Seen and Heard: Text Tease
This conversation took place on Saturday night after three or so drinks, a friend's concert, and a few rounds of Mario Kart on Wii.
I'm on my way home if you're interested in joining me.
Boy: (ten minutes later) There are a bunch of people at my house. Come here.
Girl: Not happening. I'm already home, undressed, and drinking beer.
Boy: I can't just leave.
Girl: That's fine. I'm going to watch a movie. You have two hours to consider what you want before I lock the door and go to sleep.
(phone rings) Boy: Your door better be unlocked. I'll be there in five.
I won.
photo via I Heart ItLabels: boys, eavesdropping, flirting
Scratching the Itch*
A week from last Tuesday, I felt
unstoppable. I went out, had a couple of drinks, and flirted with Hershey via text message. I know, what else is new. I had imagined that I would end up in bed with him, but by the time I got home at 1:30, he hadn't responded in what I considered an appropriate manner. I changed, set my alarm for work, and went to bed.
At 2:30, I finally received a reply. There was a brief exchange in which we established that we had both wanted to see each other and that neither of us was willing to leave our homes to make it happen that night. I was seeking to prove a point; he cannot be the one in control of the situation. I will not come just because he says so.** It was the principle of the thing, and I was proud of myself for sticking to what I had decided.
The next afternoon, I called Bradshaw and told her the story. She was, quite frankly, pissed off at me, and I think a little disappointed. She said something to the effect of, "You had a chance to have sex and you didn't go?" And then came the disparaging comments.
It was then that I realized something interesting, something that changed the entire situation in my mind. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, while lying on my parents' couch dozing off with a cat, Hershey called me. He claimed that he was going through his phone and realized that we hadn't talked in a while. Let me remind you, my lovely readers, of the thing that he seems to have forgotten: I am not stupid. However, until talking to Bradshaw on Wednesday morning, I hadn't put all of the pieces together to realize how it could all turn out.
I now had all of the power.
He had contacted me twice for the same reason. I had come out of my self-imposed segregation from my social life, seen him out in public, and had an interesting conversation with him. The next move was mine, so to speak, and I was very excited by this prospect. I decided to move forward with it in order to get what I wanted. I worked Friday night, then went home, changed my clothes, had a snack, and fired off a "What are you up to?" text message.
I walked into his house at 2:25, greeted his dog, and let him unwind the scarf from my neck. When we finished, I patted his cheek, stretched like a cat, got dressed, and walked out. We chatted our way to the door, and I left feeling like we were in the middle of a rather trite conversation. It makes me feel like I still hold all of the power in the situation, and I like it.
I'll let you all know how things shake down from here, but just know that, for the moment, Nic is a satisfied, power-wielding woman.
*Whee, clichés! **Haha, that would actually be really fantastic.Labels: boys, flirting, updates
Realization
What do you do when you realize that some part of you is broken? A natural, important, inherent part of what you consider to be essential to being a girl just isn't there?
I haven't had a real, honest-to-goodness crush on a boy since Iris died. That was two and a half years ago. I haven't allowed myself to get close enough to someone to know them well enough to be that truly attracted to them. I've been physically attracted to guys. I've preened for boys. I've even been known to say that I had a crush on one of them - think GFW - but the fact is, none of the people I've met or spent time around in the last couple of years has given me butterflies in my stomach.
Just like I miss kissing boys and sleeping with boys and playing with boys, I miss getting butterflies in my stomach when I see
that boy. I almost miss that tortured feeling with that boy doesn't seem to care that I exist (because really, do they ever care that I exist).
Maybe I need to look into ways to create artificial butterflies.
Labels: boys, everyday musings, flirting
Work Appropriate
He glanced at me as I walked by, wheeling a cart full of books and being followed by the customer with whom I had spent thirty minutes shopping. "Do you need help with anything?"
"Actually, would you mind getting me some boxes for these?" I requested, my voice apologetic. I had been going to grab them myself when I had been accosted by another customer.
"Is there anything else you need?" he asked a few minutes later after he delivered the boxes.
"I think we're good. Thank you!" Fifteen minutes later, looking at the boxes that I knew weighed at least half as much as I do, I reconsidered. I called him from the phone next to the register. "Remember when I said I didn't need you any more?"
