I’m supposed to be some “gal-about-town,” what with the whole Love&Sex column and Carrie Bradshaw-esque dreams bubbling up in my intestinal tract. Okay and yeah–I am aware (every Smart Ass Guy I’ll probably end up falling in love with anyway) that it’s not necessarily how “real life” works and it’s all some fantasy and if I really want that lifestyle while being a writer than I should probably check into a place where I’ll have my name changed to Fantasy. Don’t be late picking me up for the club at the DQ on South Bend.
But I still have hopes and dreams. Those hopes and dreams tend to find themselves buried deep in a Friday night with the first half of Superfly on Netflix (fell asleep for the second half) and new found ways of kitty cat discipline. I mention the cats only because it’s become so tiresome, that “sad SWF who loves cats” identity, that it would only be ironic to bring it back in the vain hope people won’t get me, then get me, then not get me again. Oh yeah, and I am a SWF who loves cats so this isn’t even a fucking metaphor. It’s like, truth.
I’m not finding men this way, and thus, not giving myself over to this column for any material. I’m not fresh. I haven’t hit the streets. And when I did hit the streets, it was only for a brief moment to the corner Walgreens for more apple juice. And when I did hit the streets in my daydreams, it was most definitely with a Dwane Wade look-alike and my ass was big and inviting. Then the song switched to Johnny Cash and suddenly he turned white and I was in a house dress making out with you on your daddy’s lawn.
Point being, I fantasize a lot. Perhaps “Fantasy” is indeed the perfect name switch for me, because it’s all there, but I’m not really experiencing it. Again I’m on the couch. No, I haven’t tried dating sites, and yes I will kindly abhor those who do. I believe in going out and meeting people and then there’s that person you just spark with and it kind of leads from there.
That is if you actually go out. People aren’t going to come to you. People also aren’t going to come to you if you’re sitting there with them and you don’t say a fucking word. Also, if you give baby sex kitten yes. Apparently that doesn’t work either. Apparently not a whole lot works anymore. Either that, or your days of successful 7th grade grinds are over.
And perhaps nothing works for me here, for I have now left the bubbles of adolescent and college years past, wherein a community thrived on its small size and people didn’t have to put personal ads in the paper to tell the “pretty brunette who I saw on the brown line” to meet him at the coffee shop this Wednesday at 7pm. You would see them again. Or at least you could fantasize about it with the kind of sincere hope that you most likely would see them again.
If Carrie and I have one thing in common, we both have a Mr. Big. Actually she has a Mr. Big and maybe I want a Mr. Big. Maybe I think there are several contenders who could adequately fit this category of My Guy in the Sky or whatever, but in reality they just kind of talk to me sometimes and then I put the looks we exchanged in slow motion. Or maybe they think about kissing me too. I really don’t know. I hope they do. I hope they listen to songs and think about making out with me. I hope they at least take one look in the mirror before going out before we meet up. I’m beginning to wonder if I should just stop listening to my iPod in fear that it is causing a soundtrack-to-my-life feeling as I’m looking longingly out the window to Otis Redding or something thinking about how “confusing we are” when my series of projected Mr. Bigs just go home and heat up left over brats.
And I think I want it, too. So bad. I’m a terror for patience. All I need is their approval. Their yeses. Their vindication from my fantasies when our lips can meet and I can taste the validation.
Joey Roach was 12 like me and he tasted most of the side of my lips and all the boys watched and I was even taken by surprise. We made slo-mo glances around the baseball fields a few months prior but now that our spit was all too sloppy I ended it a few months later. I remember losing feeling. Then he left for Elkhart, Indiana but don’t worry it wasn’t because of me.
And they just keep coming. Even if a night occurs or a glance or–at last–a kiss, it never matters. Or at least it never matters enough. Because what I really need is to somehow reach inside of them and suck out the sweetness of my endeavors. That was what I was looking for–that is the end towards which I was ultimately reaching with this morning’s second sweep of mascara. Sadly, they cannot sufficiently provide. Maybe for a moment, but then the moment turns into new thoughts and decisions, and, ultimately, real people who go beyond 2 hours and 17 minutes with credits. I’m like a vampire sucking on its own blood.
Because even if you do happen to find that perfect night when it’s slightly windy–enough to make your hair fly dramatically with the air–and you try and stuff yourselves into the back of a car and someone hits their head and then someone laughs in a desperate attempt to ease the embarrassment and then more anxiety ensues and eventually you end up forgetting who you’re with anyway.
This was a brief and innocent moment that didn’t quite reach a succinct point. Or perhaps it did and we already forgot about it. You can look into more Problematic Petting here