The quiet ones
Last night I was out with friends and I began to gravitate toward the strong, silent one in the bunch
April 19, 2007
By now you must know I'm this way: sex is furtive and desire more so. I am quiet when I'm most myself and I seek quiet men because I know there's something interesting under all that silence, and I suspect it comes out best in sex. Men who are loudmouths can rarely deliver, and it's so incredibly sexy when a guy hangs back and watches. It makes me nervous, unsettles me, and suddenly I'm hot. A strange reaction to discomfort and perhaps a recipe for ending up with a serial killer one day. Or a voyeur, which isn't so bad for an exhibitionist. Ironically these quiet men turn me into a loudmouth and a flirt, the only way I can publicly channel this strange tension.
Last night I was out with friends and I began to gravitate toward the strong, silent one in the bunch. He was short and not my type, except that when he looked at me I felt completely exposed and I wanted him to take my arm, lead me to a booth, and put his hand up my skirt. Or maybe I could kiss him so I couldn't see him fuck me so hard with his eyes. He was Iranian, which was a really nice bonus - for all the shit I talk about Iranian guys, they have the whole eye-fucking thing down pat. I'm not talking about the creepy guys that just stare at you, but the sexy ones that know when a girl likes you and likes it when you look at her like you've seen her naked and you want her naked again. Big difference. Keep it up, boys. It takes a very specific kind of girl ( i.e., a closeted slut like myself) and a very specific boy to make this sort of chemistry happen. If you're either one, you just know.
This guy had dark, dark eyes and was dressed impeccably, though not in the way that made me hate his guts like I usually do with pretty boys. Probably because he wasn't very pretty. He wasn't cute at all, actually, but he just had that je ne sais quoi that made me want to get on my knees. This feeling I had around this man immediately resulted in me making an ass of myself in the form of too much talking, flirting with everyone in sight, and excessive smiling in order to compensate for my irrational attraction. I really hate myself when I act this way, because I know how obvious it is and I know I hate it when guys lose their cool around me. In fact, I have laughed in their faces when they've done things like forgetting their names while looking at my cleavage or getting overly complimentary because they don't know what else to say to me (albeit, I laugh involuntarily and kind-heartedly - I'm not a complete bitch).
This guy must have liked how unhinged I became, because a couple of hours later, as we stood outside smoking his cigarettes (I never buy my own, they give you cancer), he put his index finger on my hipbone and traced a line up, up, up... raking his finger across my stomach, between my breasts, over my collarbone, and up the side of my neck, where he kept his hand and just looked at me as though we'd just fucked and he'd seen me at my most vulnerable. So I shivered without meaning too and then he leaned in and kissed the top of my cheekbone. I was trying to keep it cool, trying so hard by puffing away sexily on my cigarette even as I held my breath, but at that point I closed my eyes and sighed and a wisp of smoke escaped. I put my cigarette out against the wall and put my hand lightly on his belt buckle, eyes open but downcast, and as he leaned in closer, I grabbed the buckle and pulled him back inside, where I promptly went to the bathroom to take off and throw away my totally soaked underwear and avoided him for the rest of the night.
The last time a man made me so unnerved, I ended up brokenhearted for a long-ass time, which put a big kink in my libido. Clearly against my agenda these days, though I hate myself for avoiding this guy the rest of the night even if he would have broken me. The sex might just have been worth it.
Of course, the problem with these quiet men is that they'll never ever run out after you as you rush out of a bar, asking for your number. No, clearly against their agendas. So out of the corner of my eye as I left, I saw him leaning back against the bar with a vodka on the rocks in his hand, watching me almost lose my shit on my way out the door, things spilling out of my purse, one of my heels getting caught on a chair and nearly flying off. The whole time he had this bemused look on his face, which made me even more flustered and ridiculous. Yes, readers. I'm an ass. This ass went straight home and turned on her silent vibrator.
Here's to the quiet ones! Comment