Boris

He'd changed a lot. His hair was longer, and he'd put on some weight, but his eyes were every bit as piercing as they had been back then.

He had a mustache now, too, and I wondered how that would feel when he kissed me, soft and downy or scratchy like sandpaper, and once I started wondering I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to grab his face between my palms, draw his lips down to mine to find out.

And the little good girl inside me whispered not to, but the bad girl beat her down into submission, and so that's just what I did, reaching up on my toes and tugging his face down hard to meet mine.

His mustache was soft, and it tickled, and just the thought of that downy softness brushing against my thighs instead made me wet.

And when I finally drew back--I had to, I needed to take a breath, draw some air into my lungs at last--the crooked grin on his face just melted me inside all over again.

"Well, hello..." he said, and we both kinda grinned, and looked down at the ground and peeked back up at each other again and damn near shuffled our feet in embarrassment, it was that kind of aw, shucks moment.

And then he just held out his hand, and I took it, and we walked for a while.

I love the night. I love the intimacy of the dark, the way even the most familiar sites change and become this strange new world under the stars.

It's like in Les Mis, when Eponine sings:

In the rain, the pavement shines like silver
All the lights
Are misty in the river
In the darkness
The trees are full of starlight...

Yeah, I know, I have it bad, don't I?

We walked a long time, just talking and catching up. I won't say it was like we had never parted, because we had our share of awkward pauses and moments of silence where each of us struggled to find something to say. But I really think most of that was just because we were so *aware* of each other, the whole time.

My fingers, curled up in his big hand, made me feel all tiny and protected, in this ultra-girly way that was just completely unlike me.

We were just holding hands as we walked, and every once in a while we would stop, and look at each other, and he would kiss me, gently, not like that first time, and then we would walk a little more.

I know, I really BELIEVE, that anticipation is part of the fun, and sometimes I kick myself for letting things go too far too fast, not enjoying that build-up, you know? But that night, I just didn't want to waste any more time.

I felt like I would explode if something didn't happen.

I took him by my old school--not my high school, but the elementary school where I played on the jungle gym like a tomboy--and we sat on an old picnic table while I reminisced.

And finally, I ran out of things to say, and I just looked at him, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing.

The planks were still damp from the evening rain, and sticky, and my dress clung to the back of my thighs, and the wood table underneath me was hard and uncomfortable when he drew me down across it. I could feel the knots in the wood underneath me, and the slats between the planks, and the table cut into my shoulders when I wrapped my thighs around him. The crickets were loud and the air was thick and the mosquitoes feasted on my ankles but it was worth it, every second was worth it all.

I would do it over again, I really would.

But today, saying good-bye over the phone? That sucked.

I wanted him to say he would be back soon, or that I should visit him next weekend, or that he had never known a woman like me before ever in his life and I had changed his world forever. Or something like that.

Instead he told me about the girl he'd been seeing, and how she was really nice but they had had some problems, and that now they were trying to work them out, and that he didn't know if they would make it in the long run but that he had to give it a shot.

He wasn't mean, or deliberately callous. We hadn't made any promises, after all, and we live, like a gazillion miles apart. To be honest, too, we had talked about her a little before...well, you know, before.

So I knew what I was getting into.

And I'm still not sorry. I'm just a little sad, and a little lonely, and feeling a little vulnerable right now.

Which is why, if you know anything AT ALL about how my luck seems to go after reading this blog for a while, you won't be a bit surprised when I tell you that I fired up my email and there was a new message in the inbox.

Yep, you guessed it this time.

It was from J.

I swear, I am living a soap opera these days.

Rocky and Bullwinkle Ain't Got Nothing on Us

I know what you're thinking...and no, it wasn't J who called me. I'm not that easy. Quit rolling your eyes and I'll tell you all about my mystery guy.

I met him on the internet. Before MySpace and AdultFriendFinder and all those dating sites, people actually met online because they had similar interests, and sometimes they found each other quite by accident. At least, that's how I met Boris.

Of *course* Boris isn't his real name! It wasn't even, come to that, his on-screen name. We met in a forum, when he made some silly cartoon reference, and I came back with, in the best pseudo-Russian accent I could post, "Must keeell Moose an' Squirrrrrel!"

After that, everyone knew us as Boris and Natasha.

We didn't like all the same things, of course, but we both loved classic cartoons.

We debated hotly the merits of Bugs Bunny and his operatic theme score, bitterly flamed Pokemon and the like.

