He took a shower first — came out wearing a towel. “Do you want something to wear to bed?” I say. “No, that’s fine,” he said in his Swedish accent. He has something in his bag to put on, I think, and go in to take my shower. After, I put on ‘sleeping’ gear and came out into the room. He was in bed with the blanket over him. There was an electrical storm. Very romantic. Loud thunder, lightening bolts, heavy rain. I have a nice view, so I pulled the blinds up all the way so that we could see the storm. He was my friend’s cousin from Sweden, biracial, six foot two or three, handsome, lean, tone. My friend lived on the floor below.
This guy and I had spent the day together, and he decided to stay with me overnight instead of at his cousin’s. Just because. He was seven years younger than I was. He was enchanted by being in the U.S., by the prospect of getting to know an American woman by eating dinner with her and sleeping in her bed. I thought, “Well, he’s European. I think that they sleep platonically with people because they’re more sophisticated.” So I climbed in the bed, inches away from him, and we marveled at the storm and talked.
Fifteen or so minutes later, he got up to go to the bathroom. The storm was raging and the lightening flashed throughout my apartment. He came out of the bathroom and was illuminated. He was naked. And hung. I didn’t know he was naked. Fuck, me. But did we, do anything? Noooo. What, was I trying to prove how pro-gressive I could be?
What if it was the “Swedish” way to wait for the maiden to make the first move and I didn’t do it! What if his etiquette prescribed that the hostess should make the first move, and I didn’t do it! Ohhh, the pain, when I think of this today… All that thunder and lightening! What could have been!
Yes, I am “dumb ass.” Oh, I want this to happen now…I want it to happen now. All these years later and this dawns on me today, April 5th, 2012. Eighteen years later. But it’s too late. I’m old now. I’m old now. This opportunity will never present itself again…
One should never waste a good piece of meat. One is allow to cry over spilled meat. Anytime.
This is true — thanks for that reminder — wasted meat indeed! But oh well…
But was it really good meat? Or is it just an ok piece of meat glorified by time and memory?
Dear Le Clown,
I’m interested. Can you elaborate?
There’s nothing wrong with glorified meat. Even invented meat is allowed for a bit of tears.
Especially in the dank of a moment’s pall — what the fuck did i just say!?
I’m not sure… Are you okay?
Okay, to elaborate, Le Clown you’re absolutely on point…
Anette, thanks for asking…