~ Sunday night I was not in the mood to be the "Don Juan de Marquee." I really wasn't even in the mood to be in the club at all on my night off. But I wanted to listen to Made In The World, so there I was.
I stood with my back to the wall, hands crammed in my pockets, hood up; talking to no one.
Made In The World were great that night. Jon Nicholson had a sweet-sounding mix up for them, and I just closed my eyes and got lost in the music. It's rare that I get to relax and listen to a band and just enjoy them without having to do the mix.
After their set, I found some leftover drink tickets in my pocket. I had a couple shots of tequila and started to relax a little bit.
I got to chatting with a friend who had recently ended a long-term relationship. The adjustment to single life can be difficult. He mentioned that sometimes he wished he could skip the whole seduction process with a woman, just get straight to the action.
This idea seemed bizarre to me at first, given the way I live. But my friend put it into perspective when he said that he'd been used to having "sex on tap" for years. My heart went out to him, you might say. It sucks to be a male and have strong urges with nowhere to put them.
I had a sudden wish to help him, to sit down with him and explain everything I had ever learned about seduction.
And then the pretty blonde returned to the table. So I demonstrated for him instead.
~ We were looking up at the bright, clear moon from the back of some shadowy North End driveway.
"That's my favourite colour--midnight blue," she said.
And later:
"...Goodnight, moon," as we stepped inside the back door of my house.
~ And later:
"Do you like the way I'm touching you?"
"It's a new feeling for me..."
~ She was beautiful and troubled. We were lying on our backs with her legs tangled in mine. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could reciprocate for you. But I went way, way farther than I intended to. I'm really sorry."
"That's OK, I'm used to this sort of thing from women," I said. "I only feel slightly used."
Several hours later, alone in my room. The shadow of the Earth moved across me. The full moon melted and passed through my body: white, pure and shimmering.
~ Monday night I most definitely was in the mood to be the Don Juan de Marquee.
After I finished doing sound for Tegan and Sara I was hanging around downstairs in Hell's Kitchen. A tall, gorgeous brunette came up to me to compliment me on the way the show sounded. It's great to get that sort of compliment from audience members, and I thanked her.
I couldn't help but notice she had a perfect smile. Couldn't help but think, "She must have been watching me upstairs..."
We chatted about the show for a minute or two. I judged her to be straightforward, sober, and extremely good-looking.
And then there was a pause and we stood looking at each other.
A voice in my head said, "What's your name. Just ask her. 'What's your name.'"
Another voice in my head said, "Fool, 'what's your name,' how lame is that. She's beautiful. Say something witty. Say something creative."
I was momentarily distracted by the arrival of the pizza slice I'd ordered. I couldn't think straight. I took a bite of pizza.
She said to me, eyebrows raised, "Well... see you...?" and then she was gone.
She had mistaken my hesitation for lack of interest. I swallowed my bite of pizza and thought, "I am an idiot to let that woman walk away."
So I tried to look around for her but she had vanished. I stood on the platform of Hell's Kitchen and nibbled on my slice. I concluded that I must be seriously off my game tonight.
Just then, another pretty girl hopped up on the platform and gave me a big smile. "Hi... are you the guy that plays all that crazy music?"
She looked somehow familiar, like maybe someone I had checked out at some point in the past. "Yes, that would be me," I said.
"I saw your show at the Mokka once," she said.
"The Mokka? That was a long time ago."
And before you know it we were hanging out and joking and flirting and playing silly people-watching games, as if we'd known each other for ages. She had strong physical energy and I felt a sexual charge just from sitting beside her. She also had a set of full, luscious lips that I couldn't stop looking at.
Sitting on the bench in Hell, it occurred to me that if you're really clicking with someone, conversation is never a struggle. Things just flow and you never really have to try to think of something to say. It just comes naturally for both people.
So we wound up making out and we left together shortly thereafter. She told me outside that one of her friends had warned her not to go with me. Her friend said I gave her a "bad feeling."
I wonder what the feeling was. "Better be careful--I think this guy might enjoy sex. He might also be emotionally independent, and therefore difficult to manipulate." I, of course, instantly admire any woman with the guts and the good sense to ignore her cockblocking friends.
Anyway, partway up the sidewalk she told me exactly how much she'd had to drink. I realized then that she was probably too drunk to have sex with. I'd sort of seen it coming back at the bar ("Are you sure you really need another gin and tonic?").
So we just sat in the Commons and made out for a while. She really knew how to give a kiss. Whew.
Did you ever have one of those moments when something seems to click in your brain? Someone says something or makes a little gesture, and it’s like a little switch flips either “off” or “on.”
In this case, it happened when I ran my hand up the thigh of her jeans and she said, “Hey, careful about rubbing my crotch, there, Guy-I-Don’t-Know.”
It sort of broke the connection I thought we had. If she’d been hanging out with me all evening, and yet her intuition wasn’t attuned enough to realize that I meant her only pleasure and no harm, then what do you suppose she would be like as a lover? Would there be little limitations popping up all over the place?
Even though I really liked her, suddenly I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have sex with her.
I said, “I am of the belief that rubbing someone’s crotch is a great way to get to know them.”
She laughed and said, “That’s a good one. Do you mind if I quote you on that?”
I thought, maybe I’ll quote myself on it.
Over our heads, a streetlight had been turning itself off and on at thirty-second intervals. She took her shoes off and wiggled her toes around in her socks. Jennifer (my bicycle) was leaning against the backstop of the baseball diamond. I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of detail in the world.
“There’s a lot of poetry in this moment,” I said out loud by mistake.
Then I gave her my mailing address and put on my bike helmet and pedalled away into the night.
Philip Clark
5554 Bloomfield Street
Halifax, NS B3K 1S9
Canada.
(Mailing address, instead of phone number or email. The woman who wants to woo me will do so well with the written word. And she will have to be prepared to invest a little bit of time, such as that required by the Canadian postal system.)
I biked to Cogswell and North Park and stood there for a long time, lost in thought. A few things I thought about:
- On two consecutive nights, I had left the bar with women who hadn’t been willing to go all the way. I probably could’ve met women who would have been glad to get some action. Should this be construed as a failure on my part?
Absolutely not; and yet, for all this “soul of a poet” nonsense, I really am going to need to get fucked real soon. (It's been almost, what, a week?)
- The conventional wisdom out of Cosmopolitan magazine: “If you sleep with a guy right away, he will never respect you.” So she repeated to me on Sunday night.
However, when I think about the women who are my best friends, the ones I have the most respect for, it seems that the way to my heart is to fuck me without too much hesitation, and then to fuck me and fuck me and fuck me some more.
- And my final thought at this North End intersection on this perfect clear November night: True compatibility exists. It’s out there in many forms. I know, because I’ve found it before. And I will find it again.
