Tuesday, November 16, 2010

no title for memories

I was going to get all argumentative and dig in to a topic, but... I don't feel like it.

Instead, I feel like telling you a story.

Once upon a time, in an Autumn passed, I was 21, and living the life. I made sure I was out every weekend, hanging out with girlfriends, getting my drink in--the usual. That summer, I'd been going out on dates with a really fly dude; sexy, I'm-trying-to-fuck-you-through-your-clothes-as-we-make-out dates, but with Autumn came familiar loss, and he was gone. Though I was mad, I wasn't as hurt as I thought I was, and I was just kind of chilling. Not really looking for anything, and not really caring about what happened. All I knew was that I was grown, a fresh college graduate, and that I liked the sexy, uninhibited girl I became when I sipped.

That particular night in Autumn, my girlfriend wanted to go to a club I'd never been to before. It was supposed to be 80s night, and for whatever reason, I wasn't feeling it. I wanted to head to one of the other clubs, the one bumping the more "hood" music. (Man, how times have changed.) For whatever reason that night, my girlfriend put her foot down, and we stuck with the original club choice.

I'm not quite sure why I was so opposed to staying in that particular club that night, but, never one to waste time, I went ahead and grabbed my free Cran & Vodka (again, man, how times have changed), and got to drinking. In typical fashion, I started knocking them back. I'm not sure how much I drank, but I'm sure I had at least six Cran & Vodkas. My vision was mighty toasty as my hips started to wiggle to the music. My girlfriend had been sipping on her own poison, probably tequila sunrises (bleh), and she was off, dancing with an interesting looking specimen. and by interesting I mean he probably had gold teeth, wore sunglasses in the club, had dreads and wore a tall tee. bleh.

My toasty vision and wobbly balance lead me over near the railing, and that is where I danced, by myself, scanning the dim club with my particularly limited vision.

I don't remember seeing him approach me, and I don't remember feeling him touch me, or tap my shoulder, or my hip. I don't remember him saying anything, and I don't remember when our bodies touched for the very first time, but, suddenly, I found myself dancing with a perfect stranger. I'm not one to dance long with guys in the club usually because the sensation of their shit burgeoning through their pants doesn't appeal to me the way it did when I was fifteen and new to the world of dancing, male erections, and bodily contact of the opposite sex, but that night, I was vacuumed sealed to this stranger.

Before long, our lips were locked on each other. I also, prior to that moment, had never been a club kisser. All of the usuals were unusual. For whatever reason, my lips were locked on this perfect stranger, and we were practically the same being (we were that close in proximity), but I didn't feel uncomfortable, and he didn't feel grimy. I will cease in trying to explain how unnaturally comfortable it felt, because my words will fail me, and I will never be able to adequately explain that feeling.

By the time my girlfriend was pulling me off of my perfect stranger, telling me it was time to go shit, I was the one with the curfew, I don't know why she was telling me to go, we'd rubbed our lips raw. Now intoxicated with the unfamiliarity of kissing a stranger, and the remnants of Cran & Vodka still flowing through me, I somehow had the composure to pull out my phone so we could exchange numbers. When we did, I told him, specifically, not to play games with me. In the darkness of the club and the haze of my impaired vision, I'm sure he smiled that smile, that I happened to miss, at that time, having never seen it before.

My girlfriend and I stumbled down Church Street, laughing and carrying on about the night's festivities, namely, the way my perfect stranger and I had stolen the show of the club by making out for hours (no exaggeration). I think we'd stopped dance/grinding and simply kissed each other, my life energy mixing with his, unbeknownst to either one of us.

Once inside her car, my phone beeped its familiar jingle, and I saw that my perfect stranger had sent me a text. With my name spelled correctly, my perfect stranger wished me sweet dreams, a phrase that would later, never be the same.

That night, I met him.

We were perfect strangers then, and never will be again. If I'd gotten my way that night, my friend and I would have never gone to the club we did, and while I'm sure I would have bumped to the deep bass line in the other club, I would have never met one of the most extraordinary people I have ever known.

If I could go back to that night, two years ago today, I would do everything the exact.same.way. The inebriation, the vacuum-sealed lips, the me thinking he had on a completely different color shirt than he actually did, the giggle-filled conversation my girlfriend and I drunkenly had while trying to remember what he looked like, exactly.

I would go back and meet my perfect stranger all over again.

i thank God for you, and i think you're great.

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