21 + 31 + 36

It wasn’t an accident. We did it on purpose. With balance. I was the lackadaisical participant, he was the eager one, and she was the hot babe glue holding it all together.

I call that night ‘Fingering Friday’ but every time I think of that night it feels mislabeled. It should be ‘Suckling Saturday’ or ‘Sensual Sunday’…

I think it was Saturday. The reason it even happened was because I had to be at work the next day at 12 and the party was near work and I only start work at 12 on Sundays.

It WAS Saturday…technically Sunday… it must’ve been 3 am when we went to bed…

I have a chinchilla because I don’t know whether I’m a cat or dog person.

SATURDAY

I walk in and Duck immediately compliments my hair. “Oh my God I love your hair! We have the SAME EXACT HAIR! Do you know how hard it is to find hair like ours? I have another friend with our hair, too. We need to all hang out.”

Duck is brunette, with mid-length, slightly frizzy waves.

She gives me a tour of the house and as we wiggle down the hall filled with family photos (Duck is wide and I’m narrow and we’re walking side by side), she points out her boyfriend (the birthday boy who the party was being thrown for) in every picture, comments on his absurd cuteness, and tells me how much she loves him.

The relationship must be new.

After the Hall of Family Photos Tour I make my way to a scattering of strangers for introductions. Two other people comment on my hair.

A tall, black stranger wearing a skinny suit and even skinnier neck tie loves it, not specifying why. He asks to touch it. I oblige. I learn throughout the course of the evening and now throughout the course of our developing friendship that consent is his constant.

Another tells me she loves how wavy it is.

This other stranger is Vietnamese and quiet. The ends of her lips do not open wide when she speaks. It makes it seem like she’s holding back her words or saving you from bad breath. I learn later her breath is neutral.

My hair doesn’t usually get noticed in this way at parties.

Something is awry.

The night goes on. I do whatever it is I do that make people believe I am dark and mysterious. It’s never a goal. It’s a result. A result of wearing black and listening more than talking I guess.

And a result people love to share. Is there a party game I’m unaware of where at least three people, without consulting with one another, have to tell the same person they are dark and mysterious? If so, I’m never at parties long enough to report back to the scorekeeper. I either leave early or am having a threesome.

During a Harry Potter conversation I disclose I have no knowledge of Harry Potter beyond those two words. I’m labeled a Slytherin by someone who voices himself a good judge of character upon first meeting people.

Later in the evening, the tall, dark hair lover tells me he likes my mystique and teaches me about the four houses of Hogwarts School.

I also learn how to block punches, spend hours in a hot tub, ignore Spud’s late night text blowup to the best of my ability, learn about sass & fizz, and end up in bed between the Vietnamese and black no- longer-strangers. 

Their skin color is important to me. I am a hue inbetween and a fan of ombré.

The bedroom stores way more than three tired bodies. It houses stacks of boxes. Rows of memories. Columns of belongings to crash into and break while feeling your way to the door en route to the bathroom after a 21 year old vagina squirts on your 36 year old everything and you enjoy aging and don’t want the fountain of youth spray to be on your skin any longer than necessary.

He’s to my right. She’s to my left. He’s explorative, gentle, inquisitive. She and I are both quiet and tired.

Yet somehow in my sleepy state I warm her up for him.

And he warms me up for himself. I don’t feel much.

Maxi pads are numbing.

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