My Journey Through The "Feminine Side"
“Are you going to be cuddly, or are you going to be a bed snob?”
“I’m gonna be a bed snob. Sorry, kiddo.”
“You would…”
It's six in the morning, and it's time to part ways with a pretty girl. We haven't slept (it's not what you think), and my half-drunk, half-serious attempt at finding something better than a pillow to hold while I sleep has been unsuccessful. Before I can pretend to be indignant enough to lay on a fake guilt trip, I'm reminded of a line from Boondock Saints: "Cuddle? What a fag..."
Man, am I really doing this? Far cry from the days when I used to get angry at my then-girlfriend for curling up right behind me and pinning me between her and the edge of the bed when there was plenty of vacant queen-size bed she could be sleeping on. Now I'm giving my roommate shit because she won't spoon with me. Who does that?
We say goodnight, and I assume my usual sleeping post on the living room couch. Before I drift away/pass out, I think back over the night's events.
7:30 PM - I go to a play in which a cast full of males acts out the story of a modern-day, gay Jesus figure. There is a lot of man kissing involved, but there is also an incredibly powerful message. It's a hell of a show. I cry. I give it a standing ovation.
9:30 PM - I come home and drink with my roommates and our mutual friend. We dance around like idiots. They consult my opinion on their choice of outfits. I change into a tight shirt, name brand jeans held up by an even bigger-name brand belt and suede shoes.
11:30 PM - We all pile in the car and sing along to an old No Doubt album. We buy alcohol and go to the cast party, where my roommates and I proceed to get shitty and test our respective abilities to turn each other on in a platonic sort of way...if that makes any sense. There is some light ear-biting and neck-kissing involved. Nothing comes of any of it but a few goosebumps. Theatre people...
4:00 AM - I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the party house, basking in that phase of a party where most of the people have gone home and the ones who remain at the party are either sleepy, sentimental, or horny. I fit the former two descriptions, as do most of the people in the room. Usually I fit the latter, but tonight, getting laid falls much further down my list of priorities. Maybe it's that fighting back tears while seeing Gay Jesus crucified onstage doesn't put me "in the mood", or maybe I'm just tired. In either case, my attention is focused on the single task of lulling my roommate, who now has her head resting in my lap, to sleep. I used to be good at this...I could probably remember if I tried. Ah yes, one hand runs fingers through the hair, the other gently brushes along the arm...works every time. Within a couple minutes she's sound asleep while I trace my fingertips along the highlights of her hair and criticize my friends on the opposite couch for the awkward-looking cuddling session they're attempting. I warn one of them, our roommate-to-be, that if she can't improve her spooning skills she's not allowed to live with me. She claims to be a "selfish sleeper". I vow to break her of that.
Most any guy would find the idea of having one gorgeous girl asleep in his lap while he tells another about how they're going to sleep together positively fraught with sexual tension. Not me. Not tonight. I find it calming, and when I say that we'll "sleep together" I mean that we'll "be asleep" together. My roommate stirs. She looks up and me and smiles.
"I'm so happy right now."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'm so glad we're roommates."
"So am I."
I smile back and resume stroking her hair. She sighs and drifts off to sleep again. A friend looks at me, at her, and back at me as if to say, "You two?" I smile and shake my head. I've had a close friendship or two that metamorphosed into passion and romance, but this isn't one of them.
"She couldn't handle me," I joke. She stirs again and looks up at me.
"What?"
"Nothing, baby, go back to sleep." She nestles her head between the pillow and my stomach. She's beautiful when she sleeps.
"I love you."
"I love you too, baby." A new arrival to the room gives me another quizzical look. I smile and shake my head again, and close my eyes.
Half an hour later, and it's my turn to be asleep in her lap. I am vaguely aware of the murmur of conversation from somewhere outside the couch, but mostly just of the gradual rise and fall of her stomach under my throw pillow and the faint smell of Lucky You perfume. I feel safe here. I haven't really felt completely resigned and protected like this since...I can't even remember when. No image to maintain, no calculated decisions, no tension or "what if it doesn't work out" scenarios, just warm and quiet.
