And, he was… talk-singing. I can’t overstate how low-key this guy was
overall—even though he looked like a rock star, he was the quintessential nice boy.
Except in this moment, when, inexplicably and delightfully, he decided to blurt
out the entirety of “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine (Pause to
Google “Zack De La Rocha problematic” and then remember I’m supposed to be
typing…) As the ride started rocking its way up, he started with “Some of those
that work forces/are the same that burn crosses” and got all the way to “Fuck
you I won’t do what you tell me!” by the time the ride got to the upside down
part and the rest of the riders were screaming. I was laughing my head off in
eye-rolling disbelief. It was the perfect, most ridiculous love-moment for a
sort-of-punk-rock eighteen-year-old girl in 1993. It made me so happy (and
still does!) because it made all of the sense and none of it at once.
Aside from the ride/smitten tummy flips and cotton
candy romantic nighttime amusement part colors (Us was so many, many
year in the future. But also, things can be romantic and Jordan Peele-y at the
same time…) nothing particularly sexy happened while we were at the park, just
the spark of possibility and the THIS ONE IS FOR ME certainty that
paradoxically made me believe I could never have him. (Wow I’m exactly the same
forever.)
We left pretty late and made the hour’s drive back to
First Bitchy Gay Guy’s apartment, (It was a family extra, something having to do with
divorce I think, pretty sure that’s why this just-out-of-high-school kid
already had a pretty nice apartment…) stopping along the way to shoplift some
Marlboro Reds from the Acme. I usually smoked Camel Lights but shoplifters
can’t always be choosers. Sometimes I even resorted to ew/gasp menthols. All of
it seems gross now but also dirty-nostalgic, like cigarettes are a fun old bad
influence friend I’m glad to be rid of.
It was (Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!) decided that
Perfectly 1993 Guy would share the foldout couch with me while FBGG would take
the bedroom. The living room had the stereo (Pause to sigh over the existence
of stereos that were actual physical things…) so I put on a mix I’d made for me
and FBGG, a mix of the dance-y, dreamy, and the absurd, culminating for reasons
I can’t quite explain in Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” Kind
of world-weary for where I was at in my life, but I found it romantic. Quick
search—yep, I still do. Possibly I’ve always been an almost-46-year-old divorcee?
Anyway, INSOMNIA. The best kind, full of diner coffee
and cigarettes, curiosity and happy, wholesome lust. He lay just outside my zone
of touch at first, occasionally brushing my arm with a warm elbow. He smelled
like sun and clean sweat and life. I was perfectly restless, almost
holding my breath. What was I wearing, asked no one? I’ll tell you!
A coral slip I’d swiped during my BFF’s Thrifty
Shopper job back home. It had a sheer frill of ruffle around the fitted top, soft
coral lace along the bottom. I’m surprised I never just went ahead and wore it
as a dress, I think I would, now! It was a little big on me, but skimmed my
hips in a very satisfying way. The slip felt like silk to my naïve skin, but
was most likely some flavor of polyester. Best of all, I don’t think I was
wearing it to be seductive! That’s just what I slept in. Teenage me rules a lot
of the time!
Sooooooooooooooooooooooooo gradually (a tape-flip,
getting up to smoke a few times, always in sparky semi-silence) our bodies
edged themselves closer. Softly, tentatively, he took my hand. Let’s let that
last another lifetime, another frozen-in-amber moment to clone or treasure on
the shelf.
“Are you SURE you’re a lesbian?” He finally (FINALLY, FINALLY!)
asked.
“Actually I’m feeling pretty bi right now,” I sigh/said,
and then we kissed. It was a soft, playful, hopeful kiss of people who are
learning how. The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow helped me to learn that I kissed
too hard and too thrustingly (Probably influenced by the bad, lazy teen boys of
pre-BWSMAP days) and Perfectly 1993 Guy continued that lesson. He taught me to
probe and play sweetly instead of just devouring his face the way instinct and
experience told me to.
There must not have been much night left, but we
kissed and cuddled through it. His soft, perfect hands caressed me with
respectful, tentative curiosity. It was the first time I’d felt both wanted and
honored, both horny-as-fuck and patient, both cared for and fully embodied. It’s
hard to process the pace and tenderness of that first, sexy-nightgowned night,
but there it was.
I started this No Contact High Fidelity project first
and foremost to think about touch and give myself something low-stakes to work
on during quarantine, but I think I’m learning stuff too, just like Girl Rob
does in the vastly-vastly-superior-to-the-book new High Fidelity show.
(On Hulu. Seriously the best writing friend a person could have.) Typing my way
though this, I started to understand why my standards remain so (sometimes
vexingly) high, why I’m willing to wait out so much time alone until the right
person arrives: I’ve already experienced so many beautiful, ideal, fateful, hot
romantic moments in my life. If no more come along, I’ve already been quite
thorough. I feel so grateful right now to Perfectly 1993 Guy and almost all of
the other Kitten Calendar characters.
