Saturday, June 03, 2006

Gush the light fantastic

Techbiana told everyone at breakfast how she stood outside MArt's room this morning listening in on us having sex and deduced each of our positions from my aural hints. She was in Toronto these past two weeks enrolled in a communications course. Her dormmate was this extremely gorgeous gay guy Bryan Singer (yes, the Hollywood franchise maker) befriended in Hell-Ay. The story goes, Singer invited him to this year's Golden Globe's after-party where he met George "My smugness was immortalized on South Park" Clooney.

"Definitely gay," the guy confided. "He kept checking me out. We made eye-contact at the party six whole times. They were the lingering ones that last way longer than they should too."

Great, another Cary Grant copycat. Everyone should just be required to grow sleazy Burt Reynold 'staches and bow at the alter of Hasselhoff. That's Tinseltown in a nutshell. Or what it really, really, really, really should be.


Two days until the big 2-0. I'm not one for celebrating birthdays, but Readerdroid got the date out of me last week and is determined to bake me a cake since I kept refusing everything else she offered. MArt also had something for me, but I told him it wasn't necessary because we only recently started dating exclusively, and I don't think it's fair to expect anything from anyone you've only known a few short weeks. Oh, and chicks before dicks, and all that.


"Like rabbits," Sam chided in mock disgust.

He was referring to me and MArt's bi-hourly romps in the room next to his temporary pad. To the tunes of Propellerheads, we made ample use of the equipment laying around the bed as the sounds of the city permeated from the window.

At this point, it seems rather redundant to say that he and I are "intimate." Yet with the imaginative use of ice cubes and metal fixtures, it still strikes me as odd that he's a traditionalist. So last week, I asked him out shortly after my modeling gig. He confessed he was taken aback because he thought I didn't want a relationship. Besides, he continued, "What's a gorgeous girl like you doing in a place like this?"

The truth is, I like him. It feels wonderful to be the Annette Bening to his Warren Beatty. ("No more bitches," he vowed.) He calls me his very own Vargas pin-up, cannot stop himself from displaying affection. And most surprisingly is his lack of inhibitions around me (which is apparent to others as well). "I'm attracted to you sexually, mentally, and emotionally," he remarked as he drifted off to sleep. "There's no bullshit with you. You make me feel comfortable being myself." He's not out for control and possession like the others. He respects my boundaries without ever resorting to passive-aggressive schemes that only work to alienate. There are no obsessive feelings of inadequacy and unhealthy wanton impulses. MArt simply acts like a man in love. Yes, in love. Respectfully so. The type built on trust, compassion, and self-improvement. It is difficult to wrap my mind around it. No power struggles, no mind games? Our relationship exists in a gelatinous state of shifting flexibility. It is a quiet satisfaction and a personal triumph of independence within co-dependence. Except not. "Not," because we are not co-dependents at all -- there are no fake pronouncements that might bring us "closer together" nor pre-determined rituals feigned for the sake of security. In fact, when we eventually make our way off the mattress, I continue to play the role of the hapless spinster too proud to settle down (and he, the promiscuous artist of the starving kind). Of course, that might be because I am too much of a socialist to be an exhibitionist.

I suggested to MArt that my fear of dating might stem from my aversion to monotony. So we decided to combine my love of dress-up with novel activities when the chance to go out arises. Our first outing consisted of me in an outfit reminiscent of a Roman Holiday-era Hepburn, eating breakfast at an authentic '50s diner followed by an extended stop at a retro-themed ice cream shop complete with black and white checkered tiles and Richie Valens.

Simply said, there is no shortage of communication between us, and perhaps that is why my life is just that much richer with him.

But to be sure, still equally complete without.

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