"I love you."
"I love you, too. You're the best fake boyfriend ever."
"Hah, I was just gonna say that, that you're the best fake girlfriend ever." We refer to ourselves as a fake couple. Might as well, people always assume it when we're out together anyhow. She runs her fingernails through my hair...I'm powerless against it...I fall asleep.
Another 30 minutes and our third roommate has had her fill of dancing or talking or whatever she was doing and wakes us up to take her home. I rise and give her a hug. She fits just under my chin and sort of buries herself into my chest when I hug her. I love that. I go into the bedroom to get my coat, and there lies our soon-to-be roommate, passed out on the bed. I wake her to ask if she wants to come home with us and sleep in her soon-to-be room or stay passed out there and take her chances on what happens when the guy whose room she's in eventually finds her in his bed. She elects to stay there. I can tell she is aware of only the lure of sleep right now, but she'll be fine. She's coherent enough to know what's going on, and given that I'm not intimidated by much and I fear seeing her get really pissed off...yeah, she'll be fine. I give her a parting kiss on the forehead, grab my coat, forget my backpack and our leftover alcohol, and drive the crew to McDonald's.
6:00 AM - I'm back at home, on the couch, alone. I'm thinking back over my night and over the last 7 months since I moved in here. I dare say they've been 7 of the best months of my life. They have been months of quasi-forced exploration into what people like to call my "feminine side." Being quite literally surrounded by girls at all times will do that to you. There are two under our roof and 4 next door. I'd be lying if I said it isn't a welcome contrast to the constant competition for "alpha male" status in which I lived for the previous five years of my live. There's no question who the man of the house is when there's only one man in the house. That whole battle for dominance can get tedious in a hurry. My current residence also offers a nice contrast to the relative squalor in which I previously lived, too. Compared to a frat house, this is Utopia. Our place is not decorated with empty liquor bottles, does not contain any sort of oversized cardboard and/or inflatable beer boxes, has no furniture that was found or stolen, does not smell like a combination of sweat, beer, fart and mold, and is generally clean, pleasant, and well-decorated. I don't have to win a wrestling match or out drink anyone to gain status. There are better meals prepared here than frozen pizza or Ramen. It's a different sort of life, to be sure, and it affects me in different ways, but I wouldn't trade it.
Sometimes I show up with places with long hair stuck to my shirt. Sometimes I show up smelling like perfume because I hugged a roommate too soon after she sprayed it on. People love to insinuate that it's because I "got some" right before I showed up, but I smile, shake my head and tell them, "I live with girls." The same conversation invariably follows:
"Really? How many girls do you live with?"
"Two. Soon to be three."
"Oh man. Does it drive you nuts?"
"Nah, I love my girls."
Sometimes I go see a play about gay guys, cry, dance around the house, dress all metro, sing some No Doubt and go to a party where I platonically cuddle with and profess my love for a girl scant minutes after kissing my gay friend on the cheek. Effeminate? You bet. It doesn't scare me. It doesn't stop me from waking up the next day, shoveling the driveway in my ripped jeans, worn out boots and extra large gloves and then coming inside to watch football all afternoon. I still feel confident in my ability to have sex exclusively with females and enjoy it.
As I lie on the couch and my thoughts slip further and further away, I ponder just how much, over the course of the last 7 months, I've roughened up the girls' metaphorical edges and how much they've frilled and pressed mine. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I may cook, clean, do laundry and (unwillingly) watch Sex and the City with them, but it doesn't mean I can't still fix the furnace, haul up the trash cans, reach all the tall stuff and lift all the heavy stuff, and watch ultimate fighting with a beer in my hand, too. In the long run, it can only benefit me to have been exposed to the girlier side of life on a constant basis.
6:10 AM - Just before I fall asleep, an overwhelming happiness washes over me.
"Does it drive you nuts?"
I smile, shake my head, and drift away...
"Nah, I love my girls."
“I’m gonna be a bed snob. Sorry, kiddo.”
