A Confluence of Numbers
Last night, between loads of laundry, I saw Peter Jackson's King Kong. Laundry is always a little depressing, the musty smells of your own body mixing with your memories of the last several days and the monotony of the spinning, the buzzing, the folding. Combine that with the theme of King Kong, which seems to be that "nothing good and beautiful can ever last, and the pursuit of such things will lead to your demise" and you're in for a dreary evening.
This kind of nihilism is not what I look for in my summer blockbusters.
So I'm watching the Beast and his Beauty (Naomi Watts was indefatigable as always), feeling a little hollowed out, when I remember that in the course of twenty-four hours this last weekend I was essentially asked out seven times. This is a personal record. I will probably never top this unbelievable and incredibly lucky feat.
***********************************************************************
Number Number One:
The usual way in which I get numbers: myspace. Just a random boy messaging me, tall and macho looking, although I can already hear his queeny voice just by looking at the pics. Being tall (6'4") and constantly mentioning "420" are strikes against him, but the jury is still out on this one. His strong stubbled jawline is alluring.
Numbers Number Two to Four:
I went out to dance at the Transfer after a day of bad news that I knew was coming, feeling the need to sweat out the poisoned bullets. I wore a pair of thick framed glasses like a mask. The music was Detroit, all repetitive bass lines undercut with sex and malignancy. It made you want to fuck on the dancefloor, and it wasn't long before my erection was bulging in my corduroys for all to see. I rubbed it on a guy I had spoken to briefly outside with a handlebar mustache and piercing eyes before he tactfully slid away and punched me softly on the chest with both fists. Taking it as a sign of The Eyes' moment and not hurt in the slightest (to be honest, I was secretly relieved), I retreated to the bar.
It was there that I ran into the on and off again ex of the DJ of the moment. I had spoken to him before and found pleasant enough. He was also from Orange County and had a laid back demeanor that I found comforting. I could sense that he thought I was cute from the first time we met and at recent run-ins, and that was the only proverbial wrench. When he talked to me I could see him imagining fucking me, or spreading my legs open, and I have never found this to be a good thing. I get hard, but I feel slightly sick, like something deeper is being siphoned out of me. He asked me if he could email me, and that he was single. I said "good to know" and nodded my head, and before I knew it we kissed quickly and parted. He is short and sexy and I imagine good at sex, although I haven't decided whether or not to pursue it, considering his involvement with DJ and the odd feeling he gives me, like there's something I shouldn't trust.
The lights went on quickly, as they always seem to do, and everyone headed outside. OC had his arm around me and I felt goodwill all around me, and before I knew it a young friend of mine (tall and pierced, whom everyone in this town seems to want to fuck but me) was convincing me to go to a houseparty. I jumped in a stranger's car and was sped along, but not before my favorite Most Beautiful Boy of the night, who was cuter than anyone has a right to be and the exact same height as me, slipped me his number.
The car ride was frightening. Two drag queens looking like puffed up Kabuki dolls whining about money and "bitches" and two semi-cute Trannyshack followers giggling in the back, completely ignoring me. I took this as a challenge and tried to interject now and then but soon found myself staring out the window, getting increasingly nervous at how far away we were heading. Regardless of gender, everyone in this car referred to everyone as a "she". The party was an absolute bust, the safety of my glasses not enough to protect me from the wasted and thin hipsters. Within moments I saw a Michigan boy who I suspect has never liked me, and was met with his icy stare and a cold shoulder that smacked like the thin layer on an ice cube tray. I waited for my friends to show, and then snuck out the front door and started the long trek home.
I walked for a little over an hour, and by the time I saw a free cab, I was already 4/5ths of the way home. I briefly considered calling Froggie to see if I could crash at his place, but then remembered quickly that he either wasn't going to be home or already had someone over. This didn't bother me for once, though, and I enjoyed the clean air. Strangely, the streets were dead. I never saw a single soul on the whole way, and cars zipped by like loud fish.
I smiled, unaware that the next day The Eyes was going to message me online and give me his number and that the Most Beautiful Boy was going to retract his with the usual line of getting back with an ex. The latter stung, perhaps only because it was the one number that I couldn't call (see previous entries), and led to a series of events that I won't go into. Suffice it to say that I made an absolute ass of myself, and will be much more careful with the Forward function in the future.
