Love in 2007.
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He was leaning against the bar when I approached him. I was drawn to the youthfulness of his rosy cheeks and the roughness of the gash on his forehead. When I introduced myself, he was warm yet evasive about his facial injury. "What can I say? I like it rough," he said in a thick Scottish brogue. It got a chuckle out of me, which got the most devilish, disarming grin out of him. My skin was tingling with a mixture of nervousness, naivete and excitement. We stood in a darkened corner next to a bunch of dykes playing pool, discussed soul music and made fun of all of the other patrons. When it was my turn to buy drinks, I bought two shots of Jagermeister. When I returned to him with the drinks, he initially refused. "I can't drink that," he said. When asked why, he stated "I can only do two things after drinking that shit: Fight and fuck." I forcefully put the glass in his hand and said "Here's to both" before slamming down that putrid brown liquid. He chuckled, threw on the grin and followed my lead. The reddish-blond stubble around his mouth rendered my lips almost completely numb, but I didn't care. I kept trying to fumble for the hallway light but couldn't quite reach it in the dark with his hands all over me. In complete darkness, he swept me off my feet and laid me down on the ground. I could hear the rustle of him taking off his jacket before he lowered himself onto me. His body smelled of something like Terre D'Hermes, and his mouth tasted like liquor. When I'd decided I'd had enough of the hallway carpet pressing into me, I got up and beckoned him into my bedroom. I turned on a lamp with a green bulb and stood and faced him. He walked over to me, put his hand on my face gently and said "Kim Novak?"
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