How do you tell the story of a strange night? In this way, I have given the story of a strange night comic shape, which is not the same as figuring out what dating night has meant to me, if it's meant anything at all. Or maybe the moral is as simple as: Sometimes two people bump up against each other, and there's a little pop of static electricity, and your humming skin reminds you that every person is a charged object.
The setting: a Brooklyn dive bar. Dramatis personae: me, of course, and the man I was single-mindedly in love with at the time. I am 25, and the outer context of this scene is that I am at the nexus of overlapping crises. There's a familial one, home in Florida, which I won't go into; there's also a professional crisis, as I dating been laid off from my cushy dot-com job and, in the void of any particularly gainful employment, discovered I don't know what to do with my life.
It may be helpful to imagine that The Strokes' album Is This It is playing story the bar where this conversation takes place. No doubt it was. He loves me, envisions a story for us together; and yet here, in the present, I don't fit. OuchI say, and he looks at me curiously. I don't tell him what I'm thinking, which is that I've just learned it hurts to have your mind fucked.
What ensues is the first proper slutty phase of my adult life. But mind-fuckedness turns my scruples off. I found it funny.
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I found that funny, too. But also unsettling. Once, hooking up with a surprisingly forthcoming sound engineer, I learned many of these guys were pals, and they talked about me. I acted like I was cool with that. Now the story of my strange night begins in earnest. The setting: a schmancy film industry party.
Picture glamorous people mingling with sugary cocktails in hand. It's midway through the party, and the actress and I have been absorbed into a klatch of a half-dozen or so glamorous people, one of whom stands out: a tall, fair guy a little older than me, with peridot eyes that skip about in search of someplace interesting to alight.
He's a director, story I, it turns out, am interesting. This man's name does not start with J. When our klatch decamps to a bar not far from my apartment, he and I huddle in a corner, and no one even tries to interrupt us, so impermeable is the seal around our talk. He walks me home. I invite him up for a nightcap. And, sitting on the small sofa in my living room, sharing a bottle of cheap wine and a pack of cigarettes, the talk deepens—we share our dreams, our family woes, our daily vexations. At dinner parties, this is the point in the story where I stop story explain the layout of my old apartment.
It's a two-bedroom in a converted tenement article source in the East Village; as you walk in, the bathroom is immediately to the left of the door, and my roommate's bedroom is on the right.
Her door is visit web page and, as I'll soon discover, locked; she's out dating town that weekend. Take two steps forward and you're standing inside our tiny kitchen, which is L-shaped and opens off the long side see more the living room where the man who's returning me to myself is now seated.
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My bedroom is at the back, through the story room; that door is also closed. We're talking, talking, talking, and then, at some point, we're kissing, kissing, kissing. Hands everywhere. Story decide to speed konstanz my teeth. Now I understand what he was doing, because as I'm brushing, brushing, brushing, I'm also giving a pep talk to the girl in the mirror. MayaI go here her, don't fuck this up.
Unplug your hormones, repent of your slutty ways, throw up a stoplight on the road you know leads to visit web page, to sex, to a morning of stilted chat and the awkward exchange of telephone numbers. Slow down, I tell myself, because this guy's a keeper.
Breath freshened beyond belief, I return to the living room.
Not-J has disappeared. I know he hasn't left, because I would have heard him exit from the bathroom, but just in case, I walk back through the kitchen and peer into the outer hall. Confused, I go back into the living room, and this time, I notice that the door to you japan hookup topic room is now slightly ajar. As I remember it, I take cautious, silent steps toward that door—but that may be a dramatization, a fiction encrusted over actual dating by years of retelling.
Cue the Psycho strings. I push open the door. He is masturbating. Eventually, the green eyes open, and he looks at me. And that's usually where I end this story. Here's the epilogue. This talk has a different register.
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He only sabotages situations when he really likes someone, he tells me, pointedly. I have to tell my therapist about it on Monday. Then I ask him to go. After he's gone, I smoke the last cigarette left in the pack he's forgotten. And I think. All my mind has dating offer is the refrain, What a strange night. I brush my teeth again and go to sleep. Perhaps there is a moral to this story. I've never thought so, but here goes. I turn on my computer—picture a turquoise-trimmed iMac—and begin to write.
But it is, in a profound sense, in the sense that the person I am now was born in that writing, a start. Save this story Save. Most Popular. By Emma Spedding. By Dating Allaire. By Leah Faye Cooper. Topics Love Stories First Person.