Romance of the Strange

Romance of the Strange

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

I’m through with women! Well, not really.
It just seems like all, ALL my relationships have had some sort of irritating complexity that complicated them; set them askew; rendered them difficult and different from the normal, human interpersonal romantic situations that my fellow XY’ers have enjoyed.
Why me?
I’ve talked to guys. They never have the kinds of problems that I’ve encountered. That’s not to say that they don’t have their own problems. Of course they do. All relationships have problems. That’s the problem with relationships – problems. But my problems are…well, odd, to say the least (for an example see my column, Joan).
Now I’m not trying be intriguing, or provocative here, but really, all my former lovers brought with them some strange, quirky, element that most guys, as far as my buddy-type conversations have shown, haven’t had to deal with.
For instance. I was at a club once and this woman came over to me and asked me to dance. Now, for clarification: I am in no way shy. I’ve never had trouble approaching women in hot pursuit of their luscious bodies. So much so that on not just a few occasions, I actually wore them down to the point where they finally ‘gave in’ to me. “Alright, fine! Here’s my number, dammit!” would illustrate it quite well.
In fact, most of my relationships have come about in spite of strong resistance, even outright rejection. “No, I’m flattered, but you’re just not for me, sorry. Thanks anyway,” she’d say as she skipped along her merry way. By the weekend I’ve got my tongue down her throat and she’s digging her nails into my back.
Please understand, it’s not because I’m some gorgeous guy, or a GQ underwear model. No, it’s just that it…well, a simile, if you will: I’m like a predator, prowling and hungry, my prey cornered and seeking escape. When they seem not interested, or inclined to keep me at arms length, it only fires my desire and makes me hungrier, more focused. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bad looking guy; at least I don’t think I am. I mean I’ve never had anyone push their plate away, get up from the table and have to take deep breaths just because they got a good look directly at my face.
So I don’t think it’s my looks that makes a reluctant woman change her mind about going out with me. I don’t really know what it is for sure, but I suspect it’s that arrogant, confidence that women are attracted to. Sorry ladies, it’s a flaw in your gender and you know it. Whatever it is, it’s given me fair success with the fairer sex.
But I digress. The dance club. The reason she had to ask me to dance instead of the other way around, is because it was during the height of the country music influx, just after the movie, Urban Cowboy, with John Travolta. I was living in Oklahoma so needless to say, there weren’t many Disco places to frequent (no, you needn’t worry, I’m not a Disco fan). But the country places were all that was available at the time. When my cousin wanted go ‘trolling for flesh,’ which, being a Christian I whole heartedly here and now denounce with ebullient enthusiasm, in my worldly state then, with shame I must admit, I indulged. The problem was, I didn’t know any of those two-step style dances. I didn’t really like clubs anyway. They were loud, smoky, and overall, boring to me. But I went, because of the scenery, aka, the women.
Anyway, this chick comes and sits down and starts talking to me. She was lovely, not nearly fat enough, but what the hell, I didn’t want to offend her so we talked for a few minutes. Then she tells me she’s going on vacation to the Ozarks to visit her family:
“Really? So you’re from the South?” I say, trying to sound interested.
“No, I’m from the Ozarks,” she says looking at me strangely.
“Oh,” I reply, impregnating the word with as much intellectual weight as I can.
“So,” she says after a moment. “I’m going there for my vacation and my brother usually goes with me, but he can’t this trip. How would you like to go with me instead?”
“On vacation…um…with you?” I asked, unable to hide a look of abject fear.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll pay for everything, you won’t even need money.”
So what’s a guy to do?
“Sure,” I say, hoping she doesn’t need my liver.
“Great. I’m leaving tomorrow so why don’t you come and spend the night at my house and we can leave in the morning.”
“Sure,” I say, hoping she doesn’t need my liver.
Long story short, I spend the night, in her bed, with her, with no more than a long, lingering kiss goodnight. She said we had a long drive tomorrow and had to get up early, so we’d better get some sleep. Fine. After all, I’d only met this person laying beside me three hours before so the weird factor’s riding pretty high anyway.
Again, long story less long, we had a nice time, and eventually got more intimate, but by the end of the trip when she dropped me off at my apartment, she seemed to regret the whole thing. I think she somehow thought I was using her. But I wasn’t, really. I was just going along for the ride. I don’t think she liked that. To be honest, neither did I, but it was a strange situation, and I didn’t know how to process it.
Thus the theme of this column.
So there you go. That’s just one those weird experiences that I’m talking about. Trust me, there are more of those than the regular, normal, everyday relationships that most guys would have. I’m not whining, just…pining, maybe. I consider my life thus far to be, shall we say…colorful.
In the case of the instance cited above, I consider the memory a fond one as I reminisce upon it, although it might be somewhat Twilight Zone-ish. Over all, I must say, odd as it was I enjoyed the trip, I enjoyed her, and I kept my liver.
So I guess I’m not actually through with women, but given my history with the sometimes deeply fulfilling, sometimes poisonous, but always interesting creatures, I will be ever cautious when approaching them in the future.
In these times of deadly and dangerous females, when you get back home from spending a week with someone you’ve known for a week, you’re thankful to be alive. When you realize that the entire time, you spent no money, seven days, and are still in full possession of your internal organs, ya’ gotta’ say, Life is good, if a bit bizarre.
Like I said, it’s strange. But then, so am I…or so I’m told.

Keck