Strike Out

Contrary to the social ease and savoir-faire that I daily project (of which you, beloved reader, are well aware), I made another ungraceful blunder this past week. It all began very innocently, when on Thursday evening, Christoph had some of his friends over for a drum session.

Now I’m not overly fond of all of the people who have at some point or another made an appearance in our house. Try as I may (and I don’t try too hard), I’m not particularly impressed by the undergrads at Princeton. I’ve met too many self-indulgent people who assume that they're really alternative, when in fact they’re really a bunch of preppy white boys who think Bob Marley was the dude. I’m not disputing that Bob Marley was the dude. I’m just saying that I went to high school with these kids, many of whom are genuinely kind and nice people, but who also make the mistake of assuming a status that distinguishes them from the rest of the anorexic, polo-wearing population. Even if you put up an African mask in your room or rock out on the bongos, it doesn’t mean that your values reflect a genuinely counter-culture worldview.

Ok, all of that came out of nowhere. Anyway, Christoph had his friends over, and we had a jolly nice evening. Vanessa and I drained a bottle of wine, Christoph and Samir were playing the drums and tambourine, and we were very happily chatting. Then Mike and Chuck joined us and things livened up even more, especially as we continued to drink glass after glass. People were quietly tapping at the drums, someone was strumming a guitar, and I, of course, began to talk about poetry. Soon we got into this interesting conversation about the Victorian poets, and Joyce & Hemingway, etc. I had been reading some stuff earlier in the evening, and Vanessa, acting out on what I secretly envisioned, grabbed my enormous book out of the kitchen and cudgeled Christoph into reading – Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” Soon we had collected a stack of poetry, and each one of us read something while someone played an instrument in accompaniment. It was quite wonderful at points – though I’m very sensitive to hearing pieces that I love read aloud by others. Sometimes you’ve made something – especially poetry, in my case – so much a part of yourself that hearing someone else re-appropriate it in their own voice feels like a violent blow. But I got over it. Amongst all of this, we were smoking a small amount of herb and getting both high and tipsy.

At 2:40, Vanessa decided it was time to go to bed, and that’s when the dynamic shifted. I was nervous then, as the only woman around, but I love people and new situations and am generally curious to see what will happen, so I figured I’d stay a little while. Suddenly, I found that one of the other guys had supplanted Vanessa on the couch next to me, and was generally sprawling all over the place. While this was fine, it did strike me that for a well-endowed couch, we were rather closely bonding in the physical sense. But I didn’t think anything of it, until we suddenly reached a point wherein this kid pointedly cut off my laudatory comments on his girlfriend’s singing talents by declaring her the “EX-girlfriend.” I was rather shocked at the very meaningful way in which he said this (though he was stoned, perhaps everything becomes more declarative when you’re stoned?), and I mumbled something about how I was sorry for always putting my foot in my mouth, blah blah, whereupon he very sweetly said, “no, not at all,” and patted my thigh. Now I’m all about hugging and patting and touching people’s shoulders when I’m comfortable, but there was something more charged in his gesture than I liked. I guess the thing is that as with Blaine, when I assume that people are in serious relationships or incapable of being interested in me, I’m pretty open and affectionate with them. Maybe too open. But I do get nervous when I feel a lack of private space and my skittish tendencies start to kick in.

So for the next 30 minutes, I found myself edging ever-so-gradually toward the end of the couch, wondering why on earth boys think that breaking a musical phrase down to its structure and tonal arrangement could be remotely gripping, and plotting my final escape. In my defense, it was going on 4, and none of the rest had to be up by 7:30 for work. I just didn’t see fit to prolong the evening any further, so I rose from my seat, skipped across the room, thanked everyone for a great evening, and sort of bolted upstairs. Now in my mind, I thought I made a modest and unassuming exit. But the next morning, Christoph criticized my propensity to do these things, citing that I mentioned my “boyfriend” as I exited, as if to bury any potential brewing in that room in the deep, dark ground.

!!!! I guess the question on my mind is, “what the fuck boyfriend is this?” I don’t think I said anything of the sort. But, as I was told, the problem is these mixed signals I seem to issue. I mean, I love intellectual (fore)play – it’s what drives me to get into conversation with people in the first place, with both men and women. But as Christoph noted, not everyone starts reading love poetry in French, or reciting lines like “Body of my woman, I will persist in your ache,” out of the blue. I don’t do these things in order to win any favor. It’s just what I think, and the pleasure is in sharing a moment with other people who get it too. It's not a come-on.

I don’t really know what do about it. Intellectually, I’m all about the mutual stimulation. Emotionally and physically, I need a solid foundation of trust and comfort. Sure, I say this after letting that guy – Aubain? – kiss me all along my body, in public, while I laughed. But the point is that it just wasn’t the right space for any kind of physical intimacy. In a different context, had there been another woman in the room, or had we not had everyone's focus on us, I would definitely have been less stiff. I would have probably slouched into the couch and deliberately perpetuated the mood, just wanting to see where it would lead. Because attraction itself – as a palpable phenomenon – is incredibly enticing.

I sound like a fool – but it’s hard to hit a balance between enjoying attraction and wanting it to stay at a safe level. I hate myself for being skittish, but I also want to laugh when I hear things like, “men always have an agenda.” Do they think we don’t? Because to put it mildly, most women I know aren’t at all the demure kind. I almost “always” have an agenda, and you’d better believe I’ll toy with the idea of executing it. I don't love those gendered constructions people throw around. Why would you conclude that identity isn't an amazing and fluid thing, that women can't be brutal and men can't be gentle? Aren't we all a bit of both?