He agrees quickly and reassures me it's crystal clear. Hmm, something about all this reminds me of how boys game their way from one level to the next one.
Normally, the pursuit would thrill me. But this isn't your normal chase. For me, it's a distraction. For Kentucky, it was going to be a therapy session. Now he was entering the Lair of the Ruthless, fangs would be bared (mine) and feathers ruffled (his) or gasp, even plucked. I hoped for his sake, he could take it. He bursts into the flat and all I can sadly think of is how I can't take that aggression seriously. He beelines to the couch where I sat flipping through a glossy magazine listlessly. "Oh. You're here," I observe rather indifferently.
I laugh, "You must be joking." and sit a respectable distance from him, a bit of a challenge since he takes up so much space. We go through the ritual of saying what we'd each been up to, which to summarize is a lot of "not much, just work, you know, stuff." The exchange is inane, and I can feel my fangs sharpen in my mouth but was determined to let him quest further. Kentucky doesn't disappoint.
"Sooooo..," he starts,"like what was that all about?" I widen my eyes innocently, hands clasped over my crossed knees, "That being what?"
He intentionally spreads himself wider on the couch so I'd lose my balance and start to slide towards him. I tilt but recover quickly. Jungle Rules, I think, posturing and dominance of space. "You know," he answers,"like I thought we had something and out of the blue, you're like, I can't do this anymore."
"Oh, THAT." I smile faintly which makes him look uncertainly at me. "Really, you want to know? I thought you preferred the standard 'not on the same page' answer." He fidgets, pouting a bit, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, like are you in love with someone or what, or did I do something? I mean, I'm really asking." I tuck my knees under my legs and sit a bit nearer him to play with the golden curls forming at the nape of his neck, he shivers half-appreciatively & half-nervously.
"I COULD tell you," I say softly, "but you'll probably hate me. In fact, never look at me the same way again. It'll help you in the long run but So Not pleasant. Last chance to avoid the truth Kentucky, your call." He sits up straighter and fixes a serious stare on me, "Go for it, I want to know. I'm ready." Well. If the man is ready.. the teacher appears.
Kentucky listens half-laughing at how I put it, and I imagine this is the same stance he takes when dealing with complaining customers work-wise. "Well..yeah, I guess I could see where you're coming from. Just..you kinda just really, really get me all excited I can't help myself. I mean, look at you." Ah. There we have it. Clearly, the blame laid squarely on my door.
He ignores this and stalwartly concedes, "Ok, I see what you're saying now, I guess it's just always been that way..like when I was young, it was like the point was to get off quickly. You know, not get caught."
I blink at him. "Yes, but we're not behind the bleachers anymore, and don't you think any woman willing to put up with this is suspect?? I mean, I think you're a sweet guy, and even if it's marriage you're after, you'd have to improve this. Trust me. If anyone tells you otherwise, they don't want you for you."
Kentucky sits up excitedly as if he'd hit on the Motherlode of All Good Ideas, "Well, maybe You and I should just get married?"
"No, no, I haven't," Kentucky insists, "I think we make a good couple, we really work together." I say nothing but indulge in a stare that tells him I'm clearly waiting for his head to fly off axis. How he got to this thought from the smattering of barely an hour encounters we'd had made me shake my head wildly, "Oh, Kentucky, you'd better stop or you'll freak me out. Another thing, THAT is not the way to propose marriage to a woman." Figures, the proposal would have to come from him. Well, there WAS the Serbian. I shuddered.
"Er..right, so let's not discuss that anymore," I propose readying myself to get up but Kentucky pulls me down on his lap. Oh Gawd, I think, then start squirming. "Wait, wait," he says, "I'm sorry, ok? I'm really sorry, I really just didn't think about it, and I hadn't been with anyone who told me these things." I found this hard to believe. More likely he was told, but perhaps in higher volume and definitively shriller tones.
"No worries, all is forgiven, now you know." I say this graciously as I try to extricate myself off his lap.
He sighs, both exasperated and desperate to please me, "Show me then, come on, just show me." but while saying this attempts to snake his hand up my shirt. I hit it with a loud expedient swat that sends it immediately retreating.
"Women do NOT like to be grabbed, or groped, or fondled that way. Take your hand off from under my shirt this very second. If you try to touch me that way again, I WILL slap you. I TOLD you my clothes are staying on, and I meant it. Did you not understand that? Or did my English have an accent?," I rattle this out sharply, and started to faintly wonder where I'd stored my leather crop. Sometimes, certain situations really do merit them. I sigh.
"Okay, okay," he stops, but resumes pleading, batting his bright blue eyes at me,"you can't say you won't show me, I mean, obviously I need some coaching." I look askance at him. Where did he think he was? The Femme Ruthless School for Wayward & Inept Boys?