Number Number Five:
A peripheral friend of Froggie and his lovable Ex, messaged me through myspace. I had met him briefly at a Midnight Mass, and found him to be cute in a safe and non-sexual way. He had clean red hair and pale skin, and he seemed intelligent
and kinder than most of his type--the rich white boys that go to college, listening to all the latest indie rock, wearing all the most expensive jeans. I think he's Jewish, which I have always been a sucker for. This one may not count, because I think he wants to hang out only as friends.
Number Number Six:
A creepo at the hostel, with pockmarked skin and frail shoulders, at least forty years old. I made the mistake of telling him I loved the book he was reading, Phillip Pullman's The Subtle Knife, which I suspect he interpreted as directed towards himself as well. He asked me out in front of my house, and I later found out that he told my coworker that he had crushed out on me, describing me as "the exotic one with the beautiful nose," asking if I was Italian.
Number Number Seven:
Froggie and I had a comfortable night, which did much to ease my troubled heart. After a few heavy talks I had been more worried than anything that the ease which we had around each other would be forever lost, something that would have torn my eyelashes from my eyes, my toenails from my toes. At one point he hugged me and it took every ounce of my energy not to sob as hard as I wanted to.
We watched a scary movie and as I sat next to him in the dark theater sharing twizzlers I chuckled to myself. Realizing my own foolishness at crying over making the best friend I had made in years, realizing that that is its own special kind of relationship, realizing that to begrudge that is as silly as running blindly in a monster infested cave deep beneath the earth. The need to possess the ones we care about is truly a destructive impulse. The girls with accents all died in satisfyingly grisly deaths.
We went for a drink afterwards and joked around, making faces at a chubby train wreck of a man burping up his beer to our left. We left shortly, and hailed a cab. Froggie got out and I continued on my way, noticing as I slid over the back seat that the cabbie was looking at me in his rearview. I ignored it and started responding to a text from Froggie when the cabbie started talking to me, asking where I was from, what I had been up to, etc. He was black, in his forties, boyish and not boyish, he played soft jazz and he smiled often. I felt good from the night and responded more than I am usually inclined, noticing his perfectly straight but yellowy teeth every time he turned his head and smiled at me. When he got me in front of my place, after I paid the fare, he turned to me one more time.
"I just have to know... are you straight or gay?"
"Ha! I knew you were looking at me more than you should. Gay."
"I knew it! Baby, you a sexy motherfucker!"
(The passenger cracks up and puts his hand on the door handle and pops the door open)
"Wait! Can I have your number or something? Wanna hang out?"
(Awkward pause, the passenger bites his lower lip)
"I'm sorry. I'm flattered! You seem nice, but I have a lot on my plate right now."
(The passenger looks the cab driver in the eye and smiles, slowly lifting himself out of the cab, wondering if he really does have a lot on his plate)
(The cabbie, whispering through the open front passenger window)
"Hey. Why don't we just go somewhere around here and have some fun?"
(The passenger stands by the open window, sees the cabbie massaging a sizable bulge in his jeans, and considers, immediately feeling his erection pushing up against the tight blue cotton of his briefs, a single drop of pre-cum oozing forth)
"Again, I'm flattered. You're cute, but I really should go, I got some people to call... you know, the whole full plate."
(The cabbie smiles good naturedly)
"Alright baby, you take care. Damn! You made my night."
(The cabbie slowly drives away, raising his hand in salute from the window as he turns the corner. The passenger stands there for a second with his hand in the air. He picks up his phone and starts to text his friend after a moment, knowing that he's the only one who would understand the absurdity of the moment, and the scene ends as he lets out a disbelieving sigh)
****************************************************************************
After I finished putting away the last of my clean clothes, hanging my favorite shirt on its green wire hanger, I briefly saw the giant gorilla crashing to his death in my mind's eye. I started watching an anime I had recently discovered called Berserk, the story of a man who must kill every day to survive and has only been betrayed by the ones he loves. The episode ends with a preview of the next, and over images of human faces a masculine voices booms this out:
Each person's gaze will be locked on one whose feelings mirror their own.
To protect one's own happiness, to fulfill one's own dreams, and just to survive.
Is there ever a time where one can live his own dream,
Without inflicting a wound on someone else's heart?
