The “You’re Not That Special” Disclaimer: This could be about you, and only you, but let’s just say that it’s not. Like the lovely genre of non-fiction, “You” are a blend of memories and experiences, maybe sorta kinda all blended into one person. And these kinds of characteristics mentioned in the below passage reflect that.
But really. This is about you.
A young man I once dated said this of the popular song “Girl Next Door” by Saving Jane: “It’s not bad. It’s got pretty great undertones.”
This was not expected from this person, mostly because he had “good taste” in music and generally geared more towards, say, Radiohead’s “Karma Police” than the song that made all of the prime suburban chic break it down during after prom.
But he expanded my mind and made me wonder. Perhaps I shouldn’t just write this thing off as being dumb. Maybe I should look a little deeper (although the song presents itself as superfluous) and, as he stated, listen to the undertones. All of those baser (or Bass-r) sounds that ride the gentle wave below what we hear outright. All of that tangled underworld we completely disregard because we maybe don’t want to admit it’s there. Riding in our gut and making us hesitate to regard boring girls dancing to their “anthem” as, in fact, boring and flat. They feel something so whatever. Just go with it.
He’s good at music and gets that wave, but we tumbled; we didn’t dance. It could be believed, that every smile he (seemingly) involuntarily elicited from me with jokes and sayings and actions was a token of our love. I took as many rides as I could get.
But I have a problem with him and I have a problem with you. You feel so much, don’t you? Nobody likes Radiohead or reads a whole bunch and thinks nothing of grand, sweeping physical gestures or kisses. And it’s not even any rom-com sensibility that provokes me to say “show your emotions!” because I am a girl and you are a guy and I need to “discover” you or “have you figured out.” I’d like for us both to be three dimensional characters in our drama. I don’t need to be right. I don’t need to have you write about me–even if you’re the only one who knows about it. It’s just that somewhere within the lines of you and me I color a blank. And to think that you’ve grabbed me before .
To say you’re guarded would be, I think, too easy. Because what would that make me? Guarded against your guardedness. Thinking thoughts about the thoughts you may be thinking about me. Us both revolving around in the unspoken, hanging in wonder, thoughtless of who we are in that moment. And the whole world waits around for everyone else to open their heart and nobody’s doing it first.
But then how can I be so vulnerable at times, ready for a kiss or leaning in with cherry lips and saying take me take me! I’m a young girl on the verge and I’m ready to sing about it. Write about it. Think that you’re cute. Curl my lips when you enter and put on perfume for you and only you. Okay maybe for some other people too.
I’ll lay down under you and enjoy my time there. I’ll think of you fondly and say something to you about it. And when I feel your heat it’s like we’re both in it, seeing everything underneath, sweating in the sweetness. Feeling the wholeness of the song.
So fuck me. Fuck me like a gorgeous babe. Forget about you and forget about me and surrender to the void, as they say. Just go with it. I’d rather have your feeling than your feeling about your fumbles.
You flutter around indecision and past identities, stuck with hands in pockets, balking at the new idea of you. I can see it and I feel it. I can feel it in the [perhaps erroneous] unedited undertones of your words and the fervor of your hand, slowly slipping from my waist to my hip. But then a little Let-Go, and a little More comes through, reaching out like a virile taunt from a dormant masculinity.
And I like it.
Touch me. Be with me. Don’t worry about me.