Monday, March 07, 2005

Brick by brick, self-restraint breaks down

Sideways was terribly smart and funny. Paul Giamattie gave a first-rate performance in a first-rate film. He was robbed of an Oscar nod, most definitely.


*Disclaimer: The following post is painfully detailed because I want to keep a record of this milestone. Okay, so M. Biologique and I only spooned. Had it been with anyone else, it wouldn't have been anything worth mentioning. However, since it's with him, it is. It means months of effort have finally produced a single, unmixed, message!: He LIKES me (or LOVE, the word I often catch himself using with me). Although not a major breakthrough for everyone forced to follow this melodrama, to someone as unassure of myself as me, this is a REAL confirmation.

BACKGROUND: M. Biologique has a long-distance girlfriend currently living in Boston. They've been a couple for over a year now, but have been apart most of that time. He and I have been carrying on a flirtation since the beginning of last fall. It's been an uphill battle with my emotions since. Does he or doesn't he? Was that sexual or platonic? It's always been a blur. This weekend, we caught a movie and ended up back at his place, immersed in conversation - nothing in particular - and sitting a leg-length apart. I missed the last metro home because a) he made me dinner, b) we went out for Ben & Jerry's and c) I volunteered to do his dishes. He's tired, I'm tired, we continued chatting long after he pinched out the candles, cloaking our bodies in darkness.

SCENE: It's 2 a.m. I'm snuggled on the couch, two winks from drifting, wearing a T-shirt from his closet and a pair of black panties. Goodnight, I say. He insists on making noises. Again, I bid him goodnight. He does not heed.

"If you don't shut up, I'm gonna go over there and shut you up."

He is relentless. So I take to his bed and straddle his 6-foot-2 frame over his sheets, slapping his cheeks and begging him to stop. I push my luck and fall limp by his side, nestling my head on his chest with an arm over his stomach. Contrary to assumption, he does not react with alarm. We continue talking about who-knows-what as my thoughts wander between oddball comments. This goes on for half an hour before he drapes his perceivably nervous arm around my shoulders, his fingers dancing on my skin as if testing the surface of bath water. It stays there until I roll over, uncovered, and try to fall asleep on my arm. Seconds later, I head to the washroom and return to see that he wordlessly, yet thoughtfully, has given up half of his pillow for me. Unthinking, I park my head on it and lie in exactly the same way. M. Biologique and I are not touching. I can't fall asleep, but I notice he's moving a lot; each position closing the gap between us. First his fingers rest in my hair, playing with it slightly. I dismiss it as a fluke and continue dismissing flukes until an hour into this game of blind-and-mute tag, he clutches my waist with his other hand and gingerly pulls me into him until there is no space left (thinking, all the while, that I'm asleep). I can feel him breathing in my hair and a quiet moan escapes him as he places his hand on my breast. He periodically tightens his grip on me as our breathing slowly synchronize. I drift in and out of sleep, dreaming of him, waking next to him, trapped in some fantastical limbo. My cellphone rings 8 o'clock. I peel his arms off me and walk to the couch, shedding the T-shirt; my back turned to him, naked. We hang out for another 6 hours - reading at the bookstore, visiting the school library, checking out the Holocaust hero exhibition - until he goes to set up his painting for an art opening happening this Tuesday. His girlfriend calls him just as I gobble up the last morsel of steak he made me. I pretend to read the SAT vocab list as I listen in on his barely audible, whispered conversation telling her that I'm here, to "be a good girl," and that he'll call back later.

I know he wanted to kiss me (or let me down easy) when he pulled me back into his apartment to give me an affectionate hug. He obviously changed his mind when he decided to make a special note of telling me how we're "very good friends" as opposed to "good friends" (duh!), his body lingering on mine for a while longer before I stuck my mittens between us and said, jokingly, "No, no. I can't see you, we're no longer friends. My mittens tell me otherwise." And with a straight face, his arms still wrapped around me, told me not to listen to them. I understand he's confused and I respect that he's never cheated before. But if his dick isn't in me by the end of this semester (alright, after I return from Beijing ... in September), I'd be an idiot to stay fooled.

My friends think he's an asshole for not clarifying where I stand and that he's having his cake and eating it too. I wish my judgment wasn't so clouded by subjectivity. And yes, it is my responsibility to confront him, but I don't think I'm prepared to hear his answer. If we were having sex, I'd definitely demand an explanation. But is spooning enough a crime to get serious over? Knotted knickers unite.

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