Sunday, December 18, 2005

Decidedly Unawesome Revisited

The thing about sleeping around when you live on a small island, is the inevitable awkwardness of running into your exes every time you leave the house. This is one of the reasons I never slept around during the summer I lived on Martha's Vineyard. The other reason I was chaste when I lived here is because of the sheer volume of people on this island who I've seen scratching at their genitalia. Apparently, the only thing that spreads faster than a rumor here, is crabs.

Back when I used to surf Craigslist for...inspiration, I'd occasionally find an entry on the Boston site from some poor schlepp on The Vineyard. If I still had my car, and the old Grub Tub I used to have moored on the Cape, I'd have made the journey just to pity fuck the poor guys. No. No, I wouldn't. But I'd have thought about it.

When I still lived on the Cape, I'd occasionally fling with someone from the Vineyard. They'd have to make the trip over to a very descript bar near the Ferry (please leave your bad fairy puns out of my comments section), where we'd have drinks and see if we clicked. We, usually, did not. But one time a couple of times every once thrice in a while, I'd meet someone I clicked with in several different positions.

One of these occasions was Jordan.

After our Solarcain & Vicodin filled fuckfest, Jordan faded to little more than a sunburnt memory. I forgot his name, the sound of his voice, how cute his hair looked when it was disheveled, pretty much everything about him. Until this afternoon.

My father's wife was dragging us to our third Christmas party in two days. I love his wife. She's sweet, smiley, effervescent...shit, if they made Efferdent in grenadine flavor, they'd have to call it Corrine.

Last night's party was...not so good. I tried to socialize, but apart form one guy who kept telling me about his son, the writer, I didn't have anything in common with any of the super WASPS in the nest.

This morning, we went to my step-grandfather-in-law's house for some of the best scallop chowed in the world, and a few polite conversations.

This evening was another social gathering at the house of someone I'd never met. Or so I'd thought. Turns out it was the guy who's son was a writer, and his son, the writer, was home for Christmas.

"Hi." His son, the writer, said. "My name is Jordan. You look really familiar. Did we go to highschool together?"

"No." I said, not yet able to place him, but knowing I-- *danger* *danger* this is someone you've shared an awkward sexual encounter with, take evasive action. God, bless, my little synapse-alert switcher.

"Huh. I'd swear--" And I saw it in his eyes. "Right, you didn't use to have that beard. I met you" don't say over The Internet. Don't say over The Internet. "a couple of years ago at a poetry slam."

"Oh. Yea." I said. "I do those a lot."

"I bet you did." Asshole. "I used to do them all the time. Not anymore, though. Maybe once a year."

Was he talking about Internet hookups, or was he actually talking about poetry slams? "Still writing?"

"Yea." He said. We sort of stood there for a minute until his father, or my father, or my father's wife, or his father's wife, or someone said something. Unfortunately, what that person said was, "Why don't you show Safey that article you've been working on."

"Awesome." He said. Yeup, it was him. "I've got a copy in my room."

Did the bitch just wink at me? In front of my dad? Oh, hell no. "Ok, why don't you bring it down? I'm going to go get a Coke." And pour some of the Captain Morgan I have stashed in my flask into it.

His article sucked. It was about "Why I write". He used the word awesome four times.

"Cool." I said. Then made a mental note not to say it again. "Where are you publishing it?"

"Oh, I don't get my articles published. I have a little folder I keep them in. When I'm famous, I'm going to put them into a book of essays."

"Great." I was running out of non-committal adjectives. "I'm kinda tired. It was nice seeing you again, and talking to you, but I think I should go home."

"Want me to walk you there?"

No. "Uh, ok."

Most of the walk was idle chitchat about living on the island, and the year he'd spent in Japan, and then "I've never kissed someone with a beard." Christ, dude, shit like that was cute when I was 21, and you were 23, but you're 30 now, and I'm not that gullible.

" Tom Cruise, then?"

"Tom Cruise doesn't have a beard." He said.

"You mean, besides Katie Holmes?"

"You're so witty." He said. I was thinking that was about as stale a pop culture reference as I've ever made. Still, it was in the service of keeping him from kissing me.

"How often do you come visit your Dad?"

"Oh, every year or so."

"You should really come more often." He said.

"I know." I replied. "I feel bad about not seeing my Dad, especially now that he's retired and his wife is--" And then he kissed me.


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