November 10th, 2004 - 6:16 p.m.
With London being as far north as it is, by 8 o’clock it had already been dark for several hours. Usually I’m thoroughly depressed by the short bouts of light, but tonight it inspired me to complete all that has been assigned to me, so that I might have a long night of nothing to do. . .what a novel concept in my everyday life of class, work, and an attempt at social life.
The social life can wait tonight. My fellow American girls are hitting up the pub across the street from out Uni and called me out to get ready, but I had already slipped out of my real clothes into ‘something more comfortable,’ and washed the day’s makeup away. I had other nights to go out with the girls, and I would, but tonight I was staying in.
My room, the accidental-single that’s missing a spare roommate, is clean tonight. I mean clean clean, because I hauled the vacuum cleaner up and borrowed some all-purpose fluid from te cleaner yesterday morning. It reflects my mood right now, as my room’s condition usually does. So for tonight: serene, I feel calm. I probably shouldn’t. I have family coming for Thanksgiving in ten days and so many difficult papers ahead of me. Nonetheless, something tells me that tonight is a respite, and I should enjoy it while I may.
The two twin beds have been pushed together to form one king-sized pad, which everyone covets. What they don’t know it that appearrances can be fooling: one mattress is four inches shorter than the other and to make up for it I pile all the comfortors on one side, then place the top layer over both so that it doesn’t show.
I flop down on the right-hand half, beneath one of my three tall and wide windows. They provide another reason for why people affectionately envy my room. Windows on two walls out of four; a “corner office,” what luck! I do have a special brand of luck, my friends say, and I’ve come to see it too.
But tonight I don’t think anything of luck, I think of entertainment. Days of deciphering long colums of texts and putting analsysis down on the page--rather, the computer screen--has made me crave mindless entertainment. Well, maybe not that mindless, as people would argue that point on my choice, Sex and the City. I own the entire DVD collection which has made me very popular on my floor amongst the girls. . .I have always had HBO but like many things in life, I just couldn’t stand the wait. It’s much better to have them at your fingertips and enjoy the next, and the next with instant gratification. . .a sex marathon, as my friends and I joke.
An hour and a half passes. Miranda makes a list of pros and cons for a boyfriend, Charlotte dates a white knight. . .mare, Samantha fulfils her fireman fantasy, and Carrie reads Big’s wedding announcement. And I start to feel antsy. I thought that idleness was what I needed, but now it was making me feel restless. The fourth episode of season three begins, but I switch my shiny Mac powerbook to ‘sleep’ and cut off the peppy theme song and the flash of Brooklyn Bridge.
Then I sit down on the edge of the bed thinking that even though it is freezing outside, I might ring up Aneka’s mobile and join them afterall.
That’s when the knock comes.
I briefly wonder who it could be since the usual suspects are out and about. Living in a building full of students, though, you just never know. It could be anyone, after anything.
It isn’t just anyone though, and it isn’t even a student. It’s Mark, standing there in my doorway, looking a bit sheepish.
Mark, whom my friends all actually speechlessly mistook for Prince Harry for over twenty minutes, the first time we talked in a dim club. With his dark blond hair and perfect accent. With his one foot over me, rugby-toned body, and intelligect. With his Oxford education and hands that dwarf mine and make me feel ultra feminine. This guy, Mark, who is shaping up to be the biggest crush of my 21 years.
THAT Mark is standing in front of me. And for my part I’m completely and utterly taken aback, wearing a black tank top and Tiffany-box colored thin stretch sweats.
But I am SO pleased.
He says, “I was on Brompton and I wanted to see if you were home.”
I am about to say something but he interupts, “I know I should have rung first but it was completely impulsive.” He stares at my chest for a moment; I’m not wearing a bra. “You all right?”
I smile, easily. “You came right on time.”
He’s confused by that, but I open the door and cock my head inviting him in. He smiles and walks through, smelling of cold air.
I stroll over to the laptop to wake it right up again, and set my iTunes to play my A1 Songlist. Just because I’m rather sick of it doesn’t mean it’s not good.
“So you just happened to be in Knightsbridge, hm?” I tease him as he sits down on the bed and looks around my room. He grins in response and his eyes continue to rove around. He’s only been here once before, on our second date when he picked me up, and there are plenty of photographs, books, and mementos to take in.
