Edit: I tried to write on the train this morning and for some reason, couldn't. I have writer's block. Like, have I run out of things to write about? (More like there's a limit to the stories I'm allowed to tell. There are TONS of hilarious stories that I won't write about for various reasons, including bad timing.) So if you feel like there's a relationship/sex topic that needs to be discussed or re-addressed, hit me at email@example.com. Or you can just hit me because you feel like it and that will make me happy to. It's always interesting to know who's reading this thing, especially since the number grows by 250 people every week. Like who are you new people? LOL! Shout out to the 4 faithful St. Kitts readers who have been with us for about a month now.
Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming:
Everyone has a stand out feature. Some women get big booties, some breasts, some flat stomachs and high metabolism. I got hair. It is what it is. Not to sound arrogant, but I'm used to people approaching me about it in the street. With the exception of when it was just-got-over-chemo short, I can count on at least someone complimenting it at least once a day when it’s done (it’s been not done 3 days since September and that was because of the gym.)
The problem though is not really the people running up to me; it's why. It seems there’s a portion of the female population that think I'm gay... or at the very least bi.
I was out with The Guys a few weeks back at the Everybody Eat At Lola's Campaign to support the Black- owned struggling restaurant when Langston spotted a pretty woman we'd run into for the third time that night. He was determined not to let the final opportunity pass without saying something. When she trots by again, he introduces himself, and she seems mildly interested-- until she sees me.
At this point, her face lights up, she cuts my boy short and she smiles, introducing herself. "I met you before. You work for XXXXX, right?"
I've never seen her before in life, but I shake her hand because it's the civil thing to do.
"At Pop Burger, remember? I was with Stephanie?"
No clue, but I go "oh yeah, good to see you," anyway.
She gives me a huge smile... To remember her by? I dunno. And then walks off with just a quick bye to my boy. Ouch.
I assume I read too much into that until my three capadres point out, "um what the hell was that? She was so hitting on you." Then they do a play by play breakdown (yes, men do it to just over different subjects) of what just happened and how they could tell.
"It's been happening a lot lately," argues Langston, who is unarguably fine. "You got chicks falling for you left and right. I'm walking with you and women are looking at you not me. Trust me, I notice."
Eh. I'm not convinced. She was friendly. Odd, but friendly. And I haven’t noticed any chicks really scoping me. Behaving oddly? Yes. But trying to get at me? Nah.
A couple days later, I decide it's time to go back to the gym and I revamp my eating habits to abide by a new workout plan. Instead of Starbucks lattes and muffins for breakfast, I'll go with all fruit smoothies from the Jamba Juice near my job. I walk in and wait in the forever line behind tourists who can't make a decision. The girl behind the counter keeps smiling at me, giving me an apologetic look. It's uncharacteristically New York nice. When I finally order, she keeps looking at me. It's the look up, look away passive aggressive gaze that I give a guy when I want his attention without being bold. Why is she doing that?
After she gives me my change, she wishes me, "have a nice day" with the full on glare. Er? And when I'm on the way out the door with my juice, she raises her voice to say "bye" over the bustle of the room, which includes simultaneous blenders whirring. I look back. She's smiling.
At my desk, I convince myself that I've been paranoid ever since The Guys told me I was getting hit on by women. Maybe both of those women were from the South or new to New York? And they were both young (early 20s), so maybe she was just all happy kid energy? Maybe since the weather’s nice women are committing random acts of Spring? I dunno.
That night, a bunch of us get up to enjoy the first warm night of the season. We stop here, head there, then find ourselves at our old NYU stomping grounds for $4 margaritas, warm tortilla chips and salsa music. I tell my boys the story of the Jamba Juice girl. Much to my dismay, they agree; she was flirting.
"You miss all the hints," Patent argues. "For girls and guys. Unless it's over the top, you don't see it, D."
I still don't believe it. Do I look like a lesbian? Summer’s coming, I want to attract menfolk. Tall, chocolate, broad-shouldered ones. Maybe I should cut the mohawk off, I ponder out loud. Maybe I’ll look more feminine?
Langston hits me with of his infamous sideways glares. "Yeah," he snorts. "Get a Caesar. That'll really help."
Two hours and way over my limit later, the three of us are headed to the Exit when Patent runs into a guy he hasn't seen in ages. The chick he's with is of undeterminable Spanish descent. Patent's chatting away and in our silly drunkenness, Langston and I take to the dance floor. He's proudly Jamaican, but swears for the first time ever, he has Costa Rican ancestry and this makes him qualified to teach me how to salsa. We're making fools of ourselves when the “Spanish” chick hops off her stool and tries to teach me to dance.
She comes close, grabbing for an arm and a hip. I gently shrug her off, feigning not being in the mood to dance anymore. I look over at Langston and he's laughing and shaking his head. I feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke. Since I won't dance with her, she starts doing this sort of backward shimming thing a little too close to me. She's leaning back and she's swaying, her low cut top dipping lower. If I were a man and into breasts, or for that matter a woman and into breasts, this could be enticing. But it's not. It’s just odd. Really really odd. Why is she shaking her breasts at me?
She’s staring at me and I know that look. It’s the one I give to dudes. She reaches for my hand to catch me up in her rapture. I move it away and just then it dawns on me that she is hitting on me. Right in front of her boyfriend no less. Are they swingers? I look up at Langston again is near hysterical trying to hold in a laugh, then turns away from me to keep from letting it all loose.
I look back at the chick with a "really shorty?" look. "Is this what's good in 08?"
Apparently it is. She’s still staring, giving me her best come hither gaze. I smile, maybe kinda cocky-like, because as odd as this scenario is and as hetero I am, I have to admit there's also something remotely flattering and slightly ego boosting about someone making a scene over me-- even if it's a chick. I laugh because… what better can I do in this moment?
Shorty mistakes my laugh for interest. She shakes her shimmy a little harder. She leans back, she sways, she rocks …
I mean busts her ass on the hard wood floor, her head connecting with the ground with that hollow pop!before the rest of her did. She’s sprawled out on the floor, limbs all askew and Langston and I are standing over her staring with—literally—our mouths hanging open.
I extend a hand to pull her up. Langston actually bends to lift her off the floor, and Patent, who only saw the landing, but not the fall, gets her other side. (Her date never comes to her rescue.) They sit her on the stool, I ask if she’s okay. She nods, embarrassed. There’s nothing else to be said as Langston and I are near tears trying to hold in laughter. We attempt to escape the room, and her date stops me before I can make it to the steps after Patent and Langston.
“Um...” He pauses as if he doesn’t know how to ask. “Did she just fall dancing for you?”
I compose myself just long enough to say “yes,” then I sprint after Patent and Langston to the lobby to find them doubled over with laughter. I join them, howling until I pant and long after tears have ruined my concealer. Langston declares it the funniest/weirdest/most outrageous shit he’s ever seen.
“Now do you believe us?” he asks.
The next morning, I wake up to the blaring alarm with a slight hangover, likely the result of cheap liquor at the college bar. My very first thought: I can’t believe she fell.” Then I burst into giggles all over again.
It’s going to be a long, hilarious summer.