Plaid V. State (Of My Mind)

I am taking the "case" of my delicious plaid-clad rump, J, before an unbiased jury of my peers.  After weeks of what--in my head--is a simmering flirtation that sometimes erupts after an evening emersed in liquid courage, I have come to the conclusion (yet again) that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.  The advice of those closest to me varies:  some say I should be viewing my tasty defendant in true black and white, He's Just Not That Into, mode--namely, if the boy isn't asking you out, it's because he doesn't want to.  Team Love--the side I find myself wishing to fully aline with--tells me that they believe that there are extenuating circumstances (he's focused on school...he's got another girl giving him some attention...he's just shy and scared of you...)  If this were the Who Wants To Be Millionaire version of my love-life...then I have already eliminated two...and phoned multiple friends--now, I  need to poll the audience.  Skirt readers (if there are any of you out there) please be my jury--I will present the facts of my case (though some maybe painful and embarassing) and await a verdict.  Should this crush be put on deathrow?

If you haven't been keeping up every nit-pick detail (like me...all up in my head) then here are the basic facts of my 5th grade-style crush.  J and I work together and he is, undoubtably, one of the cutest boys I've ever seen.  I didn't notice this, however, until one night while I was out with friends and ran into him.  After actually having a conversation with the boy--I began to see what other girls at work had been drooling over for months.  Whether I imagine it or not, I felt a spark with the person many at our workplace referred to as "Plaid" because of one notorious pair of shorts he wears on occasion...much to our mutual delight.  I fumbled my way through several weeks of trying to gage his interest until I had all but thrown in the towel.  I was dangling a lot of bait, and homeboy wasn't biting.  Then...in a huge way, he bit back.  He suddenly showed up to an outing, uninvited...and then continued to do so, as though someone had flipped a switch and turned his interest-meter on.  Halloween night found us dancing together all night--we touched so much I had a contact-high.  The Twilight-Zone-Esque night exploded when, out of the blue, J leaned down and kissed me--a perfect, minty rush that had me reeling.  I broke it off--throughly freaked out, but awoke the next day to find myself addicted.  I had to figure out how to do that again...for a longer period of time.  It seemed that catalyst was all it took.  Suddenly I was seeing a lot of J.  He showed up at dinners and outings, we never talked about the kiss, but we did make the effort to talk more.  After he sent me a random facebook message one night, I felt emboldened enough to reply by giving him my cell number.  Days later, no response in any form or fashion, I felt completely burnt.  Apparently kissing and facebook messaging is trumpted by giving someone your number--somehow I had overstepped my bounds.  That is...until another dinner he showed up to, after which he texted me.  I was, quite literally, dancing in the streets.  I viewed it as a...Hey, I got your number and then I put it in my phone.  Here's mine.  But after a few texts, he vanished--never to text again.  I didn't lose heart, but I certainly felt confused.  In the past, the boys who showed interest in me made up excuses to talk to me--they never really had to have anything in mind to say...they just made it up as they went.  J seemed only motivated to say something when there was something on his mind, and when it came to me, his mind must have been blank.  But our progress continued rolling along, until one fateful Friday night that was not my finest moment...

It was our Director's birthday.  The image I will paint won't cast this poor guy in the best light, so I'm gonna stick to calling him "Director".  Anyway, the production boys were fired up, ready to get out on the town and celebrate--and for the first time, J actually enthusiastically extended the invitation to me and one of my friends to come to the festivities.  He even crossed the trenches (the unspoken line between newsroom and production studio where braver production boys have never ventured) to make the announcement, calling me out specifically, "You hear that, Kim?  That's where we're going."  We went to the dinner...but of course, that was never going to be enough.  J and Director had to go back to work, but the rest of us were feeling fine and ready.  We headed to a bar, J and Director planning to catch up with us there later.

