You can't always get what you want...can you?
He was tall, athletic, dark hair, green eyes, bashful smile, nice, white teeth (what? It's important..), features sculpted out of marble or some other beautifully smooth iridescent stone; and he was looking at me.
I don't know if anyone else has imaginary pre-requisites for partners. You know, in an ideal world, what would he/she look like? How tall would they be? What eye colour etc etc. Well I had those thoughts, and here was mine. Looking me in the eyes, asking if I wanted another drink, laughing at my jokes and offering up his own. I went to the toilet whilst he went to find his friends, and said 'Oh My God', 17 times to myself in the mirror before re-appyling, re-adjusting, and sashaying out into the warmth of his smile.
I'd imagined what he'd kiss like with that perfect, pouty, cupid's bow mouth of his. Soft at first, running his hands up around my waist, and then stepping up the pace a little whilst his fingernails traced the length of my spine. When he stepped into me and smiled at the look of bewildered anticipation on my face, I held my breath. It was exactly as I'd imagined it.
A year later, it happened again. This time, I wanted to do things a little differently. The last time, he overpowered me. His scent, his voice, those looks he gave me...it was all too much and I freaked out and cut it short. What do you do when you get what you want? It was all too confusing then, but this was now and we were doing the dance again. He talks. I talk. He smiles, I smile. He leans in, I accept his kiss, warm and intoxicating. Intoxicating. It sounds like an idea of a kiss, something you'd read in a Danielle Steele or a Jackie Collins. But, this was just that. A kiss that seeped into your brain and warped your mind. A kiss that made you forget where you were. Forget how to speak, how to breathe.
We had to get out of the bar, Jacob's birthday or not I wasn't going to let him go this time. I caught myself glancing, no, staring at him sporadically all the way home. Just checking, like. In case it wasn't real and I'd have to bring myself to terms with the fact that I'd dreamed up the presence of the Gorgeous Man. No, that couldn't be his hand on my leg. That couldn't be his breath on my neck. That couldn't be his hair running inbetween my fingers. That couldn't be his tongue tracing the contours of my mouth.
I don't know how we got home (actually I do and it included me being a little caught in the moment, going to far and then having to walk further than necessary BACK to my house) but we did. And that's where the fun started...
...and ended. After I came back from the kitchen to find him looking through my book collection, pointing out that he loved Hemingway too, I felt the first jolt. The second came when my favourite song came on from that album, and he whispered 'I love this song.' Finally, I realised I was screwed when, after the whirlwind 5 hours (every minute of which stuck in my head, replaying itself throughout the following few months, triggering a smile at the slightest recollection of what we did,) he snaked one arm under my head, and rested the other over my tummy and just smiled into my eyes.
So fucking inconsiderate. I was fine before that. It was just supposed to be sex. I'd imagined it, spent days, weeks, months fantasizing about what it'd be like. How we'd be together. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he be quiet or loud? Maybe he'd be a little kinky and throw me off. But it was flawlessly fulfilling. Great. And that was fine with me. But, then he had to hold me. Draw little circles around my belly button and search my eyes trying to trick me into liking him, into intimacy. So I did the only thing I could do, I rolled away from him and went to sleep.
In the morning I woke up before him, and for a little while I felt at liberty to just look at his face. His cute, broken nose. The mole under his eye. The little hole in his ear from where he'd had it pierced in his teenage years of rebellion. I allowed myself to indulge in those thoughts that you never let yourself have until you know they're possibly having those thoughts too. Him cooking me dinner. Holding my hand as we walk, giving it a little squeeze every now and then just to let me know he's happy to be with me. Him smiling at me with that mouth as we watch telly, wrapped up on the sofa on a Winter's evening. My body wrapped up in his arms and his breath in my ear...
He woke up, I pretended that I hadn't just been staring at him for the best part of an hour, and we chatted some more. Then he dressed, and left.
Two weeks later, he had a girlfriend.
