Saturday, February 27, 2010

"Wading in Poetry's Hot Murky Puddle of Lust"*

*This title was brought to you by Phoenixism due to a complaint he registered with the Poetry of Flesh Blogging Department on an earlier post. If you do not like the blog title, please go over to his blog and register a complaint with the Phoenixism Blog-Titling Department. Thank you for your understanding and patience in this matter.

205PM, I'm in bed.

Exhausted and sore. Five hours of clubbing, five hours of dancing and flirting, sweating and moving to the songs that crawl inside me.

My sister and her boyfriend joined us for dinner last night, sitting around and talking, on the floor by the fireplace, as I'm still without a kitchen table. Sharing youtube videos while I got ready for the club, sliding on the simple black and gray mini-dress GV8 bought for me two weeks ago, then hair and make-up.

I looked good. The stress from the incident that happened with my family in December knocked fifteen pounds off my frame within two weeks. It has stayed gone, due to my maintenance.

It was a night of attention. I was amused by it, mostly. When I go clubbing, I tend to dress down for comfort. Pull my hair back, minimal make-up, and go. If I talk to no one but my friends, I'm a happy girl, dancing all night.

But I put effort into my appearance and suddenly I'm "popular" and people are asking me if this is my first night at the club.

Looking at these guys thinking, "I've been doing this circuit for eight years. I've been in these clubs so much that I can segregate people into what clubs they attend, what bands they like, when they entered the club scene, and what social group they will tend towards simply by watching them dance."

But I smile and poke fun at them, their startled expressions when they realize I've been doing this longer than they have, feel amusement when a DJ or a bouncer will walk by and wave at me.

Speaking of both, one of the bouncers became so enamored with me, he told me to treat him as my personal bartender, and whenever I wanted a drink, he would not only fetch it for me, but make sure it was free.

If only I drank.

If only I accepted men buying my drinks when I wasn't interested in them. I won't let men spend money on me if I'm not going to return the attraction.

And I finally nailed my DJ crush down. Found out why he hadn't been flirting with me, why he hadn't been touching me, why his body language was so off.

Really, I already knew why. He thought that Playboy was my boyfriend. Hell, with the way I am, he probably thought I had four boyfriends by the amount of physical contact I give to my male friends.

So, he finally did a casual lead up to my "boyfriend". After expressing my faux confusion at why he would think that, I explained Playboy's status. And, yes, mentioned that I'm in an off-again-on-again relationship with someone that is in an off phase.

Oh, look at that. Suddenly he's flirting with me, touching me, dancing with me.

I asked him out before I left, a pre-club dinner. Something easy, that knocks out me having to get all cute and done up twice by combined two events into one. Which is how I tend to schedule my first dates anyway. It's kinda perfect on a logistical level, just getting ready, then picking a place by the club, and then you have the option of inviting them to the club with you, or cutting out because you have a thing you're doing at a specific time.

Also ended up having one of those awkward satellite men, that circle around you while you dance. I felt like I was trapped in Twilight with a brooding vampire about to tell me how I was his own personal brand of heroine. When he finally got the balls to approach, which was because I smiled at him, wanting to get his hovering over with, he was so... disjointed that I finally asked him how drunk he was. He said he wasn't, but a)I did not believe him and b)he was so staggeringly awkward that I said to him that he should have told me he was drunk because it would provide some excuse for his hovering and inability to communicate.

But in a nice way.

Seriously. It was more of a joking tease.

But he didn't get it, didn't understand what I meant, so I excused myself and went to dance.

My highlight, though, oh my god, my highlight, was this gorgeous, gorgeous piece of meat. I saw him and I nearly jawdropped at how hot he was. Just... perfectly one of my types. And how he moved, that slight swagger... swoon. Rockabilly tattoos on his neck, just above his collarbone, right sleeve done, black fedora, black button-up, amazingly dark eyes, good jaw, skin that isn't perfect, but that kind of rugged manly wear, 5'11", maybe 6', broad shoulders, lean waist.

Take me, take me now.

I was talking to a friend when he walked by. Eyes met, locked, held as he walked by. I raised my eyebrow at him slightly, shifted my body towards him just a hair, he cocked a grin at me... and I melted. Simply melted in a puddle of hot lust.

Later in the evening, I went to the main bar to get a water. He was standing at the bar with a friend, held eyes as I walked by to the opposite end of the bar, then watched them in the mirror, nodding their head towards me, talking.

If he had been alone, I would have walked over to him and told him he was gorgeous and I would do terrible, terrible things to him if given the opportunity.

Instead, I walked over to one of my girlfriends that was standing thirty feet away from them, slightly catty-corner, and started talking about the man in the fedora, as she had been the one I had been talking to when I spotted him initially. When she asked where he was, I quite obviously turned towards him and said to her, "Him. Gods, I would wreck him."

She went to go dance, I offered to walk her halfway to the dance floor, getting me away from the group of people we were with. Posted up against a wall after waving her off, less than ten seconds later, he was walking towards me with a knowing smile that I returned.

Physical chemistry, that was there.

But when he started talking, I... no. He had the "vato" accent, the slang. I was hoping for a Long Beach slam poet, a painter, a writer, hell, even a musician. Someone who could use words, who could speak well and had a passion about something creative.

First thing he did, after introducing himself, was tell me about his ex-girlfriend, explaining why he was at this particular club. Asking me who I knew, trying to make connections, telling me about his job (really, one of the last things I want to hear when I meet a man is what he does for a living, unless it's something incredibly fascinating that I want to learn more about... like cleaning the tanks at an aquarium, training sea mammals, publishing, producing, driving a downtown bus, etc). Telling me how successful he was, how he got into this scene, the music he liked, how rude people could be.

No connect. No connect at all.

But so hot.

So we excused ourselves. However, on my way away from him, I made a comment to another guy that turned into another conversation about if this was my first time at the club, where I lived, what was my sign, and random, random things that made me think to myself if I can't even date guys my own age for a lack of mental/emotional connect, then I certainly shouldn't be talking to someone three years my junior.

Makes me wonder. I've been such a social recluse, in my own way, in the club scene, for years. Many reasons for that, mostly anxiety, I think, and a lack of confidence in my body and my looks. But now, with taking care of myself, I'm almost back in shape, almost completely comfortable in my skin. And I find myself receiving attention from men that, while (usually) lovely to look at... that's it. How am I supposed to relate to these men?

I don't. I can't.

I spent most of last night on the dance floor, and when I exited, there was attention, there was inviting smiles, prolonged eye contact, nudges.

That DJ was the only one of them that I found "worth" talking to. You can learn from everyone, this I believe. But connecting with them is another story.

No word from GV8. I miss him. I miss him so much.

Silly to say that, after this post. He is in my thoughts often, but I'm trying to distract myself, trying to remind myself that there are others out there, that I am desirable, that I won't be alone at the end, I suppose.

Watching an elderly woman dig through her coin purse for change for coffee at a diner I took my friend to for lunch today. Wondering if that would be me in however many years. Broke, alone, wearing gaudy but likely fake jewelry on twisted fingers, unable to move, unable to take care of myself, just spending each day with no goals in sight, no passions, just my thoughts, waiting until those thoughts ended one day and I moved quietly into the night.

1 comment:

  1. [delete previous]

    "Wading in Poetry's Hot Murky Puddle of Lust"