(Editor-in-chief giving lip service to current intern) …Still good evening, still from the towers that are A Word with you Press just up the street from Friendship Square in sunny–oops!–snowy downtown Moscow! A versatile writer is one who can assume the identity of multiple characters and leave you wondering if they are writing fiction or …
(Editor-in-chief giving lip service to current intern)
…Still good evening, still from the towers that are A Word with you Press just up the street from Friendship Square in sunny–oops!–snowy downtown Moscow!
A versatile writer is one who can assume the identity of multiple characters and leave you wondering if they are writing fiction or just relating a story about themselves to you. Claudia Barillas is just such a writer. Those who have seen her writing over the years on this site know that she is anything but mainstream. This is her third entry into The First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest. Her entries are as diverse as Tom Hanks as the lover of Antonio Banderas in Philadelphia and then as the storm-the-beach Gastro-Intestinal in Saving Private Ryan. Which is the real Tom Hanks? Which is the real Claudia Barillas?
Language and content may be a little offensive to some of you, but hey, babe, take a walk on the wild side.
I could be Mulder if Mulder liked Dudes
by Claudia Barillas
I’ve never had a problem picking up men. I put out the right vibe, I guess. They just come to me. Women are a bit harder. I think it’s the difference between being pursued and doing the pursuing. I’m naturally more passive–better at looking lonely and horny than confident and charming–but a man isn’t supposed to sit around and wait for women to hit on him. When I’m looking to meet a girl, I try to take the initiative even though I’m not very good at it, and the venture is rarely successful.
The good news is that if I publicly fail in that field, there’s often a guy waiting to swoop in and make me feel better. It’s how I met my most recent boyfriend.
“Chicks, huh?” was Pete’s line, a line I’d heard before. “Crazy. Forget about her. If you’re still looking for a good time tonight I swear, it’s not too late.”
I went with him, like I do sometimes, after he bought me a good amount of drinks. Why not? Maybe I woke up that morning in the mood for something else, but at the end of the day a lay is a lay, and who was I to say no? He thought he was turning me. Who knows why the prospect turns some guys on so much, but if it makes them that much more eager to blow my mind (heh), why should I correct them? He found out his mistake soon enough, anyway. I’m kind of a perfectionist. I don’t like to do things half way. I take mental notes on everything I do, what works and what doesn’t, so I can get better at it. When he felt my practiced tongue, and my fingers expertly prepping him, Pete knew this wasn’t my first rodeo. He knew I know my way around a dick, and he knew he wasn’t the first guy who’s been (warm and tight) around mine.
“I thought you were straight,” he admitted, after, when we’re both satisfied. There are things I could’ve said to that, things I wanted to say to that. But it would have been rude to be hostile towards a guy who had just so graciously allowed me to fuck him. Never mind how rude it was of him to think I didn’t exist.
I’ve stopped taking it personally. People are told their entire sexual lives that I’m a myth. That I’m just curious, confused, greedy. Curious? Confused? Maybe when I was fourteen. Greedy? Who isn’t? But they’ve been told by everyone that I’m either those things or a closet homo pretending to like women to make myself feel like I fit in. I can’t expect them to know better. I couldn’t expect Pete to know better. So instead of giving him a piece of my mind, I gave him my number when he asked for it. Like I said before: passive.
I’m part of the problem, you see. I don’t go out of my way to educate people on the issue. I don’t take the opportunity to tell people their way of thinking is really fucked up, even when the opportunity is right in front of me (or behind me, or under me, or on top of me, or whatever the case). But why should it be my job to teach people to not be dicks? Why can’t they just not be dicks?
I’m especially not in the habit of telling the few women I date that I’m not straight. I tried it once. Never heard back from her. I don’t know what she thought the difference was, one day to the next, not knowing to knowing. Who am I kidding? Yes I do. She thought I’d cheat on her with a man. Or worse, leave her for one. Because somehow that would hurt more than her ex-boyfriend leaving her for another woman. And somehow it’s more likely to happen.
Good reason to leave or not, leave she did, and I’ve never told a woman since. See, men think I’m a liar or a conquest, but that doesn’t stop them from wanting me. Women think I’m a flight risk, and that does. I can’t scare them off like that if I want to settle down some day. Personally I could go either way (naturally), but my parents are adamant that I marry a woman. Give them some grandchildren. At least look normal. Let me have my crushes on the Denzel Washingtons and Will Smiths of the world. Just don’t let anyone know.
Not sure they’re gonna get what they want. Things are going pretty well with Pete. He’s coming around to the idea that my sad, pathetic crush on Scully from the X-Files doesn’t disappear when he touches me, and that my sad, pathetic crush isn’t and never has been a front.
Now if only he could come around to the idea of taking his shoes off and hanging up his jacket when he comes inside my apartment, I mean really.