So, after five months of singledom, I finally went on my first “date.” Ugh… just typing that word sends shivers down my labia. I’m not really a “date” person—movies, hand holding, sober conversation—it’s just not my thing. I prefer to just fuck someone in a toilet somewhere, then if it turns out half OK consider doing in again, like, in a bed or something. You know, true romance and all that. This “date”, however, was slightly different. Let me start earlier…
A couple months back I put up an ad up on Gumtree.com searching for freak lovers—deaf guys, guys with slight genetic defects, guys who look like scarecrow AIDS victims—you know, the norm. I instantly got loads of replies, but none of them seemed like the right freak for me. However, after being constantly bullied by my friends for not having the guts to actually meet any of these cyber admirers, I finally gave in and organized a face-to-face with the freak of my choice.
I chose Taylor. Taylor’s twenty-six, from London, and has cerebral palsy. I guess to some this could be a turn-off, but for me it just made him seem more, I don’t know…sexy? Weird? Whatever, those words are basically synonymous in my opinion.
Taylor and I had been emailing for several weeks before we met. He’s a physics major at UCL, is into Weezer (hot), and says that though he’s had sex before, it’s not something he cares about all that much. Now, I definitely consider myself a sexual person, but I’m also completely aware that not giving a fuck about sex can be really beautiful. It’s like by not wanting to fuck you instantly transcend the standard rules of attraction, and just become this weird, unattainable object of ultimate desire. For me at least.
Taylor and I met in Regents Park. He’s amazing—tall, floppy brown hair, an impossibly skinny body and lots of freckles. Thinking back now it’s actually hard for me to remember exactly what he looks like. This always happens to me when I’m really into someone—I find it difficult to recall the minor details of their physical appearance. It’s like their beauty has the ability to erases my senses a little. Weird.
Our date consisted of little more than sitting and talking, and for the most part I wasn’t even really listening to what Taylor was saying, but I was completely memorized by him—the way his body jerked and contorted, the way his front teeth overlapped, and the subtle way in which he smelled—sort of like flowers, mixed with something less obvious. Gasoline maybe? Who cares. More importantly, we made out. And it was really hot. And as it happened I suddenly felt all out of it, there but not there, as cheesy and boring as I know that sounds. It was just so… I don’t know. I hate this dreamy bullshit.
But now, as with every boy I date, Taylor is going to read this and think I’m way too intense, or that I have no respect for his privacy, or that this is all some big joke, and he’ll never want to see me again for as long as I live. I’m cursed?