Scare me back in my place.

December 9, 2012 § Leave a comment


Dom Pérignon logo

Dom Pérignon logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We’d get drunk and kiss and our bodies would twist like shoelaces. We never came untied. I guess she was just my type.” – Bright EyesI will be grateful for this day

She drifts across the wooden floor of the apartment in that way that only she could. Maybe other people move like that, do they? If they do I never noticed it on anyone else. Maybe that’s what love is? Simply noticing beautiful, subtle things that most people do. I feel it’s not that simple. I notice that the white lace on her blue shoe has become untied and is following her around the room. That laces and my eyes.

Girls have always been a sore point for me. I think I’m still trying to work it all out to be really honest. I’m not sure you know? I’m kind of fucked up when it comes to commitment. “You and every other man on the planet.” Remarks the funniest feminist reading this. I don’t know. I’m still thinking this out, I think that’s what this post is going to be. It’s going to be me try and work all this out. I’m uneasy. Disjointed. Hot then cold, then hot, then satisfied, then cold, then sad, then hot, then petulant, then cold, so fucking cold. I think that in my time I’ve been pretty good at working my own shit out. God knows I’ve had enough to sort through. But I’ve never sorted this one. So with everything else. The drink, the drugs, the social confidence are all aspects I have learnt to control over time. Fuck this is so messy. I don’t think I’m going to read this one back. Maybe I just have to crow-bar this all out of my head. Maybe I’m asking you too many questions. Maybe I’m saying maybe to much.

The most romantic thing I ever saw a girl do was in a gated community in Bel Air, California. I was writing a review for a shitbox hotel in Los Angeles but had promised to do right by them if they looked the other way on my bar tab and me being underage to drink. Ethical journalism is about context, but that is a very different issue for a different time. Me and an old friend from University, Mark Briggs, had set this deal out early in our three day stay and both parties knew the score. $225 later, me and Mark, him 21, me 20, found ourselves at some spoiled kids house party by way of a group of girls we’d met in the hotel bar. Loaded, cocky, wild eyed we felt that intense lift of the unknown. You feel it in your wrists, under your arms, and in those fat veins that run up either side of your neck, the ones you don’t want cut. This feeling aids social confidence for the simple reason that you could be anyone. You just have to convince these people that you were that person for the night. After about an hour I meet a girl, 6 foot, dark hair, slim figure, well versed in the right books and music, she’s kind enough to laugh at all my jokes.

If I wasn’t so emotionally detached at this stage in my life I would have noticed that this girl was as close to perfect as I was ever going to get but love never was about settling. It’s all about timing I hear. Fuck this is so messy. Anyway, for those who don’t know Bel Air is one of the richest parts of California, the kids who were holding the party, two 22 years, parents were swanning around Europe and there Mansion was the scene of this story. The rooms were packed with children with $100,000 sports cars and no ambition. So after a while of making this girl laugh and proving to her that we actually did share the same tastes and that I wasn’t just pretending, this perfectly groomed rich boy comes over. He asks her if she “wants to take a ride with him in his brand knew Aston Martin.” There was a crude sex pun about riding in there, but I won’t cheapen your eyes with it. As I looked over I was blindsided by this friends, who, in what can only be described as a scene from a bad 80’s movie, flexed their muscles and told me that I had seen the last of the girl. Having my body poorly beaten by five posh boys wasn’t, and has never been, on my agenda. I hold my vodka and stumble from the scene as the Aston Martin boy gags over the girl like it’s made. Like he’s owed her. Like it’s his due. The scene makes me stick and I stumble outside to see if I can find Mark. No luck.

I decide that I should call a cab and get back to shitbox. As I reach for my phone I heard my name from a girls voice. I turned to see her, smiling wide. But then came the most beautiful moment. Little do I realise, I’m stood next to a brand new Aston Martin. British racing green. A beautiful machine. The rich boy who had been trying to fuck her had just stepped outside when she put a bottle of Dom Perignon through the windshield. It was beautiful. The shattering of the windshield, the white foam of a $200 bottle of Champagne sleeping through the cracks and dripping down onto the leather inside. The abrupt smash followed by the whine of the alarm. The gasp of the crowd. “Explain that to your fucking Daddy.” She screamed out like Mrs Havisham over the noise.  Some moments are so perfect.

This has been a strange one I know, I don’t do stories often. But here’s one for you. I’m trying to go a bit steady. Will be in touch in the next few days.

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