chicken little

Things like this just don't happen to me. They are not supposed to. There is an order to the world - to the way things are supposed to work - that I have become very accustomed to, and as such, have managed to live my life accordingly.

It works like this: I like boy. Boy doesn't like me.

Or at least, that is how it is supposed to work, how it has worked so far in my experiences. Events of late though are forcing me to reconceptualize the way the world works, how I thought it did. Forcing me to deal with problems I thought I would never have to encounter. The problem: I like Boy A. Boy A likes me and does not want casual sex, wants something more, a relationship maybe. I like Boy B. Boy B likes me and wants the same.

Never have I had to deal with even one boy liking me, wanting something more than whatever brief encounters are enabled by booze and erect penises. And right now, I find myself with two boys that I like immensely that like me. Let's get to the specifics, the gossip, if you will: This past week whenever I have encountered Sean it has been very nice, has usually involved me trying to convey to Sean either verbally or through gently stroked palms that I like him, that I do fucking like him, and that I want something with him.

But now, here come's the complicating factor, the entrance of Andrew last night at the wall, telling me that he wanted to talk to me. We sat on the wall, and Andrew talked to me. The two of us, the two boys sitting over there on the wall, with decent body language, looking for all the world like they are about to go get it on, that very shortly one of them will get the balls to seize the sexual tension, forward it, take the other's hand and lead them away toward some bed somewhere, propelled by a grabbed hand, where some thing, some body part will be stroked, maybe even delicately, the thought of which suprises you considering how drunk both of them appear.

But yeah, yeah - there is that thing about books and their covers, and about me sitting there literally shocked speechless with my head hung down looking at Andrew's feet, because his feet are not as clever as his eyes and will not see in mine whatever it is, whatever it is not that I am thinking, that I am wondering, that I am maybe even dreading.

Andrew, the person, the boy that I was obsessed with for a very long period of time, that I longed for like no one else, told me, fucking me, that he liked me, that half the reason he comes to walls is to see me, and that he could not not tell me this anymore, that he really liked me, and has for two years, and that is he tired of these games. He told me this and much more, all of it unexpected, all of it recieved to stunned silence, to the sound of my universe, my conception of it falling to pieces.

And I didn't know what to say, and thankfully Andrew realized this, telling me that it was a lot to unload on me and that he didn't expect a response right then. I laughed, relieved, and said Good, cause you're not going to get one right now. And now it is response time, it is the time to figure out what to do, what to say to Sean, what exactly it is I want from Andrew, what it is I want in a broader sense, maybe even from life. Maybe not. Maybe I am just real confused right now and have a paper that needs to be written, have a bowling shindig I need to attend, and have a Rebecca that will hopefully be here tonight, that I will hopefully get to run around with.