On a Saturday in 2011, I decided to wash some cat-hair-covered blankets and throw rugs at The Mansion. This blew up the world (i.e., clogged the sinks hooked up the washing machines and flooded the floor). I had to get my brother to help me clear out the sinks, which involved going up and down the stairs and pouring the dirty, soapy water in the lawn just like a good environmentalist. I felt like I was in the Renaissance, dumping bed chambers out the window.
Then Venus Flytrap, my handiest friend, came over smelling like the GAP’s “Dream” perfume and brandishing a flexy snake. She unscrewed things with total confidence, better than any dude our age that I know of, while we chatted about just that: the limited capability and practical know-how of all the able-bodied fellows we know.
Pickle arrived and ate pizza while we (read: Venus Flytrap) finished fixing up my life. Then, Venus Flytrap and I got dolled up while Pickle read about Zen living, and I lamented how I don’t have a “va-va-voom outfit.” This led Pickle to become unhappy with her own outfit, so she tried on my clothes. I put on Madonna’s “Dress You Up” and pretended it was a makeover montage. She decided on the sparkly black flats and pinstripe pants that were in my to-donate pile.
The three of us headed to a nearby bar to do some recon—Pickle wanted to see if it was a spot where her band would like to play someday. Despite that the bar was run by ex-porn stars, it provided us a tremendously boring time. After a single drink, Pickle declared that research time was over: “No more business. Let’s go shake our tushes.”
We headed downtown to our sad sack of a city’s clubbiest bar. It was three disgusting floors teeming with hormones and people who had nothing to offer. The upstairs mezzanines overlooked a dentist’s chair in the middle of the main bar. This is where guys wearing too much Axe body spray would pay to have one of the foxy lady bartenders give them a lap dance to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” while dumping buckets of booze down their throats.
We paused at a bar on the second floor because Pickle wanted Painter’s Punch, which is jungle juice served in a paint can with eight straws sticking out of it like tentacles. It’s serious biz. The foxy lady bartenders would come by to offer us shots, and in response, we’d gesture to the paint can. Their shoulders would slump or they would nod: “Ah! Say no more.”
Then I noticed on the other side of Pickle and Venus Flytrap was The President, whom I hadn’t seen in months. Oddly enough, I’d had a feeling I’d run into him that night. He’d always had a talent for knowing when I was thinking about him; that’d be the moment he’d always materialize. He was drunk and happy, having freshly graduated college that day. He told me he planned to go on to law school and go into politics.
Then he said like, “Y’know, I’ve never kissed you.”
To this, I responded as the legendary queen-of-quip Mae West might’ve: “Pfffffffft!”
The President was undeterred by this reaction. He was being all flirty and handsy, pulling me in for bear hugs and playing keep-away with the paint can. He also kept trying to kiss me, but I would turn my head. I was having fun playing games, but I also felt legit shy and torn. I had always wanted guys to pursue me in earnest: If they wanted to kiss me, they should also not want to just walk away afterward. This sort of fun and games and whatever they resulted in—they were for other people to enjoy.
Then The President was about to leave, and he leaned in close. Time to decide. And what I decided was that I wanted the story. I was tired of things almost happening to me. Instead, I wanted to feel like I was making progress and experiencing life.
“Are you going to do it already?!” I tried to sound impatient, like he was the one who had been coy all night. I tried not to show I cared.
And so he went for it, and I went for it back, because why not, really?
Then I was all, “Bye!” with a carefree wave and went back to my business with Pickle and Venus Flytrap. We took our paint can down to where the cover band was playing, and we danced to “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Pickle went to sit on the stage and accidentally swatted someone’s beer bottle on the floor, where it smashed. The three of us looked to the floor then at each other and were just like, “Oh well. LADIES’ NIGHT!” We kept saying that and similar things: “It’s ladies’ night. There’s no such thing as traffic laws.” We left the place with Pickle traversing the streets barefoot because my sparkly donation shoes hurt her feet.
The next day, The President texted me mid-hangover. “I am sorry,” he said, “but I should’ve done that a long time ago, so I just had to.”
I joked, “The mission is complete!” and he just laughed.
I wasn’t sure what would happen next. But it didn’t really matter. The real joy and thrill came from the moment’s total randomness. It had been okay and safe to just kiss him then, and I wasn’t sitting around afterward, “OMG what does this mean?!?” The experience reminded me that I—like anyone else—can kiss anyone, have something, do anything. I can do it. I’m allowed.
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