[ This entry originated from » here. (It's a long story.) ]
Speaking of not understanding women relationships .. remind me to tell you the story about my gay roommate, when he was talking to my mom at the kitchen table ..
.. when we stopped there for a few days on our way down to Florida from Maine. That's a good story.
I was in the next room with bro and dad and some friends, working on this gnarly thousand-piece puzzle on the dining room table. When I glanced into the kitchen and saw them huddled together at the table there.
And I remember wondering what they might be talking about. I'm sure that I must have had an interesting look on my face.
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» Already Tighter with Mom than I had Ever Been
And the thought struck me how he seemed to be communicating with my mom on a more intimate level than I ever had .. even tho they had met only a short while again. (I admit that he had outstanding social skills and he was very intelligent.)
You could see from the look on their faces that this was some deep shit.
And he looks up and sees me. And while I am wondering what they could possibly be talking about, being huddled together so closely like that, he says to me, rather loudly and boldly,
"That's right .. we're talking about you. Your mother is worried sick about you. She's making me promise to keep an eye on you .. and keep you out of trouble. There's a full-time job if ever I saw one. She wants to go get the bible and make me swear on it. I told her that won't be necessary."
And he is acting very macho .. which is so not him. And he says things like, "Dont make me have to come over there and kick your butt right here in front of your mother to keep you in line."
» He is So Fucking Cute
I forget exactly what he was saying, but I remember thinking, "Oh my God .. he is so fucking cute that I can hardly stand it. Downright adorable. I can see why gay guys might be attracted to him."
He had excellent social skills. Everybody liked him. Everybody wanted to be his friend. Everybody wanted to hang out with him. He was way ahead of me in some cultural aspects. I could see that.
I could see from the look on mom's face that she is very much enjoying the things that he is saying to me .. as tho he is saying what she wanted to say to me, but didnt know how to. She is clearly loving this thing where he is giving me shit.
I never told my mom that he was gay. But in that moment, I found myself appreciating him in a way that I had never appreciated a guy before.
He was very smart. We got similar grades all thru school. And I am smart motherfucker myself.
» A Smart Motherfucker
I am a smart motherfucker myself .. without even trying to be. My dad told me at least a million times while I was growing up, "Dont be smart."
What he really meant was, "Dont be a smart-ass."
I could definitely be a smart ass. (Because I am so smart.) No doubt about it. Being a smart-ass is part of what got me into trouble with the captain.
Because I am not afraid to toe-up with authority figures when they are fucking up. Particularly when their fucking up is affecting me or mine.
Or did he really not want me to be smart?
My dad was smart, but not educated. My mom told me, "I married your father because he was smart and because he had good teeth."
» Dad vs Fyodor Karamazov
I can confirm that he was smart, but only in a Fyodor Karamazov sort-of-way.
Note that this section on smart-asses and the Father Karamazov has been moved to a page of its own » The Smart-Ass Karamazov Brother.
I did not want to have sex with him. Not even close. But I found myself liking him at a level that I had never been to before. I still do not completely understand it.
But we were already tight at this point .. because we had already been thru some gnarly shit together.
And I know that he had a good feel for my skill set .. what I brought to the table. I knew he was impressed with me.
He said that I wasnt his type. But my ego was convinced that he wanted to sleep with me.
But this gay dude, acting all tough and macho, and threatening to kick my butt right in front of my mom .. this put a serious torque on my teenage cranium.
The end. ■
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Flirting with Danger - Page One
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