So KS and I were walking down Prospect after dinner yesterday as two large athletic-looking White guys walked towards us, presumably on their way to another club for dinner. One of them looked kind of familiar to me, and it wasn’t until we’d almost passed each other that I realized he hadn’t been in a random precept with me or something, but he was in fact the random White guy I hooked up with in December. I’d never known his last name to begin with, so it shouldn’t surprise me that I didn’t instantly recognize him for who he was — in fact, that I might not have recognized him at all had he not been wearing the same sweatshirt he was wearing that night — but it’s still quite strange. I hate that this thought is even in my head, but it’s there so I might as well write it: I never thought I’d be “that girl”. But here I am. And my only regret is that comparatively speaking to last weekend, hooking up with this guy (whom KS and I have jokingly begun to refer to as “White Jay,” which bears no relationship to his actual first name but is just hilarious) wasn’t that great.
Daphne Brooks referred to Eartha Kitt as “shamelessly shameless” in class on Monday, and I think that’s going to be my new motto.
Passing him and feeling nothing more than “ah, I’m glad I figured out how I know him” is intellectually interesting to me, though. KS was livid that I didn’t point out who our sidewalk-mate was until after he’d passed so he couldn’t get a good look at him, though my defense–that I hadn’t realized who it was until the moment I said something–was pretty unfalsifiable. KS then commented about how we didn’t even acknowledge each other, which made me wonder if he’d recognized me, though I suppose look pretty different outside of my Santa hat and club clothes (or, really, with my clothes on at all, because I suppose that the majority of our interaction outside of the darkness of the dance floor involved general nudity and fun-having). It was just a brief wondering, though, and then all of my interest in this non-interaction ceased.
Now I’m wondering if that overwhelming disinterest should come so easily to me, though I can think of no reason to be invested in him whatsoever.
If KS were reading this, I feel like he’d tell me I treat sex like such a guy sometimes. Which I guess just means I like it and am unafraid to admit or act upon that, and don’t need someone whispering sweet nothings into my ear to get off. And I resent that gender normativity. …But I still wonder if having no real opinion about running into him is healthy.
Ugh, I can’t wait til this thesis business is finished so I can get back to all of my sex-and-sexuality reading. I just bought The Ethical Slut, which will maybe help me with questions like this.