Wait. I need a soundtrack. We'll go with The Finer Things by Steve Winwood. You can judge later.
This continues the adventures that began in discovering my libido has decided it's time to reawaken.
OMG HE TALKED TO ME.
Before anyone stares blankly and closes this, I mean, we had a conversation of more than ten minutes, cementing my desire to get naked in a theoretical way, because we chatted lightly about school and his scholarship and his job at a software company or his music and I didn't stare at his stomach at all. Though it's flat. Jesus God, it's flat.
There's just--something wrong with this. I don't just feel fifteen--I act like it. It's like some horrible part of my brain wakes up in stuttered shock--Boy it says, startled. We like those, don't we?
We don't, I say grimly and stare at him and think, he's not that cute. Because he's not. He's not. But he's type, which is the problem, because I flail for a very narrow vector of the male population helplessly and looks actually don't matter. Well, that body does. But that's type, too. It's like a short-circuit in my brainstem; I mean, just check out my last three male crushes in fandom. Type? I have one. And it's as good as a flip of a switch. There's just letting it run its course.
Whilst going down the hall, I asked about his last month or so, and he mentioned music (Thank God musicians aren't my kink; I'd be in a hall closet with him being as fifteen as I could be), and his backache and oh, right, girls.
"Girls?" I stuttered, coming down the stairs, feeling the start of something that comes really close to panic as I rewound and circled slowly around the sentence. Girls. Plural. "You--have a girlfriend."
"She likes girls too."
I didn't stop short; I mentally pulled up the last time I wrote group sex and steeled myself for carrying on a real life conversation with a human being. I am suave and cosmopolitan and even once was invited to a threesome and watched all five seasons of Queer as Folk, so I totally know all about this sort of thing. I read Dan Savage. I am prepared.
I'm fifteen and the cute-smart-what-the-fuck-former-military-a
"Really?" I said, and my voice went up three or four decibels, nothing noticeable. He gave me a sideline look. "I'm straight," I said, and babbled out something else and something else and as we parted ways, he grinned and said, "You should try it," and wandered off while I tried to decide what Dan Savage letter I should use as reference for this very special moment.
Sadly, he was gone and I was walking outside.
It's like--all the geekiest and weirdest and least attractive parts of my personality come up at times like this, and none of them are really comprehend human interaction. I was a horrific fifteen year old; epic moody and constantly writing about Phantom of the Opera (you are seeing who I connected to here) and staring into space and no ability to carry on a conversation with a person that didn't reference sci-fi and Dune, and it's like--I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel. It's so easy to want something and I can blow that off without even thinking, but this keeps stuttering me short and off-balance and weird.
I don't even know how to contextualize this into the framework of Jenn-ness.
Seriously, universe. So not funny.