6 05 2009

We are trying to take things slowly, but it is proving impossible when we live 10 feet away from each other and like each other as much as we do.   Even storms blow through faster than I can forgive myself.  Or maybe its because we’re always onto something new and exciting and amazing at speeds faster than I can process…

 We spoke while I waited for my flight to depart from Miami.  He spoke sweetly to me, and I felt horribly undeserving.  I told him I wasn’t the best behaved this weekend.  He was silent.  I wanted to tell him that I met someone else. That I kissed this person, and that I was only sorry about the part where my recklessness violated his trust, his friendship, my word.  He remained silent.  He did not ask, so I didn’t tell him of my wrongs.  I tried to tell him not to wait up, that I’d be too dirty to crawl into bed next to him.  But he wanted to wake up next to me.  

I got home at 2am, deciding to sleep in the living room so i could avoid Jake till I was less exhausted and dirty.  My other roomate was already asleep on the couch.   I had no choice but to enter my bedroom.  Jake was asleep in my bed.  I didn’t want to have to tell him the truth, but he was there in my bed, and deserved full-disclosure before he had the chance to greet me with a hug and kiss or skillet to the head.  He stirred a little, and called me to bed.  I sat next to him and asked him why he hadn’t asked what terrible things I’d done.  I laid out my confession and he brushed it aside, burdened by sleep.  I laid down beside him, careful not to touch him.  I knew the information was sinking  in by the minute.  We spoke our thoughts out loud.  He asked me questions and I gave him answers that didn’t sit easy for either of us.  We didn’t kiss or touch, except hold hands.  I was lucky he didn’t storm away from me at all.  He took things far better than I would have, and it made me realize that I cared about him more than he cared for me. Ironic. Upon waking the next morning, he kissed my shoulder.  Maybe he had forgotten what a horrible person I was.  We got ready for work in a hurry, oversleeping after talking all night.  We held hands and spoke without awkwardness on the way to work.  I dropped him off, and as I expected, he did not kiss me good bye as usual.  I drove away from him with tears welling in my eyes and a sharp nauseating pain. 

The day after I came back from Miami, we both were planning and trying to hide from each other.  I wanted to sneak in from work and not have to see his face, have to be reminded of how I hurt him.  I asked our roomate if Jake was home, and I was relieved to find out he was away.  At the same time, i didn’t want Jake to think I was avoiding him because of anything his fault.  For my own, I was afraid he’d be angrier than when I first admitted my wrongs. 

When I came home from dinner, his door was closed, and I looked at it longingly.  I went into my room, exchanging my bags for my bathtowel.  I opened my door and he was in the hall.  He asked me how I was doing, and I said it was rough.  He nodded mechanically in agreement.  I took my shower and when I came out, the light behind his door was off.  I stood in my doorway looking at the closed, dark door.  Wishing I were inside, cuddled next to him.  Instead, I felt really sad.  Finally I closed my door, making the signature sound signaling that the bathroom we all share is now free.  I quickly put on my pjs and opened my door, in case he’d ever open his, in case he’d ever want to stop by and say hello.  As I swung my door open, he was in the hall.  I was surprised to see him, spending all day at work thinking of ways to politely avoid him, and then spending all evening at home wishing I could be next to him.  I asked him if he was going to bed.  Me too.  I asked him where he was sleeping tonight, and he invited me to his room.  “Am I allowed to?”  I had planned on grounding myself in my room, miserably thinking of the wrongs I’d done.  I couldn’t believe he wanted to be near me so soon.

I laid down beside him, unsure of how he’d receive me.  He scooped me into his arms and held me.  We talked. We were both feeling better than last night or the morning.  It was amazing how we could talk about everything with ease and honesty and even laughter.  I wished I could forgive myself as easy as he seemed to.


Intimate distance

31 03 2009


I hear the spray of the shower and the smell of a clean man wafts through the house.   It is one of my favorite smells.  I hear the footsteps leave the shower, and then buckles and zippers as my roomate gets dressed.  I hear him stuff a backpack and jiggle the lock as he steps out.  It is 10:30 pm on a Monday.   I am curious, wondering if he forgot something in his car parked outside.  A few minutes pass without his return.  I wonder if he’s going to check on a lab experiment or pull an all-nighter sitting in a diner booth.  Maybe he’s going to answer a booty call.  I like that last answer best, and I return my mind to the NCIDQ flashcards on my lap.

I have 5 days to go before I can resume my social life, regain free time, and chill out.  I stare at my flash cards.  Public distance:  12 feet and beyond.  People watching distance.  I love people wathcing.  I wanderlust about the well-kept men in my office building.  Social distance:  4 to 12 feet.  Close enough to exchange smiles and hellos.  Close enough to walk by pretending not to notice how handsome he is.  Close enough to know he’s watching you walk away. Personal distance:  4 feet to 18 inches.  Sitting next to a handsome accquaintance over lunch, exchanging laughs and smiles.  Close enough to smell his cologne.  Intimate distance:  6 to 18 inches.  Close enough to feel his body heat in a crowded elevator.  Close enough to feel his whisper in your ear.

Intimate distance.  Sigh.  I can’t wait till I can focus on social/personal/intimate distance.  My roomate is still gone.  I find myself jealous, wishing I could also have some romance in my life.  I drag through the last few flashcards.  I am distracted by the  handsome stangers I’ve put on hold while studying for this exam.

I think of one of my favorite prospects, and wish we could meet up for drinks.  He makes me laugh and smile till it hurts my cheeks.  I want him to be the real deal.  But he reminds me of my last boyfriend, who was also a workaholic.  I try not to get attached to the idea of someone who in the past has admitted that he enjoys the single life.  I am hoping his mind has changed.  I am not hoping to change his mind myself.  That’s too much work and risk and heartbreak.  I hope he’ll come to his own senses.  I think we’d be really compattible, mentally and personality.  We have alot of common interests and goals and perspectives.  He would get along great with my friends and family.  I love a man with a big, genuine smile.

I hear my roomate re-enter the  house.  He went to buy beer. Typical.  He laughs when I explain the booty call theory.

living with boys

12 11 2008

Men's Health and Motorcycle Lube sit on the clean part of the toilet.

I live with 3 boys. My co-workers are concerned, and have been asking me how its going almost weekly. It’s been a month, and things are going well.  My parents, on the other hand, have yet to ask me about my new apartment.  I suspect they are in denial that their oldest daughter is living with 3 men they’ve never met.

I think the best way to answer “How’s it going?” is fascinating, hillarious, and disgusting.  Not having a brother or any boy to grow up around, I have always been fascinated by the things and ways boys do things.  Almost everyday I learn something new, suprising, disgusting from the three boys who would like to be known as Spank, English, and Thaddeus.  They are smart, funny, messy, and crude creatures of habit with 3 different perspectives on life that I can now add to my own.

Today’s tidbit:

“Now I know why the EPA is now under the Homeland Security Department” – English says to Spank.

I overheard this from another room…  I assumed Spank threw an empty beer can, hitting English with great aim.  Turns out, English was describing fresh “toilet art” in the disgusting bathroom which needs to be cleaned.

I’m going to have to discover more synonyms for “disgusting” if I’m going to continue blogging about living with these 3 boys.  See more at my new blog: