I’m cleaning behind the bar when you appear. “Devon said I could come clean the lines.” Your blue eyes offend me and yet I cannot look away. “Did he? Well I say you can’t.” Playful with my game, you turn away “okay, I guess I’ll go.” Your ponytail stares me in the face. “Sweet ponytail, though” I say. The tattoos peaking out from under your shirt accent your arms in a way that starts a pulse between my legs. “I was kidding, you don’t have to go.” You turn back and introduce yourself “I’m [generic boy’s name].” Those eyes again. My cheeks are prone to giving me away so I move my gaze to your lips that lay buried beneath a wealth of facial hair. I bet you’re a soft beard kind of a guy. I hope to find out. You adjust your wayfarers and get to work behind the bar.
At first glance you tick all the boxes of hipster bad boy and I wonder, am I one of those girls? Is this the kind of guy I like or did society tell me that’s who I should like? For a second I thought I had a choice, but the heartbeat in my loins reminds me that I don’t. I find Devon. “Where did this guy come from?” He fills me in and I blurt out, “I want to sit on his face!” Devon executes a real life spit-take. Did I just say that? He urges me to tell you as we both steal glances in your direction. You go about your business: beer. And I go about mine: you. And then all of a sudden, you’re gone.
You know that friend that can find your crush online just off his hair colour? That’s me. And I find you, but only on twitter. Sure “wanna grab dinner?” satisfies the then 140 character limit, but it’s public. I decide on a callback, “sweet ponytail” I tweet. And a follow. You take the bait. “Sweet job finding me on twitter.” And a followback. With direct messaging then possible, things pick up speed. What follows is a laugh inducing, cheek reddening barrage of jokes, memes, and tell-me-mores. I don’t know what the man of my dreams is like but you have to be close. Am I close to yours?
I remember when it happened. I was at the Black Bull playing pool with my best friend. Or rather, I was messaging you and was periodically interrupted to take a shot. We are bonding over our shared love of Hot Tub Time Machine when I quote the movie, “do you have girlfriends? Hot ones? NO. You have boyfriends. Gay ones.” Though not a direct quote, I rework it so that is allows me to ask the question. The question everyone always wants to ask when they meet someone in a non-dating environment. The question which had an answer that should have been obvious after all of our talking. I know your answer is no, but I want to hear you say it.
“A wife actually.” Ummm, pardon me? My heart sinks. Another message, “you?” And without missing a beat, I reply, “yes I have a wife and she’s definitely a gay one.” I let you off the hook. You’re welcome. Now instead of having an emotional affair with a woman, you are simply making a lesbian friend. I wonder, do you feel lighter? Does my apparent homosexuality bring you solace? Our banter continues as if uninterrupted by the talk of significant others.
Some time later, maybe a week, you bring it back up, “do you really have a wife?” That’s when I had my answer, but not to my initial question. Whether or not you felt lighter I may never know, but I did now know that you were disappointed. Well, we had that in common. I take a deep breath and decide to go with honesty. “No. Let me put it this way, the first time we met I told Devon that I wanted to sit on your face.” I’m not looking for praise, I’m not looking for pity, I’m not even looking for an answer from you. But I get one. “Oh. For the record, I’d love for you to do that.” Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuckity, fuck. FUCK! You didn’t let me off the hook.
to be continued…