Monday, August 29, 2011

A Footnote Story

Here's the thing. I don't party. The only time I went to a bar to drink and party and get wasted (in theory) was back in college--and that's because the party was organized by an organization of which I'm an officer.

Okay. Now there was this party in law school, and I was practically compelled to attend. To cut the long story short, I danced, drank, and met a guy. This guy flirted with me and danced with me. I can't say I was totally comfortable with it, considering that my blockmates were there and I didn't really know how to respond to situations like that.

Anyway, he asked for my number. We texted as we were beside each other. He drove me home. We kissed. And we stopped short of doing it. I insisted on not doing it, and he relented. The next day, we talked through text, with wide intervals in between. And that was it.

I asked him about last night, to the effect that: "I don't know if it's a clubbing thing, but last night was purely just for fun, right? We're friends, yeah?" Because I was really that confused. Is that how one-night stands (in this case, a half-baked one) work? 'Cause I only see it happen in movies. You're not supposed to text each other the day after, right? Because I was totally willing to stop.

And he affirmed. He said that he's really not looking for a relationship right now and that I'm a nice guy and all the things people say after an awkward and inappropriately intimate night together. Me? yeah, the last thing I want right now is a relationship. And I wouldn't want anything to get more awkward than it already is; what happened was weird enough already...I get it. He's not totally my type. We are very different (case in point: he asked me to puff a cigarette!! What the).

 But. I can't say I totally understand myself. Why did I do it? Having explored another dimension of this apparently "wild" side of me, I can now say with certainty that it's not the life I want to live. Another boy gone past. Another lesson learned.

2 comments:

  1. Club culture. Nothing should be considered serious when it started on the dance floor.

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