I stroll over and stand in front of him, and he puts his arms around my waist and looks up at me under his lashes, feigning innocence. But with his mischievous 23-year-old eyes, this is a difficult task for him.
“So why are you really here?” I ask, pretending to be serious.
With a sharp tug around my waist he causes me to lose my balance and tumble against him down onto the bed, cushy with its buried stack of blankets beneath us.
His lips are cold too, but mine warm them up.
“But that’s not why,” he explains to me when we part, and I smile gently and sit up.
We’ve been seeing each other for a while now, and we’ve never gone past what they called ‘heavy petting’ during the fifties. My last relationship was ruined by rushing into things, and I like him much too much to spoil things similarly. I feel like he has the most potential out of any man I’ve ever met.
He massages my scalp then turns his gaze to my bulletin board above my bed, full of pictures from the summer’s last hurrah. My girlfriends and I drove from San Francisco to Los Angeles, to visit best friend from high school. The pictures show a different world of Southern California beaches, bathing suits, and volleyball; barbeques and kegs.
He smiles a half smile, and I want to take of his shirt.
We aren’t speaking, even though he just arrived. I wonder if he was the reason I felt so restless, and if so, I wonder why. I think I know, though. I want him, and desire does a funny thing to a person.
I’m not an expert on the subject. In high school I really only desired one boy, but when he wanted me I was suddenly frightened. I didn’t take full advantage of the experience, like I could have. Early college saw many intoxicated rendezvous, but fumbling experiences when you’re tipsy hardly counts. I’m an amorous drinker though, for what it’s worth.
But the first night I met him, I wasn’t drunk at all. I’d had one drink and was feeling bold, but nothing more. But in the last half hour of our first hour and a half conversation, I couldn’t listen to him. I could only stare at his lips.
It’s funny that the first man that I have truly desired as a (more or less) grown-up has been the single one that I have not allowed myself to. . .get to know better.
But like I said, I’m not ruining this one the way I ruined things with the other British Boyfriend. I’m pretty sure he’s been scared off, and I hadn’t even wanted it that badly.
But a lot of subtext speaks in our silence, and I have to break it before it pushes me on him.
Coldplay’s In My Place begins its mellow strains in the background.
“How did you even get in here?” I ask him, my voice slightly husky as he brushes his hand across my thigh. I moderate my breathing. My building has a security desk which requires all hosts to accompany their guests inside and sign them in.
He flashes me his lovely teeth. “I guess I looked like I knew exactly what I was doing because they didn’t stop me.” He chuckles. “In fact the guard greeted me like he knew me. It was rather amusing actually, because I wasn’t quite sure if I’d be able to get past them.”
“You could have always called me,” I point out, and he smiles again and looks at me.
“But that would have ruined the surprise--for me. You probably wouldn’t have been wearing what you are, for one thing.”
I glance down once more at myself and raise my eyebrows in agreement. He is probably right. I would have put on some liptint, mascara and a bra, at least. They would have been subtle, to essentially represent the same look I was now sporting, but it would have been a less flawed, more polished version. But this is real, this is total honestly.
“I like you this way,” he tells me. “You don’t need any lipstick, or eye whatever, or anything, you know. You’re all. . .fresh-faced.”
“I did just take a shower,” I concede with a laugh.
He kisses me again, effectively shutting me up, and I kiss him back passionately, amazed that he appearred here, as if my impure thoughts about him conjured him up. He’s solid beneath my hands though, this is definitely not just a fantasy.
Out of the many places we’ve snogged--bus stops, clubs, closed storefronts, his flat’s couch in Maida Vale, down the block from my building--this by far is the sexiest. I’m sitting here wearing pajamas and he’s still cold to the touch, but it’s just such an unexpected treat that it makes an impression. I realise that it’s intimate.
We pull apart after several minutes of intense kissing, and I stand from with a smile. But I can feel his eyes on me.
“How are you?” I ask him for the first time since he arrived ten minutes before.
He also finally takes off his jacket, and I grab it and somehow find a free hanger in my stuffed closet for it.
