Move

Either he is blissfully unaware of or hopelessly addicted to the effect he has on me. Let’s hope for the former and, regardless, never let him know the true potency of his charm: simple caresses, careless snippets of Italian Opera, and Freudian slips revealing where he can only wish his tongue would end up. Every time my visage slips, his Divine Masculine knows I’m putty in his hands.

Alas, it seems this union is not meant to be, in this lifetime. Perhaps if we had met earlier, our paths crossed due to my willingness to take more chances, my having gotten better grades, or simply not been such a pussy or a prude and enjoyed the moment a bit more. If only -

- forget it, time to let it go. Even if he didn’t decide to move, this sort of thing isn’t healthy to keep obsessing over, in the least; wanting nothing more than to hear his voice groaning my name while I feel his arms around me, his lips on my face, my hands, my wrists, our palms pressing together as he-

Enough.

The humiliation of last night’s 3-4-1s leading to a temporary lapse in judgement (leading to reinstalling Snapchat to add a possible drinking buddy and giggling like a schoolgirl, while impulsively sending a friend request to said Divo) comes back into my awareness full force. Imagining the possibilities is too much for my wounded ego to handle, in such a raw state.

In spite of this recurring fantasy that there’s something - anything - I can do to make this right, I block, delete, and shield myself in all possible ways from having to endure the “look, we’re not even really friends” speech or, worse, have him show the request to his ex, the one who rubbed him in my face for all it was worth every chance she could.

For all I know, he’s still living with her, thanks to the Millennial Depression, and they’re having a good laugh over the fact that, after two years, I’m still not over him, despite not having had a conversation with him since the last time he was in town over a year and a half ago.

Fighting back tears, there is one crystal-clear thought in my mind: “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” Time to get laid.

New Years Eve - how predictable. Invariably, it’s “drunk enough to dance” ’clock, Caroline Polachek is blasting in the gay bar to a waste of an empty dance floor. Just for shits and giggles, I take the whole damn thing over. The best part about living in the American Midwest is having the room to do whatever.

A few of the more boisterous regulars straggle onto the stage, not to be completely outdone, but they Iowa-Nicely respect my dibs and we give each other space. After all, we’re here for the same reason - we just wanna let loose.

Now, keep in mind, in elementary school, I ended up being taught the “Boot Scootin’ Boogie”, nothing to write home about. Did a few musicals, in high school and college, and I love the five Wild Turkey Whiskey Sours I had so far tonight.

Twirling behind me, I bump into someone who is way too close for comfort. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I good-naturedly apologize while staring at their shoes, and nearly faint when I see the food service slip ons. Nonchalantly as possible, amends being proffered, I go back to ignoring them, and step forward, only to have the front of my hips grabbed. The hands pull sharply backwards and take me off of my feet. Falling into a chest, arms splayed over biceps, I look up to see a ghost.

With a short prep and a spot, I am propelled to standing fairly easily, my liquor and delusional mind demanding I examine this cinnamon-smelling apparition further. Please, no, don’t be...

“Alex?” My hands fly to my face, the flush spreading to my ears and neck going, thankfully, unnoticed under the vivid LEDs.

That smile, smooth confidence, and hair flips, then a well-projected, “Yeah.” Turning slightly, his shoulder is now facing me. “I can barely hear you, wanna step outside?” thumb jerking towards the barfront. No, I don’t wanna step outside. It’s cold outside.

Compromising, I offer, “There’s a place across the street that has popcorn-” An impatient ‘I know’ and a bad attitude via eye roll cuts me off. Returning the gesture, I roll my eyes right back and stick out my tongue. “Sheesh, who shit on your shish kabob? Let me get my coat.”