There’s not much to say about my lost weekend with 9.9. We shopped for groceries, rented awful movies; we revelled in the bliss of our bodies being within centimeters at all times. We had sex, and then we’d fall asleep naked and laying on the living room floor. I miss the weight of his head on my chest and my hand pressing his face closer to me. He’d wake up with rug burn on his knees.
We ran his mundane errands, and watched a lightning storm from his balcony, marveling at the spears of light that pierced the dark. We drank wine, a lot of wine. We had sex in the stairwell; my back hurt for days. I wore his old T-shirt and breathed its cottony fibers deep into my lungs. We went shopping in the rain, and did donuts in his car; my eyes were squeezed shut the entire time.
I was an explorer, a detective, studying him in his natural habitat. So I watched and listened, smelled and touched, tasted. And I tried my best to fit in, to be a part of the place he calls home; I have “a side” on his bed.
When the sun came out, I hopped on the back of a motorcycle for the first time. I pressed my body maybe too close to his, and we flitted through the streets with no destination, simply enjoying the wind-whipped journey. I love the feeling of our bodies leaning into a turn, moving as one, his hand resting on my knee at a red light, my arms wrapped tightly around him. I’ve never been so aware of my own vulnerability, of how much of myself I pour into his hands.
These were our adventures, and though they were ordinary, they were all our own.
It was a scorching day, so hot and humid you could hardly suck the oxygen out of the air. We wandered aimlessly and melted drop by sweaty drop, evaporating into the atmosphere. We sought refuge from the heat and ducked into the patio of a furniture store. There, we sat very still and just.. sat. I remember the cool gust of his breath when he blew air down my neck.
The sky that day was a rich, saturated, stunning blue. And way up were two little clouds. We watched as the little clouds grew larger, collecting the moisture from the air and condensing it into tiny white droplets. In minutes, they had tripled in size, growing like tumors spreading across the face of the sky. I found myself holding my breath as the clouds grew so large that they finally touched, their wispy fingers intertwining and pulling their massive aery bodies together until you could not tell which was the first and which was the second.
We later trickled back to the safety of his air conditioned car and made out like kids, oddly excited by the touching clouds and likely delirious from the heat.
By the time I deplaned, I had already fantasized about being reunited with 9.9 for every waking and non-waking moment of my 5+hour journey. Back on sweet solid ground, I nervously shifted the weight of my bag and stepped through the revolving doors. Anticipation was my middle name. My eyes quickly scanned the unfamiliar room for that one so-familiar face, and then I gasped. Every Hollywood-inspired imaginary scenario that I had imagined quickly evaporated in the hypoxia of the moment.
I didn’t drop my bags and run into his arms, ready to twirl me around and around; he wasn’t waiting with a quirky sign and flowers; there was no congratulatory balloon; I did not faint from sheer excitement. I just gasped and froze. And then suddenly, he was all around me. His arms encircled my tetanic limbs, his lips were soft and warm against my own, his warmth washed over me like a rare ray of sunlight on a warm winter day, his breath filled my lungs, and the smell of his skin occupied every last nanobyte of my remaining cognitive function.
He, in his pink crew neck tee and perfectly tousled curls, took my bag from my white-knuckled fist and we kissed again, now with my arms around his neck and pulling his face into my own. My fingers were snakes in his curly tresses, slithering slowly while pulling him closer and closer.
We drifted out of the terminal like pollen, out into the blazing sun, impregnating the summer air with our desire.
So much to say, so little time! Flying to see 9.9 right meow!
No no. Pterodactyls.
9.9 and I have been talking on the phone before bed these past two nights. I always feel nervous as I’m not much of a phone talker and I am incompetent at verbal self-expression; I hardly even knew what to think or feel. We stumble through the conversation, both of us trying to put into words that inexplicable je ne sais quoi that has lingered.
I’m grateful that B1 is back from his trip to Jamaica to distract me from my mental-emotional maelstrom. He’s stable and familiar; he doesn’t make my head hurt. Am I running away? A little. But before I run too far, I want to write down everything; document every nanosecond of the mystery story unraveling in my mind.
His favorite fruit is dragon fruit. He has two younger half-brothers, each five years apart. He’s a Leo. At university, he studied political science but became disenchanted with the corruption; he finished his degree out of obligation. He lived in Korea for 3 years, teaching English to elementary school kids. He broke his right radius near his wrist in Korea in a skateboarding accident. He has travelled to Malaysia, Thailand, the Philippines, Taiwan, Czech Republic, and places I can’t remember. We share a love of Boracay, a Philippine island that has forever been my inner paradise. A secret alcove island which I hold on a cherished mental pedestal; he’s been there.
He’s tall and strong. His hair is brown and unruly with natural curls and a boyish smile that spreads like a sharp wedge across his face. He smirks on the left side of his face. There’s a wedge of orange perforating the blue-green background of his left eye. His tiny stubble catches my hair like Velcro. Restless twitches flicker constantly on his lip as if on the verge of forming words, but he sometimes swallows them. His hands are large, strong and heavily calloused with big fat fingers like my father’s.
