So, About Last Night

Last night my leg rested against hers. I sat down next to her. Our legs met. And stayed. Was it purposeful? Any of it? Did I intend for my leg to rest against hers? We could probably argue that yes, yes I did, though the action - the sitting, the resting against - wasn't planned. It happened. Happenstance. Kismet, luck perhaps.

The greater consideration, from where I sit at least, is her leg. When my leg came to rest against it - ever so gently, I might add - she didn't move. Not an inch. In either direction. I think that's important to note (if one tends to overthink as I do). She neither leaned in nor did she move away. She simply let it be.

Did she not notice the magnetism and electricity between us? That part could certainly have been all me, given my vast imagination. And then there's the whole wishful thinking thing that I am insanely good at. Because...well, because...let's just leave it right there before plausible deniability ends up in shards on the floor.  The part of me that's unabashedly realistic knows (KNOWS!) that she has zero recollection of me even sitting down next to her. At all. I'm quite certain of what I bring...and women (especially straight women) noticing me ain't it.

Or.....

Did she not move because she felt everything I felt? And like me, didn't want to press the point - make obvious the point - that our bodies were finally touching. And she liked it. To lean in would have given away a myriad of secrets, acknowledged perhaps too much. I was content with the merest of touches. Her leg, my leg - our legs - resting against each other. So simple and nearly (possibly?) unnoticeable, and yet...perhaps...maybe a sliver of a beginning.

~

Ok, ok... I know. I wrote about involvement with married women (Right. She's not just straight. She's married. I might have omitted that part above) and PTSD a couple months back (a nifty little blog post called "A Mere 18 Pages"). The great thing about putting even your most embarrassing private thoughts in writing and posting them in a blog is that those words never die. Ever. You can't suck them back in or deny them. Because they're out there. Forever. Unless the whole Internet shuts down.

"Today, though, the thought of adultery - being with a married woman - brings it all back, makes it all real again. It's been four and a half years. Almost half a decade. Maybe that's my karma. Maybe that PSTD-like feeling means I'll never do it again."

Look, I don't want her to be married. Jesus, it's not like I sought this out consciously. I would love it if she was unmarried and not straight. And interested. In me. Probably just in theory, though. Because fuck, the idea that I might actually have to pursue something - someone - scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Because if she's married, I can fall back on my "rules."

• Rule 1: She has to pursue me because I do not (openly) pursue married women.

• Rule 2: She has to make the first first move. See Rule #1.

If she was gay and single, I'd have to pursue her and more than likely have to make the first move What's the issue with that? I don't have the foggiest idea how to do any of that. I can't recall ever pursuing anyone (married, single, straight, lesbian). Not that I'm trying to toot my own horn, so to speak. I've spent the majority of my adult life single for a reason. For that exact reason. Historically, I've tended to bury myself in unattainable women who I will never pursue (see rules above) and who will never pursue me. Luckily, I enjoy own company immensely.

~ 

So, about last night... I didn't make the first move, if that's what you're thinking. I sat down. Period. My leg just so happened to rest against hers. In my defense, the space I had to squeeze myself into to sit next to her was kind of small. So small our legs resting against each other was nearly inevitable if I was going to sit next to her. Oh wait... 

I see what you mean. There actually were other places to sit or stand. I didn't have to sit right next to her in a place so small that touching each other was bound to happen. She planned it that way? Nope. She had no idea I'd be joining the conversation. She sat where she sat. I did the squeezing and initiated the touching. Depending on how you do the math, I broke both my rules last night. Fuck.

But Jesus, it was nice. In a small and potentially creepy way. I realize this, all of this. Which is why I have rules. That I usually follow. Most of the time. Historically anyway. Being a lesbian in the straight world ain't as easy as it looks, folks. 

The Case for Souvenir Underpants

Yesterday I wore the souvenir underpants that I bought in Norway last Spring. I'm willing to bet that 99.9% of people that I saw (and who saw me) had absolutely no idea I had "Norway" scrawled across my butt. I suppose it's begs a question. Well, at least one. Why buy (and sell for that matter) souvenir underwear when no one (especially if you're me) is going to see them? Isn't the point of souvenirs - t-shirts, hats, even refrigerator magnets and shot glasses - to shout out where we've been? And to give the place we've visited loads of free advertising? Souvenir underwear misses on both counts (at least for the vast majority of travelers). In addition, nothing bought in any souvenir shop in any city in the world is "cheap," including underpants. So, why do I have a pair of bright red souvenir bikini briefs from Norway, you ask?