“You would…”
It's six in the morning, and it's time to part ways with a pretty girl. We haven't slept (it's not what you think), and my half-drunk, half-serious attempt at finding something better than a pillow to hold while I sleep has been unsuccessful. Before I can pretend to be indignant enough to lay on a fake guilt trip, I'm reminded of a line from Boondock Saints: "Cuddle? What a fag..."
Man, am I really doing this? Far cry from the days when I used to get angry at my then-girlfriend for curling up right behind me and pinning me between her and the edge of the bed when there was plenty of vacant queen-size bed she could be sleeping on. Now I'm giving my roommate shit because she won't spoon with me. Who does that?
We say goodnight, and I assume my usual sleeping post on the living room couch. Before I drift away/pass out, I think back over the night's events.
7:30 PM - I go to a play in which a cast full of males acts out the story of a modern-day, gay Jesus figure. There is a lot of man kissing involved, but there is also an incredibly powerful message. It's a hell of a show. I cry. I give it a standing ovation.
9:30 PM - I come home and drink with my roommates and our mutual friend. We dance around like idiots. They consult my opinion on their choice of outfits. I change into a tight shirt, name brand jeans held up by an even bigger-name brand belt and suede shoes.
11:30 PM - We all pile in the car and sing along to an old No Doubt album. We buy alcohol and go to the cast party, where my roommates and I proceed to get shitty and test our respective abilities to turn each other on in a platonic sort of way...if that makes any sense. There is some light ear-biting and neck-kissing involved. Nothing comes of any of it but a few goosebumps. Theatre people...
4:00 AM - I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the party house, basking in that phase of a party where most of the people have gone home and the ones who remain at the party are either sleepy, sentimental, or horny. I fit the former two descriptions, as do most of the people in the room. Usually I fit the latter, but tonight, getting laid falls much further down my list of priorities. Maybe it's that fighting back tears while seeing Gay Jesus crucified onstage doesn't put me "in the mood", or maybe I'm just tired. In either case, my attention is focused on the single task of lulling my roommate, who now has her head resting in my lap, to sleep. I used to be good at this...I could probably remember if I tried. Ah yes, one hand runs fingers through the hair, the other gently brushes along the arm...works every time. Within a couple minutes she's sound asleep while I trace my fingertips along the highlights of her hair and criticize my friends on the opposite couch for the awkward-looking cuddling session they're attempting. I warn one of them, our roommate-to-be, that if she can't improve her spooning skills she's not allowed to live with me. She claims to be a "selfish sleeper". I vow to break her of that.
Most any guy would find the idea of having one gorgeous girl asleep in his lap while he tells another about how they're going to sleep together positively fraught with sexual tension. Not me. Not tonight. I find it calming, and when I say that we'll "sleep together" I mean that we'll "be asleep" together. My roommate stirs. She looks up and me and smiles.
"I'm so happy right now."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'm so glad we're roommates."
"So am I."
I smile back and resume stroking her hair. She sighs and drifts off to sleep again. A friend looks at me, at her, and back at me as if to say, "You two?" I smile and shake my head. I've had a close friendship or two that metamorphosed into passion and romance, but this isn't one of them.
"She couldn't handle me," I joke. She stirs again and looks up at me.
"What?"
"Nothing, baby, go back to sleep." She nestles her head between the pillow and my stomach. She's beautiful when she sleeps.
"I love you."
"I love you too, baby." A new arrival to the room gives me another quizzical look. I smile and shake my head again, and close my eyes.
Half an hour later, and it's my turn to be asleep in her lap. I am vaguely aware of the murmur of conversation from somewhere outside the couch, but mostly just of the gradual rise and fall of her stomach under my throw pillow and the faint smell of Lucky You perfume. I feel safe here. I haven't really felt completely resigned and protected like this since...I can't even remember when. No image to maintain, no calculated decisions, no tension or "what if it doesn't work out" scenarios, just warm and quiet.
"I love you."
"I love you, too. You're the best fake boyfriend ever."