I recall the chills I felt when his breath whistled down my neck as we danced at the concert; our sweat soaking through our clothes and rolling down our skin in torrents. I can hear his slow, strong heart beat with my head rising and falling on his chest. I catch myself thinking about us in the shower, his arm pinning my hands high over my head as the hot water sizzled against our hungry bodies. And we kissed, forgetting to breathe for oxygen could not even fill our lungs; we breathed each other. I reminisce about his finger against my chin, tilting my face to meet his; the ease with which he pulled me toward him and lifted me up and out of the hotel sheets; the tightness with which he held me close and closer. He liked to torment me with tickles and turning on my seat heater in the car when it was already 90 degrees outside.
But most of all, I think about his face, motionlessly pressed against mine. So close, I could only see him through one eye at a time. I’d close them both and feel his breath condensing and then evaporating on my skin. We’d stop everything, anywhere, and absorb the molecules and let the electricity connect our cells and communicate in pluses and minuses, protons and electrons. I imagined that if we were very very still, we could slow their spin and stop time and that moment would never end.
He arrived all of a sudden. His voice was different than I had remembered, but he looked just as handsome. He had driven hours to see me, and I was nervous though I tried to hide it. He brought me a present, this poster. I didn’t know what to say. It was so unexpected, so perfect. We went to a concert with some friends. And then we went back to his hotel and talked timidly until we fell asleep, far apart, on separate sides of the bed.
In the morning, we woke, shy and strange. As the morning minutes ticked away, we inched closer and closer, talking and learning about the strangers that we were. And then, our faces were suddenly close. Then closer. I could feel his breath and see every brown eyelash. Beams of light landed on the narrow tips, igniting a glow around his blue-brown eyes. We paused, lingering in kiss purgatory. And then, we touched so barely and so lightly, it would have been easy to miss had not every nerve in my body concentrated to my lips.
And just like that, it started. A whirlwind romance that I will never forget. A fairy tale that I hardly even believe, but I feel it.
We finally crawled out of the hotel room at 2:00, starved and parched. After we ate, we drove around aimlessly in search of ice cream. Shopped scattered boutiques. And returned to the hotel. We emerged again just in time to order takeout to eat in bed, where we immediately fell asleep after. In the morning, I fell in and out of sleep as he played with my hair and drew finger patterns on my back. I pretended to be asleep, but I felt him trace “I <3 U” before erasing his secret invisible message with his palm. At the time, I was too afraid to acknowledge his feelings when we had just barely met.
He’s a reformed bad boy. A former angry spirit with a love for fist fighting. He’s now a peace-loving free spirit, living moment to moment, in search of happiness and love. He’s an entrepreneur. He’s a basketball coach for three year olds. He’s a curly haired devil angel. He’s a citizen of the world, but belongs to no one but his own desires. He loves to swim in the river, to bathe in the sun, to face his fear of heights with skydiving, to ride his motorcycle and to go where the wind blows.
As we wandered around today, I felt as if people who saw us were wondering what a gorgeous man like him was doing with a simple girl like me. But he would hold me so close I would almost trip on his feet as we walked. For these past 48-some hours, I have been floating in a daydream of disbelief where fantasy and reality are one and the same. With his gaze, he made me feel as if I was the only person his eyes could see. As if they were thirsty desert travelers, drinking in the sight of little ol’ me.
He has been gone for a couple hours now, but I’m still wading through the whiplash. All weekend, I’ve felt like Emma Stone in Crazy Stupid Love when she’s standing across the room from Ryan Gosling, accusing him of being photoshopped. I’m not even sure how I feel about everything, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Tonight, perhaps he and I will lie awake in beds and our brains will toss and turn, trying to figure out what to think and how to tell our hearts what to feel. So that tomorrow, we can trudge distractedly through the day, wondering if it was all real.
Several weeks ago, my friends and I took a weekend trip to a neighboring city. It was a perfect mini vacay filled with good food, good fun and good company. Saturday night, our search for a good time led us to a British pub with a relaxed edge and a playful dance floor. Near the end of the night, my gay friend and I spotted a couple of hotties by the bar. We admired from a short distance, discussing intently whether or not they were too beautiful to be straight. As the night grew late, we decided it was time to head back to our hotel, but as we neared the exit, we hesitated simultaneously. We stood frozen, staring at the handsome strangers. Brazened by adrenaline and booze, we marched back and introduced ourselves to the gorgeous men. Unfortunate for my friend but lucky for me, the handsome duo was straight, just choosy. And one of them chose me.
9.9 whisked me out onto the dance floor for perhaps the most awkward dance I have ever had. Junior high called and wants it awkward crown back. Awkward turtle just “liked” that dance on facebook. Shortly after, we politely bid adieu and strolled home. As GBF and I strolled and revealed what we had learned about our respective bachelors, we heard a shout and turned to see 9.9 running after us. Curly haired and eyes ablaze, he asked to see me again.
I am grateful that the shock didn’t set in until later. In fact, I am only now realizing the romance of the gesture. A beautiful stranger chased after me. I feel like Cinderella sans glass slipper and pumpkin carriage. I feel as if I may never be so high again. Not after this weekend.