roses_atop_a_giant_vase_baazarThe One

 

I keep hearing her say my name with an adorable childlike French accent.  She is not French but that doesn’t stop her from using the language to twist me into a braid.  She wasn’t what I would consider my type.  I know you might be thinking, she was female, what more type do I require.   I should explain.  I watched her for eight years around town frequenting absolutely every place I’d ever fallen into for coffee, breakfast, yoga, lunch or drinks.   I would have asked her to quit stalking me if she had ever even noticed me.  She looked through me as if I were an extra from central casting.  I didn’t mind making minimum wage in what was obviously her movie.  She was an exciting feature to watch from beginning to end.  I was magnetically drawn to her like a teens’ Bronco to a ten car pile-up.  But she was obviously straight and my mind had trouble bending around that complicated topiary arrangement.  Instead of becoming hung-up on this unintentionally inept stalker, I chose to feel wounded by her inability to envision me as the eventual love of her life.

 

After years of reluctantly documenting her behavior, I finally spied her at a gay bar I frequented in West Hollywood.  Oh look, I thought, the straight girl has gay friends and has decided to venture out to torment me in my own element.  How generous of her to keep me tethered to the cliff overlooking a deadly drop to oblivion.

 

It’s not that I’m afraid of straight girls; it’s just that they have a tendency to fuck me and kill me while demanding I fetch lattes and wheatgrass, and never in that order.  So through the process of evolutionary survival, my wounding came instantaneously with the passing glance from a straight girl.  But this one never even saw me out of the corner of her eye.  Life went on.  I’d see her riding her bike, walking, pretending to be human, but I knew better.

 

On one in a series of tortuously lonely nights I ventured out of my solitary spin cycle and dove into a chick bar for the potential of something sustainable or even temporary.  I was saddled at the bar scanning the room for talent when the giant blip exploded across my radar.  Suddenly out of the darkness of the dank bar air she materialized, the butterfly straight girl who continually and unwittingly flitted above my shadow never noticing my net.

 

The strangest part of all she was wearing a hat.  Hats turn me off faster than an announcement of a layover in Newark.  I don’t know what it is about hats that turns me into a fifties etiquette columnist, “Oh, please don’t wear hats indoors dear.  It’s disrespectful.”  I have a sense that this dislike for women in hats travels back centuries to some prior incarnation when hats telegraphed an elderly aesthetic and were frequently gaudy and obtrusive.  In this present life, I have been known to hat-shame even close friends.  “Why do you always have to rock a hat?  You have such incredible hair?”  I’m still trying to break myself of this absurd behavior, but in the mean time, she was wearing a hat and trying to halt any potential heat between us.  Then I thought, perhaps the hat would function as a cooling agent to keep me from drowning her with my sexual enthusiasm.  I had to introduce myself, either that, or terminally ridicule myself for being an inept “top.”

 

Luckily, I knew her friends and they were able to mask my approach into something seemingly benign.  They introduced her and she smiled warmly, shook my hand and melted the whole world away.   She was lovely, gracious and kind.  She seemed a little nervous, but she was obviously a straight fawn frolicking in a field of tigers.  I tried to appear engaged while subtly trying to telegraph only platonic interest.  I knew that anything too intentional would spook her.

 

At this point any self-actualized lesbian might say to herself, why would I want to attempt to involve myself with someone who kept triggering my “straight” alarm.  I was six months out of a lengthy relationship, that left me so wounded and numb I considered any fluffy diversion resembling even simulated dating, might snap me out of my jaded bitter funk.   I’m not under any delusion that if I mistakenly fall in love with a straight girl she won’t gut me, carve me and toss me in a pen to feed her pigs.  But if I think about it for too long, any women is capable of annihilating me if I give her the ammunition.  And really, without firepower relationships lack intensity.  Without intensity in romance, you might as well be straight and married to your first love from Michigan.  Some people think I’m bitter, and I am, but I’m always willing to be hurt again.

 

I left her that night without a phone number.  I had waited eight years to speak to her and I wasn’t going to blow my chance by pouncing on her like a philistine.  I figured I see her again soon if the moon, stars, or fate held any power in the determination of the mate.  In my past, I would have just manipulated fate to serve my purpose.  But I have learned from experience, when I forcefully alter the destiny of natural selection, I end up battling issues that are a three tiered layer cake of bad.

 

We did meet again, and we fell in love.  But that’s another story.