In the Wee Hours

Four-something in the morning and I'm suddenly wide awake and anxious, no way am I going back to sleep anytime soon unless I write out whatever it is that bothering me. Immediately my mind clings to Sunday. Sunday, who I fear must think I’m a complete idiot after the email I sent him several days ago in which I'm freaking out about a guy calling me "sweet thing" in the salutation of a request to set up a time for an informal photo shoot. True, the last time I had seen him- this man, who we can call Idol, as that's what I had thought his name was when we first met on a crowded and noisy dance floor at the beginning of this summer- he was quite drunk and I had to keep removing his hand from creeping down my lower back to my ass. He smelled like sweat, not the warm, sometimes horsey, smell of a man who has been dancing all night in a warm suit, but the pungent stink of unwashed armpit. He was wearing a kaki utility kilt and t-shirt, a stark contrast to the formal atmosphere of the dance. He said his thighs were starting to rub together uncomfortably under the kilt from all the dance, presumably because he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Sweet thing.” Why? Perhaps he was drunk when he composed the email, he hadn’t seemed one to use pet names. I frequently enjoy pet names, endearments- Sunday peppers his conversations with them, and it’s one of the things that I find so enjoyable about talking to him… though he tends to use endearments that I personally find more appealing “luv,” “darling,” “beautiful,” etc., other pet names make me squirm at the mere thought: “sugar lips,” “honey thighs.” I sincerely hope I can live a lifetime without being addressed as such.

Anyhow, I had been writing Sunday an email when Idol’s appeared in my inbox and I read it. I immediately began to write my immediate, squeamish reaction into that email, which for the last several days, I can only think must have made me seem incredibly immature. And now, awakening with anxiety turning in my breast I'm immediately drawn to write to Sunday again, explaining how silly I now know that I am. I am so embarrassed at how afraid I can be to trust people, to let them in, to not run away like a school girl threatened by cooties. Part of it I'm sure is that in some dimly accessible recess of my brain, I must be, and probably am, so vain that I believe every man I open myself up to is going to fall in love with me and I'm afraid to have to face rejecting them, afraid to hurt their feelings and afraid that I won't be able to, that I won't be able to assert what I need and what I want, that I'll be trapped forever with someone I never wanted to be with. I can be such a spaz about dating, or even the possibility that someone might want to date me, and it embarrasses me to no end.

I feel like I should have grown up and gotten over it all long ago and I imagine Sunday must thinks I’m quite an immature little idiot, though he says he doesn’t. Most of the time it seems like I'm far too ready to assume he thinks the worst of me while his opinion of me seems to remain more or less unwavering, if he is to be believed, that is. I suppose I have trouble trusting him too. I wish I didn't have such a hard time believing him, I wish I didn’t just think he's lying to protect me from hurt feelings, I sincerely wish I were more secure and I could just grow up and deal.

I did go out and take pictures with Idol. I insisted on bringing a friend along because I wasn't sure of his intentions and when I couldn't find a friend to bring, I brought my mom. It turned out to be completely fine. And really fun. As I said, I'm rather vain, I love having my picture taken. And I had fun with him. I felt as though it had probably been rather silly to get so worked up and worried in the first place. I came home utterly exhausted, passed out, unable even to read before falling fast asleep.

Then I woke up in the wee hours to this: worrying what if Idol is going to try to ask me out though I only want to be his friend, worried about what Sunday thinks of me and about how much I've felt like putting my foot in my mouth when talking to him lately- how much I've been impulsively drawn to write to him until he's reminded me that, yes, silly, he thinks he quite understands by now and no, he doesn't think I'm an idiot, no he finds me quite charming and he always enjoys reading what I have to write, don’t worry. And really, he's probably telling the truth. Why shouldn't he? Perhaps because he's something of a Lothario, I fear that the reassurances are just part of his act with women, some set up to make me feel good about myself and having known him no matter what his real opinion.