He gives a long sigh. “Work was utter shit today. But I’m, you know, paying my dues. I’m feeling pretty good now though. . .”
I could say, “Well we’ll have to think about how to make you feel even better,” or something like it, but I don’t. I think about it, but I don’t.
“Yeah, I know the feeling. I have so-o-o much coming up that I’m in denial about now.”
“Just wait til the real world!” he jokes at me, and I pretend to pout.
“This version is plenty real enough for me as it is, thank you!”
He laughs and rubs my back. “Want me to write them for you? I’ve had lots of practise. . .”
“Oh, but how can I trust you to do as good a job?” I challenge with a raised eyebrow, and he seems to mull it over.
“Well. . .if I had some sort of rewards program. . .” He intertwines his fingers with mine.
I roll my eyes and laugh. I squeeze his hand.
“No, not like that, you perve,” he laughs, grabbing me in a cuddle.
“But seriously,” he says, making his grip on me more gentle. “You do. . .know that. . .I want you, right?”
My heart huds, my mouth dries. I just look up at his blue eyes, which are looking back at me intensely.
“Right?” he prompts and I nod. He kisses me deeply and I push my hands through his thick hair. I wonder if this feeling is love or lust. And his, too.
“So that is why you came over here,” I ask him, and he pulls back.
He looks surprised at the question, but then he answers, “You know, I just wanted to see you, like this. How you just hang out. But I have to say that seeing it is turning me on.”
“Fair enough,” I answer with satisfaction. Having him here in my own personal space is turning me on as well--like I said, it’s intimate--and I initiate another bout of making out.
This time he pulls apart and looks at me seriously. “Do you want to maybe talk about something?”
I wonder if I did something to get me in trouble, but I am a bit naive.
“Do you?” I ask.
“I do but. . .not for any noble intentions!” He chuckles. “I guess I’ve been trained to talk about it. Like, ‘if you can’t talk about it, how can you do it?’”
“It?”
He massages my breast and looks into my face as he does. Comprehension dawns.
“I haven’t had that talk before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” He traces his hand down my side and it rests at my hip.
I laugh and agree. Would tonight be a first for several things?
“You’re older, you go first,” I tease.
“Well aren’t you demanding,” his hand rocks my hip and he smirks.
“Yes,” I reply with my own.
“Well okay then.” He takes a breath. “This is always a sodding bore but let’s see. . .I’ve been checked out since I was last active and I’m clean.”
That is quite a clinical sentence to come out of this moment, but I try not to show any surprise. But he was still looking at me.
“Oh, me. I’ve definitely got a clean bill!”
“I thought so.”
“Well yeah I should hope so.” He grins at me, shaking his head like he’s apologising for having to mention it.
I shouldn’t be surprised that we’re having this talk. I’ve been very careful with this one, not to just jump into bed with him like I have in the past. I guess he’s taking it seriously too, but still, the fact he is the one to bring this up impresses me.
“I hope I’m not being too presumptuous by even bringing this up,” he tells me. “I mean, I don’t even know if. . .”
“If. . .?”
We look at each other and then I burst out laughing. “If I’ve ever had sex before?”
“So you have.”
“I’m 21!”
“You never know.”
I’m about to feel sort of offended--why wouldn’t I have?--but he turns it around, into a compliment.
“You seem like it’s hard to get into your pants. Choosy girls don’t just shag whoever’s available, they wait. So right, you never know.”
I decide not to let him know that I’ve got a fair number on my list, and direct the question to him. “Well how about you?”
He smirks again. “I don’t know if adolescent males even can be choosy.”
“Oh, so you were somewhat of a slut back in your day?”
He shrugs with a smile then drags his hands down my thighs. “But I’ve done a lot of growing up. . .And like I said I’m still all healthy, so. . .”
“Well that’s something. . .” I’m distracted by the lazy circles his thumbs are making, moving towards my upper thigh.
The first time I had met him, we talked for about an hour and a half in a high table with booths, but for the last ten minutes before we moved onto the dance floor, I could hardly even pay attention. I just stared at his lips, wanting to kiss him. I knew he’d be good, and he was.
I’m getting that same lapse of focus again. Has my body already made up my mind for me?
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