As I picked up my shirt from last night, I noticed a new stain. A dark—deep red horizontal mark across the back. With it flipped inside out, I could see a trail of spotted red marks dripping all the way to the bottom hem. Blood…
Blood that leaked out of the corresponding horizontal slash on the flesh of my back—just below the shoulder. I don’t remember feeling a thing.
“I’m looking for a dance partner, are you interested?” The girl, with open toed shoes and green nail polish, said at Prague. Then she took my hand and navigated us in front of the go-go dancers and beside a spontaneous break dance…off.
Not intimidated, and loaded with Two Dollar Gin ‘n Tonics, I started to wiggle my shoulders to the pulsing house music. My hips followed—then my arms. When I dipped, she rose, when I swayed, she turned, when I grinded, she backed off. My awkward white-boy dance style (the crotch grind on either her back or front) was in constant conflict with her equally awkward white-girl moves (flailing arms and some sort of twisting tango walk).
With her hand wandering up my back and across my stomach, she repeatedly whispered two compliments into my ear: “You’re a great dancer” and “You have great abs.”
“Thank you.”
At least she was being honest about one of them.
Now keep in mind that this is the first night of my self-imposed abstinence pledge—a pledge less about sex and more about abstaining from excessive dating. Why you ask. Well, lately I feel like I’ve been so consumed with finding a compelling partner that I’m becoming a less compelling individual. That sounds like bullshit but, well, oh well.
After asking me for the 20th time, what my job was, I lied again.
“I’m a writer.”
Then we went to Lanai for a last drink—well her last drink. Competing for her interest with another guy and her three friends proved difficult for me. There was no loud music, only a small crowd drinking Freska, and with actual lights on, I could see that she was in fact attractive. In a heroic display of chivalry I finished my Freska Vodka before her larger male friend…through a straw.
We exchanged numbers after a hug. And while her green painted nails did squeeze firmly into my back, they definitely did not draw blood…that would happen sometime between meeting a college girl at the after party and dry-humping on the trunk of her friends Honda Accord.
We meet again…
Considering the wound on my back has heeled—scabbed-up and peeled away—it seems that I should let college girl’s memory fade and discuss something more timely…
Why would I go in for a second goodbye hug?
———
Last Saturday Night, Approx. 11 pm:
Upon pulling up to my apartment she said, “Thanks, that was fun,” and skillfully leaned over the middle console to wrap her arms around widest part of my back.
(I say skillfully because the ‘goodbye car hug’ can be an awkward proposition. Often times I find myself stuck between a half-nelson and a Heimlich. Oh, and withdrawing my arms, almost always results in her receiving an elbow to the ear.)
But not this time—maybe she’s more experienced than me because she was in and out with ninja-like precision. I didn’t feel a thing. Actually it happened so smoothly and was over so quick, I had no time to prepare a witty response.
“Yeah, we should do it again sometime.” An appropriate, albeit bland, retort. But this is where my brain must have misconstrued the context of my words. Because it acted as if I was referring to something else, like the thing that just happened, the embrace, because when she agreed…
Last Saturday Night, Approx. 11 p.m and 5 seconds:
…I leaned in. Since she had already resumed normal driving posture, I was forced to wedge one arm between her lower back and the seat. This sent her instinctively into an unnaturally upright position, while my other arm reached across. Only it never makes it behind her, rather, ended up caught on the steering wheel. Now, the car is still running, I don’t think she even put it in park, because as I try to balance, the wheel turns, causing me to fall further onto her side. And this is where I decided to improvise…
Approx. 11 p.m. and 7 seconds:
…using the momentum to lean in for a kiss. I’m not going to describe this kiss…
Approx. 11 p.m. and 7.5 seconds:
I’m exiting the car, walking to my apartment and not looking back.
and Exploitation
“I can’t believe you wrote that about me,” she said after stumbling across drewlyon.com. “I really liked you.”
I knew this would happen, I just didn’t expect it so soon…
———
There were a few unspoken guidelines when I started this site:
- Not to use real names (other than my own, of course).
- If I am going to write about a romantic encounter than it should probably be a one-time thing, rather than somebody I expect, or would like, to see again.
- And as a personal challenge, I would not center the site around graphic descriptions of sex–I know, I know, it’s a lot of fun–to read and to write—but I’m better than that…for now.
However, despite my complete romantic ineptitude courtesy of perpetual inebriation, one of the girls from a story wanted to see me again, and again. (Here’s a hint: it’s not the one who thinks I’m potentially a date-raping serial killer). And get this, she’s sarcastic and understands humor noir. Jackpot.
But, maybe I should not have a publicly accessible facebook page…
“I thought you would be honored by such a feature role in my work,” I rationalized with her.
“Well it is kind of romantic,” was not what she said.
Damn—what an inopportune time for us to share our first sober encounter. Up to this point, our time together has been marked by the abundant accompaniment of spirits—not the paranormal kind—the all too normal kind. Allow me to recap.
The night we met…
Your typical Tuesday night at Lavaca Street Bar where One Dollar Tecates come with chasers of clear Tequila. Split-Screen —>; Beer pouring down from high above my head, me shaking my hair dry like a dog, smiling wildly | Me flapping around the dance floor of Prague with all the gracefulness of a one-winged butterfly and the flexibility of tree bark.
The following Saturday…
My favorite time to drink: Saturday during the day—the sun shining, spending the whole afternoon reading a book on the back porch (okay fine, I only did this once, but it was delightful—Alex Garland’s The Beach).This I explained to my roommate when returning from the gas station with a 4-pack of Sparks at noon. Slow-dissolve —>; The Sparks transform to Blue Moon and the Blue Moon to Gin. It’s dark out now and my date is in the parking lot.
On four hours of sleep and still intoxicated from Fat Tuesday’s all-night East 6th Street debauchery, I find myself on a boat in the middle of Lake Austin passing around a bottle of grape VOdka and diving into the brisk water for my morning swim. Fast-forward —>; The sun is setting, the bottle is empty, the hatch is riddled with twelve ounce metallic shells and I’m staring blankly into the side view mirror admiring my tan on the way back to the apartment to meet her.
You get the point. But, for our most recent night out, I would try a new approach: start drinking only two hours before, okay, so it might have been three—after all, she was fifteen minutes late. Sure enough, impaired just enough to be unimpaired, I tapped into sharp wit without unleashing tumultuous babble. And while her friend detailed the courting habits of an infidel co-worker, I took my date’s hand under the table. She traced the wrinkles on my knuckles with her crescent nails—now when I smiled/nodded along it was genuine, although unrelated to her friend’s story.
She joined me in the backseat of the Jeep on our way home and when we kissed goodnight neither one of us closed our eyes. I read my reflection in her pupil, and unwavering, it said I liked her…
“Are you going to take the stories down?” She queried dejectedly.
I’m not sure if this was supposed to be an ultimatum or just a parting request, but my answer would have been the same either way.
“No.”