days and since we decided to no longer be a continuing entity. But the best part of all this? It’s going to be in his hometown. And we’re going to be swimming. Yes. Me, tanned, toned, and slightly starved for both food since I’ll be wearing a teeny bikini and starved for sex—I’m going to see Perfect and his perfect body dripping wet and the second most-naked I’ve ever seen him (I don’t even need to imagine the rest anymore…I know what weapons he’s hiding). I’ll consider it a success if I don’t either burst into tears upon seeing him or scale him like a tree.
Star Wars, or Why Am I Single?:
Spike TV has been making my life lately. Yes, the TV channel “For Men” is really serving me up a great schedule of keep-me-happy programming. For the holidays, they’ve been Star Wars marathoning from 3 PM to midnight every day, and starting tomorrow at 9 PM, they’re playing the 100 Best UFC Fight of All Time.
Some explanations on why these things make me so happy I squeal with joy are needed. A.) My daddy raised me as a Star Wars girl. When the local movie theater re-released the original Star Wars movies a week apart when I was about seven or eight, on the way home, I’d sit behind my dad’s driver seat and hold on to the headrest, pretending it was the guns of a fightership, as he, the pilot, steered us through enemy territory in deep space, and we blasted out way out, sound affects and all. He also bought two retractable plastic lightsabers so we could duel on the front lawn on summer nights, which was my first foray into fencing. (My dad’s an accomplished ex-Marine. I always beat him in duels. He’s never let me purposefully win a single thing in all of my life. Needless to say, he’s a proud poppa.) When the newer trilogy came out, he was the one who drove me and my un-licensed best friend to the movies and sat a couple rows back from us. Yeah. Don Daddy—he’s pretty cool.
And B.) As for the UFC thing—really. They’re very muscular, very testosterone-fueled men grappling in tight little shorts and beating the fuck out of each other. I am a red-blooded woman. I love that kind of shit. I’m the kind of girl who tends to go for the tall and muscular guys because I’d secretly love to see them knock someone’s head against a table defending my honor or, you know, my stolen bar seat.
But during my recent Star Wars watching, an over-whelming desire has grown on me. It’s the weirdest little fantasy, but it’s tenacious like English ivy in old brick with crumbling mortar. (In this analogy, the ivy is the fantasy, the brick is my moral fortitude, and the crumbling mortar is my will-power when it comes to not mounting the next man, or chair arm, I see.) I really, and I mean, REALLY want to just go down on a guy as he watches Star Wars. Maybe it’s Han Solo running around on the screen (I’ve always had a soft spot for Harrison Ford located somewhere south of my belly-button and north of my thighs), but I find myself alone in my apartment, wistfully looking at the foot of the empty couch and wondering, why, why, WHY is there no guy sitting there who will think he’s the luckiest man on the face of the planet if I were to seductively slink closer and unzip his pants while he gets to watch Luke Skywalker defeat the Dark Side?
Though irrational, obsessive, secretly needy and easily jealous and angered, I am also small, cute, well-dressed, in shape, and very out-going about my sexuality. (Obviously.) Why is that invisible man not real and on my couch? Maybe it’s like an old elementary- and high-school classmate of mine once said: maybe I do intimidate men with my quick mouth, straight-talking, and zero-bullshit approach. (Eric was six-foot-four, well over 200 pounds of football and rugby muscle, and going into military college. Eric has been shot at. Eric is also no dummy—he was an honor-role student for the 14 years I’d known him. So him saying this to me was an accomplishment, although maybe not a good one for me.)
This may be something I have to look into. Am I really that hard to approach? Do I, gasp, need to soften up a little?
…This could be disastrous.
Also, about the title and a fun fact pertaining to the festivities of the holiday: All the women in my family supposedly see fireworks when the love of their life (and in most cases, future husband,) kisses them. My grandmother, my aunt—my mother stills claims she gets the same sky-rockets and room-spinning feeling she got the first time my father kissed her, 35 years of marriage later. I now spend every lead-in to a first kiss with a guy, that sweetly awkward few seconds where you make eye contact and start to lean in, hoping for the best and no head-bumping, closing your eyes and wishing your lips to find each other’s smoothly and softly, wondering, “Is this it? Is this going to be my fireworks” Talk about pressure. So far, the only thing I’ve seen is the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I will admit—Legs could make the earth move from under me with some of his kisses, but no bottle-rockets; not even any sparklers. Perfect gave me a sensation and taste of sugar and cupcakes and everything sweet. And so, the waiting continues.
Ciao, or, maybe to those French girls with the unabashed cameras, salut! (Please, you can’t go back home quickly enough for my liking!)
XOXO
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