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Respective Perspectives (an update on the Giant)

September 16, 2017

I posted an old post about the Giant.

I’ve been posting lots of old posts as I cannot seem to get my shit together enough to write many new things.

I am not sure what to write right now.

Sarah Goes to LimboLand doesn’t really make for a good read. Nothing is happening here. Not exactly, or not enough to write about.

The most boring post ever…

And so Sarah waited for something to happen…

This is one of those things, not much happened, and yet, all y’all seem to be curious about what is happening with the Giant. Enough to leave a lot of comments and have that particular article go fairly viral.

So here it is.

Backstory first.

Once upon a strip club a tall drink of man walked up to me, and I found myself suddenly very thirsty.
It was just about Christmas, I had plans to leave for Florida in a few days and the club was experiencing its yearly holiday rush. Which is to say I was busy. Like crazy busy, like step out of the VIP just to be taken right back in busy. Like make enough money to pay for my whole trip in 3 days busy.

So this man walks up to me. Tall, bearded, handsome, smelled nice and the first words out of his mouth (after hello) were “How much would it be to spend a half an hour with you?”

I think it was a half an hour and I can’t remember what I said, I was at work, ergo I was pretty drunk, and he bought me another drink or two, and I danced/talked/sat in his lap for 30 minutes on the nose and cursed my internal timer the second I said the words “I wonder what time it is”. The spell was broken. It was midnight and I’d smashed the pumpkin.

I quite liked him. We talked and it was good conversation.

We wandered back to where he had been sitting and we chatted some more. I read his palm and his friend’s as well.
Apparently my answers were fairly astute or at least entertaining.

At some point numbers were exchanged.

Cut to 3 weeks later. I had returned from Florida and I got a weird text “Is it too late to ask you out for dinner?”

I thought he was someone else, and in fact had forgotten his name and 90% of the night.

A few awkward texts later, he said he’d rather not wait to see me and asked me out for breakfast.

I was hungry, thirsty and curious. so I went. Somewhat begrudgingly as my last ‘thing’ had been rather scary and stalker-like.

It was a place called Big Top. So named for a huge circus mural running the length of the longest wall, but I didn’t see it. I only saw him.

The rest you know. Posts such as…

Lightning Sex a Retrospective

Plastic Pussy

The Most Cake

Indiana Jones and the Sweater of Doom

Happiness is a Warm Bed

Friendly Giants and Falling Footwear

So Say I

Siren Song

Voodoo

Who Puts Vodka in a Wine Spritzer

If Wishes were Giants

The Giant Returns

Roam if You Want To

Lyrically Speaking

Ashes to Ashes

Prancing Pony Knees

Leap of Faith Day

Afternoon Delight

Titans Wedding Rings and Other Metaphors

 

…and now this

 

 

Okay, I just went through my archives and ran out of room on the paper beside my computer keeping track. Plus honorable mentions galore on top of the 18 with him as the main, now this which makes 19.

That number haunts me.

We probably dated exactly that many days before he told me that the girl he had ‘had coffee with once or twice’ who ‘didn’t want anything serious’ ended up being his girlfriend of a year and a half. Quite suddenly in fact. Or suddenly to me.

I cried a lot a lot. Like oceans worth. I was inconsolable. But he stuck around and tried to console me so that was alright. We exchanged music and pleasantries on occasion.

Didn’t stop him from sleeping with me a couple more times, nor sharing his scotch with me after he got back from a trip to Scotland with her.

Her.

Whom I referred to as Not Becky and or the traveling waitress. Or sometimes Jolene, he let it slip one night she had auburn hair and potentially eyes of emerald green.

It’s been 19 months since that breakfast.

And the other day, whilst pumping gas, I saw a black Ford pickup being driven by his doppelganger and decided to text hi. And ask if he was wearing a green shirt.

He wasn’t. He was on his way back from Maine.

Not with Not Becky.

Apparently they broke up a month ago.

Right around when the radio started playing tricks and making my mind wander back there, to him.

So, against the will of the internet, Panda’s wishes, Liza’s warnings and a really funny Whoopi Goldberg gif saying “You in danger girl” he invited me over for a beer and I went.

And it was good, amen.

I expected to find him broken, but he wasn’t, just introspective as always.

One on a laundry list of things I adore about him.

And there’s the answer.

The answer to why it took months and a discarded sweater and a voodoo doll bought, cherished and returned. Hours of playlists and conversations in the dark and in the light. And more than a few incidences where we bumped into each other and our clothes fell off.

I like him.

There is something that radiates out from his core that soothes the chaos at the center of mine.

The mourning period I went through had everything to do with losing that feeling and not so much about losing him.

It’s not so much about sex, as much as our respective perspectives about the hotness of the other do creep in.

Don’t get me wrong, the sex was epic.

But I think we are both evolving.

And I am glad we both stuck around.

 

 

 

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