I found out in the worst way of course. Was out at a club, dancing like noone was watching - until I realised that someone was watching. Him. I smiled as he walked over to say hello and we talked a little before I excused myself to go to the bathroom and to have a word with myself. In there I met another friend who happened to live with him. She asked how I was, I said I liked her shoes, she asked if I'd noticed how down He was because "his girlfriend's got tonsilitis."
Girlfriend? What? Ouch.
When I went back outside, he was waiting for me with a drink. Mid-conversation I noticed him looking at my mouth. Later, I noticed his touches became considerably less fleeting. In fact, one of his fingers had found its way onto my tummy, and was embarking on a journey around my belly button. Before it could rev its engine I asked him where his girlfriend was. Silence. He bit his bottom lip and replied "She's at home."
"I had tonsilitis a few years back - horrible stuff. Is she ok?"
He shamefacedly asked how I knew and I let him know that it didn't matter, but that he should be ashamed of himself. Secretly though, I was a kinda thrilled.
Throughout the remaining year of their relationship though, I was to expect more incidents like that, although far less blatant. Stolen glances over the bar that I worked in, which he visited. A lot. Once with Her, but we won't talk about that. Rushed conversations as we passed on the street, both knowing what we'd rather be doing. Eventually it became too ridiculous and I just avoided him altogether.
Two months ago, he walked into the bar after a 6month absence from my social radar. He was looking better than ever, and was apparently a man on a mission. I avoided him, as per. He stuck at it. Waiting for me at the end of the bar. Appearing as if from nowhere when I emerged from the stock-cupboard. Worst of all, waiting for me at the end of the night, talking to my manager whilst I pretended to be busy just to not have to deal with it.
He wanted my number.
They had long broken up.
He wanted to see me again.
Now I'm in his throes once again. Still playing that game of Hot Potato because I enjoy the thrill of wanting something so much that you don't know what to do once you have it, other than throw it about and hope that someone else doesn't catch it. Unfortunately, this time it seems that he wants to be caught. By me. What the hell happens now...?
I don't know if anyone else has imaginary pre-requisites for partners. You know, in an ideal world, what would he/she look like? How tall would they be? What eye colour etc etc. Well I had those thoughts, and here was mine. Looking me in the eyes, asking if I wanted another drink, laughing at my jokes and offering up his own. I went to the toilet whilst he went to find his friends, and said 'Oh My God', 17 times to myself in the mirror before re-appyling, re-adjusting, and sashaying out into the warmth of his smile.
I'd imagined what he'd kiss like with that perfect, pouty, cupid's bow mouth of his. Soft at first, running his hands up around my waist, and then stepping up the pace a little whilst his fingernails traced the length of my spine. When he stepped into me and smiled at the look of bewildered anticipation on my face, I held my breath. It was exactly as I'd imagined it.
A year later, it happened again. This time, I wanted to do things a little differently. The last time, he overpowered me. His scent, his voice, those looks he gave me...it was all too much and I freaked out and cut it short. What do you do when you get what you want? It was all too confusing then, but this was now and we were doing the dance again. He talks. I talk. He smiles, I smile. He leans in, I accept his kiss, warm and intoxicating. Intoxicating. It sounds like an idea of a kiss, something you'd read in a Danielle Steele or a Jackie Collins. But, this was just that. A kiss that seeped into your brain and warped your mind. A kiss that made you forget where you were. Forget how to speak, how to breathe.
We had to get out of the bar, Jacob's birthday or not I wasn't going to let him go this time. I caught myself glancing, no, staring at him sporadically all the way home. Just checking, like. In case it wasn't real and I'd have to bring myself to terms with the fact that I'd dreamed up the presence of the Gorgeous Man. No, that couldn't be his hand on my leg. That couldn't be his breath on my neck. That couldn't be his hair running inbetween my fingers. That couldn't be his tongue tracing the contours of my mouth.
