I was meandering around Downtown Oakland, as I tend to do, when I walked into a cafe that I used to frequent between the ages of 17 – 24. I hadn’t been in there in years, mostly because gentrification really does ruin a lot of beautiful things, and I hadn’t seen anyone fuckable in there for quite some time. Which isn’t necessarily a dig against that place – it’s more a testament to my ever evolving taste in men. Turns out I’m not into the post-gentro artsy type anymore. (Actually, I don’t think I was ever into that type, but back when I had a ‘kid in a candy store’ approach towards sexuality, I’ll admit that I tried one of everything.)
When I walked in, I immediately ran into this guy who works there that I used to fuck seven years ago. Surprise, surprise. I don’t even mean that sarcastically – I guess if I had ever thought about him or where to find him, I wouldn’t have guessed that he’s still working at the same cafe as he was back when I fucked him all those years ago.
The encounter was a wee bit awkward, mostly because I’m such a god damn awkward mess sometimes. I was there on a professional pretenses, and getting slapped in the face with a healthy dose of “oh, yeah, I used to be such a raging slut over here all those years ago” unexpectedly knocked me off my game.
We engaged in the standard banter that is afforded people who used to fuck years ago, don’t care about each other whatsoever, but have run into each other under friendly and professional circumstances. I tried to push down the first thought that popped into my head, which was: “God, I’m glad I didn’t waste too much time fucking him or thinking I was interested in him.” I was suuuuper drunk when I fucked that dude. LOL. However, as soon as I pushed that thought down, another one popped up: “I’ve gotten better with age and he hasn’t.” Yeesh. Do I know no modesty? Apparently not. There were absolutely zero nice thoughts coursing through my head as we danced the dance of being nice to each other without any vested interest. As in, I’m ashamed of how much of an asshole I can be. Oh, no, wait – no I’m not. I utterly embrace my assholeishness, which is why I walk around in Miu Miu heels with my Louis Vuitton purse: for moments like this, when I run into someone I used to know who has probably cemented me in his mind as some slut he used to fuck. It’s because I need people like this to know that, yes, I’m that slut you used to fuck, and I’m doing pretty fucking good in life. Why did God make me like this? Oh, wait, I don’t believe in God, so that’s a moot question.
Although, as much as I can be a narcissistic, condescending little shit, I’ll admit it: there’s still a part of me that has no self respect because you know what I started thinking next? “I bet he’d give anything to fuck me again.” Like, omigod, come on! First of all, I am a grade A pervert. I’m supposed to be working not rewinding through old sex scenes and imposing new ones into the future. Second of all – well, anyone who knows anything basic about psychology knows that thinking “I bet he’d give anything to fuck me again” actually translates into “I hope he wants to fuck me again.” Not that I’d actually fuck him, but for some reason my ego needed a dose of feeling like the same man eater I used to be all those years ago, like every man wants me and I’m still qualified to play my favorite sport: sexually rejecting men. I need him to want to fuck me still because ya girl is fragile as fuck. This despite the fact that the person I fuck regularly these days is way, way hotter than this guy. Like my narcissism knows no bounds.
Anyways, that’s what went through my head over the course of about forty five seconds before I returned to the task at hand. I wonder if he thinks I’m a different person, all done up and being professional and looking like I make money. I mean, that’s what I want him to think. Or does he still think of me as some little slut. Who knows. I’ll never find out because I’ll probably never talk to him again, unless, of course, I see the opportunity to make money off him.