I don't know what it is. I guess I just understand boys.
The other night, my brother and cousin were in town and we ended our evening of drinking at The Meatball Shop. One of my favorite places to eat meatballs, and (what I just recently realized) talk to boys. The seating situation is a lot like a dressed up high school cafeteria with less fat lunch ladies, better meatballs, and an equal amount of attractive ladies that won't give me the time of day, then or now. When we took our seats, we were squeezed in between respectable white people that blended into the background. They told the usual stories of "work" and "dinner parties" and "brunch" and "wedding season" and all sorts of other topics of conversation I never want to be a part of but love making fun of. As the 3 of us discussed our multi-billion dollar idea of a Chicago food truck for the 40th time of the evening, a few seats next to us opened up and a group of nice looking brown people sat down besides us. As they sat down, one of them made his way to the bathroom. Now I'm pretty sure it was a coincidence that I had to go to the bathroom too, but after thinking about this and looking at the evidence, it could have been the boy-charm spreading its wings and looking for its next victim/friend. As we waited in line together we formed an instant bond. Since I was too drunk, but really not that drunk, to remember exactly how the conversation started, I'll just say that we locked eyes and instantly knew each other. I actually think I asked him how he knew the girl and the good-looking clean-cut guy he was sitting with. Translation: "Why are you hanging out with those pretty people? You're a little brown guy like me. Shouldn't you be off crying and/or masturbating in a corner all by yourself somewhere?" The girl was his girlfriend. The guy was her brother. So for the next few minutes we came up with some unbelievable story about how we knew each other so when we got back from peeing (at separate times) we could play pretend and confuse the shit out of everyone. Then we realized everyone noticed our bathroom line conversation and our little brown guy tag team story was squashed. Oh well. As we took our seats, I talked some shit and we had a pleasant time. All the while thinking: How did this dude get himself one of those things I only see in magazines, and on the bus, and walking around, and everywhere else in NYC? A pretty girl. (I was really thinking "Who is going to call him Aziz first?" Winner: Zack.)
I have very few girl friends. You knew that. Most guys keep girls they want to have sex with around and call them "friends" but are really just waiting for these "friend" bitches to dump the asshole boyfriend or slip on a banana peel, right onto a penis, preferably one attached to their own ballbag. I can't even do that. Girls with boyfriends don't even want to be my friend, probably because they can see it in my eyes. "It" being molestation, duh. Instead girls tap me on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me!" not as if they are going to say something in excitement, but to tell me to get out of the goddamn way. And I do. I get out of the way and go cry and masturbate in the corner somewhere. Anywhere.
But this doesn't happen with boys. When I'm talking to a new boy, I'm engaged, I'm spontaneous, I'm funny, I'm...myself. So when I was talking to this little brown boy in the bathroom line at The Meatball Shop, I was comfortable, confident. And what do they say in GQ and other magazines that really don't offer any insight into a better life because everyone giving advice in their pages is some combination of rich and good-looking, what do they say? They say, "BE CONFIDENT!" And I was. As we were wrapping up a nice conversation and some good ol' shit talking, the conversation slowed and the night came to a satisfied end. But as we were leaving, I ripped off a piece of napkin and wrote the 10-digits I usually save for the beautiful imaginary girl in my dreams, my motherfuckin' phone number.
When I woke up the following day, I laughed, then I grew anxious. Did he think I was gay? Was it too much to give my phone number? Is he going to call? Did I ruin what could have been? No. I was being silly. How could it have turned into something if I didn't make an attempt to hold onto those moments? Was I expected to broaden my Craigslist missed connections search from "w4m" to "m4m"? It was too much to think about. But I thought. A lot. And then the text message came a day later.
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| Even as a cigarette, I only talk to boys. |
It's been over a week since we exchanged text messages. I actually texted him last Friday to see if he had any plans I could tag along to so I could stare at his girlfriend. Not 100% in a creepy way (not 0% either) but more in a, "How the fuck did you accomplish this? TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!"-way. I never got a reply and then I broke my phone.
I don't know what I want out of all of this. Maybe that's a part of the problem. I also don't know what to learn from all of this. That's another part of the problem. But I recognize these things, and I think that that in itself is important. I'm aware that I'm amazing at talking to boys. Am I supposed to be dating boys? No thank you. Girls taste better. I'm sure of it. Maybe I should just accept this as a gift. Nah. I'm not ready for that. Not yet. For now I'm just ready for my phone to be fixed.
To see if that little brown boy called.
