Friday, August 3, 2012

How July ended

There I was at the hotel lobby, sitting on a couch that reeks of disinfectant spray and what I assumed to be a mix of perfumes of a thousand hotel guests. I sat uncomfortably, checking myself out over a huge wall mirror adjacent to the couch. A slew of guests started coming in, passing by me, but I was generally oblivious to my surroundings. I checked my phone, and the time read a few minutes past nine in the evening. If I wasn’t so sure about it, I still had a few minutes to flee. Escape. Would I rather spend the night bouncing from one website to another or drinking with a person I was going to meet for the first time? I chose the latter. Or rather, time chose for me, because moments later, as I was checking my teeth on my phone’s screen, a figure appeared in front of me.


I looked up and saw the person I was meeting with. His smile revealed confidence and his face showed a younger image compared to the one in the pictures he’d sent over the Internet. I stood up and shook the hand he extended. I sat back down, and he sat next to me. I wasn’t good at first meetings, especially when it was something that had the possibility of casual sex written over it. But that was the thing—I agreed to meet up with him because he didn’t seem like the others; he had just the right amount of libido coursing through his glands that talk about sex or anything that leads to it was scarce, if anything. I liked how he didn’t ask me to take off my shirt the first time did a video chat. I liked how mature beyond his years he was. I liked how I wasn’t attracted to him. After moments of awkward pauses between what seemed to be a question-and-answer segment and a few caught glimpses here and there, we decided to head to the bar and revere shots of Jose Cuervo.


The dimness of the hotel bar seemed to have pulled away whatever sheet of awkwardness that covered us; I, for one, felt completely at ease and insanely familiar with someone I had just met. During the first couple of shots, as if some sort of assessment, we talked about the same things we had already talked about online. He was consistent about the things he had told me. A few shots more and any trace of uneasiness and reserved behaviour was just fiction. A few more tequila shots and I’d find his hands on my thighs or shoulders when they’re not arrested by his mobile phone or a cigarette or a shot glass. All attempts at resisting were futile; the alcohol had stripped me of logic and whatever qualms I had about committing the same mistake again. Two or so hours, countless tequila shots, a few bottles of light beer, some fries, and a pack of cigarettes later, we found ourselves outside his hotel room.


how july ended


You would think that I’d learned my lesson, but no. Hell no. I have this strange habit of disappointing myself, I guess. And I came to realize that perhaps the reason why I keep committing the same mistakes is probably because I didn’t get the lesson, or I’m just one stubborn kid. It’s got to be the latter. When you think about it, really, not every mistake teaches us a lesson; some mistakes just are mistakes.