"Hah, I was just gonna say that, that you're the best fake girlfriend ever." We refer to ourselves as a fake couple. Might as well, people always assume it when we're out together anyhow. She runs her fingernails through my hair...I'm powerless against it...I fall asleep.
Another 30 minutes and our third roommate has had her fill of dancing or talking or whatever she was doing and wakes us up to take her home. I rise and give her a hug. She fits just under my chin and sort of buries herself into my chest when I hug her. I love that. I go into the bedroom to get my coat, and there lies our soon-to-be roommate, passed out on the bed. I wake her to ask if she wants to come home with us and sleep in her soon-to-be room or stay passed out there and take her chances on what happens when the guy whose room she's in eventually finds her in his bed. She elects to stay there. I can tell she is aware of only the lure of sleep right now, but she'll be fine. She's coherent enough to know what's going on, and given that I'm not intimidated by much and I fear seeing her get really pissed off...yeah, she'll be fine. I give her a parting kiss on the forehead, grab my coat, forget my backpack and our leftover alcohol, and drive the crew to McDonald's.
6:00 AM - I'm back at home, on the couch, alone. I'm thinking back over my night and over the last 7 months since I moved in here. I dare say they've been 7 of the best months of my life. They have been months of quasi-forced exploration into what people like to call my "feminine side." Being quite literally surrounded by girls at all times will do that to you. There are two under our roof and 4 next door. I'd be lying if I said it isn't a welcome contrast to the constant competition for "alpha male" status in which I lived for the previous five years of my live. There's no question who the man of the house is when there's only one man in the house. That whole battle for dominance can get tedious in a hurry. My current residence also offers a nice contrast to the relative squalor in which I previously lived, too. Compared to a frat house, this is Utopia. Our place is not decorated with empty liquor bottles, does not contain any sort of oversized cardboard and/or inflatable beer boxes, has no furniture that was found or stolen, does not smell like a combination of sweat, beer, fart and mold, and is generally clean, pleasant, and well-decorated. I don't have to win a wrestling match or out drink anyone to gain status. There are better meals prepared here than frozen pizza or Ramen. It's a different sort of life, to be sure, and it affects me in different ways, but I wouldn't trade it.
Sometimes I show up with places with long hair stuck to my shirt. Sometimes I show up smelling like perfume because I hugged a roommate too soon after she sprayed it on. People love to insinuate that it's because I "got some" right before I showed up, but I smile, shake my head and tell them, "I live with girls." The same conversation invariably follows:
"Really? How many girls do you live with?"
"Two. Soon to be three."
"Oh man. Does it drive you nuts?"
"Nah, I love my girls."
Sometimes I go see a play about gay guys, cry, dance around the house, dress all metro, sing some No Doubt and go to a party where I platonically cuddle with and profess my love for a girl scant minutes after kissing my gay friend on the cheek. Effeminate? You bet. It doesn't scare me. It doesn't stop me from waking up the next day, shoveling the driveway in my ripped jeans, worn out boots and extra large gloves and then coming inside to watch football all afternoon. I still feel confident in my ability to have sex exclusively with females and enjoy it.
As I lie on the couch and my thoughts slip further and further away, I ponder just how much, over the course of the last 7 months, I've roughened up the girls' metaphorical edges and how much they've frilled and pressed mine. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I may cook, clean, do laundry and (unwillingly) watch Sex and the City with them, but it doesn't mean I can't still fix the furnace, haul up the trash cans, reach all the tall stuff and lift all the heavy stuff, and watch ultimate fighting with a beer in my hand, too. In the long run, it can only benefit me to have been exposed to the girlier side of life on a constant basis.
6:10 AM - Just before I fall asleep, an overwhelming happiness washes over me.
"Does it drive you nuts?"
I smile, shake my head, and drift away...
"Nah, I love my girls."
posted by Beav at 2:26 AM
2 Comments:
I think you're so macho-male that you don't realize the things you describe as effiminate really aren't. At least I would call that nomral-spectrum male.
Please excuse the mispellings, my fingers are drunk. And previews are for sissies.
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