"Do you mean on the clock or off?" I could see him from where I stood, and there was an evil look on his face.
I laughed softly, biting my lip and wishing that I could fire back one of the inappropriate responses that was on the tip of my tongue. "On," I answered instead. "Would you be willing to do some heavy lifting for me?"
It was his turn to laugh. "Yeah, sure."
We carried the boxes and bags to the lady's car, wished her a good afternoon, and then walked back toward the building together. I was just two steps ahead of him when he tugged on my hair, causing my breath to catch in my throat. "What was that for?" I asked, trying, and I'm sure failing, to keep my voice even.
"I just figured it was appropriate."
Labels: boys, flirting, work
And I Liked It
When I woke this morning - afternoon - I was a mess of bruised lips, beer-scented skin, smudged eyeliner, and flushed cheeks. Allow me to explain.
Last night I went to Piano Bar with Gallagher and some others, including her roommate, Kitty, and her best male friend, Hershey. We didn't remain as a group for long, meeting up with others and going our separate directions. At one point, I was standing near the bar in a rather congested area, chatting with some girlfriends and sipping my beer. I lifted my bottle to take a drink, and suddenly, it was in my face. Someone had gesticulated a bit over zealously, threw his elbow into my bottle, and slammed it into my lips, bruising me and spilling beer all down my chest and into the top of my dress. He apologized profusely and, even being drunk, got me a handful of napkins to clean up with. I assured him I was fine, though the fact that I can feel my heartbeat in my lips this morning makes me wonder if I lied.
The rest of the evening in the bar was filled with flirting with bartenders, listening to girls whine, running up my tab, and listening to the regulars sing "Friends in Low Places" and "Godzilla." There was the setting up of two people who are just too cute together, hiding from annoying drunk girls, and eavesdropping on shouted conversations going on between stalls in the ladies' room.
After last call, the party moved to Hershey's house, where the conversation took an interesting turn: the length of guys' hair. I shared my honest opinion on the matter, which is that as long as the hair is long enough for me to run my fingers through and give it a good tug - oh yes, I'm a hair-puller - then it is long enough. Any shorter and I feel that I am being somehow ripped off. I demonstrated on the males present, learning that Hershey himself had the hair of the perfect length.
I also learned that he likes to have his hair tugged as much as I like doing it.
I'll spare you the sordid details. I will tell you that there was no removal of clothes, no "heavy petting*," and no weird emotional exchanges. I will tell you that Hershey is a fabulous kisser and I would be totally okay with a repeat performance. We were alone out on the deck, and when I realized just how long we'd been away from the others, I stood and told him that we should go inside. I paused re-fix my ponytail - the tugging really screws with it - and he stepped up behind me to that thing. The thing where he stands behind you, runs his hands up your sides and kisses your neck. He hands you the cell phone you left on the table, and when you thank him, he kisses your neck again, right next to your ear, and breathes, "you're welcome."
Somewhere between the hours of nine and eleven this morning, I had a rather racy dream about a man who didn't have a face. At least, I never saw a face. I'm okay with that, though the excitement my subconscious constructed had my chest all flushed and left me short of breath.
And the smudged eyeliner? That's what happens when you go to sleep without washing your face.
*What the hell does that even mean?Labels: alcohol, boys, flirting, piano bar
Playing the Hand You Get
When Guy From Work (GFW) transferred into the Giant Bookstore where I work last July, I was still a newbie. I was still thinking about not looking like a moron when a customer asked me about a book that I wasn’t yet familiar with, or wanted me to take them to something that I didn’t actually know how to find, so the fact that he was a male within the acceptable age bracket didn’t really register. I knew that I wanted him to find me attractive, but I want most males to find me attractive. I knew that I didn’t want him to think I was annoying or unintelligent, but I don’t really want anyone to think these things about me. It was mid-October when I hit the turning point. Rather, my subconscious hit a turning point.
