Tuesday, April 11


I'm not asking because I'm in love, or anything. Far from it, in fact.

I'm even a little proud of myself, cuz I recognized the difference between a sexy bad boy, and a sexy boy that will be bad for you. My guard was down when we bumped into each other in front of a friend's apartment. He took my breath away. OK, I never understood that cliché, to be honest. Not because I'm some sourpuss, down-on-life, bitter person. No, what confuses me is why this turn of phrase lasted long enough to become a bad, big-hair power ballad-sized cliché.

Most clichés have some kernel of truth; buried deep beneath the layers of gooey, messy and all-too-often generic emotions we think we'll feel when we meet the one. It doesn't seem to make sense for there to be a "one," if you think about it. What about the one that got away, or the one who made me laugh, but bad in bed? (And such a big doinger, too.) Where do they fit in? It's as though there's a "one" for every kind of romantic lesson / experience under the sun/covers. But, that's a topic for another time, right? Back to the boy in the breezeway.

When I saw him, I was walking up a flight of stairs, and since I didn't fall over and die, I'm assuming my body was consuming oxygen in its normal fashion. I say 'assume' because the moment our eyes met...

Well, that's where the cliché comes in handy. But not really. He didn't take my breath away. Now that I think about, I'm sure he didn't, cuz I managed to mumble some sort of semi-human response to his 'sup nod. A nod which was accompanied by a, "hey" so casual and easy -- so sexy and secure, he could've had his way with me right then and there. Hell, he coulda had me in front of my mama, 'far as I was concerned.

But he was leaving the building, and I was going in. In a city like West Hollywood, gorgeous men are everywhere. They're out, walking the dog (at all hours), or just on their way to the gym... it's like taking the bus to go somewhere: wait long enough, and another one will come along. (See? Now there's a tired, standard turn of phrase you can count on. Cuz its true.)

For the most part, I don't get hung up on / obsess over men I don't know. When you know there's another, equally hot guy, just around the corner, there's no point in putting that much effort into the chase. But every once in a while, I'll see a guy, and something about him gets to me -- the warm, electric charge I get from seeing the guy continues to buzz, long after he's out of sight. And it washes over me in waves, rippling across my skin, taking me by surprise.

As I reached the door to my friend's apartment, I looked back to where I'd parked, hoping to get one more look. No such luck.

What I felt that day, whatever it was… well, it was new to me. The electricity of my desire (to talk to him, or even just see him again) was as strong as it had been in other situations, but lacked the usual childish sense of urgency. Oh, you know what I mean. It’s the current rushing through your body as you flirt like Blanche from The Golden Girls. It's the warm glow washing over every inch of your body as you send a silent, little prayer into the universe, in the hopes that you’ll cross paths again.

I didn’t flirt, and I wasn’t foolish enough to offer up that prayer -- it almost never works. Which is really funny, because our paths did cross again. But I’ll save that for another time.

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