Sometimes you just meet someone and they strike you as someone you want to get to know. I don’t mean in that, “hey, you’re fun and I want to know more about you,” kind of way, but in that “I am insanely curious about every ounce of your being” kind of way.
It’s rare, but it happens.
This past weekend was a really interesting one, where I met a handful of new faces, some of which reminded me that I was desirable. I believe I’ve mentioned on here before that before I moved to Houston I’d never had a man buy me a drink. Well, not a straight man; my gay men have always taken care of me, but it’s just somehow not quite the same….Although, I think I’d give an arm and a leg to have a bath drawn by my Pansy (he used to call me his Pansy Princess, because the term “Fag Hag” just did not fit).
He used to make me a bath with Sandalwood oil and rose petals and candles and relaxing music, and about half way through would come in and wash my back for me.
No straight man has ever put that much effort into making me feel special, no matter how much I’d like for one to do so!
Today, I was reminiscing. It started innocently enough: trying to reconstruct some missing spots in my memory from this weekend. It’s so rare that a man buys me drinks, that when more than one is willing to do so, it causes me to drink a bit more than is probably proper. Seems I may have caused an incident. Not a “get kicked out of an establishment” incident, but a couple of “instant friendship” incidents that leave me in a bit of a predicament.
One in particular sparked a memory of how things had been once upon a time with the Boy. With the way we used to talk to one another in the very, very beginning, as opposed to how the communication dwindled down to me constantly being the one to make contact. Our new situation is different; it is sometimes equal, but mostly it’s about 80/20, as in 80% of the time I start the conversation, while 20% of the time it is him.
Sometimes, I’m just trying to see how he is, but I get so worried that he’s going to get tired of me, or that I’m bothering him, that I end up having what feels like a really awkward conversation. There’s always been this thing about him that I can’t put my finger on that makes me want to know more, to figure him out.
In a lightly dozing state, recovering from the weekend and enjoying my first official day of the Summer holiday before I get hot and heavy to work on a summer job, it came to me: He keeps a part of him so tightly locked away that it eats at me that I can’t see it.
It’s selfish, I know, but it makes a lot of things fall into place.
He can’t understand why I ask certain questions, like why I want to know about his job when I can’t understand it. His analogy was it would be like telling someone how many seeds were in an apple but they had no concept of what an apple was. My counter argument was that perhaps if he kept telling me about the pieces I could work out what kind of fruit it is (to keep with the metaphor).
And when he gets to talking about his work, every now and then I get a glimpse of that thing he keeps locked away so deep.
There have been a few other times when I get just a fraction of a peek at whatever it is he keeps locked so deep inside: when he gets deeply emotional. Basically, when he gets mad.
When the Boy gets mad he flares up for an instant, and then he races to shove all his feelings back into that tiny little box he hides deep inside.
He refuses to let me actually see him angry, for fear that he might hurt me. He says that I make him so angry that it frightens him sometimes.
And that, too, is something I’ve been thinking about. I have this theory that when he gets angry at me, a bigger portion of that anger is at himself because he doesn’t understand why I have the power to make him so angry.
He hasn’t figured out why it is that I can bring him to the point of rage with just a handful of words.
In all honesty, I don’t know why he gets so angry at me sometimes either. And to be fair, there are times when he fills me with a rage that I’ve rarely felt either.
If life were a Romantic Comedy, that would be proof enough that our fates were intertwined.
And you see, that’s why women push sometimes. We’re shown time and again on the big screen how when two people are actually deeply in love with one another (or destined to be that way by the end of the film), that sometimes love can be “strangely easy to mistake for loathing.”
Sometimes the harder you fight, the more we believe it affirms your love. Particularly in cases when your ire seems undeserved. When something seems trivial to us, and yet it pushes you to the point of potential violence, well, what better proof that you really are in love with us?
A girl can convince herself that a man who has never said the words is actually madly deeply in love with her, to the point of distraction kind of love, because of the number of fights she’s had with the guy. The harder he fights, in conjunction with how the make-up session goes, is sometimes all it takes.
It’s completely illogical, but that doesn’t make it wrong. And if you think it is completely wrong, you can blame all those crazy Romance movies what you won’t go see with your girl. She gets these ideas in her head, and without your input at how crazy it is, how else is she supposed to know that it’s giving her the wrong impression of how love is?
I don’t even like Rom-Coms but I’m guilty of it.
While going through my memories from this weekend, I had to recognize that, for all my protestations to the contrary, a not so tiny part of me is still holding out hope that when the Boy gets his head on straight, he’ll realize that I’m still here, that I’ve been here, and have been supportive, and have continued to work on our relationship, building those bonds and working on that honest communication, letting him figure it all out on his timeline, which is slower than mine.
I’m still open to dating; still talking to the Massage guy, and am late replying to Mr. West Coast, but he’s still there. And as I said this weekend opened my eyes to a handful of new people, some of which seem much more eager and interested than others… perhaps a bit too much!
So I haven’t closed myself to the idea of someone else, but there is still that tiny glimmer of hope sitting in the back of my head that still sees the Boy who couldn’t breathe when he dropped me off from our first date. The Boy whose desire for me was so strong it literally took his breathe away. The Boy who wrote an erotic fantasy story about pirates where the two main characters were oddly similar to the two of us. The Boy who used to want me around to just sit in his space… just to be close.
You know, that Boy I told myself I’d shut out for good because he’d hurt me so bad there was no going back. But when he came back, and I pushed, he stuck around, trying even harder to make sure our connection was solid.