Talking to Strangers

When you’re a kid, they tell you not to talk to strangers.

It seems like these days I do exactly the opposite of that. I talk to strangers. I go out, drive long distances by myself at night, and then dance with strangers.

Recently I went on a blues event on a cruise ship and I roomed with a stranger. We slept in the same room having only just met that day.

I took an acro-yoga class from a stranger. I then joined a group led by this same stranger to go wander around a strange country for the first time. On that excursion, I had lunch sitting beside that stranger. I ate the organs of a strange animal (I don’t speak Spanish, the natives tried to warn me, it smelled good, it was good, I ate it) on a taco.

I went to a tequila shop and a bar, and I drank a good quantity of liquor with that same stranger. When we kept accidentally uttering the same phrases as each other or finishing the other’s sentences; I stopped speaking my thoughts out loud because it was eerie.

That stranger asked me to dance that night (if you’re not familiar, I do Blues dancing, it wasn’t some seedy cruise ship club grind) and then spent a good amount of time sitting and talking with me in a dimly lit corner. We danced again.

And again.

And the last song.

It was the last night of the cruise and we took a “survivors photo” of everyone who made it to the end of late night dancing at nearly 5 am. The stranger tucked me in next to him and smiled.

I didn’t want the night to end.

Neither did he.

We had to be out of our rooms in 3 hours for checkout.

The stranger asked if I’d be up for roaming the ship instead of sleeping.

The stranger’s hair was purple, blue, teal, just a touch pink, and tied away from his face in a long unicorn tail down his back. His coat was gold brocade. His smile was soft and warm and I wanted to wrap myself in it. He didn’t feel so strange.

I said yes.

He followed me to my room so I could get a jacket. My dress was short, and thin, black linen with delicate puffed sleeves in lace.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and followed him back up the winding stairs. We glided along the empty, silent hallways of the ship together. For once there was no ambient noise. No frat boys falling off of deck chairs. No one smoking. No music.

We found our way into the balcony of the theater. There was large high-backed, circular booths overlooking a stage hung in gaudy glittering gold curtains that blazed appallingly in full light, but in the quiet hours, under the dimmed chandeliers, merely twinkled softly. We slipped into a center booth and sat side by side.

He tucked me under an arm and I leaned in, comfortable, tired, eyes still aglow. The day had been so full and lovely. I peeked at his face and our eyes met. There was no pressure in his gaze. Everything was soft, neutral.

I knew from our conversation at that dance that we had a good amount in common. I also knew this was the last night of a cruise in an event that drew people from all over the country and while he lives in the same state I do, he’s pretty far away. If he was looking for something in me, logic dictates that it probably wasn’t the start of something serious.

When I looked in his face, I saw no expectation but I also knew he was going to kiss me at some point. I looked away quickly and said something vague. I felt like the situation should scare me. I felt like I should distance myself. I felt like I should feel something other than the utter calm and peace I felt sitting so close to him.

He’s a stranger. He was a stranger.

I have a good amount of guilt in me. It follows me. It dictates a lot of what I do. For some reason, I felt like I should feel guilty or ashamed. I felt like I should feel that I was doing something wrong.

For the life of me, though, I couldn’t muster the guilt.

He read my palm.

This may seem like nothing to some people. Or hokey. Or occult. To me, it felt like home.

My childhood best friend used to read my palm. The library of our Junior High had a selection of nonfiction on fortune telling. We read palms and tarot. She bought me my first set of tarot cards and used to swear “Goddess!” instead of “God!”

As readings go, the one that took place in the theatre wasn’t anything to write home about, but when he finished with the love line and the markings of old loves that he said on my palm were thin and “fading away” (and indeed they are), I realized I wanted him to kiss me, just like I’d wanted him to ask me to dance,  and that if he didn’t do it soon, I was going to kiss him.

I just wanted a kiss. It didn’t have to mean anything.

I liked him, and I wanted to kiss him.

There’s this dumb quote I had on a piece of “room decor” in college which I secretly hold a firm belief in- the soul can be seen through the eyes and felt with a kiss.

