Nigel's possibly slightly less stupid love life

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Day of Discord hot dog BBQ in the park, rain falling hard, harder, impossibly hard like sheets of wet assaulting the arched canopy of oak and maple. Little band of revelers laughing, shivering, eating wet hot dogs and corn dogs and pork rinds and artificially-red-flavored sponge-like snack cakes, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon out of styrofoam cups. Blue-eyed stranger, clearly crazy laughing singing at the end of the table. I saw him when he arrived, hooded mystery goat-beard man. He looks like my He Whom We Will Not Name, except he doesn't; there's just something about him. The hood and the goat-beard, the pale eyes, only these eyes are an unreal shade of light aqua blue.

Aqua.

Decision was made instantly, this pale-eyed stranger.

"I don't know what's happening; all I know is that wherever you're going, I'm following you."

Hours later, drinks later (but not too many drinks) I was just going to kiss his cheek, that spot at the corner of his jaw where I could catch his scent, but he intercepted me with smooth lips and rough stubble and tongue and sweetness.

In the morning, I asked about the scar on his back but he doesn't remember getting it. I suppose that compared to the other scar, eight angry inches bisecting his smooth young perfect belly, a little half-inch gash wouldn't have been memorable.

[Adios]

IF I WASN'T HAPPILY MARRIED AND IMPOTENT YOU COULD STICK YOUR FINGER IN MY EAR AND DAY.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

IF I WASN'T HAPPILY MARRIED AND IMPOTENT YOU COULD STICK YOUR FINGER IN MY EAR AND DAY.

Love you too, Hawk.

[Adios]

IF I WASN'T HAPPILY MARRIED AND IMPOTENT YOU COULD STICK YOUR FINGER IN MY EAR AND DAY.

Love you too, Hawk.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Mr Language.

We have been on five dates and he refuses to kiss me. I asked him, finally, after the third date, and he said that he is struggling with a barrier.

The barrier is that he is in love with another woman.

She lives in LA and is nearly 20 years younger than him. Than us. This does not bother me, because I am in love with my best friend, and I don't anticipate that changing. He lives in Portland but might as well live in LA. Maybe I can send him there, to live with Mr. Language's beautiful young love.

Everything is changing soon, he says. He has an idea, a plan. Sunday, he says. It will be memorable, and it will be something I've never done before, he says. I am in knots, trying to figure out what it is that he is so certain I've never done before. He will tell me on Friday, he says.

For his plan to work I have to know about it in advance. He says.

He is a tease, this Mr. Language. He barely touches me, won't let me close. He will take my hand at the end of a date, and he will allow a brief hug. He is a handsome man, with mad-professor hair, a Polish nose, and dark-ringed bright blue eyes. A scar extends through his   lower lip, and there is a scar on his chin. He says the bone showed through. I am curious to find his other scars, and he knows this.

His great strength is in his words; he is a great crafter of language, a master. He frames seemingly innocent texts to have subtly suggestive subtexts, knowing what will go through my head. He freely admits to baiting me; he says my frustration delights him. He says I am refreshing. His reticence arouses me, and he likes knowing that. This is the shape of our courtship.

For the first time in a long time, I am completely not at all in control of the situation. I am bewildered. Who is driving relationship?

Mr. Language is driving relationship.

[Freeky]

Nigel, I'm all "EEEEE!" in delight for you!

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Thanks Freeky!

[Dysnomia]

MUST



POST




DETAILS

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

How about a pic?



I am sure I will post details... but not TOO many details.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I like Scrabble. A lot. I used to play various versions of Scrabble with a friend, including co-operative Scrabble, swear word Scrabble, made-up-word Scrabble, aesthetically pleasing Scrabble, and story Scrabble, in which we had to write a story using every word on the board. I am not especially good at Scrabble, but I am especially good at having fun, and Scrabble is fun. Other than Scrabble, I hate board games. They fill me with dread.

Talking, Mr. Language and I lowered some barriers, made our way to another level of intimacy. I like this new level. It makes me nervous, but in a pleasant way.

This TED talk has been on my mind a lot lately:  http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/helen_fisher_tells_us_why_we_love_cheat.html

This is one by my favorite biophysicist: http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/luca_t...scent.html

I was reading the biography of Luca Turin on the train to Seattle last Spring, on my way to meet a lover. My heart was sore from losing Grendelmouse, and I was about halfway through my Laments. I want to quote Turin, but I can't find the book; he speaks of a perfume called Paradox, and says that it is the scent of beautiful heartbreak.

I am trying to put the parts of this story in the right order. They all have to do with each other.

I did not notice until I read that book that my perfumes are associated with particular lovers, and when we part ways I don't wear that scent anymore. I have a shelf of half-used perfumes, and it is interesting to me to note who gets a perfume, and who doesn't.

In the midst of my own beautiful heartbreak, on the train running away from Portland, I became obsessed with acquiring Paradox, and in Seattle my lover, indulgently, took me to a few perfume counters trying to find it. Finally, on a tip from one of the salesgirls, he called the largest perfume house in Seattle, who told him that the only place to buy Paradox on the West Coast is the perfume house in Portland.

Odor is such a fundamental element in attraction. I played Scrabble once on a first date with a beautiful half-Seminole bartender. I knew I would sleep with him as soon as I shook his hand and got a whiff of his scent. Some people are nearly odorless; others are almost overwhelming, but it's the basic nature of that underlying odor that determines attraction. Mario stinks; he is easily the smelliest man I have ever been with, and if I were to describe his odor it would sound repulsive, but to me it was an aphrodisiac. He said that he didn't have to turn to look when I approached; he could recognize me by my scent. There is a very, very expensive and barely-used bottle of Mitsouko hidden away in a box in my bedside drawer; I bought it and started wearing it instead of Paradox the day I decided to accept that I was falling in love with him.

Very shortly before my first date with Mr. Language, I purchased a bottle of Shalimar. I have not been wearing it.

He asks if I want to play Scrabble.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Holy shit, as if just not kissing me wasn't driving me crazy enough, he's started writing emails with... um... erotic elements.

FFFFFFFUUUUUU...

[Juana]

Shalimar is amazing. And Scrabble, too.

Holy shit, as if just not kissing me wasn't driving me crazy enough, he's started writing emails with... um... erotic elements.

FFFFFFFUUUUUU...

You are in trouble, I think. 

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Shalimar is amazing. And Scrabble, too.

Holy shit, as if just not kissing me wasn't driving me crazy enough, he's started writing emails with... um... erotic elements.

FFFFFFFUUUUUU...

You are in trouble, I think. 

Yeah, I think I'm all kinds of fucked-up over this one.

He reminded me that tomorrow he tells me The Plan. 

[BabylonHoruv]

How about a pic?



I am sure I will post details... but not TOO many details.

hehe, he looks like a dissipated artist.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

How about a couple more where he looks even more like a dissipated artist?



WITH A STACHE: