Written by: Amber Garibay
I must have been looking pretty damn fine last night when I walked into Pint’s and Quarts, because heads started turning before I even made it in the door. There were three of them standing out on the walk, all turning at once to my attention, “It’s dead in there..” one said of a packed house, and a full parking lot. The pub was nearly to the capacity of Saturday, but they were clearly looking to leave. If the game had been different I might have stopped in front of them, instead of walking by. “Oh yeah? Is there somewhere else I should be going? Instead, I flirted to the wink of a smile, as I walked on by without pause. I was meeting someone, though the second guy in the group would have been fun to drizzle chocolate sauce on. He had on one of those shirts you only wear if you are a douche for trying too hard, but it was glued to the tight rip of a body that was made to work out. “Could be fun..” was my final thought, as I handed the bouncer, who never smiles or recognizes me, my ID. “Have a good evening gentleman…”
The thing about meeting men online is that you don’t know what they are going to be when they turn into real people. I didn’t know much, if anything about the guy I was looking for this particular evening except that he works with fish, which instantly makes me think “meow”, and I don’t eat either. I also had no idea what he looked like really. He was different in every picture; there was one of him cradling a fish, one of his skipping through the woods with a stick, and a few other mugs at different angles, all changed forever more by lighting. My own eyes were adjusting to the light of the bar, as I scanned the scene to find him. People were looking back, and I wasn’t sure where to take my eyes, because I felt so many of them. I looked down at my phone instead, sending a quick text, “Where are you?” I looked up to see a hand extended, except it wasn’t his. It was that of a gentleman who works the bar, off work, and drinking. “You are dressed up tonight.” He said, noticing my attire which is usually more casual. The last time I was in I wore an aqua tank top, blue jeans, and chucks. “I was at a birthday party,” I said with a devilish grin, “I am dressed up fancy for that.” I gave him a high five, and he asked, while he offered, “What are you doing here, and can I buy you a drink?” My answer became clear to the right of me, as my blind date became recognizable. Their eyes met just as soon as my mouth opened to the three letter triangle of “Yes, I would love a vodka tonic please.” He quickly understood, but proceeded, “Hey I will take another, and can you get the lady her drink of choice. This first one is on me.” With that he turned his back, and left me to greet my apology, who was standing there with two beers in his hand. He quickly explained that the second beer was for his friend, who drove him, because his night had started earlier. I was thankful that he hadn’t ordered for me because I despise beer, and was already at the disadvantage of being horrifically disrespectful in that I had accepted the first drink at all. I will admit that it is isn’t often I get so many offers at approach. I had no idea what do with it so I accepted, “Thank You.”
That was my reply to his excitement of seeing me, “Oh my God you are gorgeous!” he said it like Richard Simmons looking for beauty in fat. He was surprised, and thankful that I was not ugly. I felt like the scar of it, as my own mind made quick opinions. “Nope, and Next, were the simple of it.” That is how quickly I decide, and there is no getting past done. I sat at introduction wondering how I could expedite the progress of home. Truth be told I have felt that way with almost everyone I have met, almost. Less than five have become delightful friends, but there have only been two I ran with as a “yes, this could be worth a chance.” The rest were outright “No’s”, though I did entertain a few guinea pigs. There was the guy I used to try out sex.
I knew I couldn’t stand him at jump, but he had a nice build, and he was leaving for the air force. He was my trip to Vegas, and that is exactly what I felt like straddling him for a first kiss. He was the first guy I kissed after separating from my husband (since divorced). We had been separated for nearly six months, and I was sure there would be no reconciliation. What I wasn’t sure was whether or not there was something wrong with me, because I felt absolutely nothing at all of anyone. Don’t get me wrong, I care about people with a passion only described as love, and I have a life full of great ones. The void I am describing is the absence of soul mate, that person that get’s you to the comfort of a free spirit; the closest friend you will ever have because even your bodies are tangled together. I had it once, so I know it. Enough to recognize that it had gone. I had been out with a lot of great guys, my ex husband is a great guy, but my room was dark, like I was removed from it. I couldn’t even kiss. I would describe it as a hollow except the symptom presents as shallow. I thought of him as meat, and the kiss as a way to execute. I felt no passion for him, so the act was a dissection of approach. He tried to kiss me first, on our first date, which was a lovely occasion to walk Green Lake for the first time in my thirty five years. That memory is the warmth of Seattle culture, which burst like a tranny in a too tight cardigan. I’ve written that blog already, the detail of the day nearly a year ago back, the moment I realized the value of a kiss, as I tried to figure out what in me was frozen. He had leaned in, and I couldn’t move to it.
