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and so the story goes...

So someone tried to pick me up on the street. I know. shocking. Especially considering that I was wearing cutout sweatpants, Skechers that have seen -much- better days and a sweaty white undershirt. Not to mention a baseball hat that shrunk in the wash -tilted way back in my head 'cause now it's fucking tiny- and dirty hair. Ready for my close up.

But it was not only that I looked like I had rolled out of bed and gone walking (I did) but how it happened. Bear with me, because I'm still in shock. Right. So I noticed the guy when I was going to cross a light but was like 'oh, well. He's looking, so what'. And I crossed the street. Then I saw him again, coming out of a drugstore exit right in front of me. I said to myself 'well, this is surprising'. It wasn't until I was going to cross the street again to go to the library that I saw his van (kind of red-flaggy) again and I said to myself: 'married, probably with children, looking for dick'. And I rushed into the building.

I returned my books, headed to the shelves to look for a new one and then I saw him. Yep. He followed me into the library. Kind of non-descript, older, about my height, on the fit side. And there he was, like fish out of water. And he was giving me the eye. I totally pretended I had not seen then and bent over to get a book in the lower shelf. Yes I did. Hope he got an eyeful. And I couldn't find the fucking book. So I headed to the main desk to look for help. A very nice lady helped me and I found my book (it's called Witch Eyes and I can't wait to start reading it!!). Ok. back to the story.

So he lingers, and broods and walks around and I do my thing: first some back issues of Rolling Stone (lost my subscription in May), then Chaz Bono's autobiography (he's on DWTS now and I found I needed to read about that) and then an Out magazine with Adele on the cover I had not seen. Done. And they guy? Right to my right while I was on the floor scavenging through past issues of Dwell. Not a word, not a nod, no nothing. Just there. I was like 'really?' and headed to the main desk to get going and do my walk back home.

So I checked out and hightailed back to the street. Less than a block away the station wagon stops right next to me and he asks if I need a ride. I refuse (graciously! I smiled and all) and kept walking. And that was it. I have to confess that my heart beat a little faster during the exchange and that I did not lean too close to the car in case he would go all Silence of the fucking Lambs on me or something like that. But it was weird.

What year did he think it was? 1982? A ride? Who offers (or takes) rides anymore? What? At that point all I could think was 'be safe, the promise of dick at ten in the morning does not merit risking getting on some unknown guy's station wagon (??)' . It was surprising and kind of weird to have a guy offer me a ride. Seriously. Do guys still offer rides? The whole thing smelled to closeted married guy on the prowl for dick. It was an out-of-body experience, almost. I could see everything developing from a distance.

I think that the experience kind of made me see that for some men time has not passed. It's 1952 all over for many men who do not know how to relate or connect with a possible mate/fuck buddy/trick. I'm not confused because he probably wanted to fuck me in the station wagon (I had done worse) I'm confused because the whole thing read like a story written before Gore Vidal published The Pillar and the City. Like something Salvatore Romano would go through in Mad Men. Not something a guy listening to his iPod while out on a walk to the library would have to go through in 2011.

He was furtive and awkward and shy and kind of sleazy in an understated way. He was also sad. Why didn't he approach me? Why didn't he strike up a conversation? Had he done that before? Was he a vigin? What the fuck? It just did not compute. Maybe I'm more used to the cut-to-the-chase of the guys in bars/clubs nowadays or the ASL straightforwardness of the online trolls.

I'm too all post-modern in what concerns gay lib and attitudes towards men. We grow accustomed to take our freedom to mingle at the least tingle by granted. Many men are still stuck (by preference or duty) to old-fashioned notions of interaction, even more restricted by their own baggage. I felt carefree and assertive and... young? when I walked back home. I promised myself that I will NEVER ever will let anybody or anything dictate how I get the sex I know I need and deserve. There. It may sound like some kind of an out-of-jail card to engage on slutty behavior, but I think it's more about agency and choice than cornholing. Hope he finds the release he so badly seems to need. Along some mental peace. So now back to that book I wanna read.




  1. Negrita:

    Al leer esto me sentì de 17 años de nuevo. ¡Yo también tuve 20 años y un corazón vagabundo...! como decía la canción.

    Abrazos mágicos y púrpuras desde el otro lado del Atlántico (desde la puta mierda, como dices tú).


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