Sometimes I Wish I Had Fewer Opinions

The cutie was a commie. Admittedly, I don’t know that for a fact, but I think it’s a reasonable guess based on his reading material and musical tastes. The books were big, fat, serious ones, the kind that people don’t read unless they’re motivated. The musical tastes… well, he first took note of me when I said something that indicated we might have overlapping musical tastes. Which I suppose we do, if you subtract the more obviously political stuff. For now, I’m assuming he is a flat-out Marxist.

Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are pinkos, the rest are anarchists, various flavors of socialist and whatnot. A true Marxist is rarity, but, you see, he had this smile. The cliché is to say that his smile made me “weak at the knees,” although the weakness was definitely located a foot and a half higher than that, and it wasn’t weak so much as wet. Every time he smiled, and I mean every time dammit, my rational, logical mind, which was busy trying to feed my mouth something half-way intelligent to say about art, or literature, or music, (After all, we’re not just talking about any old cutie, but a cutie with very large… books.) was interrupted by that primal part of the brain – you know that part that’s not well-connected to the language part of the brain. So, just as I was formulating some brilliant, or at least coherent, observation about the subject at hand, he’d smile and that other side of my brain would start redirecting my attention to how much I would like to touch him, specifically, how much I would like to get inside his pants. But even putting it that way implies a higher level of thinking than was actually going on. It would be more accurate to say that every time he smiled a gorilla jumped up and down in my brain shouting, “Cock!”

That would cause stammering and stumbling which I played off by asking if he had an opinion. He smiles easily and I must have seemed very interested in his… opinions. After all, not only were the books large, but they looked rather hard. One would expect such a man to have opinions worth exploring.

So, about a week ago, I had, if I’m not mistaken, which I could be, two men flirting with me and I felt prettier than I have in about five years. One seemed to drop out of the picture for a reason I can’t account for, leaving me with Mr. Dimples. (To be honest, I don’t recall whether or not he had dimples, but that’s shorter than Mr. Serious-but-smiles-easily.)

For a couple of days, I was a little nervous because I think Mr. Dimples was assuming, with no encouragement from me, that I share his radical leanings. So I need to ask Mr. Dimples, “Do you think you could make it with Frankenstein?” Or, in this case, an anti-authoritarian liberal, which in my social world might as well be Frankenstein.

So this was the first time in several years that I have really had an overwhelming primal reaction to a potential lover and actually felt good about it, and I’m really hoping my damn opinions don’t get in the way. I’ve tried agreeing with the majority, and it just doesn’t add up in my head. I can’t make myself go along with it. The best I can do is avoid talking about it.

The good news is, I’m not much of a talker in bed. In fact, lovers have found that a little bit remarkable about me since I tend to run on at length outside of bed. Shockingly, a couple of people have been disappointed. Most, however, are relieved.

The bad news is, I gave him my phone number a few days ago and he hasn’t called, so maybe all my wondering if I was too far to the center for him was all for naught.

In any case, the likelihood that he would actually read this is close to nil, so I feel like I can be more open about it here than I was in front of a crowd. I’m pretty sure I adequately communicated my desire for him to call. So, everyone, keep your fingers crossed.

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2 comments
  1. Fingers crossed and wishing you the best

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