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I Dropped My Purse: A Blue Moon Encounter

February 27, 2013

He kissed me. He just moved in and kissed me. I looked at him as he moved in and put his arm around my waist and I said, “Oh….ok.” I was thinking, “Alright. This is happening.” I was about to get on my bike and leave and I had my little purse in one hand. I cautiously moved my other hand to his shoulder. He pulled me closer. His kiss was sweet and gentle. Just the way I like it. We kissed in front of my bike, there on the front porch of I-don’t-know-who’s house. I dropped my purse on the ground and moved my other hand around his neck. We stood there in the surprisingly cold, damp air looking at each other. “What happens now?” he asked. Like he’s never done this before. We had met some 30 minutes ago at the end of another strange Blue Moon night. “I don’t know. You tell me.” I replied.

“Should we exchange numbers?” he asked.

I put my number in his phone. He called mine so I would have his number. “You’re just going to leave me here?” he asked. “I don’t know these people.”

“I don’t know them that well either. You’ll be fine.” I said.

“I don’t even know where my car is,” he claimed.

“You’re so weird.” I told him.

“Are you weird?” he asked.

“Yeah. I am.” I answered. He kissed me again.

“I’m going to follow you home,” he said.

“No. That doesn’t work for me.” I said.

“Call me,” he called out jokingly as I started to ride away. “You’re not going to call me,” he said.

“No, you’re going to call me.” I called back to him.

It was the end of the night at the Blue Moon when we met. The Pine Leaf Boys had played and it was a strange crowd. I say that every time. It’s always a strange crowd at the Moon. There were a lot of people there and all night I was watching the interactions between people. The relationships and inter-connections. “Why is she here with him? What is he doing with her? Oh, look so and so is out tonight,” etc…etc… I’ve gotten to know these people a little too well. But it was entertaining. I met a lot of new people, too. And I danced a lot which is always good. Pickle was in New Orleans, so I was being brave and social. Especially so given my recent depressive state.

Speaking of depressive states, Lapin showed up late in the evening, full of his usual angst. I was talking to him on the back porch. He was going on and on, telling me a story I already knew from Pickle in that insufferable, repetitive, depressive, defensive way he has of telling a story. God help me, I love Lapin like a brother, but he infuriates me just like a little brother. I was standing there trying to give Lapin my attention but also watching everyone around me. A group of guys were hanging around and talking next to us. A young, pretty girl walked between Lapin and I on the way to the bathroom. One of the guys looked our way and exclaimed, “Damn,” in a funny way. He was short and cute with short, graying hair and blue eyes. Not my usual type. I assumed his exclamation was aimed at the young blonde who had just passed by and maybe it was. I laughed at him and he kept looking at me. I turned away from Lapin and asked him, “What was that ‘Damn’ for?”

“For you.” he claimed. Yeah. OK. He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me over. I took it away and told him he was full of shit. I turned my attention back to Lapin and tried to listen to the story that seemed to be going on forever. Lapin took a bathroom break and Mr. Damn was sitting up on the bench. He beckoned me over and invited me to sit with him. “What the hell,” I thought. “This oughta be good.” I had been joking and messing with people all night. This guy seemed like he could hold his own with me. This wasn’t some shy immigrant. I sat next to him. He moved closer. “You from here?” he asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“OK.” I replied.

“What’s your story?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘What’s my story?’” I returned.

This vague exchange continued as I kept trying to move away and get some personal space and he kept moving in closer. He was displaying classic, end-of-the-night, player behavior. I’ve seen it dozens of times. It’s always amusing and never works. He asked my name. He told me his. We’ll call him Leo. Then he somehow worked the term, “baby,” into the conversation. I laughed out loud at this. “Did you just call me ‘baby?'” I asked. Then he touched my hair. Well, that was too much for me. I laughed at him and got off the bench and walked away.

I had already made one attempt to leave. I had paid my tab and walked to my bike but Lapin was still inside and I was worried about him. He was in one of his moods. I had walked around the other side of the building across the big deck and found him on the back porch. That’s when he started with the long story.

