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Dating Blogger Amy: “Ms. Odell Goes to Washington’s”

Washington is a 29-year-old Owner and conflicted soul. He’s a tall, handsome Catholic who taught theology at a Catholic high school prior to owning. How he made the jump from what may as well have been monk-hood to Owning eludes … Read More

By / March 7, 2007

Washington is a 29-year-old Owner and conflicted soul. He’s a tall, handsome Catholic who taught theology at a Catholic high school prior to owning. How he made the jump from what may as well have been monk-hood to Owning eludes me. But, he says, he thinks he’s done with it, ready to move on to something else. Like a Jewess. Though he’s not steeped in Bibles every day (far as I know) his self-restraint intrigues, baffles, and inspires me as much as it screams of his piety. I always found Washington dashing and sexy. Though I hoped he’d reciprocate, I never knew if my pheremones were powerful enough. We’d flirt in person and on the phone from time to time, but since he’s an Owner my logical side assumes he’s doing this all day every day with pretty girls who may exude pheremones more potent than my own. And then I stumbled upon a way to increase the intensity of mine: A half-shirt*.

I bumped into Washington recently at a mild mainstream rave**. My signature rave costume is a belly-bearing top, baggy Capri pants, black and white Puma sneakers, and glitter. Lots of glitter.
For this mild mainstream rave I donned a tied-in-the-back white tee, low-slung, inky flared jeans, Pumas, a silver chain belt, and silver sequined wristbands. Walking down a flight of stairs in transit from one dance floor to another I raised my gaze when I noticed my companion greeting a crowd-member: Washington. We made twinkling eye contact and exchanged smiles. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and quickly remarked on—and eyed—my outfit. He was on his way to another venue and tried to get me to accompany him. I told him I wanted to stay at the rave, and he left planting a prolonged kiss on my right cheek. The next evening he sent me a text message: "Did I tell you how hot you looked in your little outfit last night?"

I was shocked. Washington had reached long-term crush status after months of polite social flirting I'd come to believe would never progress further. I taught myself to feel content with his place on Crush Island, never amounting to more than something like the hot lotion boy at the country club, who rubs your back every now and then but won’t engage further. I didn’t reply right away. He followed with: It was good to see you. Let me know if you’re out later.

The next morning the sunrise woke me at seven and I answered: Good to see you too. Don’t be such a stranger ;)

He replied: Xo.

I thought nothing more of the exchange with Lotion Boy of Crush Island until Wednesday night over a homemade dinner of maple-glazed salmon and asparagus at my apartment with my roommate. “Oh my God,” I said after checking my phone. “What?” Roommate queried. “You’ll never guess who texted me.” “Who?” “Washington,” I said still in slight shock. “Ooooooh. What did he say?” “ ‘Did I tell you how hot you looked in your little outfit at the rave last week?’ ” “Oh my God. Wow.” “This is like the second or third time he’s done this. What is going on?” “What are you going to say?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Oh my God, what am I going to say? What should I say? Let’s write it,” I thought aloud. “Well, what do you want to say?” “I could just say, ‘Well why don’t you do something about it?’” I suggested. “Why not?” Roommate urged. “Why not?” I seconded. “You don’t have anything to lose.” “You’re right,” I answered. “I don’t have anything to lose. I’m going to do it.” So I wrote back. And added a wink. The next afternoon he replied: Soon.

