Vividblurry: Kill Bill

Oh no. Oh my dear god. His hands. Augh. His hands are rubbing my back. His hands are rubbing my back and they�re creeping downward toward my waist. I knew it. Oh god, I knew it. Ah! There they go! Around my waist and under my stomach! His hands are now touching � rubbing! � oh god, they�re rubbing my stomach and I think I�m going to throw up.

I should not have asked him for a massage. Oh sure, his Gay.com profile says he is licensed in massage therapy, but these days they give out massage therapy licenses to amputees, for crying out loud. No, this isn�t a massage. This is just some cheap way to get me shirtless and lure me towards his bed. Which, by the by, I passed on the way to the living room. There were three cats sleeping in that nest of a bed. Three cats! If he thinks my face is going to be shoved into one of those pillows, he has another thing coming.

This nightmare scenario � this freaking nightmare scenario, and yet, it isn�t until he opens his mouth while perched on my butt and grinding his fists into my lower back that I realize I had driven 50 miles for something I really, really, truly did not need.

�You�ve lost weight since the last time I�ve seen you.�

You son of a bitch.

�At least 10 pounds.�

Oh my god, you son of a bitch! I�m going to strangle you!

�Yeah, definitely 10 pounds. It shows in your face.�

Oh, that�s it. That�s it! I�m going to kill you!

I flip around so that I�m on my back. Of course, this means that he�s now straddling my crotch, but there�s just no other way. I ask him to remove his T-shirt. No, I demand him. Just remove your stupid white Hanes T-shirt so that I can see how much weight you�ve packed on since I�ve seen you last December, when you claimed to be strip dancing at some local dive bar. Remove it so I can see your shapeless stomach and atrophied pecs. Good. Now toss it on the floor.

He looks down at me, grinning, as if the very sight of his naked upper body is worth the 75 cents I had paid in tolls. In a way, it is. I tend to like bodies like his. A big, brawny man, with a barrel of a chest and a soft, cuddly tire around his waist. He has to be tan. A tubby tanorexic. Trust me, it�s hotter than it sounds.

The half-naked man straddling my waist isn�t tan. For this reason and many, many others, he will never be The One, but there is something about him that's enough to make me forget the horrible experience of our previous hookup, enough to make me instant message him out of the blue, to essentially throw myself at him.

Well, I say it's something about him. It's really something about me. I hook up with someone, vanish for six months, and then mysteriously resurface with the plain intention of doing it all over again. These guys have always taken me back. In a way, they are just as bad as I am.

At 2 a.m., I'm finally in my car, heading back home. I think of Uma Thurman, driving her convertible against a grainy black-and-white backdrop. "This time, I'm going to kill... Bill...." I know that I will never, ever drive to this man's apartment again. This time, I mean it.