How it happened...I honestly don't know.  I don't recall downing that much alcohol...but that bastard, Drunk, caught me...and took advantage.  J and Director showed up and all stayed at the bar until 2 in the morning.  Through hazy, drunk-colored glasses, I didn't realize how blitzed everyone else must have been as well.  I do know, I felt that it was perfectly natural to take J's hat and proceed to wear it, and to touch him whenever I felt like it.  He must have felt the same way back because at some point his arm had snaked around my waist and he had lifted me off of my chair.  Director decided (Lord knows why) that this bar wasn't going to be enough for the night, that we would have to venture to another.  We piled in cars with those who somehow remained sober (they must have gotten there later...) and hit another bar.

One of the boys that joined our crew that night (and who I also had no interest in) asked me to dance at the next bar and I accepted, allowing him to spin me around the floor in a mock-Fred Astaire, harmless style of dancing (none of this bump and grind nastiness that couldn't lead anywhere good).  I didn't know it, but during this time, my self-proclaimed pimp, my gay best friend, cornered J at the bar.  He later relayed the conversation he had with my plaid-cad while I spun obliviously on the dance floor.  Here is the transcript: J, come here.  Listen, do you like Kim?  Yes.  Have you asked her out yet?  No.  Why not?  I'm shy.  Well you had better man up.  She likes you.

I have agonized over this conversation many times--grilling my pimp for tone inflection, unspoken details, subtle eye shifts--but I still haven't been able to figure out what this cryptic transcript really means...or if any of it actually means anything.  I figure, if what J said was true...then that should have been all the confidence he needed (if he really was, in fact, shy) to bite the bullet and just ask me to grab a bite to eat sometime.  He still has not done it.  I have wondered then, if that means perhaps he said this all to my pimp to avoid hurting my feelings somehow.   Don't actions speak louder than words?  And what's with this "shy" load of bull?  While there have been times that I thought I sniffed a little insecurity on J, I can't fully give myself to this theory.  The boy is too good-looking to be shy.  My radar immediately goes off--this boy knows he's pretty, probably has a lot of game, and is probably a jerk.  But he's done nothing to prove my intial theories...and so I digress...the story continues.

Director was ejected from the bar.  Our group went out to join him, and things from here get hazy.  Rumor had it, we were taking a stroll to the QuikGrille, a late night drunk-paradise with cheese fries covered in ranch and other greasy mistakes.  Somehow, we were separated and my pimp, J, and I were all that remained.  We stood in front of QuikGrille, dumbfounded.  Where was the rest of our group?  After a phone call or two, we somehow discovered our crew had gone back over to one of our friend's houses, where Director was passed out on the couch.  We also discovered my soap-opera-esque predictament.  At some point in the night, I had handed off my phone and keys (both to car and apartment) to my friend.  She had slipped them into her purse, and had now vanished.  It was as though J and I had suddenly been marooned together on an island.  I was stranded--tipsy, with no car, no keys, and no phone.  I couldn't have scripted this stuff better--my destiny was somehow, completely in his hands.  My pimp must have seen the opportunity in all of this because he announced he was exhausted and vanished into the night, leaving J responsible for me. 

We decided the only natural plan would be to head for our friend's house to retrieve my keys and phone. When we arrived we discovered a flaw in the plan: the front door was wide open and the house was dark--aside from the glow of sportscenter on the television.  We walked inside, fumbling around in the dark for my friend's purse.  Nowhere to be found.  We approached his friend's bedroom door, to see if anyone might be around and might know where everyone else had run off to this time.  No one was answering their phones...and I didn't even have mine to retrieve my friend's number.  The bedroom door...we pressed our ears against it to see if we could hear anyone inside.  Um...we could.  In fact, we could hear my friend and J's friend inside...and they were having a lovely time, if you catch my drift.  J and I pulled back, mutually horrified, mouths comically hanging open. 