Tears come to my eyes and I'm shocked by the feel of them. I wipe them away and turn off the light, and suddenly feel tenderness wash over me. I get under my white comforter and I will sleep deeply, and I will not remember a single moment of any of my dreams that night.
This kind of nihilism is not what I look for in my summer blockbusters.
So I'm watching the Beast and his Beauty (Naomi Watts was indefatigable as always), feeling a little hollowed out, when I remember that in the course of twenty-four hours this last weekend I was essentially asked out seven times. This is a personal record. I will probably never top this unbelievable and incredibly lucky feat.
***********************************************************************
Number Number One:
The usual way in which I get numbers: myspace. Just a random boy messaging me, tall and macho looking, although I can already hear his queeny voice just by looking at the pics. Being tall (6'4") and constantly mentioning "420" are strikes against him, but the jury is still out on this one. His strong stubbled jawline is alluring.
Numbers Number Two to Four:
I went out to dance at the Transfer after a day of bad news that I knew was coming, feeling the need to sweat out the poisoned bullets. I wore a pair of thick framed glasses like a mask. The music was Detroit, all repetitive bass lines undercut with sex and malignancy. It made you want to fuck on the dancefloor, and it wasn't long before my erection was bulging in my corduroys for all to see. I rubbed it on a guy I had spoken to briefly outside with a handlebar mustache and piercing eyes before he tactfully slid away and punched me softly on the chest with both fists. Taking it as a sign of The Eyes' moment and not hurt in the slightest (to be honest, I was secretly relieved), I retreated to the bar.
It was there that I ran into the on and off again ex of the DJ of the moment. I had spoken to him before and found pleasant enough. He was also from Orange County and had a laid back demeanor that I found comforting. I could sense that he thought I was cute from the first time we met and at recent run-ins, and that was the only proverbial wrench. When he talked to me I could see him imagining fucking me, or spreading my legs open, and I have never found this to be a good thing. I get hard, but I feel slightly sick, like something deeper is being siphoned out of me. He asked me if he could email me, and that he was single. I said "good to know" and nodded my head, and before I knew it we kissed quickly and parted. He is short and sexy and I imagine good at sex, although I haven't decided whether or not to pursue it, considering his involvement with DJ and the odd feeling he gives me, like there's something I shouldn't trust.
The lights went on quickly, as they always seem to do, and everyone headed outside. OC had his arm around me and I felt goodwill all around me, and before I knew it a young friend of mine (tall and pierced, whom everyone in this town seems to want to fuck but me) was convincing me to go to a houseparty. I jumped in a stranger's car and was sped along, but not before my favorite Most Beautiful Boy of the night, who was cuter than anyone has a right to be and the exact same height as me, slipped me his number.
The car ride was frightening. Two drag queens looking like puffed up Kabuki dolls whining about money and "bitches" and two semi-cute Trannyshack followers giggling in the back, completely ignoring me. I took this as a challenge and tried to interject now and then but soon found myself staring out the window, getting increasingly nervous at how far away we were heading. Regardless of gender, everyone in this car referred to everyone as a "she". The party was an absolute bust, the safety of my glasses not enough to protect me from the wasted and thin hipsters. Within moments I saw a Michigan boy who I suspect has never liked me, and was met with his icy stare and a cold shoulder that smacked like the thin layer on an ice cube tray. I waited for my friends to show, and then snuck out the front door and started the long trek home.
I walked for a little over an hour, and by the time I saw a free cab, I was already 4/5ths of the way home. I briefly considered calling Froggie to see if I could crash at his place, but then remembered quickly that he either wasn't going to be home or already had someone over. This didn't bother me for once, though, and I enjoyed the clean air. Strangely, the streets were dead. I never saw a single soul on the whole way, and cars zipped by like loud fish.
I smiled, unaware that the next day The Eyes was going to message me online and give me his number and that the Most Beautiful Boy was going to retract his with the usual line of getting back with an ex. The latter stung, perhaps only because it was the one number that I couldn't call (see previous entries), and led to a series of events that I won't go into. Suffice it to say that I made an absolute ass of myself, and will be much more careful with the Forward function in the future.
Number Number Five:
A peripheral friend of Froggie and his lovable Ex, messaged me through myspace. I had met him briefly at a Midnight Mass, and found him to be cute in a safe and non-sexual way. He had clean red hair and pale skin, and he seemed intelligent
and kinder than most of his type--the rich white boys that go to college, listening to all the latest indie rock, wearing all the most expensive jeans. I think he's Jewish, which I have always been a sucker for. This one may not count, because I think he wants to hang out only as friends.
