The letters are so bold against the Northern-European-carcinoma-cautious-writing-instead-of-basking-in-the-sun skin of my inner forearm that I suppose they could, in a certain light, appear slightly raised, so when he requested permission to look I did not immediately flinch away as his fingers began tracing over the lines. But they traced more than was necessary to ascertain the tattoo’s flatness, then they tried to trace up under my shirtsleeve. “Do you have more up here,” he leered, and I pulled away with a firm no, that’s all.
“I thought you told me you had two,” he whinged.
The other is on my foot. I slid said appendage out of my shoe and displayed it at what I thought was a suitable distance; in other words, a distance from which he could not reach it. But reach it he did, and instead of holding my foot steady to better read the words he began lasciviously caressing the instep.
My friends, the setting was thus: Outside an ice cream shop surrounded by children in the middle of a lovely Sunday afternoon, fifteen minutes into a date two-thirds of which saw me entirely convinced that we were not — emphatically not — compatible.
Yet politeness and an irrational hope that things might improve held me there for the better part of an hour. You’d have thought that such negative reactions in the first few minutes would have dampened his ardor as the clock ticked forward. They did not. At one point he brought forth cigarettes and a lighter. Oh thank god, I thought. Surely this will keep his hands occupied. But before setting the stick aflame he pursed his lips and thrust his face into mine. “Can I have a kiss?” he asked, his voice a hideous apery of intimacy.
No! I said, more strongly than I intended. I’m very slow. It takes time for me to warm up. Then flashed through my head all the other times that it took me no time to warm up, no time at all, and I wondered who I was trying to fool.
He shot me a look then began talking through a haze of smoke; I listened and hedged his questions as best I could as the thought of any additional intimacy with him, even conversational intimacy, made my stomach roll. Still he kept edging closer, rubbing his arm against mine, grabbing my wrist to make a point. Finally I deemed that enough time had passed to satisfy the requirements of politeness and curiosity. As I dropped him in front of his house1, he paused and looked at me once again. “Any chance I could get that kiss now?” he wondered.
I demurred.
“Then let me have your hand.” I did, thinking he was going to shake it. Instead he put it to his lips, and while my soul tried to crawl out my opposite ear I thought, I’m done. I am totally done.
————
The Scarleteen Blog Carnival continues through November 15th. Check out everything that’s been written so far then drop a couple bucks into Scarleteen’s coffer’s to help them continue their crucial work.
- This portion of the story requires its own entry; expect it as soon as it can be told without overwhelming horror. [↩]
Totally sucks. Totally. Use extra soap in the shower.
Ugh.
Oh!Crap! He did sound like he was promising. Damn, I’m sorry, girl!
I feel like I need a shower too, just because reading this put me right in your shoes. Bleh.
You had to let him into your car? ew. Did you have it detailed on the way home?
I guess the old addage is true–when on a date, you should always carry enough money for cab fare. It just doesn’t always have to be for yourself.
Ohhh….I am having flashbacks to the worst date that I ever went on…and it was just as bad. That was the eventful day that I discovered I couldn’t get drunk. Sigh. I thought that maybe, just maybe if I got drunk I could appreciate the guy. I wish I was exaggerating when I say he didn’t understand other than one syllable words. 6 daiquiris later (that would get anyone at least buzzed, right?) I was just as sober as I started and I wanted the date to end so badly that I was considering killing myself just to get it over with.