Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Base Reversal

Long time readers will have probably pieced together that M. Biologique is very much unlike myself. For one, he's good-looking. Like hubba-hubba, runaway rickshaw, good-looking. Secondly, he's an outdoorsman, a spiritual investor of the earth; his enthusiasm for the wilderness is unparalleled. And lastly, he can quote every movie by Mel Brooks (nuff said).

I, on the other hand, am the embodiment of the bumbling city girl. You put a cow udder in front of me and I half-expect it to sing. I'm commercial savvy, culturally aware, and politically vocal. I perpetuate consumer myths with my frivolous spending, diffuse dominant discourse for fun, and live to stir shit up. Alpha males are sprinkled on my dessert as after-thoughts. Conflict is leisure. But I'll be running on empty before being capable of distinguishing maple from oak (or any tree for that matter).

I love that since we've been spending time together, our interests have increasingly intermingled. I got this hippie hooked on Marx and he has me begging to become his barefoot domestic goddess.

So keeping our differences in mind, it probably doesn't come as a surprise that I was hootin' and hollerin' and totally disturbin' the whole serenity now vibe when M. Biologique took me on a mountaintop picnic last night.

"[M. Biologiqueeeeee!]" I squealed as he stayed out of sight, trailing behind protectively. "I'm lost! I'm tired! There's a squirrel following me!"

It was all worth it though, just being there with him under the radiant satellite that consumed the bustling metropolis located light years away. I pressed my slightly pursed lips on his neck, carefully taking in the smell of his sweat. He inhaled deeply, and with each rhythmic pulse, increasingly contributed to my gathering sensitivity. Yet, neither of us could amass enough courage to take it any further. It's an odd situation, this. I've never dated, always preferring the hit-and-run method with relative strangers to curb emotional attachment and satiate curiosities. He's always dated, so sexual assertiveness is as much a part of his identity as organic produce. But the bases are scrambled. We've sent McGwire to second and Alfonzo to third without ever hitting a ball on home plate.

In other words: we've yet to have a proper kiss.

I feel like Billy Madison, put in fifth grade, stuck schvetching teacher titties when his plumbing is capable of so much more.

It's brutally puritanical. Why are we both playing this pre-adolescent game of coyness? I realize we're being sanctimonious, but the question is why?

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