My friend Anarcho-Jamie organised a screening of a film about polyamory called When Two Won’t Do. I showed up at the address, a flat just up the road from my new place. #120 handed me something vegan in a bowl and I filled Jamie in on my new life. #120 kept talking about anarchism and I wasn’t sure if he had recently discovered it or what. He had the kind of haircut only anarchists get, and his voice was kind of cracked like it was always in the middle of breaking. I told him I’d give him my old Sonic Youth t-shirt, and he said he’d mend the tear in another shirt of mine. We talked about hitching down to Bristol to see Le Tigre. This didn’t happen, but I was excited to be meeting new people who wanted to do fun interesting things. I was making up for lost time.
We started hanging out occasionally. He was such a dyke, I told him. He was all about riot grrrl and lesbian romantic comedies. We talked a lot about sexuality and gender. He was vegan and straight-edge. I think he studied religion. The night before I flew to Rome for a conference, he came round to my place and we cooked dinner. I took out a marker pen and he sat behind me and gave me a practice tattoo on my right arm, his hand shaking. We shared our first kiss stories, and I probably told him about more scandal than was appropriate. Sometime after 2am, he said he’d better get going. “I’ve said that so many times already,” he added.
“Yeah, you’ve been tiptoeing around it a bit.”
“Well, I guess I was kind of waiting to see if anything was going to happen.”
So we made out for a while. I liked not being the one to make the first move for a change, and plus I liked the fact that anything was happening at all, given that I was new to being single. We didn’t have a repeat performance, and there was no drama. We’re still friends.