I don't know what I said, but a gorgeous brunette with broad shoulders, started shouting, "We hear you, sister, we hear you." Not offensive, but he was in effect heckling me. He kept going. I stopped talking. When he was finished agreeing with me I went off. I told him to wait his turn or kick rocks. He left wearing an unbelievable pout. Adonis doesn't pout. I knew I would see him again, and I did.
Django looked coy and afraid; he said, "Hi" and turned his head away, eyes still on me, waiting for me to say something. I say "Hi". I tell him we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, I hadn't meant to be taken seriously, "I thought you were heckling me, I thought you wanted to play".
He smiled, said nothing and we sat next to each-other. For over a year at parties we would dance our dance of nerves. He would say hi and look away, I would playfully try to convince him that I liked him and take a seat at his side.
My boyfriend, Spencer, was depressed, he blamed me. I wouldn't fuck when he was drunk. He stopped drinking and became a grumpy little punk. The sex was never what I had cracked it up to be, sober or not he was uncomfortable.
I was horny, he was lonely. He said he had no friends so I reminded him of Django "You guys are friends, give him a call."
He did and over the next few months they hung out with booze and blow. I didn't care the boundaries were set. Spencer was a lush. When he tried to kiss me with beer breath and coke lips he pushed all his sweaty weight on me, I felt suffocated, I felt forced, if he had been anyone else I would have stabbed him. Saying no was the humane thing to do and I was grateful for the excuse.
One night Django came over and made dinner for the Spencer and I. We were all pretty drunk, Spencer wanted to play pool, Django and I wanted to flirt. We talked, giggled and watched each other pee; it was a cute and daring night.
Spencer and I hadn't had sex in three months and a month prior I asked him to move out. He said he would as fast as he could but would I please not see anyone until he was gone. I did as he asked.
Django knew it was rocky, he humored Spencer's bitching; I was an anti-alcohol party pooper. I hated people and wanted him to have no friends. I was a depressed control freak. I didn't refuted this. I didn't care to; Django had his opinions.
Spencer finally moved out. I was free.
After three nights of talking on the phone, Django and I arranged a hike. I spent the day on nerves. I couldn't speak. Neither could he. On the way home we stopped at the local store and ran into his ex. It was over, everyone knew, whether or not we had a clue.
I was in love. I had been from the first moment he shouted his drunken attempt at commiseration. The aching heart of love is a nasty temptress, a lying cheat, an evil display of our feelings turning us into meat. I felt like a black hole. I hated the flowers blooming but the butterflies couldn't be denied. I went to his house as often as I could. I was awkward and nervous but he continued to invite me.
The first night I spent in his bed, I had lied and said I was too drunk to drive, he said I could take the bed and he would sleep on the couch. I refused, I said I took up hardly any room and I would feel awful if he slept on the couch. We laid, clothes on, over the covers; we looked at each other and rolled over. As soon as I thought he was asleep I reached out with my feet and stroked his legs with my toes. He responded, our feet embraced and I fell asleep.
When I woke up it was too early for birds but I had to go to work. I kissed him on the forehead and left.
We continued, however cautiously, to up the ante. I would get "too" drunk and we would share his bed. I would undress to panties, he would turn away respectfully. I would ask him to remove his shirt. He would comply tacitly. I would sit on the small of his back and massage him from temples to toes. He would moan, say thank you and repeat the question; why?
"Why are you so nice to me?" My heart would leap; I would try to breathe, maintain decorum and not say a thing. I couldn't tell him I loved him. I couldn't say the words, so I held him and rubbed him and watched him in his world. He was magic, he was brilliant. He was the male version of me.
He played the character so well I was at a loss to be myself. Two of us in one room would cause confusion, if not distress. I became the wall, I would observe and swoon. I had never seen this side of myself. The closest to worship I had ever been and apropos my own description it was narcissism.
One night at my place we had finished dinner, we were talking and drinking, he stops talking and brings his face to mine. He looks me in the eyes and asks for permission to kiss me. I said, "Yes." with a train of excitement held back by the anticipation of his lips.
I was dizzy, we were both smiling ear to ear, he said I was a good kisser. A moment of silence, we held each other and I played with his hair. He said, "You are a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman… I have to leave now.”
I cried myself to sleep and frustration brewed. No man had ever held such a grip, and now the one man who did was oblivious. I had no training in this. Men came to me and that was it. I knew nothing of advancing my love, of being open and vulnerable and true knowing I could lose it all.
I resolved to tell him, I would go to his show and I would declare my love. Never has a decision felt more monumental. When I arrived I was surrounded by men: Spencer, the band and him. Spencer was encroaching, I was like a weasel in the crowd slipping in and out, trying however obviously to get close to my Gerbil. But Spencer persisted and because my efforts were successful the three of us found ourselves standing together. I knew he was nervous about Spencer, but he wouldn't look at me, my heart died, my plan dissolved. I felt dismissed and I angrily rejected Spencer. I blamed his presence.
As quickly as I was sure I had made a petty spectacle of myself a man I had never seen before walked up to me and said, "You must be Alyssa." I was confused but excited for the distraction. I said, "How can you be so sure?" "Your voice," he explains. He was at Django's house and had answered my call, he asked me a few invasive but forgettable questions and without telling me his name handed me off to Django who excitedly asked if I was coming to his show. I assured him I was.
"So you're the dufus I spoke with last night, I never got your name." "Gavin, lovely to meet you in the flesh, Ms. Alyssa." The playful banter began and before I knew what was happening we were running across the meadow, it was a race, I won. With giggles, Gavin and a few more beers I almost forgot I loved a fool.
After the show Django's glossy eyes pierced me. I told him to come over, he could bring his friend Gavin if he wanted, my friend Maroo was coming. He was either high, or about to cry, or both. He said Gavin was free to come but he shouldn't.
Gavin walked up, pleased with himself. I glared at Django, with frustration, love and the question; how is it possible that you don’t know? I hated him for not seeing. I grabbed Gavin and said "You Sir are coming with me." No struggle there. I was on the verge of hysterical tears but kept face and drove Gavin home with me.
Django got smaller in my rear view mirror and I feigned interest in my passenger.
A month passed before I had Django alone again. He was hesitant, but said it would be nice to hang out. When I arrived band practice was almost over, I helped myself to a beer and danced on the deck until they finished. Everyone left.
Django and I, like two about to duel, stared into each other’s eyes, speechless and awkward as ever. I took a deep breath and jumped into his arms, we fell onto the couch as if it had been slipped beneath us. His mouth was agape, his eyes twinkling. He said, "Alyssa." I said, "Yes." And before he could say anything else I took his face in my hands and kissed him.
Five hours later, naked in his bed, we lie wrapped around one another giggling and kissing, he stopped for a moment and said, “You're so tiny, I always thought you were so big.”
Alyssa Westerlund