Dear Person at the Party

Fun party, right? I said, FUN PARTY, RIGHT? Sorry, did you say something? I can’t – I SAID I CAN’T HEAR YOU! Fuck, this music is loud. Wanna head out for a smoke? I SAID – fuckin’ Christ… *Shakes cigarette pack, gestures toward door*

Ah, that’s better. So uh, this is officially the part where I run out of things to say. I think you’re cute, or at least find you interesting in some way. I wouldn’t have bothered to bring you out here, otherwise. Do I look interested? I’m trying to look interested. I mean, I AM interested, but I’d sound like a crazy person if I just turned to you and said “I’m interested,” right? So I have to LOOK interested. Without looking, you know, INTERESTED. With emphasis.

It doesn’t help that I’ve wanted to fuck you for the past fifteen minutes, minimum. I wanted to fuck you earlier today, too, but I tried not to dwell on it. Nothing good comes from pining all day for a girl you barely know. Well, I know you well enough, but I guess I think there’s too much more to know to say I really know you? Anyway, pining’s weird. It’s already weird enough that I’m standing here with you, bullshitting about the weather or whether we actually know the person throwing this party or how tacky the fog machine is, without wanting to fuck you at the same time. Naturally I can’t tell you any of this. It’d be creepy.

It’s especially weird because you’re a person with a rich, complex life, full of friends and problems and triumphs and ideas and family and stuff, right? Yes? I mean, I’m just some guy. I have a life and everything, too, but I don’t really understand how any of that could make YOUR life any better. Not that I’m trying to save you, or think you need fixing or anything, but I don’t see the upside for you. Sure, between us, we have the right mix of anatomical bits to have the kind of sex we’d both enjoy, assuming you’re into the kind of sex I’m into, but there should be more to it, right? Like, feelings and stuff? I have those, too, though. I feel all wibbly when you’re around. Of course, I won’t say that, either, because if you don’t feel all wibbly, then this will get seriously awkward. Maybe even creepy. Maybe not I-just-told-you-how-bad-I-want-to-fuck-you creepy, but they’re related. They’re in the same family of creepy. A lineage of creepitude.

Maybe we should get coffee tomorrow. No, I didn’t really plan on bringing any of my friends, or meeting yours. At least not right now. I was kind of hoping maybe, if it was just the two of us, I could come up with something clever to say, or do just the right thing with my eyes, or accidentally brush my hand against yours or something. You know, somehow indicate that I’m interested in you in a let’s-have-sex-and-also-feel-things-for-each-other way. It’s hard to do in a boozy basement with all this dubstep and the cheap lasers and that fucking fog machine. Seriously, who has a fog machine anymore?

But no, that’s a terrible idea, too. I’m already loaded up on red-cup courage, and a coffee buzz won’t make it any easier to make a move. That’s a thing, right? I have to make a move? No one ever told me what a move really is, though. I’ve done my fair share of the movie-theater-fake-yawn-arm-drape, but we’re too old for that. Right? Shit. I mean, really, you just seem great, and since I think you’re great, it seems really stupid to me that I should bother you, at all. Because you’re already, you know, great. I’d just be dead weight. Dead weight that really wants to have sex with you and smush his face on your face.

I could try something out here, maybe? I dunno, I could brush your hair out of your face or something. Is that a move? But there’s no hair IN your face. Seriously, you’re so put-together I can’t even try out this move I thought of all by myself and didn’t steal from every romance movie I’ve (totally accidentally) sat through. Maybe I could touch you while we’re talking? A hand on your shoulder or… no, that seems weird, like I’m a teacher giving you a life lesson or something. Maybe your waist? Nah, that’s kind of grabby and, you know, creepy.

Could you please just read my mind and kiss me or something? I’m too nervous to lean in and do it myself, because I’m bigger than you, and I don’t want this to be some kind of power thing. Wait, people like power, right? No, nevermind, I saw a movie with a rape scene like a month ago, and now that scene is playing in my head every time I think of trying to kiss you without three “Yes”es and a thumbs-up. Can I get a signal or something? You’re playing with your hair, which I’ve heard means you’re interested, which is good. I’ve also heard that it means you’re nervous, which is bad. Or… good? You could also just be fixing your hair. The perfect hair that I can’t figure out how to casually fix myself. I should try sending some of my own signals. Am I still looking interested? I think I still look interested.

You know what? Fuck this. I don’t know how to do this. Let’s just go back inside. I’m going to refill this cup a few times, get really drunk, go home, watch bad sci-fi and eat pizza forever. I don’t have these problems with the pizza guy. I can tell the pizza guy what I want. He can’t judge. There’s a menu.


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