That night we were in a boy bar the size of a dentist's waiting room. The smell of leather, black paint, vodka tonics. Somehow even the two disco balls with small light beams aimed at them seemed to emanate a scent: Old glue and mirrors.
You were eager and nervous wearing a thin black sweater. You wore a plaid pencil skirt (greens/yellows/tans) made of stretchy fabric, and expensive eyeglasses made to look cheap.
It seemed like you had never been in a gay bar before which seemed at odds with the amount of time you had spent describing the intricacies of your queerness.
You were smart. Over-educated in that way that has a lot of knowledge with no point to it.
Don't get me wrong: You seemed kind and even endearing when you were yourself. It's just that you only seemed comfortable being yourself for as long as a flame stands still.
That night you drank. I didn't. You talked. I listened.
The thumping music surrounded us and, as it got later in hour, it got louder.
You stood up and took my hand. "Come with me to the bathroom!" you yelled, as if it made sense to do so. As if, even in a gay bar, a pencil-skirted woman to need someone to come with her to the bathroom. I stood up, brushed my black jeans off of whatever the fuck was on them that day, and followed you.
The bathroom was huge, dark in the way that most gay-bar bathrooms are, and single stall. Somehow, even with the crowd of people in the bar, the bathroom was empty.
We walked inside. You locked the door, turned around, and walked past the sink toward me. You stumbled forward, grabbed the front of my black button-down shirt with both of your hands and pulled me toward you as you walked backward until your back hit the bathroom wall. You kissed me: Hard and drunk and committed to the bit. I put my hand gently on the side of your face as you kissed me and slid my hand to your mouth, replacing my lips with my index finger across your mouth. A "reverse librarian shush", if you will, in order to end the moment without embarrassing you.
Instead, you looked up at me and lowered your chin in what I think was an attempt at a seductive look. While maintaining eye contact, your arms darted down to the hem of your skirt and you lifted it up to your waist. I glanced down, then back up at you before you saw me look. You had absolutely no panties on. Of course you didn't. How do I end up in these situations?
What would a gentleman do? I remember wondering. I wanted to act quickly and certainly.
I kept my eye contact with you as I put my hands on both sides of your skirt that was bunched up around your waist. Slowly, I pulled the skirt down back into place- my fisted hands running down the sides of your thighs until your skirt reached your knees again. I straightened up, put my hands firmly on your shoulders and turned you around to face the wall. You smiled and pressed your nose to the wall. I slid my hand from the back of your neck down to the middle of your back, paused, then removed my hand and walked out of the bathroom.
I stood outside the bathroom door.
I figured it might take you a minute to know that I had left.
(pause)
If this was a poetic piece, perhaps I would end the story there.
It is not, so I will continue.
(unpause)
A few minutes later, you came out of the bathroom with your face flushed. I greeted you and let you know that I was going to take off to go study. You started walking with me to the door of the bar. Things seemed smooth until we walked outside and the stuttering streetlights and outside air hit you. You, drunk, started demanding to know why I had left the bathroom. I didn't answer you and, instead, asked how you were getting home and can you text your partner to come get you? Once I knew he was on his way, I stood with you while you waited, but you started getting louder demanding an answer. Wanting to know why I wouldn't make out with you. Those weren't the actual words. The actual words you were yelling were "WHY WON'T YOU FUCK ME?!" repeatedly while I did not answer and while a small crowd had gathered to stare. Your partner's dark green wagon pulled up. I looked at you and, as my reply, said, "I have to go - I have verbs to conjugate." and crossed the street into darkness heading toward my place.
I never saw you again after that night.
We had just become friends a few months prior.
I don't have anything profound or profane to say about this situation.
Just that it existed, that it was odd, and that, as a gentleman, it was mortifying to navigate.
I did go home that night and conjugate irregular verbs of the language I was studying
and I found it to be quite soothing.
be well; be loved,
k.
(photo credit: Jagoda Wisniewska
via Untrustyou Tumblr)
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