I started to figure out that I had a ‘type’. This seemed to be North American girls who were femme and had short hair, angelic voices, winning smiles, and names beginning with K. I used to feel kind of inadequate next to them until I figured out I didn’t want to be like them, I just wanted to be with them.

The girl from Minnesota had a butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck, which was exciting because she was about my age, nineteen, and back then hardly anybody had tattoos. It was based on a ring that her father had given her mother when they were going out. When I met her, she’d pretty much just arrived in Scotland, but she’d already met a boy who beat me to it. If I’d been more sexually adventurous I might have proposed a threesome, because he was pretty cool too. As it was, I just tried to enjoy hanging out with the pair of them whilst ignoring the CRUSHING JEALOUSY.

We went to the Mission for the first time. Back then it was in the Rocking Horse on Victoria Street, now home to Espionage. There was a goth/industrial floor, a metal floor, and an indie/pop floor. I met #34 right before we got kicked out at closing time, so I guess it pretty much counts as a sidewalk sale. He had a cigarette lighter with Mao on it that played a tune. We made small talk for a couple of minutes and then I figured we might as well get on with it.

I wouldn’t call it a complete disaster, because I know what complete disasters are like, but there wasn’t a whole lot of point in it and he can’t have had much fun. Back at my place I didn’t feel like doing anything very much with him, and besides the girl from Minnesota and her boyfriend were crashing in the room next door, presumably having the hot lesbionic sex that I was missing out on.

When I woke up in the morning, #34 was still asleep. I looked at him as I tried to gauge whether he was likely to sleep much longer, whether I should get up or what. He opened his eyes to find me looking at him and, I imagine, thought I was some kind of psycho who’d been watching him sleep all night. In addition, when he left my flat I think he kissed me on the forehead. I’d like to think this is just some embellishment my hazy memory added over the years, but there is no earthly reason why I would make up something so horrendous, so it must have happened.

In case you were wondering, the girl from Minnesota only lasted a month or two with her boyfriend, but she still didn’t get off with me.


~ by Nine on 16 November 2008.

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