I think she picked up on my momentary weakness, my sudden start at the confrontation with my own ill-conceived and irrational dating rules. Without understanding it's strange origins she did the only thing anyone in that loud, hot, crazy, sweaty bar would have done. With Alice Cooper's wailing screeching maddenly in her ears, she jumped me, block of ice in hand, stuffs it under my shirt and holds it there.
I squeal and laugh and squirm and squeal and scream some more. There's a lot of things to enjoy in this situation, it gives one pause. Don't struggle too hard now, we have to think about a few things here... Hmm... cute sweaty girls jumping me, I think THIS might be ok.
My scan of her hardly hidden agenda and methods, proved... that I was surprisingly NOT creeped out, which was unlikely, I don't claim to fully understand myself, I'm not sure were my comfort levels lie, but I know when they've been crossed, that doesn't lie. A rational analysis of past experiences would have suggested that these boundries would have been overwhelmed at this point, but, a hasty retreat I did not beat, so therefore I must be ok with this. It's STILL really FUNI Eventually, my pansy-assed roots got the better of me and the cold became to much to bear. I put less of my energy into laughing and giggling and more into struggling and squirming. For my manliness's sake I'd like to say it paid off, but the reality is, she let me go.
The next hour is a blur of giggling hotness and squirming sweatiness while bits of ice and hands went under shirts and into pants. Attack, counter attack. Parry, riposte. A few chases around the bar, some screaming "How can you do that to our baby!", each time pushing the envelope a little further. Sweaty sexy funness had by all, all the while entertaining the crowd and bar staff whose attention was split between Alice Cooper's Festivus for the rest of us and this spontaneous giggling mating ritual.
The show was good, but the sexy ice fight was great. By now, the table and I were soaked and exhausted. She was bigger then me so I was the wetter of the two.
Then the lights came on.
Things started to get a little awkward. The spell was broken, the service is over and reality stands at the door calling you back for supper. We're not kids anymore, I know what supper means, after supper comes bed. I don't know if I want to go to bed. I don't even know if I want her phone number. Now my comfort level is getting overwhelmed. I can feel expectations starting to rise. The social pressure is starting to build. As my energy is re-routed to the fear centers in my brain I become noticeably less animated. Things start to cool off between us as fear makes his move. I become jittery, she plays it quiet.
The encore is out for summer, the bar's been blown to pieces. All there remains is the residual bar chatter, the sounds of tables clunked black into position, chairs scraping against the floor and gear being packed up, while she and I stare forward with our fears centre stage in our minds.
James leans in, "Get her phone number."
I look at James and say nothing, hoping we are out of ear shot.
"Don't be a pansy and get her phone number. At least get her phone number, c'mon you HAVE to get her phone number after all that JUST get her phone number phone number phone number."
I look at her pig tails. I look at the lake of ice water on the floor, at James repeating 'phone number', at my soaked pants, the tattoos on her back, at my bloodstained shirt. I think to myself. I have to do something. Something, I can't just leave it at this.
"TIME TO GO FOLKS! FINISH UP AND MOVE OUT!" The general muttering is starting to clear out.
I hate social pressures. I feel like this is a gender specific sorta dichotomy, I'm the man I have to blah blah blah, though that's bullshit, lots of girls have made the first move, probably ALL of the ones I'VE ever got together with, and so I'm just spoiled and feel angered, so the emotionally convenient 'gender specific dichotomy' argument waging war in my head is just a distraction from my own cowardice. Look, my roommate is crazy crazy (a very long story punctuated by a recent psychotic freak-out leading to my moving out soon) and my phone is dead (my bill is too huge.) So, this poor, homeless, slob (did I mention what a wreck my apartment is?) doesn't really have anything to offer, but still, I have to do something. I can't just leave her sitting there, without closure, without anything.
"We're going to the Marquee now, see ya."
Oh man. did I blow that. We leave. I feel like an idiot.
On the way up the long smelly stairs to the cool night air I am comforted, in this small town, if you see them once you'll see them a dozen times.
I try to put it out of my mind. As James and I speed through the night to the Marquee for further debaucherous adventures, I say to myself the same thing I usually say to myself when I'm on my way to the Marquee, 'Maybe she'll be there.'
Anyway, cheap beer is a liar looking for trouble.
Today's Song of the Day is "Hey" by The Pixies off their 1989 Album "Doolittle."
Crazy Fact: Look you and I both now that I'm totally OUT of crazy facts for Radiohead and the Pixies, I've sent 17 songs from these two bands, so I think I'm going to skip the crazy fact, and that's a fact. No, I know! the crazy fact is that this is the 10th Pixies tune I've sent out. CrAzY!
njoy
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