This time I was determined to head home. It was getting cold and I was wearing a short sleeve shirt with a light jacket and I was on my bike. I stopped at the bottleneck of people at the entrance, said goodbye to a few people and told the accordion player the show had been great. Someone suggested I hang around and go the after-party. It was somebody’s birthday. I got a promise of a ride home and decided to stay and follow the small group to wherever they were headed. So I climbed up on that bench and waited. Then Leo walked up. I jokingly called out, “Hey, it’s Leo,” and introduced him to a few people. As everyone walked out into the Freetown streets, Leo followed. I assumed he knew these people. I barely knew them myself. I walked my bike alongside the group and Leo kept pace with me. When we passed his car he went over to it and tripped the alarm. It took him a little while to turn it off. The rest of us half-heartedly waited for him to catch up, calling out to him, “Run, Leo, Run,” Forrest-Gump-style. Our lively banter continued as we walked the few blocks. He kept trying to pull off the “baby,” stuff. I told him he wasn’t doing it right and taught him to say, “C’mon baby,” like Sam used to say to me. (See: The Screenplay) He was funny and cute. He kept ringing the bell on my bike. He stood on the other side of me after a car whizzed by, a little too closely.

We got to the house and a weird after-party dynamic began to take shape. Everyone was hanging out in the kitchen and someone made a fire outside. I was cold so I went outside to stand by the fire. Leo was standing opposite me and there were a few little glances exchanged. Then some young, skinny, tall bitch came and stood right between me and the fire.

I was suddenly struck with the urge to be at home in my little shit hole. A warm bath was beckoning. The fun, social Kitten was fading and withdrawn, introspective Kitten wanted to go to bed. So I told the girl who had promised me a ride that I was going to ride my bike home. I walked over to Leo, put out my hand and said, “It was weird meeting you.”

“You’re leaving? C’mon. Stay. Hang out with me.” he pleaded putting his arm around me.

“No. I’m cold and tired. I want to go home,” I said.

I walked through the house and out the front door. “If he’s really interested in me, he’ll follow me,” I told myself. I was bending over my bike lock, trying to get the combination to line up when he walked up. “Hey, Leo,” I said. “You came to see me off.” He watched me fumble with the lock. I unwrapped the cable and leaned my bike against the post and looked at him as if to say, “Now what?” That’s when he just leaned in and gave me a kiss. I tried to stay calm and detached but I really enjoyed his kiss and I dropped my purse and matched his embrace.

There are many joys open to us as humans on this Earth. The first kiss is one of the most precious. I am a sucker for a nice, first kiss. The conditions are varied. It might be the end of a first date. It might be on the porch of a dance joint. It might be a surprising change in a friendship. The kiss might be followed by a lifetime of commitment or it might be the only encounter you ever have with that person. It might be the only good memory you’re left with after the disappointment that follows. Either way, it’s a lovely thing.

One of the Splat Pack friends, an older, seemingly wiser bachelor once told Pickle and I that by the time men get to be 30 years old they’re so emasculated, they don’t have the nerve to approach women or be bold anymore. So, when a guy takes the time to do something like ask me to dance more than once, buy me a drink or ask for my phone number, it’s become an impressive act. That’s a shame. For every guy that has asked for my number, which would be a whopping three in over a year, there are four or five who seem to make a connection or seem interested and do nothing. So, just like Mr. 23, Leo gets special attention. He was silly and forward and very I-want-to-sleep-with-you-right-now but he followed me to where I was. He went to a party where he didn’t know anybody. He followed me out and took a chance and went in for a kiss and asked for my number. You get a gold star, Leo. You get a nickname and a blog.

Now, let’s see if he has the balls to follow through. Let’s see if he makes it past the booty-call stage. Let’s see where that first kiss fits into the narrative of Leo. Let’s see if he can hold Kitten’s interest, one that usually goes for the tall, dark foreigners. Let see if Kitten will get Tennis Bashir’ed or Syrian Doctor’ed or Mr. 23’ed. Or maybe Leo will become a verb himself.

Stay tuned to threemagic8balls.wordpress.com to find out.

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From → Rantings

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