I don't know how we got home (actually I do and it included me being a little caught in the moment, going to far and then having to walk further than necessary BACK to my house) but we did. And that's where the fun started...
...and ended. After I came back from the kitchen to find him looking through my book collection, pointing out that he loved Hemingway too, I felt the first jolt. The second came when my favourite song came on from that album, and he whispered 'I love this song.' Finally, I realised I was screwed when, after the whirlwind 5 hours (every minute of which stuck in my head, replaying itself throughout the following few months, triggering a smile at the slightest recollection of what we did,) he snaked one arm under my head, and rested the other over my tummy and just smiled into my eyes.
So fucking inconsiderate. I was fine before that. It was just supposed to be sex. I'd imagined it, spent days, weeks, months fantasizing about what it'd be like. How we'd be together. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he be quiet or loud? Maybe he'd be a little kinky and throw me off. But it was flawlessly fulfilling. Great. And that was fine with me. But, then he had to hold me. Draw little circles around my belly button and search my eyes trying to trick me into liking him, into intimacy. So I did the only thing I could do, I rolled away from him and went to sleep.
In the morning I woke up before him, and for a little while I felt at liberty to just look at his face. His cute, broken nose. The mole under his eye. The little hole in his ear from where he'd had it pierced in his teenage years of rebellion. I allowed myself to indulge in those thoughts that you never let yourself have until you know they're possibly having those thoughts too. Him cooking me dinner. Holding my hand as we walk, giving it a little squeeze every now and then just to let me know he's happy to be with me. Him smiling at me with that mouth as we watch telly, wrapped up on the sofa on a Winter's evening. My body wrapped up in his arms and his breath in my ear...
He woke up, I pretended that I hadn't just been staring at him for the best part of an hour, and we chatted some more. Then he dressed, and left.
Two weeks later, he had a girlfriend.
I found out in the worst way of course. Was out at a club, dancing like noone was watching - until I realised that someone was watching. Him. I smiled as he walked over to say hello and we talked a little before I excused myself to go to the bathroom and to have a word with myself. In there I met another friend who happened to live with him. She asked how I was, I said I liked her shoes, she asked if I'd noticed how down He was because "his girlfriend's got tonsilitis."
Girlfriend? What? Ouch.
When I went back outside, he was waiting for me with a drink. Mid-conversation I noticed him looking at my mouth. Later, I noticed his touches became considerably less fleeting. In fact, one of his fingers had found its way onto my tummy, and was embarking on a journey around my belly button. Before it could rev its engine I asked him where his girlfriend was. Silence. He bit his bottom lip and replied "She's at home."
"I had tonsilitis a few years back - horrible stuff. Is she ok?"
He shamefacedly asked how I knew and I let him know that it didn't matter, but that he should be ashamed of himself. Secretly though, I was a kinda thrilled.
Throughout the remaining year of their relationship though, I was to expect more incidents like that, although far less blatant. Stolen glances over the bar that I worked in, which he visited. A lot. Once with Her, but we won't talk about that. Rushed conversations as we passed on the street, both knowing what we'd rather be doing. Eventually it became too ridiculous and I just avoided him altogether.
Two months ago, he walked into the bar after a 6month absence from my social radar. He was looking better than ever, and was apparently a man on a mission. I avoided him, as per. He stuck at it. Waiting for me at the end of the bar. Appearing as if from nowhere when I emerged from the stock-cupboard. Worst of all, waiting for me at the end of the night, talking to my manager whilst I pretended to be busy just to not have to deal with it.
He wanted my number.
They had long broken up.
He wanted to see me again.
Now I'm in his throes once again. Still playing that game of Hot Potato because I enjoy the thrill of wanting something so much that you don't know what to do once you have it, other than throw it about and hope that someone else doesn't catch it. Unfortunately, this time it seems that he wants to be caught. By me. What the hell happens now...?
posted by KJT at 3:19 pm
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