Bad Date #12 or A Dream Deferred (with apologies to Langston Hughes)

Notes: In my last post I talked about this Daily Prompt thing I had discovered, and I decided to try it again. Today’s prompt reads: We’ve all had exchanges where we came up with the perfect reply — ten minutes too late. Write down one of those, but this time, make sure to sign off with your grand slam (unused) zinger. Again, I can’t quite seem to follow the rules, because I did in fact use the sign off words at the end of this story, but I still think overall it relates to the prompt. This is a story I wrote quite a number of years ago, and I think that aside from a few dated references, it still holds up. G. and I never had a real relationship, per se, but we did end up having better sex than our first encounter. And that’s probably enough, if not too much of an introduction. Enjoy.

“G—? G—C—? It’s me, J—-. J—-A—-”

I can’t believe it. Here I am, in a dark, smoke-filled bar gazing up at the man who has held a piece of my heart for almost six years now. I’m at the S—-, a bar known for promoting local indie bands, with a group of my friends from university, who have decided that tonight is the night to experience Ecstasy. Not me. No thanks. I’m not Anti-Drug girl or anything, but E isn’t really my scene. At any rate, they’re all having fun–the straight boys kissing the gay boys, the gay boys trying to kiss me, and the one or two girls who are with us trying to kiss just about anyone. I’m tired of it and ready to go home. I’ve decided I’ll have one more beer and then call a cab.

I walk up to the bar and that’s when I see him. G—. G— C—. I fell in love with him my final year of high school, made out with him at the prom, and never saw him again. Until now. Five years later. He’s still as handsome as he always was, those cool eyes taking in everyone and everything. I’ve got to talk to him, just to put my obsession with him at rest.

“G—? G—C—? It’s me, J—. J—A—.”

“Yeah, I know.” Always cool, always in control, always in charge. Just as I remember him. but I’m five years older now, with more confidence in my sexuality and beauty then I had when I was seventeen.

“Care to buy me a drink?” I toss off the words as casually as I can manage, as though I don’t really care one way or the other what his response will be.

“Sure. What are you drinking?”

“Fifty.”

“That’s quite the beer.”

“I’m quite the girl.” And so the flirtation begins. I am at the top of my game, and unlike the time I was seventeen, I know I’m going to win. After several more bottles and a little more PDA then I’m generally accustomed to, we decide to go back to his place. I say goodbye to my friends and jump into a cab with G— and his housemates.

Nude couple in bed. The woman wearing the eleg...

Nude couple in bed. The woman wearing the elegant hairstyle of the 70s of the 1st century is giving her partner a passionate kiss. Roman fresco from the Casa del ristorante (IX.5.14, room f, southern wall) in Pompeii. Ca. 62-79 AD. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We arrive at his house and the game continues. Stumbling up the stairs, clothes being torn off, kisses being shared until we reach his bedroom. Finally, I think. The moment I have been waiting for has arrived. My teenage fantasies fulfilled. Kissing and foreplay continue until suddenly, without warning, G— gets up and leaves the room. I wait patiently at first, but start to get worried. I thought he had just gone to the bathroom, but it’s been a super long time. Did I say something wrong? Touch him the wrong way? Or could it be he has just now realized that I’m J—, J— A— from high school and for that reason alone, undesirable?

What do I do? I’m in a bit of a funny predicament. I am lying naked on a mattress whilemy date has gone AWOL. I’d better go find him. I tiptoe to the bathroom. The door is almost all the way shut, but slightly ajar. “G—?” I query quietly, gently knocking at the door. No answer. I decide to push open the door and lo and behold, there he is, my high school fantasy, huddled, well, crumpled kind of, in between the sink and the toilet. “Are you alright?” A rather indistinguishable noise comes from the lump on the floor.

“Would you like me to get you a blanket?” I offer.

“That’d be nice.” he croaks. I come back with a blanket and return to the bedroom to fall asleep. Some night, I think. To think I wasted five years wondering, fantasizing over some guy who can’t hold his liquor. Oh well, at least now I know and can get on with my life.

Nude couple in bed. Roman fresco from the Casa...

Nude couple in bed. Roman fresco from the Casa del ristorante (IX.5.14, room f, western wall) in Pompeii. Ca. 62-79 AD. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At just after six o’clock, the bedroom door opens and in walks G—. He smiles, shrugs, and climbs into bed beside me. Freshly minted mouthwash wafts over me as he proceeds to carry on from where we left off hours earlier. Hey hold on a minute, buddy, I think. I was raring to go at 1:30 last night and you expect me to be just as hot to trot at 6:00 am? I don’t think so. Then again . . . I have waited five long years for this moment . . . and that is the deciding factor.

After some brief post-coital cuddling, I get up to go to the bathroom. It’s early on a Saturday morning and everyone was up late last night so I decide that there’s really no point in getting dressed, only to get undressed a minute later. After freshening up, I walk back down the hall to G—‘s room. Halfway down the hall, a door opens and standing there is a fully clothed guy in his early 20s. I am definitely at a disadvantage. So, what’s a naked girl to do?

I take a deep breath, hold out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m J—-, G—‘s friend” and calmly walk back to the bedroom.

(First draft: 2002)

If you would like to contact me about this post or about anything else you’ve read please email me at: judyamy74@gmail.com or tweet me @JudyAmy74

 *An earlier version of this story was first posted in May 2013 under the title, A Dream Deferred*

 

 

 

 

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One thought on “Bad Date #12 or A Dream Deferred (with apologies to Langston Hughes)

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