October 24, 2006
We met one night at Premiere. Scratch that. We fought one night at Premiere.
As per the norm these days (and abetted by an increasing propensity for “rum and diet —two limes”), I deemed it completely appropriate to immediately berate his entire existence. Granted, it may not be smart to tell a perfect stranger that he, in effect, is the root of society’s evil or to casually nominate him Bush’s idiotic, zombie minion. I just couldn’t help myself. He was a Navy Guy.
Navy Guy, yes. But also cute as hell and disarmingly charming. In what proved to be a rare move, I ditched my friends— flirting and fighting with my newfound blue-eyed nemesis the rest of the night.
Both the hours and the drinks bolted by as we perched against the bar, oblivious to the pulsing scene vibrating around us. My proclivity for aggressive political argumentation was in full effect, eventually trumped only by my competing proclivity for dancing. He became my anchor, the only thing ensuring maintenance of vertical orientation as I teetered and swayed in 4-inch heels.
The more and more blurry night inevitably (and thankfully) ended when my liquored-up behind was dragged off the dance floor by my girlfriend-cum-babysitter — leaving Navy Guy in my unfortunate and Elaine Benice-esque wake. I didn’t say goodbye.
In a twist of fate, or stalkerdom, or Satan’s will, he tracked me down. I hated him and he tracked me down. He emailed me at work. I agreed to a date. We went out. A few times. I hated myself. I was starting to like him.
On one particularly wrathful afternoon we rode around in a thunderstorm, listening to music and the dull sound of late summer raindrops pounding on the plastic windows of his jeep. We rocked out at The Strokes concert, clapping and singing the show through. We kissed in elevators. We talked a good deal about the war, not much about ourselves. We kissed in the parking deck.
The odds of my attraction to his particular “type” were about the same as my odds of soliciting dates at the local herpes treatment center or picking them out of the sexual offender database on the web. Hell, he may as well have had waxed eyebrows or been wearing capri pants.
Not only was he a Third-Class-Sergeant-Sailor-Special-Agent-Bushie-Slave-Robot-Whatever, he was soon shipping out to the Middle East.
I’ve never once been conflicted about matters of the head. I’ve never once questioned my disdain for this administration’s foreign policy. I’ve never once felt the need to blindly support American endeavors for the sole declaration of patriotism. In this, I am unwavering.
Matters of the heart are a different story, and this matter of the heart made me want to scream and cry in a big, conflicted mess. It bled the line distinguishing my thoughts from my feelings a little too much; it left me raw.
Drugs Online - Buy Drugs Online at reasanoble prices.DrugOnline.cc provides confortable and easy way to order drugs online including drugs free shipping.
Compounded by deadline and exacerbated by immediacy, I felt the need to protect my rotten little insides.
Self-preservation is a bitch and I found myself staring her in the mean, ugly face. For a girl whose motto is an only half-cheeky “Whatever, I do what I want,” wanting something that was clearly not intelligent was not an easy thing to keep from doing.
As I felt myself slip and my thoughts wandering to things like coffins (that’s what they call the beds on the ship, I was told), I couldn’t help but wonder, what was the point? Why did I even care? The issue, the navy boy, was moot.
Had this been any normal circumstance, the future would not be a concern until, well, it became the present. But this was not normal and time was operating on a warped-speed plane beyond my control.
We shared no more than two months of combustible chemistry—sparked by playful battling over vastly cleaving values and dotted with too-hot-for-publication text-messages. (Yes, text messages.) I can’t speak for my sparring partner, but I spent a whole lot of time pondering our next bout in the ring.
I realized I was becoming vulnerable to this man: the antithesis of all I desired. I freaked out. I got all weird. In my head at least, I started to become That Girl.
Stupid Navy Guy had turned casual me into That Girl and I didn’t like it. Not at all. So I took a few deep breaths (which really didn’t help) and moped over a bottle of Riesling and the entire first season of Grey’s Anatomy (which really kinda did).
I knew I wasn’t going to wait around for him while he was at sea, but I also knew that his pouty lips on mine made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and that the way he looked at me was not the way most men do.
We drove out to the beach on Tuesday and spent the night not talking about his leaving. I’m glad I didn’t meet him sooner.
Posted by toshko under Herpes News | Comments (0)