I wanted to sip ever so slightly from his soul.

If we’re being honest, at this point in the night, I knew I wanted to know more about him. He’s too fascinating and too similar to me not to draw me in. The more we talked the less “strange” he became to me.

He did kiss me.

He leaned in slowly. That same soft, smile on his face. No expectation. No force. His movements were very clearly defined and so, so very slow. He gave me every opportunity to move away, give him my cheek for the friendly Europeanesque greeting that had become so commonplace on the ship among the dancers that weekend, or otherwise decline the advance.

I leaned in ever so slightly and my eyes drifted shut just as his lips touched mine for perhaps (not exaggerating) the softest, lightest kiss I’ve ever had. It was just a soft, drawn out, lingering brush of lips. Think of how you’d kiss something incredibly valuable but made of spun sugar.

I caught my breath and he backed up just enough to give me space to initiate the next kiss. When I leaned in, his hand came up and tangled in my hair.

We kissed for a while and traced each other’s hands. He traced the line of my cheek with his nose and traded me Eskimo kisses. It was peculiar and perfect.

The rest of the night (wee hours of the morning as it were) is a blur of talking, kissing, joking, lips brushing throats, laughing, kissing, his nails trailing over my calves, watching the light play through the ocean of colors in his hair, and kiss after kiss after kiss.

We were interrupted when the staff started walking in through the doors downstairs on their way to other parts of the ship. Music came back on through the speakers. We ducked lower in our booth and listened to the ship coming back to life.

We eventually decided we should leave the theater. It wasn’t that we weren’t supposed to be there, but it also wasn’t that we were allowed to be there. “American Pie” came on over the speakers and he offered me a hand to dance. We did until another staff member burst through a door and we guiltily broke apart giggling and ran for the doors.

I’m almost certain we weren’t supposed to be in the room overnight because only one of about 10 doors was unlocked. We’d been sealed in and hadn’t noticed.

The magic was over. If ever I understood how Cinderella felt at midnight it was that night. We walked apart from each other and I felt the distance. There had been enough talking and laughing through the night that I didn’t want it to be all there was.

I began steeling myself for it being a “cruise fling”.

He kissed me quite passionately in the elevator but stopped when the doors opened.

He said “see you at breakfast” and I agreed but only half believed it.

Oddly (and nerve-wrackingly) enough, I was wrong.

When the ship officially came into port and the wifi came back on, I was seated across from the man we’re now going to refer to as The Unicorn because (spoilers) he is very much not a stranger to me any longer. Our shoes were tucked under our seats and we each had a foot resting on the other’s thigh.

He watched me sleepily push scrambled eggs around my plate and winked or blew me a kiss each time I met his eyes.

He eventually made a friend of his switch him places so he could sit with an arm around me in the booth.

Six of us napped in the booth, waiting to disembark. There are a couple photos of me sleeping tucked under his arm, head cradled on his chest.

He added me on Facebook.

His last name is my first name.

When we disembarked, I wanted to cry.

We didn’t find a moment alone for a goodbye kiss between the booth and customs and when we tried to kiss each other on the cheek at the same moment at breakfast resulted in an accidental and public peck on the lips, I didn’t think he’d kiss me goodbye in the group outside the port. In front of people.

He did.

Hugged me, then pulled my face close and kissed me soundly.

Smiled and said we should keep in touch.

Yesterday, I bought the plane ticket for my second trip out to see him. [The first trip is a fairy tale for another time]

We have 2-hour conversations about food and 6-8 hour conversations about everything into the wee hours of the morning. He still reads my mind, and I still accidentally finish his sentences.

It’s still a bit early to say, as it could still all go to Hell in a handbasket, but at this point, it’s looking like talking to strangers is something I could stand to do more often.

Occasionally you might find a Unicorn.



Girls are Creepy

Last night my roommates were comparing notes on guys they’d met Blues dancing with me and things… well… We’ll say things got a wee bit out of hand.

Now, I will freely admit, I am the resident internet stalker. I have found every form of social media on a man just knowing what he looked like, and where he was one night. No name. Just a face and a temporary location.

