When you grab, men usually retreat.
Vincent and I saw the touring production of Les Miserables last night. We had phenomenal seats: Orchestra Center, eleven rows from the stage, and smack dab in the middle of the row.
During the show we pancaked hands; I confidently placed my hand, palm turned upwards, and patiently waited for Vincent to place his warm hand atop mine. In the darkness of the theatre, I leaned over and placed two graceful kisses on his cheek.
After the show I asked, “Can I come over tonight?”
“Harlan,” Vincent started, “You know I have to go to a holiday party.”
“Jesus Vincent,” I replied, “I just want to spend time with you. Is that a crime?”
“Harlan,” Vincent said, “I’m busy.”
“Not with me, Vincent!”
Definsively, Vincent countered, “Weve spent three nights together this week! And that’s not enough?”
“I want to spend all my time with you!” I quiped.
“I have other committments, Harlan.”
“I told you that I’m either the best news or the worst news,” I added sheepishly.
“What does that mean,” Vincent asked.
“It means that my presence in your life is going to dovetail, like shuffled cards,” I answered and continued, “Or my presence is going to make you reevaluate your life, because you now have someone that you want to spend time with,” I answered.
“Christ,” Vincent said quietly, “Must you be so selfish?”
“Fuck it, Vincent!” I replied, then continued, “You figure out when you want to see me again! By the way, are we exclusive?”
“Exclusive,” he asked.
“Exclusively dating” I said, “Because I have men that want to sleep with me!”
“How can we be exclusive,” he answered quietly, “When you say the things you’ve just said?”
“I apologize, Vincent,” I answered, “I’m just afraid.”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Of you. Of this,” I admitted chagrined.
“You should never be afraid of me, Harlan,” Vincent confessed quietly.