Take a guess what exactly is on my mind at present. Or rather, who. Yeah, you got it. Well done, must have been tough.
But pushing aside the thoughts of Kevin that are invading my mind, I have to admit that I am concerned about my response to him. I am the pragmatic type: sensible, no-nonsense. I don’t go out on a Saturday night to pull some random guy, I don’t hand out my phone number to someone I meet on the street, I don’t fancy men on the basis of their looks and a phone call. It takes me weeks of conversation to even consider friendship with a guy.
I met a guy at Tracks before we came out here. Let me qualify that statement. Tracks is a night club in Leeds: not the biggest or the best, but we’ve turned into our regular Thursday night out (with Claire around, we have a regular Monday night out, a regular Tuesday night out, a regular…you get the picture). And I didn’t meet this guy, I was forcibly introduced.
We had arrived about twenty minutes earlier. The lads had already disappeared to get the drinks in. A couple of girls had already made their way to the dance floor (not me, I need to be a bit buzzed before I get the nerve to dance…or should I say, flail my arms around slightly maniacally). The remainder were sitting at a corner table, ‘checking out the talent’, as Claire succinctly puts it. There were some good-looking guys there, I won’t deny that. But unlike Claire, or Jennifer, or any of the other girls, I believe in knowing a guy before I pull them. (Claire will argue that she believes in knowing him first, but her required time of acquaintance is roughly half an hour).
So it is upon Claire’s insistence that I point out a lad that I find attractive. I do this assuming that Claire will take into consideration that guys in clubs usually hope for a quick lay, and that I rarely feel the need to talk to someone so desperate.
I was wrong.
Before I could stop her, Claire got up for a quick chat with the guy that I had suggested was fairly fit (that would be the British definition of fit, not the connotation that involves a man working out six hours a day…although that always helps). Five minutes later, and I am dragged over to Andrew (a maths and computing student, and Kel, he seems really nice!).
Thirty minutes and a drink later, he has asked me back to his place. I decline politely, and am viciously christened a cock-tease.
The following day, Claire questions why I didn’t at least get off with him. She is incredulous when I point out that I didn’t fancy him. Quick transcript:
“You didn’t fancy him!? But he was really good-looking!”
“Being good-looking doesn’t equate to being fanciable Claire.”
She looks at me blankly: “Only in your world, then.”
“Sounds like it. For me, to fancy a guy is to know him as a friend and to want to get to know him as a lover.”
Claire is staring at me like I have a second head. “Kel, if you don’t fancy a guy before you know him, then all he will ever be is a friend.”
“Not true. Being friends first means that you already have trust and understanding on which to base a relationship. If you are friends before you hop into bed, you know what to expect; it’s not then a case of jumping into the unknown.”
“Well maybe, just once, you should take the risk, follow your heart and ‘jump into the unknown’. Haven’t you ever looked at some stranger and got that heavy, tingling feeling in the pit of your stomach? Do you never meet someone that invokes this intense lust and infatuation? Don’t you ever meet guys that you want to get to know inside out?”
“Quite simply, no.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone does.”
“No, you mean: everyone who bases their emotions solely on looks does. Ignore the looks, focus on the person, and then worry about what you feel.”
“Are you calling me shallow?!”
“No. I’m trying to say that a relationship initially based on purely physical attraction can only ever be sexual. For there to be love, there needs to be more substance to a relationship. And there is no substance in fucking some guy you met twenty minutes earlier at a club! I’m not like you in this respect. I don’t find myself obsessed with every good-looking lad I ever meet, and I’m certainly not going to jump in bed with a virtual stranger.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one. Although I do take some offence to the suggestion that I am a slut.” Claire smiles to imply she isn’t bothered: largely because she is aware that my insinuation isn’t entirely inaccurate. “One day though, you’ll loosen up and meet a guy that you fall instantly in lust with, and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“The day that I agree with one of your views on anything, please shoot me.”
So there you go. I am aware that all this may make me seem boring or prudish (although this perception is probably enhanced greatly by my attitudes being juxtaposed with Claire’s). In my mind, the simple truth is that Claire is the passionate fiery type (hey, she’s a red-head, what do you expect?), who is fully expected, courtesy of her character, to proclaim her undying love and devotion to a different man every six seconds, before she inevitably gets bored.
Being more grounded and practical, I prefer to know someone on an intellectual level. I want to know a man’s favourite colour, his most-read author, his greatest phobia, his least-liked food, before matters even turn romantic, let alone sexual. I want mutual trust and respect. I want stability. I want to enter into a relationship where I can be sure that I won’t be on the receiving end of the eventual boredom of a male version of Claire.
So why am I getting the feeling that Kevin could break down these sensible defences of mine in seconds? My best guess is that my current intense feelings compare to Claire’s definition of fancying someone; that my heart is ignoring my head and preparing to ‘jump into the unknown’. My God, am I turning into Claire?
Someone please shoot me.
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