We split evenly on the relative quality of "Pinky and the Brain."

Okay, yes, I was the one who liked it.

What can I say? It was a big show back then.

But to be fair, he was a die-hard Animaniacs fan.

So, we both had our faults.

We did, as people do, and especially as guys and girls do when they are attracted to each other, talk about meeting up.

But he was with someone and I was already falling for J, so not much happened.

We did keep in touch, though, like long-distance lovers corresponding.

Of course, instead of love letters, our missives went on and on about the Simpsons and South Park.

When I finally did meet him, in Anaheim a couple years back during a long layover, I was floored.

I'd seen pics of him, but they didn't do him justice. I'd thought of him as sweetly nerdy, with a nice smile and friendly eyes.

In reality, those eyes were piercing, and I could tell they liked what they saw.

I'm not ashamed to say that in the two hours I had before I caught my flight back home, we had more than just a coffee or two.

Honestly, I'm amazed they didn't throw us out, we were so hot and heavy in that little bar in Anaheim.

Wonder if it's still there?

Anyway, his kisses were aMAZing.

Just close-your-eyes-and-hang-on-tight-as-you-drown fan-frickin-tastic.

And though I was just a bit disheveled, and the buttons on my blouse might have ended up a bit askew, and I think my mouth was swollen, and I know my hair was a wild bird's nest by the time we split up, gasping, well, that's as far as it all went.

He said, "You're going to miss your plane!" and I replied, with my usual stunning repartee, something along the lines of, "Gahhk?"

Then I pulled myself together, he grabbed my suitcase, and we hot-footed it to the gate.

I'd never had a one-night stand, but that day was the closest I ever came. I wanted so badly to just cancel my flight and tumble into bed with Boris somewhere, I swear I don't know how I made myself walk down that gangway onto that plane.

But that was then.

When I was still a good girl.

So--When he called me last week?--

Well, that's another post.

...And Back to the Bad Girl

It was bound to happen. I could only hold out for so long.

I’ve been restless all day. Checking my e-mail and phone messages constantly. Running to the mailbox like it was Christmastime and I was expecting presents. Feeling so fidgety and antsy I couldn’t sit still.

He’d only said—oh so casually--that he’d be in touch. He’d never said when, exactly.

Late that afternoon, I had a million other things going on. I was out of breath and frazzled and practically barked into the phone, something I never do.

So of course it was him on the other end, sounding bemused. I swear I could feel his smirk through the phone lines.

“Is that you?”

He brushed off my stammered apology with grace.

“I’m catching you at your work, I know. This is late notice—I’ve been scurrying all day myself—but I have some time open next week and I'll be in town. I was hoping we could get together.”

He actually did sound hopeful. Like he didn’t know all he had to do was ask. Like there weren’t sparks coming through the phone lines, up my arm, right into my ear, right now just from the sound of his voice.

Like after all this time he still couldn’t quite believe us either.

“Oh, I think we could make that happen…”

I checked the clock when we hung up. We’d been less than a minute on the phone.

Antsy to aching anticipation in under sixty seconds. Amazing.

Look who's the Good Girl now!

I know it's been a while since I've posted. You've probably been wondering what's been going on since all that drama with J. But honestly, I've been trying so hard to tow the line, you wouldn't have wanted to read about my days, anyway. I haven't been a dirty girl at all! Squeaky clean, that's me.

I haven't even let myself think about J. And I've been deliberately keeping away from all the sexiest sites I usually visit, opting for the cerebral over the sensual.

I can't count how many times I've reloaded Metafilter.

So you can really honestly believe me when I say that I had no idea J and the slut broke up.

Though, okay, yes, I did do my happy dance when Evie told me.

Rod and J still keep in touch, and he and Evie were my lifeline back in those early days when I was struggling to get through the break-up and get on with my life.

Mostly, back then, I was fueled on rage--Evie told me that Rod told her that J took up right away with some bitch he'd been seeing behind my back while we were together, and that would keep me strong.

These days, I have to remind myself how I felt back then. It's hard to keep that kind of anger going.

And yes, I do get that he's not good for me, okay? But I'm still glad he's not with the slut. None of us, not even Rod, could stand her.

I guess, somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm hoping someday we can all hang out as friends--me with some nice new guy, maybe even T, and Rod with Evie, and J with...well, some really nice girl that can get along with the group and put up with his stuff.

Pipe dreams, huh?