Number Number Six:
A creepo at the hostel, with pockmarked skin and frail shoulders, at least forty years old. I made the mistake of telling him I loved the book he was reading, Phillip Pullman's The Subtle Knife, which I suspect he interpreted as directed towards himself as well. He asked me out in front of my house, and I later found out that he told my coworker that he had crushed out on me, describing me as "the exotic one with the beautiful nose," asking if I was Italian.
Number Number Seven:
Froggie and I had a comfortable night, which did much to ease my troubled heart. After a few heavy talks I had been more worried than anything that the ease which we had around each other would be forever lost, something that would have torn my eyelashes from my eyes, my toenails from my toes. At one point he hugged me and it took every ounce of my energy not to sob as hard as I wanted to.
We watched a scary movie and as I sat next to him in the dark theater sharing twizzlers I chuckled to myself. Realizing my own foolishness at crying over making the best friend I had made in years, realizing that that is its own special kind of relationship, realizing that to begrudge that is as silly as running blindly in a monster infested cave deep beneath the earth. The need to possess the ones we care about is truly a destructive impulse. The girls with accents all died in satisfyingly grisly deaths.
We went for a drink afterwards and joked around, making faces at a chubby train wreck of a man burping up his beer to our left. We left shortly, and hailed a cab. Froggie got out and I continued on my way, noticing as I slid over the back seat that the cabbie was looking at me in his rearview. I ignored it and started responding to a text from Froggie when the cabbie started talking to me, asking where I was from, what I had been up to, etc. He was black, in his forties, boyish and not boyish, he played soft jazz and he smiled often. I felt good from the night and responded more than I am usually inclined, noticing his perfectly straight but yellowy teeth every time he turned his head and smiled at me. When he got me in front of my place, after I paid the fare, he turned to me one more time.
"I just have to know... are you straight or gay?"
"Ha! I knew you were looking at me more than you should. Gay."
"I knew it! Baby, you a sexy motherfucker!"
(The passenger cracks up and puts his hand on the door handle and pops the door open)
"Wait! Can I have your number or something? Wanna hang out?"
(Awkward pause, the passenger bites his lower lip)
"I'm sorry. I'm flattered! You seem nice, but I have a lot on my plate right now."
(The passenger looks the cab driver in the eye and smiles, slowly lifting himself out of the cab, wondering if he really does have a lot on his plate)
(The cabbie, whispering through the open front passenger window)
"Hey. Why don't we just go somewhere around here and have some fun?"
(The passenger stands by the open window, sees the cabbie massaging a sizable bulge in his jeans, and considers, immediately feeling his erection pushing up against the tight blue cotton of his briefs, a single drop of pre-cum oozing forth)
"Again, I'm flattered. You're cute, but I really should go, I got some people to call... you know, the whole full plate."
(The cabbie smiles good naturedly)
"Alright baby, you take care. Damn! You made my night."
(The cabbie slowly drives away, raising his hand in salute from the window as he turns the corner. The passenger stands there for a second with his hand in the air. He picks up his phone and starts to text his friend after a moment, knowing that he's the only one who would understand the absurdity of the moment, and the scene ends as he lets out a disbelieving sigh)
****************************************************************************
After I finished putting away the last of my clean clothes, hanging my favorite shirt on its green wire hanger, I briefly saw the giant gorilla crashing to his death in my mind's eye. I started watching an anime I had recently discovered called Berserk, the story of a man who must kill every day to survive and has only been betrayed by the ones he loves. The episode ends with a preview of the next, and over images of human faces a masculine voices booms this out:
Each person's gaze will be locked on one whose feelings mirror their own.
To protect one's own happiness, to fulfill one's own dreams, and just to survive.
Is there ever a time where one can live his own dream,
Without inflicting a wound on someone else's heart?
Tears come to my eyes and I'm shocked by the feel of them. I wipe them away and turn off the light, and suddenly feel tenderness wash over me. I get under my white comforter and I will sleep deeply, and I will not remember a single moment of any of my dreams that night.
posted by themerrygo at 10:56 AM
1 Comments:
Great post
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