When I was on Exec board for my sorority in college and girls were potentially cyber bullying someone for calling them on breaking House Rules, I was the one called in to hunt down ambiguously-named Twitter accounts and screen cap evidence for Judicial Board hearings. I had a list of a dozen girls found in under 2o minutes. Personal best.

That being said, I thought this was a specialized skill and that I’d been getting better at it over the years.

Now I’m thinking I haven’t been so much honing my skills over the years, as the internet is just making it increasingly, horrifyingly, easy to find all sorts of information about people you barely know. Cue my hiding in the bathtub and never emerging.

Last night, my roommate found the LinkedIn, Facebook, and even Myspace of the guy she was internet stalking. Now, that’s pretty standard stuff, I’m sure. It’s social media, after all, LinkedIn is for workplace networking and head hunting. Easy to find. Easy to access.

She also found street photos of his home address, a school-based interview with him from when he was five, an obituary for his grandfather, and his dad’s cell phone number.


She wasn’t the only one stalking people last night.

I found some old high school info on a guy. Where he works. Various places he frequents. From the info I found on some old local articles I was able to calculate his age.

We were giddy with power, fingers flying over the keys, shouting out each new sliver of truth we discerned on these poor helpless fellows who have no way of knowing the bubbling kettle of madness they’ve landed themselves in.

At one point, giggling, Dee piped up, “But wait! Wait! You guys! When you see them again, you’re going to have to pretend you don’t know any of this!”

“Old hat.” I responded. Kay shrugged it off as well.

This is normal to us.

You see a guy. He’s cute. You talk to him, he’s nice. You go home and find every last speck of information the internet has to offer on him, make up your mind who he is, then strategically draw the information you already have out of him the next time you see him. It looks like a great conversation from his end, and is really an enormous track-covering sham.

THAT’S how we start relationships.

I justify this by saying I’d like to know if a potential flame was a child-murderer BEFORE I waste my time enticing him over.  But if we’re being honest, I’ve stalked the absolute pants off of every last one of my exes and nowhere did it say they were psycho-abusers, stalkers, drunks, or goldfish perverts (don’t ask). So clearly this method is flawed.

WHY do I do it then?

WHY does every girl I know do it?

What is so wrong with just finding my chill, waiting until I see him (I CANNOT keep calling him ‘Senpai’) on Saturday and talking to him. I could even add him on Facebook. We have a mutual friend and he’s listed as “Going” in the event page for the dance we met at. Normal info, a normal person would have access to and be able to act upon.

This is exactly what is wrong with dating.

For all the vast stretches of information available to us through technology these days, it seems only to make it harder to be up front and real with each other.

We would rather infinite scroll through someone’s Instagram and read an article on their Elementary school than spend time WITH the other person deciding whether we like them.

Its horrible.

But much as I want to stop, I’m not sure I can.

A big part of this (for me at least) is fear.

I’ve fallen into “checking up” on guys I date through social media.

Nothing good has ever come from it. I found I was being cheated on this way. Twice. I found a guy I was dating still lived with his ex girlfriend and that they did everything together when he wasn’t with me. Nothing. Good.

So now I START each potential relationship off finding every way I can stalk him if we DO have a relationship. I start things off suspicious. Where is the room for trust to grow? I am ruining my own chances.

I’m also protecting myself.

This is the problem. It’s not clean cut and I don’t know the answer.

This, like every other part of my love life is messy and tangled and I probably have no business alining anyone else with my bullsh*t.

But if someone wants to put up with it, I won’t say no.

Because while I am super messed up in a LOT of ways, I know I’m also kind of special as well. I know I’m a great cook, a passionate lover, and kind of funny in a warped way. I have excellent taste in music, a good singing voice, and I’m not exactly bad looking.

I think that’s how it goes for most girls.

We’re creepy.

But probably if you were as interested in us as we were in you, you’d figure out we’re kind of special and we more than make up for it in other ways.

We’re freaking unicorns is what I’m saying.

Unicorns with wifi.