I am a very deep sleeper, and I’m always rushing when I wake up in the morning, so I rarely remember my dreams. I woke up on that Sunday morning, however, well before the alarm, all worked up over the rather naughty dream I had just had. About GFW and I, pressed up against some books in the children’s section doing wildly inappropriate things. Since I had never really seen him in that light, I had to pause to realize that he was, in fact, rather attractive. I spent that entire day at work alternately avoiding him and trying to put myself discreetly in his way. Basically, my entire work life changed. My clothes, my hair, my makeup – each of this things became markedly more important, as was the attitude I was giving off.
He was a very quiet guy, and not exactly the most friendly looking. The possibilities were numerous. He was shy. He was one of those quietly arrogant men. He was mean. He found me repugnant. You see where I’m going. Still, he would make these quiet little comments that let me know that there was something worth knowing about there, so I continued to observe him from afar.
By spring break in March, I was so exhausted from student teaching and working that had stopped caring what almost everyone at the bookstore thought about me. My attitude sucked and the filter that I had kept so carefully in place for the first six months was completely shot. I was more snarky, more foul-mouthed, and generally more unpleasant. Additionally, I was more inclined to have fun on the weekends as I watched the last few months of my college career slip away into a haze of
Romeo and Juliet, mouthy teenage boys, and dressy clothes. One night while a few of us were drinking at Gallagher’s apartment, GFW included, and I had imbibed a bit more than was advisable, I told him about the dream. There was no pretense or shame, and he seemed amused by the entire situation.
From then on, it was fair game. He, Gallagher, and I started spending more time together after her birthday in mid-April, hanging out in bars and our apartments, enjoying alcohol and one another’s company. This was also about the time that he announced that he was returning to his hometown in Arkansas. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for in College Town. My countdown to graduation also became a bit of a countdown for his leaving.
There was a brief interlude between he and Tall Girl, during which I completely removed myself from the mix. Once that ended, I wasn’t entirely sure how to approach the situation, until the night before he was due to complete all of his moving and leave town for good. There was a ridiculous exchange of text messages which ended with the fabulously appropriate, “Let yourself in.”
I did. We enjoyed ourselves, he gave me the best ego boost ever, and we decided that there was no way there could be awkwardness between us in the future. Then I left.
I only wish that he was still in College Town to hang out at the bars. And a little bit for that thing he did....
Labels: boys, flirting, work
Fancy Free
One evening in early May, right around the time the weather started to get to the place where you could wear the same thing out at 10 pm that you wore at 4 in the afternoon without freezing to death, Gallagher called me and suggested that I check out a local band at the Pub with her and GFW. A combination of being excited that winter was finally ending* and feeling like I was
constantly super-covered-up because of student teaching prompted me to wear a denim miniskirt and a periwinkle blue tank top.
I was sitting in the chair next to GFW, sipping my beer and enjoying the bluegrass-y Southern rock, when I felt fingertips just above my knee. "I've never seen you in a skirt that short," he told me, leaned close to my ear so I could hear him. I shrugged in response; I didn't find anything remarkable about the truth of the comment or about receiving it. "You have nice legs."
I smiled and said thank you - graciously accepting compliments is something that I worked very hard at and almost always manage to do - and pretended to be completely unaffected.
Three weeks later, as I was attending the going-away gathering at the Pub, I realized that since that night, I hadn't once been in his presence in a pair of pants. In fact, other than being in my own apartment or running quick errands around town, I hadn't worn anything other thank skirts
since the comment. That night I was wearing the
gray dress, and he complimented that too. I decided that dresses were the way to go for the summer and made a resolution not to wear pants again unless it was absolutely vital until September.
So far, I haven't. And if I'm being perfectly honest - and since it's my blog, why shouldn't I be? - I look pretty fantastic in all these cute little dresses. More importantly, I
feel good in them. They're flirty and fun, require almost zero thought, and when paired with a cardigan in a fun color and some accessories, there's no reason that I can't wear them anywhere, including work.
Thank you, GFW, for being the inspiration that has led to this boost in my confidence.
*I'm that girl who loves winter for two months, then bitches about it. Then I love summer for a month or so, then bitch about it. Today I found myself thinking about snow and Christmas lights.Labels: boys, everyday musings, flirting
Here's Your Sign
I pose the following question to all men* who may be wandering the internet and reading my blog: Is being a female wearing a cute dress the equivalent to being a female wearing a sign that says “Please hit on me”?
