Moving

In this society we have a trillion ways of communicating with people--text messages, phone calls, emails, facebook, myspace, twitter, skype, IM--but once you pay a live, personal visit to someone's house, the way our ancestors did in generation's past, you get an unexpected quizzical look from the other. Which was my case last night. I payed a visit to a neighbor of mine who I had a thing with a couple of months ago just to say hello. I don't have his number so I decided to ring his doorbell and see what's up. Even though I hadn't seen him since Election Night, I haven't been able to get him out of my head since then. Two months later I decide to give him a postcard with my number on it.

Doug, let's call him to protect the identity of the innocent, answered the door shirtless. I was a bit awestruck as he rubbed his arm.

"Hey, Doug," I said. He was looking a lot more muscular than the last time I saw him, and I must have had a puppy dog look on my stupid face. "I thought I'd just drop by to say hello."

"Do you want to come in?" he asked.

I enter his apartment to find another guy on his couch. I'm not going to lie, I felt a bit jealous at this point, not knowing if I had interrupted an encounter between the two young men. Doug said he was just cleaning up, but does that require you to be half naked. I brushed it off and offered to get high with the two. The second person, Fred, let's call him, was a really cool guy. I'm not going to lie, I did contemplate or hope for a threesome but instead we just watched Planet B-Boy on Netflix. Good movie, very international.

Doug went out to get a cigarette and I followed in order to get a word with him.

I bummed a cigarette from Doug and we made small chit-chat for a bit. I asked him how he was doing.

"Pretty bad," Doug said. "I haven't been getting as many hours at work lately so I quit. I'm moving in with my dad next week actually."

My heart sank. I tried not to show it because I barely know the guy and we only messed around on a drunken night that seemed like centuries ago.

"That sucks," I said.

"Yeah."

"Where are you going?"

"About three-fifths of the way to Astoria off of I-5."

"Whoa."

I didn't want to linger on this fact for too long.

"What were you doing for work?" I asked.

"I'm a mover. I went around with a crew moving pianos around." Doug didn't sound that enthused about his job. "Making dreams come true every day." I love his sense of humor.

"Wow. That's pretty hot."

"Yeah. What do you do."

I told him about my day job in Beaverton for a start-up and about my freelance writing.

"I just had my first story in The Oregonian," I boasted. "They still haven't payed me yet."

"Bastards," we both say at the same time and laugh.

I take out the postcard that was in my coat pocket and hand it over to him. My roommate bought it from a girl who sells them around the bars. I handed it over to him politely. He read the type-written text in the dimly lit parking lot.

Dear Doug

Just because I can't remember your name
doesn't mean I don't
want to have sex with you again.

From Julius

555.555.5555

Doug laughed and I felt the little bit of tension between us dissipate in his smile.

"Is this why you came over?" he asked.

"Yeah," I say.

Yes, I know I barely know the guy. I'm not even sure where his sexuality preference lies He isn't a full-on gay or if he is, he's definitely not a queen. Doug is my age, has a Bachelor's degree and a wicked sense of humor that has always caught me off guard. In the two months since our brief intimacy, I have had a slew of sexual encounters with boys and men that some would call promiscuous. Doug, however, was a person that I didn't want to fall into that list of males that I've fooled around with and forgot like another flavor of the week. In a small city like Portland, such a list eventually becomes an advertisement for your reputation in the tight-knit gay community. Doug was not part of this scene which I often immerse myself into. And now, I had revealed my emotions in a snarky postcard and can only leave it at that.

"I know we didn't really have sex and I still remember your name...," I began.

"But it's the thought that counts," he finished.

Doug was honest and told me that he had to get packing. He said that I was a distraction, which I can't disagree with. I tend to deconstruct reality by keeping it real. Every time I looked into his eyes I knew that he could read my mind. I could tell that I was infatuated with him. That I thought he was extremely cute. That I wanted to feel his touch one more time before he left.

I kept giggling and turning away like a stupid high school girl.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He leaned over and I felt his lips caress my mouth. It was a gentle and soft kiss, almost feminine yet I knew that there was a passion hidden for utility's sake. I returned his kiss, a longer, more sensual one that expressed a desire for more.

He broke away to continue packing.

"Go on now, you." he said.

I went on. I walked home in silence, flustered, trying to reason my emotions into something that made sense, something that wouldn't hurt me in the long run, something that I could keep as a moment of my life that I could learn from, cultivate, cherish.

I can't do anything about it now. This is one of those times where idleness isn't such a bad thing. I've exhausted my energy on this one possibility of love, and there's a high possibility that nothing will come out of it other than a memory for me to return to when times are rough. I'm fine with that. I've appreciated someone and got a kiss in return. If I can't be satisfied with the outcome then I have no right pursuing my heart.

And that was my evening. My bittersweet, slightly taciturn evening.