Filed under: casual sex, what if | Tags: cute boys, day dreaming, Francis, granola, slumber party, Whole Foods
I imagined I would say that to Francis, because he was working that day, and I was buying granola. And he would say, “I love granola for breakfast.” And I’d reply in my bedroom voice, “Good, because you’re invited to my slumber party.” Then he would get a little flustered, tap his fingers on the counter, scratch his head, bite his lip and say, “When is it?” I would lick my lips, raise my chin, lean forward and say, “When you get off work, silly.” Then I’d drop the granola in my eco-friendly canvas bag, scribble my address on the receipt, fold it once, slide it across the counter, give a little wink, wave my fingers goodbye, and walk home counting the butterflies in my stomach.
Instead, I finished my day dream, dropped the granola in my eco-friendly canvas bag, sighed, and walked home.
Filed under: BFFs4Eva | Tags: Belgian beer, BFFs, BFFs4Eva, cute boys, Francis, imported beer, Oakland, sundays, Whole Foods
My bestfriend and I like to walk down to Whole Foods on Sundays to get some Belgian beer. It is our ritual. One of our goals in life is to try every type of Belgian beer that Whole Foods carries. So we are diligently keeping up with this endeavor. One night, when we were walking home from the Art Murmur we ran into some drunk harmless middle-aged white people, and one of them asked us, “Do you guys ever go to that Whole Paycheck over there?” One of his slightly more sober female friends said, “He means Whole Foods.” We thought that was clever, “We only go there for the beer.”
We also go there to checkout Francis, at least that’s what his name tag says. He may have a girly name, but he is so hot that we can look past it. And if we’re lucky, he’ll be at the “10 Items or Less” checkout stand, and the line will be the least crowded, and me and my best friend will have the opportunity to nonchalantly come up to his stand, so he doesn’t get suspicious that we are just checking him out. He has only checked me out once, and knowing that he was checking me out while I was checking him out, made me incredibly nervous. The moment when he handed me my change and said, “Thank you. Two thirty-one is your change.” all I heard was “Meep meep. Meep meepmeep-meep meep meep meep.” I said What? three times. The truth is, quite frankly, I was too busy thinking about licking the thick black rims of his Buddy Holly glasses. Now, I get embarrassed when I see him. I dared my bestfriend to go up to him and say, “I noticed you work on Sundays.” But she won’t do it.
Filed under: at the bar, at the office | Tags: bars, cute boys, economy, employees, employers, getting hired, getting laid, office, recession, romance novels, web 2.0
Veni, vidi, vici, like Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire, I am the volatile factor of my (nonexistent) Empire. The polished verbiage that I pamper my resume with is synonymous to the mascara, rouge, and pointy heels I pamper myself with. I want to improve the quality of your perception of me in the office and in the bar. I don’t want to evaporate like cheap alcohol; I want to leave a Sharpie-infused permanence of me in your mind, forever. When I leave the bar, when I leave the office, I am telepathically whispering to you, “Don’t forget me.”
“Dear Potential Employer, I write an alternative sex column. I, however, am not a pervert. As we all know, sex sells, and I am simply responding to a void in a famished niche of alternative youth culture. I write fictional stories of fictional accounts. My blog is a grocery-store romance novel for the web 2.0 era with one distinct difference: I spin tales in 500 words, not 500 pages. My target audience is twenty-somethings with office jobs and RSS feeds, who eat their take-out lunches at their desk while surfing the net. I offer candid revelations that this young, urban, cafe latte luving, iPhone surfing, dive bar going, designer jean wearing ‘community’ day dreams about. My alternative sex column is nothing short of a ‘quick fix’.”
“Dear Cute Boy, I write an alternative sex column. Yes, my mind is in the gutter, and if you’re into filth, I could be convinced to take you there. If you prove to be entertaining, I might write some prose inspired by you. If you work in a record store, ride a fixie, or write in a Moleskine, I’ve probably already written about you. And don’t worry, I won’t print your name; I never do.”
Filed under: BFFs4Eva, casual sex, dating, love, luv, sex | Tags: BFFs, BFFs4Eva, casual sex, cute boys, dating, double date, frivolity, sex, witty banter, youth
I have never met a boy that can make me laugh the way my BFF does. She is beautiful inside and out. Hanging out with her is as effortless as breathing. When I go out with a boy, I compare his witty banter with hers, and it is never as clever. There are things we find endearing about each other that no boy ever would. Sometimes when she snores, I wake her up, but sometimes I don’t, because I think it’s kind of cute. Our friends say we are gay for each other, but we know that unlike gay love our love is not sexual, and it will last forever. We are in platonic love; it is perfection.
We met two boys that are also BFFs, and that is the best part. We go home with them, split off into separate rooms for the nite, and in the morning we put our clothes back on, put on our sunglasses, we discuss how tore-up and beat we feel, and we make our way to the local breakfast joint without them. We discuss our favorite parts of the nite–at the bar, at the party, in the alley way, what he said, what he meant, what it means over coffee, eggs, toast, and a fruit cup. We are amused by the convenience of this sexual encounter. We see our love in their love; they mirror each other, and it is endearing. We are not smitten with these boys, but with the idea of them. They are not romantic; they are vulgar, and we like it. We are not looking for love or exclusive-significant others and neither are they.
Filed under: love, relationships | Tags: bus, cute boys, journals, love, moleskine, relationships
I see you on the bus. You are listening to your iPod and writing/drawing in your dogeared Moleskine. The bus stops at an intersection, and you look up briefly and catch my eye, and I look away, and you look out the window and watch the passersby. You nibble on your pen cap, scratch your head, cross your legs, and start a new page. I just want to know what you write about. I just want you to know I want to be your muse. I pine for your poetics. I pine for your way with words. I pine for your sentimental doodles. I pine for you. You are creative like Hemingway, Matisse, and Picasso.
I want to know what inspires you. If I could skim through the pages of your Moleskine, I would know what you have seen, where you have been, and what you have done. I would notice where your handwriting changes a little bit because sometimes you aren’t sober when you’re inspired. I would notice the gaps in time where you have no entries. I would notice the words you crossed out because you found a better way to say it. I imagine your journal is filled with voyeuristic quotations, song lyrics, witty banter, philosophies about life, bloggable memes, and the names of women you’ve slept with. I want my name to be in your Moleskine. I want your name to be in my Moleskine.
I hope you prefer the plain to the ruled or squared styles because you’re a boy that doesn’t like margins, boxes, and limitations. A pure, innocent, blank canvas is your favorite. If I could show you my Moleskine, and you could show me yours, we might fall in love, and you could be my second canvas, and I could be yours.
