33. hot damn i'm stupid.

I wouldn’t call myself a cuddle connoisseur.

Addict, yes, but my limited experiences don’t match up to those of my well handled utensil contemporaries.

But don’t worry: this isn’t going to be a too-long self-deprecating piece overridden with annoying insertions and lacking in embarrassingly silly and valuable learning-tidbits.

If anything, I’m proud of the progress I’ve managed to make over the past few years since my very first Spooning experience.

[Which was, I’ll say now, one of the most terrifying but enlightening experiences of my life.]

When I was in the process of sailing to the island of Lesbos, armed only with Birkenstocks and flannel - or the superficial knowledge of the lesbian being - sex was the last thing on my mind.

Raised in the clutches of a South Korean and a Dominican Army Colonel, who taught my sisters and me that handholding counts as a base and hugging leads to sex, zero attention was paid to the goings-on of my south of the border interests.

At the beginning of my sophomore year of college, the only thing I was concerned with was making my very first batch of gay friends.

So when a fellow, however more-experienced lesbian invited me over to her place to watch SNL instead of going partying with the other gays I met at one of my first-ever LGBT meetings, I didn’t take it to mean anything more than, “Yay! I have a new lesbian friend!”

When we got to her place, she switched the TV on, offered me a glass of wine, and told me to make myself at home on her 4-person couch.

Hospitable, I thought.

She sat at one end and I absentmindedly found myself at the exact opposite end.

As the show wore on, though, I noticed that the gap between us started shrinking.

Well, I guess that WAS an oddly huge space.

And when it got to the point where she was practically sitting on my right arm, and I awkwardly gripped onto the armrest with my left, I wondered if this was just how lesbians bonded.

After the show ended we talked a bit, but at 2am I felt that I’d intruded too long.
“Well, it’s getting pretty late...I should probably get out of your hair.”

“No, it’s too late for you to try to get home,” she said sweetly, “but you can sleep here.”

I hesitated before privately applauding her generosity.

She disappeared into her bedroom, and, assuming I was supposed to sleep on her couch, I made myself comfortable.

But, seconds later, she returned.

“No, no, you can sleep in my room.”

I hesitated again, an unfamiliar tingling going down my spine.

I ignored it.

...She probably has a futon.

And then it occurred to me that I might be sleeping in very close quarters to someone else for the first time.

Please, for the love of God, have a futon.

I followed her into her bedroom, which was devoid of futon; just a red sportscar bed, with high walls to prevent escape.

...Falling off.

I didn’t sleep that night, especially with her body pressed into my back.

Instead, I laid rigidly on my side, my nose touching the bed’s wall.

After, my friends abused me for my cluelessness and urged me to, “Go for it.”

Given that this was the very first time someone of the same-sex was showing interest in me, I was a little eager to see where it went.

The more Spooner and I talked, the more I appreciated her patience and intentions.

She was kind, knowledgeable, encouraging, and understanding.
I confessed things I’d never shared before, and found myself in the new position of wanting and being able to pursue a completely open and sincere relationship with someone, even in non-romantic terms.

Finally, a connection.

We hung out a couple more times, holding hands, me continuing to spout out awkward sappy lines and thoughts.

It was a nice, strange feeling, all those firsts.

Sharing firsts, hugging firsts, handholding firsts, flirting firsts.

Later, when she asked me what I was going to be up to over the weekend, I blurted out the fact that my roommates were all going out of town and I was probably just going to have quiet nights-in with some movies and food.

She said she wanted to keep me company and I, being slightly more savvy by this point, conceded.

When she arrived, I gave her my obscenely full binder of movies and told her that she could choose.

I didn’t expect her to pick the raciest movie in my collection, Y Tu Mama Tambien (which, if you haven’t seen it, is about 85% porn (but, of course, I only own it for its artistic value)).

But she did.

I put the movie on, we ate, and eventually we found ourselves on the couch.

It was my first intentionally-cuddling experience.

She laid across my lap, and the fact that this was physically the closest I’d ever been to someone didn’t escape me.

I relished it.

Though I still had no idea what I was doing.

My hand was around her waist at the beginning of the film, but as the minutes trickled by I noticed that, somehow, my hand was mysteriously finding its way further up her body.

And my heart was up in my throat.

I tested it, concentrating on my hand to make sure that I wasn’t the one responsible.

Sure enough, I was positive that it wasn’t me.

And I was positive that it wasn’t going to stop any time soon.

And, sure enough, I was very much aware that the latest part of the body that I was touching wasn’t flat like the rest.

Like some X-rated Ouiji board, my hand found its way to a new revelation: real-life second base.

I panicked.

My hand was as stiff as my back had been on our very first night together.

And it stayed that way all the way through the end of the credits.

Finally, we got up and moved, commented on how late it was, and agreed to get to bed.

Wait, MY bed?! I thought to myself, trying hard [and probably failing] at keeping my face neutral.

We went into my bedroom, and, unlike Spoon Mishap #1, I was very much aware of the event’s significance.

She climbed onto my too-high bed and I clumsily followed suit.

She laid down, fully relaxed, and I tried my best to do the same.

She was on her side, facing me, while I concentrated very deeply on the various cracks in my ceiling.

My heart rate accelerated; I could feel it fighting its way through my chest.

I couldn’t help thinking that she was quietly watching me.

So close.

This is it, a small voice told me.

Wait, what is “it?” a more urgent and anxious voice asked.

Desperate, I wracked my brains for the few potentially telling clues I picked up during the past few weeks.

Nothing came to me.

I decided to attempt to subtly watch Spooner for hints; maybe she knew what this was all about.

It was an impossible task, I discovered, as I slowly craned my neck as carefully as possible, trying to get a glimpse of her.

She caught me, though, and I knew it.

Tensed even more.

I thought I sensed her smiling.

I tried to breathe.

The jig was up; I surrendered and strained a smile at my own awkwardness before facing her.

A long pause.

This IS it.

“Here,” she whispered, placing a gentle hand on the back of my neck, pulling me towards her.

Closer.

Oh, God, I thought, and, Please don’t let me be bad at this.

I’m pretty sure I was, but I couldn’t have really cared less.

In a lot of ways, I was more preoccupied with the fact that it was happening, period.

Here it was: a testament to the progress I made in Coming Out of both my shell and the Closet.

Close.

I’m still very much an idiot when it comes to all matters of of showing affection; I’m either too timid to show the truth or I’m overzealous and end up mucking things up.

And now Spooner’s off to greener pastures, I’m sure, and I’m still navigating through this mess that is my timidness.

But I’m closer, I think, to figuring things out: laughing at my poor choices and learning from them.

At least, that’s what I’m starting to tell myself.

Every time I stay true to my cluelessness and muck things up.

::Sigh::