Saturday, May 5, 2007

A bit about my favorite crush . . .

I’ve been flirting with a boy from work for quite some time. We will call him “Sam.” Physically, he is not really my type, but something about him has been intriguing me almost from the first time we spoke. He is a little skinnier than I usually go for, a little scruffier, a whole lot less of a pretty boy than my usual type. He is, however, a genius. He can speak intellectually on a variety of subjects. Unlike me, who is the consummate underachiever, he has the degrees and the work experience to back up the brains. He also has a wonderful sense of humor, and makes me laugh at least once a day.

There is something about him that I was seriously into, but I couldn’t place it. The fact that I couldn’t place it only served to make me want it more. I had a notion that he was attracted to me. He had made comments (not rude ones, of course) about my looks and stuff, and I could tell he liked hanging out with me outside of work. But he is the king of mixed signals. He never quite gave me enough encouragement for me to make the first move. He, being married and low key in general, was not going to make it either.

The first time we hung out outside of work was at my house. I regularly host poker games, which generally degenerate into drunken craziness. I live with my boyfriend Mark, so the mutual flirtation was minimal, though there was plenty of eye contact made.

Some of Mark’s “straight” friends were there, so when we did our lines, we did them in the upstairs bathroom, so as not to offend. During one break from poker, Sam and I found ourselves in the bathroom together. Everyone else was outside taking smoke breaks, or raiding the buffet table, so we were not missed.

He cut me a line. I took it. While he was doing his, I shut the bathroom door so I could check my nose in the full length mirror. This was more habit than anything; I usually put my makeup on in that mirror because the light is better than in the mirror over the sink. From behind me, I heard him call my name. My heart began to race faster than it had been already. This had to be it, I thought. He wants to kiss me. I want to kiss him. And it is going to happen now, with my boyfriend and about six other people downstairs.

So I turned around, in anticipation and made the three short steps to where he stood. Here, I saved you some, he says. And I did not kiss him. I took one more bump, like a good girl and left the bathroom. Had he not spoken, I really think I would have kissed him. In my Jager-fueled coke-fired state, it just felt so goddamn good to hear him call my name.

At the time, I almost felt relieved. I don’t know how he would have received my advances. Would he have been insulted? Offended? I had no way of knowing for sure. He was, as I said before, giving off some serious mixed signals, and I just didn’t have the balls to fly blindly into that situation. On the other hand, I could not help but think that I had wasted an opportunity to solidify our mutual attraction.

I went downstairs and played the rest of the game, however badly, and that was it. I was more confused than ever.

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