Critically Low

Never having been the pursuer, I didn't know what to think. This new place I've found myself in, juggling multiple men, is a brave new world I've never before experienced. Not content with settling with the one, I've opened myself up and found many willing participants, or so I'd hoped. I'd fooled so many into thinking this new manizer persona I created rather effortlessly was the me I'd always been. But I didn't truly mean to be a boy crazy flirt. It just came out that way, especially with the help of countless vodka sodas. Oh boy, what has become of me.

I met him, he of the canceling text message, at a pub crawl of all places. I hadn't expected to meet him. I already had more that a hand's count of fingers amount of men on my plate, there was no reason to be open for others. But the moment I saw him, I was hooked, and I wasn't too good at hiding that fact, one may say that for sure. Tall, well built, and without his aviator sunglasses to hide them, the bearer of the most beautiful eyes, a glacial blue, captivating me. We were drawn to each other, though I tried to maintain my distance and my attraction. I thought him out of my league. Never before had I pursued someone so entirely good looking and completely a catch. I didn't determine to start now.

As the day grew older however, I became more forward, emboldened with each new shot, tossed down at each new bar. I flirted, shamelessly I was told, and I had to be told, since the events of the latter part of the day remain a foggy haze. He'd found out early in the day that I am the good one, Lara the bad. We compliment each other that way. Angel, devil; good one, bad one; flat-chested, bosomly-blessed. I could keep going. The point, however, is that it came out that I've never, not even once, tried a illegal narcotic, nor had I never, not even once, tried a one night stand. He on the other hand had experienced several one night stands, which didn't surprise me, and had been arrested thrice, twice for disorderly conduct and once for DUI, which mildly surprised me and made me laugh. I was intrigued. He seemed a bad boy, a player, and I have never, not even once, tried a bad boy, and the thought appealed to my drunken mind, it appealed to my drunken mind very much. When he learned that I don't lie, he looked me in the eyes, smiled, and asked, "Do you like me?" Without hesitation, I answered, "Yes." I probably should have hesitated, or at the very least asked him the same question in return, but I did neither, satisfied that it was out in the open, my liking him. And I remember being amused that he'd even needed to ask, considering the level of my flirtation, which again was communicated to me by others.

The evening truly spiced up when I downed my first sake bomb. I plunked myself next to him and in the middle of the Blue C Sushi in Fremont, we began to kiss. I don't remember that part. And I am still horrified, for as someone who despises PDA, I can't believe that I was making out in the middle of a Japanese restaurant. I do, however, remember making out with him at the Ballroom in Fremont. I remember it with the same haze I remember the other memorable parts of the day, but those hazy memories tell me it was good, very good. I remember him feeling me up and not caring since there is really nothing to feel. I remember feeling his butt and him objecting, which amused me since he'd been feeling me up. I remembered my friend getting angry at me because I wasn't paying her any attention. It was like that song, "I only have eyes for you." I was in "Blythe Land" and he was the only star in my solar system. I was completely smitten.

It was a month ago, that memorable day. After that, I learned he isn't such a bad boy, isn't even a player. Well, as much as a thrice-arrested, multiple one-night stand haver isn't a bad boy. I was surprised. And the day I learned that, I texted him, asking him to put something on the calendar for the two of us to get together. Ah but therein life intervened. I was out of town for work, then he was out of town for work. I chalked it up to a good night, the highlight of which would remain a memory. I was okay with that. It is what it is.

But two weeks after he went out of town, I received a heartening text, "Back in Seattle!" I reveled in the exclamation point. I hopped around the apartment. I regressed back to middle school. I realized how into the spector of that night I'd become. I welcomed him home and suggested we get together. He replied with a "the sooner the better!" My heart leapt. I leaped for joy. Another exclamation point. And it was followed by a back and forth debate of availability that ended with him texting me, "I guess I'll just call you randomly to see if we can hang out." I bemoaned my schedule and stared at my calendar trying to find a time to see him. I needed to see him. His kisses remained with me despite the others I'd had since.

I decided to give up my treasured Monday night workout. It was a sacrifice I could live with if I would once again feel those lips on my own. But what if he didn't kiss me? I wondered if it would be weird considering that we'd both been drinking so heavily. He agreed to Monday. But switched it to Sunday. He switched it to today, and I was excited. Sunday comes before Monday.

I dressed with him in mind this morning. I was excited to show him what I looked like when not in preppy golf clothes (an outfit that had to do with the pub crawl's theme). Heck I was just excited to see him, and the anticipation had boosted my mood all weekend, and perhaps made my Saturday night that much more enjoyable in a strange way.

But then. Yes, there was a but. I wore down the battery on my phone reading the textversation, brief though it was, over and over again. I couldn't help myself. And my new mantra (not self-invented, of course), it is what it is, was not exactly helping. "Gonna have to cancel on you today," he wrote, "my test moved to 8pm." My heart dropped when I read that, and the next sentence, "Sorry we'll make this happen sometime" did little to buoy my spirits.

I had a sitter. Well, I'd resorted to asking the swine to take my daughter, but still, and I was so, so looking forward to it. As it was, I was reading the text message in the middle of the Seattle Science Center, and I wasn't hiding the disappointment too well. It is what it is, it is what it is, I kept repeating to myself, as I tried to compose my response. How could you?... Did it really?... When can I see you, then?...This is pointless. I discarded them all and tapped out what I hoped was a lighthearted response that shielded him from the sunken feeling in my chest, "no worries. talk soon." Would we? I'd leave it up to him. I worried that he is skittish, afraid of the girl that pursues.

With my critically low battery, I texted my date from yesterday. "Wanna come over for a movie later?" The response came minutes later, "Totally!" he said. Funny, the exclamation point didn't do as much for me when it came from him. I feel a little sorry for him, Ole Faithful, as he's become. He feels for me more than I feel for him, and though I've tried self-denial, I know that I'm really using him to feel the gaps while I pursue the true objects of my attraction, passion, and to be honest, lust.

Old Faithful will be here soon with his chaste kisses and his concave chest, and we'll have fun, but I'll still be hoping for the text from the Bad Boy rescheduling our much put off reunion.