"I'm leaving here..."

It had been a long time since I held someone in my arms, and Eric seemed to fit nicely. We slept through the first part of the morning – waking up with smiles on our faces and kisses that led to talk not consisting of apologies of how drunk we had both gotten the night before, but of ourselves and our opinions. It was, also, the first time in a long time that I felt something other than a display of urgent need – either sexual, emotional or lonesomeness. We fell back asleep. It would be one o’clock in the afternoon before we would drag our naked bodies out of my bed, unsure of what our next step would be.
We hung around each other as if unable to let go of a soft grasp: we slowly dressed, talking as every garment slid onto our bodies and evaluating who was right about whether we had met previously or if the night before was our first introduction to each other. There were jokes thrown in here and there that were taken lightly with genuine laughs and optimism. He’s a waiter and an artist, working for a local restaurant while doing freelance work for a comic book company. He might be moving to California soon.
“Are you hungry?” Eric asked me.
We had sushi for lunch before deciding to go see a movie. It was my choice: a political thriller or a romantic comedy. “I feel like laughing,” I said while pointing to the one-sheet of the romantic comedy. Eric paid for the movie. I paid for the refreshments, even though he wanted butter-flavoring on the popcorn.
I enjoyed the movie. I think he might have been somewhat disappointed. I told him that it was the soundtrack that helped lean my vote: a collection of indie rock originals and loaners that moved the movie along it’s independent track. We talked as we walked back to Capitol Hill. At his apartment, he gave me a couple of compact discs that he thought I should give a listen to.
“I’m not much of a music fan,” he said during our climb back up the Hill.
“Are you kidding? I love music!”
A light kiss on the lips and we both retreated into our own apartments for some much needed rest. I downloaded a couple of songs from the soundtrack of the movie we had seen and settled back for a lazy evening. I thought about him…
Yes, he’s opinionated, not exactly butch and probably hasn’t seen a gym since high school…but I liked him. Our mention to get together again would not go ignored by me. However, that seems to bridge my unspoken faith in the pessimistic proclivities of dating with my argumentive bad luck in the arena of dating: Eric would not return my initial call.
I did not want to remain negative about my predicaments with dating men, fucking men or even finding them attractive. It is October and I am on the ascent from an infatuation that left me emotionally battered and questioning my own inner cupid-demon from back in May.
Infatuation: a foolish, unreasoning or extravagant passion or attraction. To fall hard from such a light deception of love would mean nothing more than to question if I was love-starved or desperately lonely. Neither of which I’ve branded myself with.
To tell myself that ‘this was different’ would not completely idle me with false perception, for, indeed, I knew that this guy liked me (let’s call him D).
A few looks and glances; common friends; a smile or fifteen and a couple of greetings. I felt the tension between us. Yet I was afraid that history would once again repeat itself: once I took the opportunity to introduce myself that D would loose all interest with me, so I kept our distance at a minimum but in existence. Until, that is, one night when D looked pass me and through me. Snap!! Okay, then I’d just proven myself right…until, that is, D began to show off his new boyfriend. And I spent the summer in a haze of hurt that submerged itself in a bevy of sad rock songs, bad poetry, a new iPod, walks to and from work and the purchasing of the first 3 seasons of Melrose Place.
D was happy and I was…just the same as I’d always been: not miserable but desolate enough to keep trying to convince myself that I was cursed when it came to sex and relationships. However, the entire mix of sad music, fucked up poetry, long walks and episode after episode of cheap drama told me one thing: history did repeat itself, but not in the way that I originally thought. Compromising my growth into maturity based on the past was what I was guilty of. I’d let so many destroy my outlook on the positive aspects of sex and dating that I once again shut myself out of the mix and threw myself into the flame. Yes, I knew this game very well. And I’m no longer content to play it.
I called Eric and left a message in his voicemail: the music he loaned me was okay; decent enough. And I went back on with whatever I was doing with my slowly evolving life.
It was a Friday night. After an hour at the gym I had chosen to stay home and watch some television. The phone rang. I usually screen my calls (i have a couple of friends who like to chatter on about nothing and, besides, i hate talking on the phone).
“Hi, it’s Eric…”
I jumped off of my bed and grabbed the telephone…