The date had gone well enough for me to consider, and I did. I spent the entire next week imagining the way I would kiss if I were to feel it with someone. I didn’t think about him because there was no spark. I considered me instead. What version of sexy do I want to be, and what kind of kiss would I need to throw down to make wrong right for me? He wasn’t my type at all. He looked like a billboard for a rel-estate ad, and he had this lisp about him that made me think of anal. He also had an old dog with a giant tumor protruding from its belly. It was so heavy it dragged to scrape of a lopsided walk. The dog was so near death, with age, that I prayed “Old Yellers” cougar would cut open the bowels of his abscess, so he could play again as a ghost. There was about as much life left in him as a deflated bag pipe without a mouth to give it a blow job. My date made him jump over things to show me how he mastered. The dog complied for a short while before stopping, tail tucked under to the woeful eyes of, “Look motherf*cker I don’t think you noticed, but I am old. My bones hurt. If you want to have something that hops take one of my fleas. I am not jumping anymore. If I had more left in me I would bite you.” The saddest past was that he didn’t understand the look, and so we had to live the drama of a freckle faced kid holding his dog at the edge of death. “Come on boy. You can do it. Jump a little more. You’ve still got more life in you…”
Motherf*ck. Where is the little blue pill for that downer. How about you call me after you get a puppy…
Jesus Christ you are a cold b*tch, Amber Garibay. I watched the scene with the sigh of my mind’s detail, thinking, “maybe I need a cute, cuddly puppy. Maybe I should graduate to men after I appreciate the bond between man’s best friend, the gentleness of a relationship. What the f*ck is wrong with you…” Indeed, I couldn’t even kiss, except I felt strangely justified thinking about the dog. I don’t know many men that get hard thinking about dead puppies. I would try this again in the control of my own environment. I invited him over to my place, a week out because he was in the midst of finals at UW. The time was good for me because I wasn’t final about anything. There might not even be a kiss…
But what if there was? How would you want it to be?
I always like the scene in movies where she pulls him in at the front door, with the kind of force that leaves furniture knocking over, because the kiss means business, but I wasn’t into him that way. In fact, I deflated to an awkward inept school girl as soon as he arrived at my door. I was suddenly all sorts of agitated, and it was not the kind that leaves the wet of pleasure. I was quite frankly freaked out to see him again. He looked strangely cartoonist, like a caricature. I had to shake my head to clear it, willing myself to not think about the detail. I needed to move into a physical state, beyond conscious, because my own soul was repulsed by my choice. I was determined, “It’s just a kiss, close your eyes and feel it. Imagine he is someone else.”
Just sex is as easy as surrendering to feeling past any attachment to source. That’s exactly how it went down too. I became my own fantasy because he couldn’t be mine, and when I kiss I want it to be hot. I was wearing a sun dress when he arrived, my tan skin the smooth of a long soaked tub, with lotion the light of coconut and lime. I was going to make him fresh strawberry waffles so that I could feed him berries from my lips except I didn’t want to share than sensual. To him I had to close my eyes, because I just wasn’t there. Could I be? Was there still that surrender to savage? Could he make me want it? That was the question I asked myself as I sat on him like a perch; my legs spread over him like a lady on a nag without saddle, refusing to stay to one side. I planned to hold onto that ride.
The whole thing went down like an acid trip of circus clowns, because each time I opened my eyes the memory stained me. The experience was fine, when they were closed to everything but the sound of varied breathing, and smut. The reality was more than morbid. It was like being in a pornstar’s head, to the empty noise of role play. There was no part of it that was sincere, and so it became a mechanical thud. He was just meat attached to an energy source. I actually saw him a third time, to be sure that “just sex” wouldn’t work for me. The sex was great, to the bipolar of his being, which was like the tantrum of personality. I found everything about him repulsive. The third date revealed that he was rude, cheap, and dirty. I slept with him again anyway to test how I felt about trying to see past his ugly for the pure act of physical contact. “I think that if I tried to date you I would just wind up stabbing you in the face. I would be that woman you see on tv that kept on stabbing past 400 just in case. Nah… I don’t want to see you again.”
I actually said that to him before I left, and he did not disagree. “I kind of thought the same thing, and I am kind of a dick.”
Up and Out.
How do I feel about being single?
I like that there are only doors, and that I can open them, and close them without the consequence of betrayal, or reason for that matter. “I’m just gonna go…” I like that I have the possibility of all good things in the connection I will eventually have with someone, and also that it will take time. I am not ready, nor may I ever be, to lock myself into one idea. I do remember when that one idea was everything to me, and that I trusted it would always be that way. I do know that I hope for that trust again, in communication. He is going to be my friend, to the level of best above any dog or bitch. Those things take time past any promise. I like knowing how good it is going to feel to meet him, unless I already have, and we have yet to realize each other. I get frustrated because I can’t see his face, and I want to. I want to see someone in my life to share it with, because there are things that I am missing. I miss being touched, on a more than regular basis. I miss hearing his laugh. I know those things I miss because I can’t imagine what I will have with someone. I miss his smell, his smile, his walk, the way food gets stuck in his teeth because they are too crowded twice, I miss the strength of his body and the round corners of his desk, I miss sports radio in the morning and the routine of running business. I miss a simple life dedicated to family, with peanuts, cracker jacks, and football. I miss a lazy ride on a Harley, while the wind blows hair without a helmet because we already crashed into each other. This hasn’t happened yet for me. It was someone else’s memory I just shared. I was just invited in long enough to picture what my life could be like if I cared, which I did, until he told me that he didn’t want to return the favor. “I am sorry Amber, I am just not the guy. I simply do not feel it.”
I understand completely.