Look, I know those of you sitting at home are thinking it's absolutely ridiculous. And I promise I've shared your opinion on more than one occasion. Here's how it goes. You land in some vacation paradise (Yes, Scandinavia is mine) and you decide to take a stroll through town. It's only Day 1, but you find yourself in one of a zillion souvenir stores along your route through the touristy part of town. As you peruse the mugs, t-shirts, key chains, scarves, hats, shot glasses, coasters, bath salts, coasters, calendars, sweatshirts,and other assorted tchotchke items, you come across a display of underpants. You think - and I promise you do - "How ridiculous!?!? Who would buy those?" You shake your head in wonder, laugh, and move on.

I've thought all that. On multiple vacations. Ok, every vacation. And I'm sure I'll think it again. I'll forget all about Bergen and finding myself a pair of underwear short. I'll also forget about the Chinese laundry that will inevitably spring up in my very tiny hotel bathroom along about Day 5 (Day 4 if I'm doing a lot of running).

Because, it happens. You cannot possibly pack enough underwear to last an entire two week plus run-cation. Your entire bag would be filled and you'd have no room for actual clothes. It's inevitable. You're going to run out of essentials and have to do laundry. In your bathroom (See my blog post from March 2018 entitled "No Tickey, No Laundry" for details). After ten days of that, you're going to get tired of the washing, the ringing, the wet towels, the clothes drying everywhere. So tired that when you discover you're going to run short, you actually consider going commando or wearing your last pair inside out on the flight home.

But then there you are buying a couple last minute souvenirs and you see them. What was once absolutely ridiculous suddenly becomes genius. Red or white? Small or medium? Seriously, these will be your only thoughts. No more shaking of the head, no more laughter. Those size small red bikini briefs are suddenly The Souvenir, outdoing the bookmark you bought in Copenhagen and the two pairs of running tights and shirt you bought at that discount running store in Oslo. No rationalization required .You need these. Need. Them.

One note on size... Whatever size you normally wear, go up a size. They might be pricey but they're also cheap and tend to shrink. Of course, if you have no desire to wear them once you get home (They do in fact return to ridiculous status after that first washing), get your usual. My theory, however, is that if I'm paying hard earned money (close to $20 American) and I'm already over-budget, they need to count for something. They need to go into the stable and get worn. Even if no one knows.

Which is kind of sad. Norway, I love you and I advertised for you all day yesterday. I suppose it worked, too, because now I'm jonesing to go back. First up is Croatia, though. Where I'll have a washing machine at my Air BnB and I'll be able to have all the clean underpants I desire without the full-on Chinese laundry. Sadly (Yes, I just said that), I won't be sitting here a year from now with CROATIA secretly emblazoned across my ass. Hmm.... I collect soccer jerseys from the countries I visit (I really wanted one from Iceland but they are as proud of their jerseys as they are of their team. I was not dropping $100USD even though they were seriously awesome looking). Maybe I need to add souvenir underpants to that list. I'll think on it and let you know in April.

Absolutely Unequivocally

I wanted to touch her hand.

Feel her fingers intertwined with mine. 

That's it. Just once. For a moment. 

Then I'd be done. I'd be good. 

It would be enough.

Or it would be addicting. 

And I'd be fucked. 

Absolutely. 

Unequivocally.

Fucked.

So I did nothing. 

I sat, I spoke. 

Gestured with my hands. 

Perhaps too much. 

I don't know.

One day it would go away. 

The craving, the necessity, the need to know. 

It always did. 

Surely, she was like the others, the rest.

Wasn't she?

Surely, I thought. 

Still talking, still gesturing.

Still keeping my hands busy. 

But as I looked at her, I realized.

She wasn't them; they weren't her.

And there was nothing I could do. 

I was fucked. 

Absolutely, unequivocally fucked.

She was becoming what she shouldn't be, couldn't be. 

There was little I could do to stop it.

A touch or not. 

It didn't matter. 

I talked on, tried to take my thoughts elsewhere.

Willed myself to be elsewhere. 

But there was nowhere else.

She was everywhere, would be everywhere. 

And damned to this awakening, 

I vowed - against my most ardent wish -

She would never know what I know.

Feel what I feel.

So I sat, I spoke. 

I gestured with my hands. 

They had to stay busy, my hands.

Because in one touch they could tell all my secrets. 

Absolutely and unequivocally, every last one of them.