Saturday, November 24, 2007

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.


He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

10 comments:

Anonymous said...

Silly Mandy, engineers like to build things that last. :)

Jay said...

I feel sorry for the guy. He has no idea what he missed. However, if he wants to get to know you, I can't blame him.
It's cool that the photo shows more of your body then the city. :)

Mandy said...

Funny :)

Jay - thanks, I took the picture because I was standing in the hotel room and getting a kick out of how the reflection showed the city through it. Glad you liked it!

Blissfully Wed said...

Nice story. I'm smiling at anon's perfect comment.

And that picture...You're a marvel on the eyes. Thanks for what you share.

Emma Kelly said...

Very nice and a great picture. Happy that you are bouncing back.

Best,

scott
Mrs. Kelly's Playhouse

Autumn said...

Engineers are very good at designing many things. Their own states of mind are not included among those things. The fact that I'm still up doing nothing at nearly 3 AM might attest to that.

Silly hugs again as always!

Lotus said...

Hey Mandy, thanks for the comment on my blog (and if you could tell me how you found it that'd be fab! You are the first person who I didn't know to comment so I'm all excited).

I almost exclusively date engineers and scientists. They don't get it, in a big way, and they will drive you insane. I swear that's how I get my masochistic side abused. :)

You'll have to ask me some time about the guy who managed to get out of a threesome by asking to check his e-mail when a female friend and I were a little giggly and making mutual moves. He was completely oblivious.

Only another woman who's recently tasted the thickheaded nature of an engineer would get it. :*

gerri said...

And your husband is...where? in all this fun??

Mandy said...

blissfully - thank you - as always, you're one of the people I'm especially pleased to share with!

scott - I've been pursuing your blog with interest, too - good luck on the upcoming move, I'm actually very interested in asking you sometime about living in Japan!

Autumn - ah, yes - late nights, active brains...a blessing and a curse.

Lotus - you're welcome :) I found you through the Sugasm, so glad you've joined in!

Gerri - good, perceptive question. As it happened, my husband was at home in another city. Snuggled up safely in his bed, after our goodnight phonecall, and with his ringer on for our good-morning phone call. But that gives me a good idea for a new post, so thank you!

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