After graduating from college and realizing that I have no plans for the fall (despite my hard-earned teaching degree), I decided that I was going to make the most of my summer. The first step in making the most of my summer was ensuring that I look exceedingly attractive. This of course translates to spending my time in cute little dresses.
So I went shopping.
I found what I have now dubbed my little gray dress at a store which I refuse to name (to protect my innocence, you see). It’s a very simple jersey dress with spaghetti straps that hits
just above the knee. There is some gathering on the bust line, but it doesn’t show an excessive amount of cleavage. I decided, after evaluating the appearance of the dress, that it was appropriate for running errands as well as sitting in the pub having a beer. It is, in fact, the perfect summer dress.
Since
GFW was moving out of College Town, we all** decided to gather at the Pub to have some drinks and hang out. We were meeting around eight, but I had some errands to run first and I wasn’t really excited about changing my clothes three times in one day, so I decided to wear the little gray dress. At the bank, the teller – through the glass of the drive-up window – eyed me and complimented my necklace. I stopped at the pet store to pick up a bag of kitty kibble and some treats for my babies, and the boy who checked me out asked what kind of pet I had. While he was scanning my bag of Cat Chow. I stared at him blankly for a moment before answering, “I have two cats.” He blushed. At the grocery store, the checker spent the entire time he was scanning my frozen pizza and Dr. Pepper chatting me up. I answered his questions flatly and put the bags into the cart.
It was at this point that, rather perplexed, I texted GFW and posed the same question that I opened this post with. He said that no, it isn’t the same as wearing a “hit on me” sign; the exception, he added, was if the dress showed a lot of skin. I don’t feel like this one does, but I decided that I would poll the boys that evening. The general consensus was that the dress looks good on me – damn good, one said – but that my wearing of it was not a direct invitation to hit on me. I trust the guys that I asked, so I decided that the dress was safe to wear out in public again.
Adding a little teal cardigan makes the dress work appropriate, so I wore it this evening while I was shelving books. A gentleman approached me and asked if we had any books on jumping rope. After looking it up – who knew that there actually were books on jumping rope? – I took him to the section and tracked the title down for him. As I knelt there beside him, my finger tracing along the spines of the books looking for Jump Rope Training by Lee, he chatted. He asked questions about my job, which I answered politely. I found the book, put it in his hand, and went back to my shelving.
Twenty minutes later, he approached and asked if we had a meditation section. I walked him over there, as per my job description, told him to let me know if I could help him with anything else, and walked away. I stopped on the other side of the shelf to fix some books that had fallen over and overheard the gentleman say to himself, “You could take that dress off for me.”
In related news, my gag reflex is in perfect working order.
*And women, of course. I’m a feminist too!
** The group of people that I work with who don’t suck.Labels: flirting, girl stuff
Mission: Completed
Tuesday nights at the Piano Bar become a tradition for most people* here in college town immediately following their twenty-first birthday for one significant reason: There is no cover charge on Tuesday nights. Gallagher and I - with some friends - decided that Tuesday night was the perfect sort of evening for P Bar.
Before leaving, my friend Bizz in Arizona** told me that my goal for the evening was to take a photo of the least attractive person in the bar. I believe I succeeded, though the quality of the photo is questionable.
Before he moved back to his hometown, GFW has been going out with Gallagher and I on an extremely regular basis. As in, at least three times a week the three of us were drinking together. (This is making Nic sound like an alcoholic.) As a result, any time I'm out drinking with Gallagher, I think about him. And, since I am a bit fond of him,*** I miss him. I texted him to tell him so.
The next three hours I turned into the texting whore of the group. It was the sort of texts that
lead to something...when the person you're texting isn't two hours away. All reception in the bar went to hell when the tornado sirens started going off outside. While I was being a text-whore, Gallagher flirted with the bartender to get us all free drinks. In turn, I became very intoxicated.
Oh yes. Tornado sirens. Do you think anyone in the bar was aware of these? Of course they were. The real question: Did they care? Nope. Not even a little bit. Why worry about a tornado when there is piano music and lots of free alcohol?
*The ones who want to have fun. Why, yes, I am judgmental!
