Two Gs

Jump to Comments

When I was considering topics to write about for Sexography, I came upon the idea of two guys I went out with who kind of sum up the two kinds of guys I tended to find myself spending an evening with. One was all hands and jumping on me. The other, gay. At least I assume the second guy is gay. I don’t think he’s out though and since I don’t wish to out him, I’m just going to have to leave it at that.

I can say this: the track record of my going out with a guy who turned out to be gay is pretty good. My theory about that is that I gravitated to them b/c of the handsy-grabby guys. I knew I wasn’t going to be groped. But then the converse of that was that I wanted to be groped when it wasn’t offered. So while I was perfectly content to take in a movie, have some great conversation, play a game or two of Scrabble, certain other young womanly needs weren’t being met by anyone but myself. And that gets old quick. And sends one back to the gropers. But the gay guys I accompanied to movies, dances, ballets, etc. all turned out to be wonderful friends (one of them passed away) and even though I couldn’t get them to switch teams, there was real value in the relationships.

And there are probably about a thousand blog entries I could get from one of them but that’s not what this is about.

So anyway…

The gropers, well, were enthusiastic. It’s a heady drug to take a glazer and give him the green light to be a groper. My first real groper was also my first kiss. My boyfriend after that, the one I called “Adam” here, was not much of a groper but was definitely not gay. Adam was kind of frozen. I think he was shy about groping but I remember the first time he came unfrozen; it was like a whole new world. And then Flora made me break up with him b/c we had gone riding on dirt bikes. I was stupid & Sagittarian-honest enough to tell her “Yeah, we went riding dirt bikes.” Twice. Yes, it was probably not wise for me to ride the dirt bikes but if I had it to do over again, I would just not have told her instead of hurting Adam.

After Adam, there was a constant stream of gays and gropers, many more gropers than gays. Hawk was one of the gropers. I can’t find where I blogged this before, if ever, so here goes:

Our first date was to a Valentine’s dance in 1988. The guy I was supposed to go with (the aforementioned probably gay but not out friend) was snowed in and couldn’t go. So I called Hawk b/c I wanted to go. He said he’d come. So he got a ride in and we went over to the high school to the dance:

(us, center)

So we had a lovely time and I know we danced and I think I danced with some other male friends but mostly we probably sat around and talked. We went back to my house b/c I lived beside the high school. The plan was that we could socialize a bit and my dad had to go to the store or something and when he came back, he & I would take Hawk home.

Here’s where the story takes two different turns. Factually what happened is this: I put on a tape of a recent SNL episode he said he hadn’t seen. We were doing the “Jumble” puzzle from that day’s newspaper. There was making-out.

Now my version is this: one minute, I’m doing the Jumble, the next, he jumps on me, trapping me in the corner of the sofa. His version is that I was giving him “signals.” I’m not saying this isn’t true (here’s the point where he reads this and yells “A-ha!” at me) but what I am saying is that if there were signals, they were unintentional. Believe me, I know how to give a signal. I’ve done standing in the middle of an empty room with semaphore flags kind of signaling (ironically enough the guys to whom I signaled only spoke Morse code, if you know what I’m saying).

Now I was not averse to the groping. In fact, he was quite good at the groping. However, his groping level went from defcon 5 to defcon 2 in about 5.7 seconds. Although I wasn’t necessarily averse to that, I figured I was supposed to be. So I was of two minds in the midst of the event: “stop him” and “don’t stop him.” It settled somewhere in between, interrupted when it was time to take him home.

As we drove through the snow, he sat in the back seat and I sat up front, kind of shaky-legged from the intensity. Frankly, it scared me. Being 16 and not wise in the ways of the world, I assumed that what had scared me was Hawk. In truth, what scared me was the part of myself that said, “Don’t stop him.” What kind of girl was I to want a boy to do these things to me and with me? I didn’t have anyone to talk to about feelings like that. No aunts, no older sisters, no close girlfriends. I had nothing like BUST or Sassy (which was about to emerge as as singular frank and realistic voice for teens and sexuality, again another entry). Certainly no Internet where I could talk to someone or find information. No one to tell me that all of those feelings were not just okay but normal. That liking that feeling did not mean that there was something wrong with me or that I was a latent slut ready to burst forth into back seats and bedrooms (although there was the seat of a pickup once…) and if I so much as inched open that door, I would be used up and tossed aside by every man I met.

By the following Monday, I was convinced that he’d done something I hadn’t wanted him to do so I shunned him. Not an appropriate response, I know. I should have said, “I didn’t like that” but that would have been a lie and, for me at the time, it was easier to ignore things than lie about them. We talked about it later, sometime after our second date, which was in September 1995. There was no groping on that date.

So anyway…

I alternated between gropers and gays in a different way in college. Always with one eye on turning DM2 fully to the dark side of the gropers, I continued to take up with gropers once in a while to keep my self esteem up. Not that I realized that at the time, of course. One groper was my roommate’s boyfriend. I once tried to thwart his attempts by smacking him with a roundbrush but his response was “kinky.” Oh well, I said to myself. At least I tried. There was also a completely amazing guy in my poetry writing course who showed up to the three thirty class more often than not smelling like scotch. After my first in-class workshop piece came across like a “jill-off poem,” according to a different boy in the class, Poetry Guy gave me his number. And he was gorgeous in a blond-meets-Byron way. Based a book on him. *sigh*

So anyway…

I ended up marrying not just a groper but one of the original gropers. A familiar level of gropery, so to speak. Better someone who wants you than someone who doesn’t, I suppose. Also by then I’d been able to figure a few things out about myself, life, sex, whatnot. Different to be groped at 23 than at 16. Also different to be groped by someone saying “I love you” and meaning it.

The good part for me is that in our second attempt at dating, we had a lot of things to talk about. Very many things in common from political beliefs to our taste in music. He liked that I got his dark sense of humor (the darker the better, which is why I was busy LMAO over that whole Joaquin Phoenix “I have frogs in my hair” thing a few years ago. People thought he was on drugs or going crazy. I was like, “No he’s just messing with you b/c you don’t get his humor.” Watch an interview some time and watch for the spark in his eye that tells you he’s joking. Hawk has it too. That and dark hair = a very appealing combo. Obvii (I use two Is b/c I’m cool).

If I had ever gotten a gay groper, I wonder what would have happened.

=======================

With every Sexography entry comes the donation page for RAINN — Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. Among its programs, RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. RAINN provides information, education, outreach and other services. If you donate, please C&P my URL into the “donation in honor of” section (in addition to anyone you want to honor, including yourself) so that the project-related donations may be tracked. Thanks

10 Comments

Filed under Deep Thoughts, Joaquin-lust, Proudly inappropriate, This one time? At Band Camp?

Tags: sex, sexography