There comes a time in a young woman's life where she begins to reflect on all her past lovers. All the people she's kissed, dissed or even held hands with. There are other things people do when they're a bit older, but we won't mention those things here. I keep thinking about how for some reason the ones who chose me, were never good enough. They were too boring. The boys who brought me mix tapes and ice cream to my front door, the boys who told me I was beautiful and to keep my curls, those were the boys I never bothered with. I tossed them aside like a bra with a broken clasp.
I pursed my lips out to the men who told me I should change my hair, the men who told me I talked too much. The men who watched my mouth move and never noticed the gap between my teeth, they were focusing in on my glittery chap stick. I put on too much makeup for these men, made them mix tapes that they tossed under their beds. Their stubble would irritate my chin, they would kiss my neck too hard and always asked me why I had a curfew. They never wanted to buy me limeade or hear about my childhood.
There was one guy who sticks out like a sore thumb. We'll call him E. E was a tortured soul from the wrong side of the tracks, he loved Elliott Smith (ha ha) and listened to Bright Eyes. He was 6'1 and thin, wore skinny jeans and was in some local band. He had big green eyes and wore thick black Buddy Holly glasses. All these things would classify this dude as a straight up dork, but he somehow inherited one of the biggest egos (still to this day) of anybody I have EVER met. This guy thought he was gods gift to women. It didn't matter that he was terribly awkward in social situations, that he could barely work up the courage to grab my hand when we were alone. His tongue was clumsy in my mouth and his lips were chapped. It didn't matter that he often wore band t shirts that were too small for his long torso, he thought he was the shit so I damn well believed him.
So the night when E asked for my number, as you can only imagine, I was a puddle. I took to his bullshit like a kitten with a saucer of milk. After all I was only 16, and nobody told me that if it sounds too good to be true, it fucking is. I found out the hard way that he had about 3 other girls (a blond, a brunette, and even a redhead) who he was recycling around to entertain himself. When I called him out, he of course denied it, told me he was "falling in love with me" (ha ha) and tried to string me along some more. After a few sappy aim conversations I decided this was just too exhausting for my own good. I reminded myself that he had buckteeth and wasn't that great of a kisser, all of this reasoning helped, but I still couldn't help but feel this little bolt of electricity whenever he looked over at me at a show. I'd keep eye contact for a few seconds then break it abruptly, letting him know that I wasn't going to change my mind.
Attraction is such a tricky little bitch, you honestly never know. I've had men who I wouldn't think for a second I'd want to jump into the sack with, but once they give me this little look and suddenly the pilot light is on and your cheeks are rosy. At 21 I still don't understand how this works, maybe one day I'll figure it out. If I don't I'll just remember it all and keep writing it down, Kiss by Kiss.
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