What's good for the goose...Sometimes I think I am too intuitive for my own good. Sometimes I'm not.
I am a very reasonable person except when I allow myself the privilege of the occassional irrational episode in the same way that I allow myself to polish off an entire bag of Miss Vickie's jalapeno chips. I gorge myself and then feel terrible afterward.
On the way home from the airport, having just dropped off my visiting sisters, my boyfriend insisted I drive the car. I really despise driving in Quebec because the drivers really are as bad as you may have heard. In addition to not using signal lights, driving far too fast and passing you on solid lines the department of highways gives us far too much credit as Quebecois drivers. On roads that would be fit for two lanes in any other province or state, there are three. The Decarie Interchange is so badly designed, in fact, that urban planning students are often sent to study it. This, explains the professor, is how you are not to do things.
So that is what I was faced with while I quietly tended to my emotional hangover. By the time I reached the Ville-Marie Tunnel, I was not at all prepared to deal with it. It is a long curving three-lane tunnel with bright lights on the ceiling and upper walls, leaning brick on either side and I swear it goes on for 1km. After about 20 seconds, I started to go cross-eyed. My palms began to sweat and all I could think about was how easily, should my hands slip, could I ricochet off the adjacent wall and cause a major accident. Dont think about it! Just drive! I got myself so nervous obsessing over the bad design of the hazardous tunnel that it occurred to me, since an accident was inevitable, that maybe I should just get it overwith. Maybe I should just drive into the wall so I could stop being scared of it accidentally happening. This is also why I am frightened of heights. Once I get close to an edge, falling seems probable.
I am really glad I am not crazy. I could be dangerous.
In any case, I got us safely through the other end of the tunnel and arrived at home in need of a tall cold drink.
That night I met up with some of my best friends who traveled as far as England for this get together. My boyfriend expressed his disappointment in that we wouldn't be having any time alone together for a while yet. C'est la vie! The next installment of visitors had arrived and I intended to enjoy them. After far too many drinks on my balcony we decided to go to a popular seedy club in the gay village to dance the night away. Well, that was the intention anyway...but I already had a strange feeling about one of the girl's he'd invited over. She is an aspiring model I'd had issues with before. I know that he's gone for drinks with her alone, that he thinks she's hot, that he thinks she's funny. I'd met her before and immediately was relieved that she wasn't nearly as cute as I'd imagined. I thought that I would be comfortable around them...but something felt off.
As soon as we arrived, we met our first challenge. The club didn't allow people in with open-toed shoes; claiming it was too dangerous. Fortunately, faking the British accent she'd learned so well after living in London for 2 years, charmed the doorman enough to let her in "just this once." Once inside, my boyfriend who claimed to have missed me so much all week, began dancing with the model. Now, the club plays cheesy R&B and Sean Paul dancehall so the dancing that was going on involved humping each others asses and a lot of touching. I tried to ignore it. That sort of thing usually doesn't bother me at all. I am not a jealous person. I am secure in my relationship. I am reasonable. I was going crazy.
For about 45 minutes the dancing went on. For about 45 minutes I allowed myself an episode of irrationality.
At that point, I didn't want to talk to either of them. I felt shafted. I felt demoted. I was not my boyfriend's right hand man. He thought I was being unreasonable and became quite frustrated with me. I wanted to agree with him, but the figurative bag of chips wasn't yet empty.
When she tried to talk to me, she had intelligent things to say like, "Can you believe how cheap the drinks are!?" and "Are you having fun!?" To avoid saying anything I might regret, I opted to be monosyllabic and turn away. Finally I realized it might just be best for me to go to another floor of the club and concentrate of having a good time with my traveling friends. So I did, and she followed.
I was in full eye-rolling and growling/hissing mode. I felt like I was 16. It was almost as rejuvenating as it was frustrating. I just couldn't figure out why it was bothering me so much, though.
The night went on, we all went home and there was a little tension in the air. My boyfriend felt stifled and judged, I felt shafted and misunderstood.
It wasn't until I was talking to a friend of this butt-humping model that it was revealed to me that her intention was to inspire a threesome. She confided in this friend that she didn't think I was "into her."
Damn right I wasn't into her. Doesn't she know threesome inciting etiquette!? You are supposed approach the woman first. You have to make the woman feel special before you hump her boyfriend's ass. Not that I would have wanted to do that with her but at least there wouldn't have been all the weird tension.
In any case, that little revelation really helped us clear the air. I was right; I wasn't being unreasonable. She was trying to get into my boyfriend's pants. I just didn't realize she wanted to get into mine, too.