9:43 p.m. - September 18, 2002
Career non-option: Spying
I wrote this mentally in Swahili, both for the practice and the anonymity but perhaps shame (perception + reminder) will do me some good. Frankly, I'm not sure why I'm ashamed, but I am, deeply so. What sort of Manichean nonsense is that? I know why I'm ashamed--it's nothing but more drivel, like a pig wallowing in mud for the pleasure instead of hygiene.
There was this guy at my assignment and I watched him and this admission burns my cheeks and to summarize, I feel like a little man. Objectively, there was nothing truly spectacular about him but still, I watched him as often as I could despite the sick feeling in my stomach that moved up my torso and made me blush and when he came over to me I felt the same sort of adrenaline as when Lisa G. and I played Let-me-get-on-top-of-you-and-hump in seven year old proxy lust, as if the Here and Now were replaced by a horse on a deserted beach with two riders chasing the salt spray. Jesus. What a stupid thing to say.
Point being, I watched him surreptitiously but without much skill as he kept catching me and smiling and twice he approached me and I wanted to dive into the nearest garbage can and I couldn't tell if this was flirting or not and the desire aside, I didn't want it to be flirting or anything at all yet fundamentally I did; that is what is shameful.
The guy I was working with matter-of-factly announced that I was being hit on and it's too bad I'm not interested in guys and I laughed it off. I asked how did he know and he said Wasn't it obvious when he mentioned the Folsom Street fair and I had (still have) no clue what that meant (means), so I merely shut up. Butterflies! And I'm 26, soon to be 27. I'd like to ask what's wrong with me but everybody knows the answer already.
It's a matter of feeling comfortable with myself. How long does that take?
I'm tired and had fun today.