Exciting. But he was still Lotion Boy on Crush Island. So I thought little of it. Then Saturday night fell. Washington invited me to his place of Ownership. I told him I might*** stop by. Alas around 2 a.m., after crashing a house party on the Lower East Side with the best eighties dance music I’ve ever heard, Best Friend and I strode in. I knew Washington was planning his exodus from Crush Island when he picked me up from where I stood on the booth and gingerly set me back down a few feet over from my original perch, positioning me next to him. Shifting between standing and sitting, Washington seized an opportunity to pull me into his lap, where I perched for a good four minutes. When last call neared, Washington asked me what I was going to do. I shrugged coyly. He said he was going home and asked if I wanted to drop him off since we live in the same downtown hood. YES. I did. We got in the cab with Best Friend. Washington put his arm around me halfway down Eighth Avenue. When we turned onto Spring Street he asked, “Do you want to see why I have two roommates?” “Ok,” I giggled. We pulled up and sent Best Friend home with cab fare. We walked into Washington’s building, past the white moustached doorman and into the elevator. I knew I wasn’t going to spend the night or do anything extreme. Besides, both of us were sober. After the intensely tense two-story ride the elevator doors opened and my heels clicked onto the dark hardwood floor of Washington’s living room. (Yes, it’s the kind of apartment where the elevator opens to the apartment.) He took my long black cashmere blend Calvin Klein and hung it in a mostly empty coat closet next to his own. “Would you like anything to drink?” he broke the anxious silence. “Water, please.” He pulled a large wine glass from one of many dark charcoal cabinets and crossed the room to the most awkward fixture in the apartment: the Poland Spring water cooler next to the elevator. He walked back over to me and handed me the full glass adorned with hand-painted orange and yellow broad-petaled daisies. I took a sip and set it on the smooth granite bar. Washington hopped onto it. With his fingers and palm he gripped the waistband of my jeans and my wide woven leather belt and pulled me between his legs. We were nose to nose. “You one-upped me on the flirtiness,” he said. “Oh really?” I answered, planting my palms on either side of him. “You mean after you texted me like three times about my outfit being sexy?” “It wasn’t three times. It was twice,” he almost whispered. “Whatever. You started it,” I said. “It seems kind of frivolous to go around kissing people, doesn’t it?” “Frivolous?” My inner writer wrinkled my nose. He was looking for a different word. “I don’t just go around kissing people,” I said. Which makes this bone-tinglingly hot situation far less frivolous. Finally, after my months-long crush, we kissed. Very carefully. We continued our conversation nose to nose. We started talking about our jobs. Washington knew I was a writer for a Jewish publication. Religion obviously being an interest of his, he often asks about my work. At some point we kissed again. At some point he slid off the counter. He picked me up by the waist and put me in his former seat, taking my place in front of me. We continued talking about his conflicted soul and want of a new career nose to nose, lips to lips, my kneecaps lightly squeezing his hips. Then I heard the elevator glide, and I saw not only why Washington has two roommates, but a specimen herself in the flesh. She had dyed black hair and pale skin and wore an above-the-knee black dress with billowing sleeves. She wasn’t especially tall, thin, attractive or sober, but indeed put together quite nicely. She came over and threw her BlackBerry at Washington. She started complaining about some guy (an ex, I gathered) named Matthew. “Call Matthew,” she pleaded with Washington. “He won’t answer me.” Washington politely refused and amidst the excitement of two BlackBerries canoodling on the granite counter, one fell to the floor at Drunk Roommate’s hand and went into shock. “I can’t call Matthew,” Washington said. “You just broke my phone.” Drunk Roommate kept pleading and splayed out on the cushy gray couch, insisting she wouldn’t get reception in her bedroom when Matthew never called. Washington looked at her blankly and said, “I think I need to go to bed soon.” “Me too,” I seconded. Washington helped me into my coat and brought me downstairs. He hailed me a cab, kissed me goodbye, and I went home in a fit of excitement, my Lotion Boy fantasies finally coming to fruition. Our self-restraint having turned my ligaments to jelly, I prepared to face my next challenge: climbing my sixth-floor walk-up.

*Disclaimer: the highly effective half-shirt tactic is only proven to work after lots of crunches and running. (Return)

**Background for the inexperienced: Raves are intensely fun Madonna-like opportunities for reinvention, a time to completely abandon your nine-to- five self, wear a crazy outfit and enjoy the company of collected crazies craving beats, which, when dropped, send their feet rhythmically off the ground, one arm incessantly overhead. It’s not about knocking people over mosh-pit style, but really melding into one dancing, ecstatic mass with a courteous unrivaled chemistry that allows fellow ravers to navigate amongst throng. (Return)

***I find it’s best to keep things vague. It keeps suitors interested, engaged, and on the lookout for your next hot outfit. (Return)

Previous Entries:

Dating Blogger Amy: "Follow Through Failurexia"

Dating Blogger Amy: "This is Awkward"

Dating Blogger Amy: "Men are so Fucking Dense, Part II"

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