He was an older queen.
Like maybe he just started exploring this thing. Maybe he waited long enough for his parents to croak and kids to get grown and stop calling. Some people do that, and I don’t judge one way or another. It’s not really much my business.
“You sure got a lot of holes in them jeans..” he groveled. Took me a minute to figure out he was being light-hearted. I just smiled nervously with my face half cringed until I was sure.
I feel well past the age of being openly hit on by men that don’t mean me no good. That would have worked much better on a version of me that wasn’t even twenty yet; Back when I was watery eyed and glad that anyone, anyone at all, stopped to make a conversation with my gangly self, too dark, and too weird to hit on all out in the open.
Damn near thirty, now. You missed your chance. I’m out here liking me and shit. Know damn well that I ain’t got what folks like, but the shit I got is still some good shit. Great shit even. This shit got me through some stuff, and maybe I’m working with a little bias, but I think I’ve got the best damn shit I’ve ever seen.
So there I am rough shaved, in yet another button down, and a pair of jeans I’ve got to answer for anytime I show up in front of anyone’s elders, pair of plaid boxers showing underneath the distress of my denim, also revealing hairy brown legs, I don’t shave, ’cause I don’t care.
I’m still there, half-smiling and reading his intentions forwards, backwards, upside down and inside out. Ain’t nothing wrong with watching if he wanna watch – I’m not gonna lie, I don’t mind the watching – even feels a little nice.
His eyes scan me over, and over before he asks my name.
and I tell him.
even give him my real name.
He tells me his. I repeat it just so he has the memory of me saying it. He can do what he likes with that however he wants to. I don’t mind it none.
He asks me where I’m from. I tell him where I’m from.
He tells me where he’s from. Small town, somewhere in North Carolina. It’s someplace I ain’t ever been, and someplace I won’t ever go. He tells me about all the boys there, good ole’ southern boys, work hard, play hard too, even though they play a little rough.
He laughs at his own joke. I laugh at him laughing at his own joke. He’s alright.
Glasses sliding down his nose, and khakis a size or so too big. I can’t get a solid read as to what his intentions might be, so I can’t say he’s doing anything wrong. Not like I’d have any idea what I’d do if he did start to do anything wrong. I’m not even sure what actions would qualify as doing something wrong. I just know wrong when I see it.
He asks me for my number. Right there in the fruit aisle of the grocery store. Talks about wanting to talk over dinner. I’m a people person in the most general way, and I don’t have any reason to not give him my number.
and I don’t have any reason to not consider a dinner.
and I don’t have any reason to not consider a conversation.
So I do it.
Even tell him I’ll wear better jeans.
He tells me these are perfectly fine.