I couldn't barge into that bedroom.  Our friends were quite busy, quite nude, and would probably die of embarassment--should we attempt to retrieve my friend's purse from inside that room.  I stumbled away from the door, resolved to wait...perhaps even until morning to escape.  J came and sat down next to me.  "Well...we can't go back to my place,"he sighed.  For Drunk-Kim, that was a perfectly acceptable explanation.  Now, part of me wonders why he didn't take the opportunity to bring me back to the privacy of his place--and although I am glad for it, because it is entirely possible I would have made some bad decisions, plenty of conspiracy theories have filled my head.  He has a live-in girlfriend...he has female roomates...his bedroom is a wreck...he just didn't want to bring me home.

Whatever the truth, J didn't bail on me.  Instead, we settled down on the couch and settled in to the episode of SportsCenter.  I fade in and out at this point...the sequence of events...the positions we found ourselves in...its all blurry, and I'm not proud of that.  But somehow, J and I were cuddling, my head resting against his chest, his hand threading through my hair.  We talked about all sorts of things: football, religion, family, politics, music...I felt almost as though I sounded like I must by lying to impress him--for all of the things I found we had in common.  It was eerie and I was eating it up.  On the short list, we share views on politics, religion, how nasty Taco Casa is, a mutual dislike of sweet tea, and country music and we had the shared ability to quote television programs and movies.  Blur...and then he had grabbed hold of my hips and I was straddling him.  In this extremely provocative position, we continued to politely chat.  In retrospect...I have no idea what we were doing.  Drunk-me also saw how silly the situation was:  here I was, on top of a boy that I was extremely attracted to, chatting about the weather.  

"Aw what the hell,"someone who used to me announced.  "What the hell, what?"J started to say.  But I had cut him off, with a kiss.  Blur...and he was on top of me, between smashed lips, "Am I crushing you?"  "No, you're fine."  Then, "I don't have a condom."

Excuse me?  The breaks screeched in my head.  Umm...I don't recall asking... My expression must have conveyed this, because J fumbled through an explanation.

"What I mean is, I'm not the kind of guy that carries a condom around...I don't take girls home from the bar...I'm just not like that."

"Okay....that's okay."

"I mean...I'm just typically not attracted to girls in bars with all of that make-up and trashiness..."

"Really?"I ask, geniunely surprised and drunk-blunt.  I understand, in print now, how all of this sounds exactly like what a girl like me would want to hear--quite possibly the best pick-up line for a "good girl", and perhaps even an attempt to get clearance for sex, without the use of a condom...but at the time...and even now, though I can't express it correctly...it all felt geniune.  It felt like he was telling me the truth.  Which...if he does have game, could make him the most dangerous person I have ever played with.

"No, really.  How many people have you been with?"  Umm...hello again?

"Is that really important?" I ask, now that we have acknowledge there will be none of the sex happening.

"Well, yeah," he says, surprised.  "I've been with two people.  Ex-girlfriends."

Again, I am stunned.  And although it all sounds too easy as I write this...I believed him.  I believed he was telling me the truth.  So how could a guy, so good-looking, have only had sex (and by choice) with two girls?  Could it really be possible that my favorite pair of Plaid was actually a monogamous guy?

"I can't figure you out,"I confessed, drunk and honest.  "I can't tell if you have massive amounts of game...or if you just have none at all."  The execution of all of this was almost too clumsy.  Too honest.  Too vulnerable.  Maybe that's why I fell for it--although I consider myself, even when tipsy, to be a cynic, who typically looks for every side of a situation, especially the bad, before I commit myself.

