Why are we sorry for what we want from one another?
I want to do nothing more than hold the door open for you at Bagatelle, pull out your chair, pull myself up to the table, speak the few French words I know, impress you a bit, cuff my hand on my favorite part of your thigh while I lean in and tell you I want nothing more than to watch you slyly slide your phone from your purse to tell your friends this may be the best date of your life while I walk away to the bathroom to wash my hands before breaking bread. But I don’t want this all the time. I don’t want to you think I’m dependable and reliable, and I don’t want to pretend we’re not fucking around your father. I want to tell you this is more about me wanting to ruin you in the most beautiful way possible, than getting to know you. I want to tell you this if this is how I feel. If this is what I want.
My brother, Vernon, and I play a game where we exchange compliments often because ours lives are amazing, and if we combined powers, we’d be the perfect man. I tell him his Beamer is dope, and he compliments my new Hublot. It’s my turn to return that compliment. His unapologetic approach to situationships is outstanding, and while years ago I didn’t think it’d be for me to adopt because I didn’t need to confirm the rumors that my heart is seemingly black, I am more than ready to adopt that approach now.
Perhaps Christian Grey has known such Thursdays. I sat in the far back and concentrated on his moves, demeanor, strategies as I imagined Elle watched Pai Mei, or Miguel Watched Prince. I watched his unapologetic approach, and saw nothing that even remotely resembled a cold or black heart. I saw a man who knew what he wanted, and before anything was invested, saw it important to place it on the table next to the T-bone steak, cheese eggs, and Welch’s grape.
Sitting in the back of theater, I looked in that mirror of a screen and saw my past relationships, fuck-ups, mistakes, successes. Perhaps the movie isn’t as great as I think it is. Perhaps it was me sitting in a classroom again, in my major courses, learning from the curriculum I chose, with that one teacher who’d give me an A simply because I’m cool as fuck. I felt sorry for Christian, knowing what was coming for him because Anastasia is no different from those women who cried waiting on me to run after them, realizing I wouldn’t after hours of standing in the rain.
(or perhaps the movie was fucking amazing, and those who dislike it are upset the sex was minimal, and now that Anastasia has a face, they can no longer place themselves in the shoes of the girl like they could with the book. even those who thought it was bad found themselves at the sex shop buying whips and chains and cuffs)
“That’s me. That’s how I am” will have to do, but I am willing to sit on that comfortable, light blue couch in my favorite coffee shop on Western Ave. and negotiate as long as you bring the fruit roll-ups and grapefruit juice and buy me an iced sweet potato latte.
Whatever it is we want, we need to ask for. Before the 1961 Chateau Palmer Margaux is poured, and before the check comes I need you to tell me exactly what you need from me without the “um’s” and “uh’s.” Just say it and smile. What’s the craziest thing that could happen? Hell, you may have a friend who fits the bill I’m trying to pay.
Unapologetically, I want to run into these mazes.