**Also known as "some girl in Arizona."
***I'm more than a bit fond of him....
Labels: alcohol, flirting, piano bar
Just My Luck
I have a crush.
This guy is in three or four of my classes this semester, so I see him every day. I noticed him in American lit last semester but didn’t think about him much. I saw that he wasn’t unfortunate looking, but that class was my first of the day, meaning that I was never fully aware of my surroundings.
In any case, when I left my class this afternoon, I decided to learn more about him in typical college student fashion: I stalked him on facebook. There I discovered that he’s an RA*, taking a huge course load this semester, he likes Tolkien. Then I noticed his About Me section had only three words: “I’m in love.”
Excuse me?
I scrolled up to look at his relationship status—wondering why it wasn’t the first thing I had looked at—and discovered a fun new piece of information.
He’s engaged.
Figures.
*While I once would have thought this was a deal-breaker, I've known enough of them to know that many of them aren't the sticklers they pretend to be. Bradshaw was an RA and I got drunk in her room one night. A couple of the guys secretly dated residents, and just about everyone breaks curfew rules.Labels: flirting
Friday Night
Thursday, I called my life boring. Friday, my life proved me wrong.
After over nine inches of frozen precipitation fell (snow and sleet over ice), I decided to spend my day cleaning and lounging around my apartment. A friend of Bradshaw’s was having a belated twenty-first birthday party that we’d been planning to go to, and a little bit of snow and ice certainly wasn’t going to stop us.
I had two drinks (tequila and orange juice) while I was getting ready, took a shot, and then mixed an extra strong drink in a bottle for transport. After putting on a pair of running shoes for walking in the snow, I put the bottle in the
pink purse along with the red heels, pulled my gray pea coat over my jeans and black sweater, and headed out the front door.
My final destination was only about two blocks away, so I intended to walk. I had just stepped outside when Dread, who lives across the street, called and offered to walk with me. As we walked, he laughed at me walking tipsily through the ice and snow.
When we arrived it was still early, so there weren’t many people around. I drank most of my liquor very quickly while watching a rousing game of liquor pong.* I decided that I wanted to
text message someone (a sure sign that I was rapidly approaching drunkenness) and suggested
Project. Bradshaw threatened to steal my phone if I did, so I texted
K instead. He didn’t respond, so we commenced talking trash about him while we drank. Before I could make myself sick, I gave my drink to Dread to hide, which he did gladly. I chatted with friends, autographed someone’s arm, and avoided a boy who was following me around. I eventually found my drink and finished it, watched two of my friends disappear in a bedroom together and both come out with scratch marks on their backs, and at one point took a shot of rum.
It was a fun evening, but nothing really remarkable happened. Since Dread was my big, scary escort, I left when he did, earning even more laughs for slipping on the ice while drunk than I did while tipsy. He walked me to my building, and not two minutes after I walked inside I realized I had a text message. K had finally responded. I wasn’t interested in texting back and forth—because I was too drunk to play coy—so I just called him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Lying on my bed being drunk.” Fuck subtlety, right?
“Well, you should come over.”
I scoffed. “Even if I did feel like digging my car out of the snow—which I don’t—I cannot drive. I am drunk.”
“I could come and get you,” he offered.
“Are you serious?”
We went back and forth for a bit, then I finally agreed.
Once we got to his apartment, he put in some movie and we both changed and laid down. We didn’t pay any attention to it, but get your mind out of the gutter—nothing happened. I talk a lot when I sober, but when I’m drunk I stop caring if it’s annoying or if I’m interrupting something. I talked through the entire movie.
I’ll be honest, I enjoy aggressive boys, or at least boys with the initiative to do what they want. K has no initiative. Nothing happened. We slept, we woke up, he brought me home on the surprisingly still-icy roads.
When I got home I had tangled hair, an extreme craving for a huge glass of water, and four new numbers on my phone—one of which I have no recollection of saving. I spent today napping and watching Gilmore Girls and movies on TV. No matter what the final outcome, it was still a hell of a night.
*Liquor pong is just like beer pong, but the cups are filled with mixed drinks instead of beer. While I’m sure it’s been played other places, this apartment is rather infamous for it.Labels: alcohol, flirting