"I have absolutely no game,"he admits quietly.  We resumed our makeout session, and although there was some heavy petting, let's say, J remained respectful--in fact, he never attempted nor received anything out of the situation for himself.  Although I am having a hard time conveying why I fell so hard for what sounds, at least in text, like well-executed pick-up lines...I felt as though he was telling me the truth.  It was something about the way he handled me...as though he lacked experience.  It was the difference in his kissing my hair instead of my neck.  He touched me with the gentle, sweet, vulnerable, hopefulness of a guy who has been in nothing but relationships...and doesn't know how to separate those intimate-love caresses from the quick, get what you need drunken hook-ups.  While as he knew what he was doing--his execution was muddled in confused and misplaced emotion.  I felt that he wanted to hold me like I was somehow special, and not like I was the flavor of the week.  If this was game, he knew exactly how to play me--a notorious good girl, who could never be taken home from the bar (unless you had been dating me for a couple of years and you had been ring shopping.)

We called it a night, exhausted, curled against each other on the couch, shielded from the cold by a shared blanket.  I played the role of little spoon.  J and I never got to have the awkward, sober, morning after look-you-in-the-eyes-and-determine-if-we-just-made-a-huge-mistake.  Instead, I was awoken by his stunned voice, "Oh my God."  Great, was my first thought, I am assuming he is throughly regretting waking up with me tucked into his chest.  "What?"I groan, turning to look at him.  Oh.  Standing over us like a homicidal clown is Director, completely covered in dried blood--aside from a deep gash on his forehead, seeping sticky and red.  "Oh my God,"I concurred.  "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean,"Director giggles.  Creepy.  He's still drunk.  J and I abandonned ship and set into sober responsibility.  We may never know what happened to Director that night.  From what we can piece together, he abandonned his post on the couch and stole into the night shortly after our friends headed, arm-in-arm for the bedroom.  Perhaps Director was determined to spend the evening in a bed, because the last thing he recalls is trying to force his key into the wrong apartment door.  We assume at this point, Director either killed someone (not the most likely theory, thankfully) or fell and blacked out.  He must have then spent the next 5 unaccounted hours face down in an alley somewhere, until he came to and stumbled back the to house, where he proceeded to stand over J and I, peacefully sleeping, like the angel of death.

J and I assisted in getting Director cleaned up, bandaged up, and sobered up.  He later made the trek to the hospital to get an MRI and check for concussions.  J and I adopted separate couches, to my dismay.  After another snooze, I was shaken awake by my friend and phone-thief who announced J would be taking us back to my car.  The car ride over was perfectly normal, which made it perfectly awkward for a gal who was looking for some sign that he had SOME reaction to our evening.  I was cast from the car with little more than a "holla."  I sent a text later to thank him for the ride (a bold move on my part, for a person with no balls...) and I never heard back.

I admit.  I was shattered.  Although I had not committed the ultimate crime--sex with a guy who was obviously just taking advantage of me in a drunken-poor-decision-making state, I still felt slutty and used.  It was the furtherest thing from my style to spend an evening making out with someone on a random guy's couch...probably giving away too much information and insight...Maybe it wasn't physically slutty...but I felt emotionally slutty...Having heard nothing back from J, I could only assume he had regretted the night and hoped it would go away.  Perhaps he had been testing the water to see if he could get sex, condom or no, and when he discovered he couldn't work the situation with even a drunk version of me, he would be pulling out.  (That's what she said...)

But then things changed again with J, as they always tend to do.  While we never discussed what happened, never even acknowledged that we now probably knew the inside of each other's mouths better than we knew each other...(sorry...kinda gross...), we continued to chat and enjoy each other's company.  He came out to dinner again that week as though nothing had changed.  Maybe I imagined it...but it felt as though every time we locked eyes (which we tended to avoid...although we both want to look...) there was a spark, a secret.  Something simmered.

