"It may last past 9 pm," I counter. "10 pm is fine,"he replies. Then adds,"We also do lunch tomorrow, da?" Right. It seems that would imply he was staying over.
Thankfully, the meeting is distracting and I lose myself in the whys and wherefores of fluctuating futures and the like. There's nothing quite like a bar chart gone haywire to dampen the delicious anticipation of possible surrender. I stealthily answer his texts as he asks me for an ETA. Typically Arien he deems the failure to respond to text messages or scheduling dates in a timely manner, an issue of Respect. Ignore him at your peril is the message I get.
It's actually a relief from the push-pull flakery rampant in LA where too many things are concluded with a shrugged whatever. I get home just in time to indulge my Venus and appear nonchalantly put together as Dragan looms at my door. It's decided we catch a late movie, which I thought should be a fitting prelude. Yet sitting in the dark of the theater, Dragan remains self-contained and neither holds my hand nor attempts even a whisper of physical closeness, except to occasionally tap me on my shoulder and say something funny. Like I was his sister. Or something.
Most memories of movie dates I've had usually involve ignoring it altogether. I sit uncomfortably through three long hours of piracy, mayhem and maiden ravishing. At least someone was getting some action.
I'm thinking more of sleep, my head slightly numb from truly terrible script writing. Plus let's face it, I get more action from my gay boyfriends in the movie theatre than I did with him. The stage for seduction is not so much set as abandoned. I'm tucked under the covers child like when he slips in, the bed depressing with his weight forcing me to roll into him. I shift but find myself buried against him, as he stretches widely then clamps me close. This will be nice, I think, maybe in the morning, no, probably even a few weeks from now. But clearly Dragan has other ideas.
He begins to passionately kiss me, and something takes over. To be honest, I don't quite remember a lot of it. Only that, this wasn't B and there was nothing to be done for his absence. The thought plagues me until I forget. Dragan is a thorough kisser, but I notice that there are clear delineations between er.. certain activities in the bedroom, and I see the flashing lights of a Madonna-Whore syndrome raging miles away.
While warm, his love making reminds me of one of those tri-fold tear off brochures, one part leading to the other, nothing melding in between. A one way flow chart, solidly traveling from Point A to B, to C, a veritable freight train. It was direct, straight forward and for all his thus far violence, over quicker than I thought it would be. He rushes off to the bathroom to wash and brush his teeth. A faint scent of shame, if it ever could be described as a fragrance, hung in the air. And it didn't come from me.
I would've said I landed with a thump but I'd never even left the ground. My wings, if I had any, would've simply twitched restlessly, never having felt flight. I realize rather belatedly, that this entire thing had made him nervous. Perhaps he was inexperienced. Perhaps it had been a while. I copy his ablutions more to comfort him than for any real need, I'm too occupied studying him to actually feel what I'm feeling.
It is thus that Chastity leaves the hallowed halls of Virginlandia and the natives are stunned at the emptiness of the killing fields. La Petit Mort takes no casualties, not a single one.
Dragan crawls into bed and we talk amiably for an hour or so till sleep takes us. In the morning, he announces he'd never slept so long or so well, despite having been awakened by my boss ringing unexpectedly. We're holding hands in bed affectionately when out of the blue he asks me, "Do you know where I can buy a gun?"
"I feel better when I have gun," he explains as if I were Squanto and I simply didn't know any better from having spent my life naked, husking corn. "But I cannot buy one so maybe I give you money and you buy it for me, da?," he suggests with all innocence.
I lay there staring at the ceiling and think, yep, this is certainly one for the history books.