After one dinner, we left and headed out to a bar.  As the night wore on, J and I drew closer, our arms casually touching, our legs brushing at the bar.  The world around us grew blurry as things focused around us and our conversation.  We joked back and forth, it was natural--fun.  Was anybody else even there with us?  Our friends involved themselves in their own worlds as ours only had room for two.  We stayed until last call...how did time get away like that?  J admitted his next day would be pretty rough...he had a 6 am flight back home, and he would probably only have 3 hours of sleep so that he could make it back to Birmingham in time.  Our group exitted the bar in twos.  We arrived at J's car first where he extended his arms to receive me.  I walked into them and rested my head against his firm chest for the briefest of moments.  We wished each other a happy Thanksgiving, and I wished him a safe flight.  "See you Saturday,"he called, then, "Oh wait, you don't work Saturdays."  "Yeah, but I'll be in town,"I countered, silly and hopeful.  "Alright, well see you then."

As it turned out, I did work Saturday.  After one person called in, I found myself stacked with responsibilities.  J and I had a couple of moments to converse in the hall, but I was busy and mildly stressed.  I now kick myself.  I try...for whatever reason (to avoid looking desperate?  to avoid being hurt or rejected?) to keep things light, aloof, and unconcerned.  I worry, now, that I come off looking completely uninterested, unless I've been drinking.  In reality, the only time I seem to have enough courage to touch the boy is when I've had a little liquid courage.  Then the other half of me argues back, Homebody knows I like him.  My pimp has told him as much, my kisses have told him as much, heck, even I have probably slurred something about it.  If he's shy...if he's confused...he's stupid.  Maybe...gulp...he's just really not that into me.  Maybe he just enjoys kissing...particularly when tipsy.  Maybe he thinks I'm cute...wouldn't mind sleeping with me...but isn't particularly interested in making an honest woman out of anybody right now.

With a Saturday night looming on the horizon, my pimp set out to get me into another possible lip-lock with J.  We're going out, he announced, with me standing not 5 steps away.  "Oh yeah,"J smiles, "You buying me drinks?"  My pimp snorts.  "Just sweet talk him,"I smile at J.  "He'll cave."  "No thanks,"J says.  He vanishes.  No thanks...no thanks what?  Fragile, silly confident-me wonders--no thanks drinks from my gay friend, or just blunt, no thanks to going out.  Apparently no thanks to both, J never shows.  Never hear anything from him.  For the first time in weeks, he hasn't made the effort to spend some time with us.

I was disappointed.  I feel as though there is a fuze quickly burning from both ends when it comes to the time I have left with this possible...whatever this is...that J and I have been poking at for the past few months.  He graduates in December...I hopefully get a job soon--I feel it coming...my internal clock is telling me that I will be making some big changes soon--it's time to grow up and officially graduate my college city.  To quote a Muse song, "Our time is running out..." and I'm not sure if anything could ever, or should ever happen, as a result.  The sad thing is, I think I will question, later, as I sit alone in my apartment in my new town, whether or not there could have been something there between J and I--if I had only had the courage to just sit him down and ask him what was up.  But I am still at a place where I go back and forth between reading signals and trying to decide: Is it worth it to just know...even if that means being rejected...or would it be better to just stay quiet and keep my dignity?

Should I just bite the bullet and do it myself--ask the guy out, or do I take the old fashioned approach and hope, maybe he'll find the "courage" to ask me himself?  Or is it even "shyness" that keeps him from just saying, "Hey, dinner or something?"  He claims to be shy...but do I really believe that, when he's not too shy to talk about his sexual past, or to take hold of my hips and pull me up to straddle him?  That doesn't sound particularly shy to me...

Is it time to just give this relationship the death sentence?  Can I read the signals and say, it really is black and white and if he's not calling me up, it's because he doesn't want to?  Or can I give team love some...well...love...and say, maybe he really is just shy--and maybe it's time for me to just jump into 2009, take hold of the fabulous, independent, confident and sexy gal that I am and say--"Hey, I like spending time with you.  I like kissing you.  Any chance we can do more of those things?"  A gal doesn't have to wait for a guy to ask her to dance, and I've never been a stickler for the Rules According to Dating.  But if I put myself out there...am I really ready for the answer to be no?

Any verdict would be appreciated...If I make a move, it needs to be soon...otherwise, I've lost my chance.