I was dissapointed then to learn that the Canadian Balliol Guy was flaking out on us, and wouldn't be able to join. I then e-mailed the Canadian Balliol Guy a tongue-in-cheek e-mail about why he needed to come, which seemed to make him laugh and got a good laugh out of the Young Dutchman when I cc'd him on it.
I made it out to the club on my crutches, and then ditched them in a corner (I was feeling self-conscious enough about them already), to do the chatting-with-random-people thing that is my usual song and dance at these things. Kellogg Boy showed up pretty early (since he only had to come from London), but the Young Dutchman joined not too long after with another chap in tow, who I vaguely remembered meeting, a nice Danish Guy. I continued to do my delicate balance of socialising and talking with everyone, while also doing the chat to people thing.
At one point I noticed a particularly handsome young man trapped in conversation with an older member, so I thought I might go over and rescue him. When we got to chatting, it turned out that he was actually a friend of the Young Dutchman and had come down from Oxford with him. I felt like a bit of an idiot as we talked, as it turned out he knew exactly who I was and all about me, while I was learning all about him for the first time. It turned out that he was a former Blues rower, who had rowed for the Isis boat for two years running. I was a bit surprised because he wasn't overly tall, but in such incredible shape that I'm sure when he really worked at it, he made quite the contribution. He didn't row for the Blues anymore, but instead was focused now on finishing his DPhil.
We had quite a bit of champagne and I really enjoyed chatting with people, I signed a few forms, and then once the drinks reception seemed to be winding down, I took everyone on tours of the club. They really enjoyed the library terrace, and we managed to make it all of the way through everything, including the Billiards Room, before it was time to hop in a cab to head to the Lansdowne, for our dinner reservation there.
At dinner, without even saying anything, the Old Isis Blue took the chair next to me, and we had a great time laughing and chatting all of the way through dinner. Conversational topics included how I met the Young Dutchman (I had a good time relating the tale about how I first laid eyes on him in an orange polo shirt in a Starbucks, and how it was...not love at first sight, but blistering laughter ever since!) and the two of us put on our usual song-and-dance show of banter with each other. We had been joking earlier on the phone about how we can just read each other's minds, but as we did our merry little dance of wordplay, I realised how much that is true. The Old Isis Blue seemed most curious about our relationship, as most of the Young Dutchman's friends from Oxford are. Just like when I went out with his rowing friends, I think it startles people that one of the Young Dutchman's best friends in the world is a girl. Particularly a girl he's never been romantically involved with. Which, sensing the Old Isis Blue's obvious interest about the nature of our relationship, I did my best to reassure him about, teasing the Young Dutchman in good measure about his many pursuits of other girls. I definitely did not want the Old Isis Blue getting the wrong impression on that one, given how much I was enjoying his company (and how insanely attractive he was).
Particularly given how much I've been feeling lately like too many boys like me for my mind, and not enough for my body. I had been moaning to the Young Dutchman about this earlier, how often I feel like he treats me a bit too much like "one of the boys", and I do wish he would remember a bit more that I'm still a girl.
On the one hand, it's fascinating, as I get a real insight into how boys think when I'm with the Young Dutchman. But on the other hand, it's depressing. Particularly when they were all talking about girls they liked because of their attractiveness. Back to the "mind vs. body" argument above, I wish more boys would talk about how they liked a girl because she was clever or intelligent or witty, but throughout the entire conversation it was just because she was "hot". Incredibly depressing, as it makes you think about your own "value" on the market if you're not a supermodel or Megan Fox. And so I know that the Young Dutchman loves me for my mind (particularly as I can read his mind), but this is back to the "one of the boys" argument. I wish he (and his friends) had at least a little appreciation for my more feminine qualities, you know?
After dinner (and two bottles of wine) we decided to skip dessert and head to the Carlton for some after-dinner port. Once in the drawing room, we ran into the American and Mr Douglas, who were having a few drinks with a large crowd of men. (It should be noted that, in typical Carlton fashion, I was the only girl in the entire place). We invited the American and Mr Douglas to join us, and I was quite pleased with myself for recognising their drinks, and after only a little bit of prompting, remembering that it was kümmel, a popular drink among golfers. With all of the champagne at the cocktail and canape reception, the wine at dinner, and now the port, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I was quite tipsy at this point. I also continued to flirt madly with the Old Isis Blue, who also seemed to be enjoying my company. So much so, to the point that when we decided to exit the Carlton to head on to a nightclub (an idea that I strongly tried to veto, but was out-voted on), the Young Dutchman whispered to me that if I didn't want to go clubbing, I might suggest to the Old Isis Blue that he simply retire to SheBu with me. Plus, as he noted with a wink, that would eliminate the need for two cabs to get to the club!
So, as we flagged down cabs outside, I did as the Young Dutchman suggested, and whispered to the Old Isis Blue that if he wanted to skip the clubbing, he was always welcome to come back to SheBu with me. It was then a bit of a sucker-punch when he said, "Nah, let's go clubbing!" Wow. Rejection. Not nice. Did he just not realise what I was offering? Think I was too drunk? Or just plain wasn't interested? The last possibility, seeming most likely, troubles me most.
Still smarting a bit from that, I got in the cabs with everyone else, and headed to the nightclub the Young Dutchman had in mind for all of us. When we got there, there was some confusion about getting in, and the bouncers didn't seem to like my crutches, and I was just feeling a bit rejected and not in the mood to go clubbing anyway. So when the American suggested that we just go back to his place for a drink, I was only too happy to go. The Young Dutchman had dissappeared into the depths of the club, but I figured I'd sort out with him later.
Somehow Mr Douglas ended up in the cab with us back to the American's place, although it was pretty clear to me that the American and I were on the same wavelength, and Mr Douglas wasn't quite picking up on it, not realising that he was a third wheel. Still, at some point he seemed to get the hint, like it slowly dawned on him, as we weren't actually getting any drinks, that the American and I had something else in mind entirely, and it was a two-person event. So he made his excuses, and almost the instant he was out the door, the American and I were all over each other.
I'm unsure quite what to say about what happened next, but I've never felt so much catharsis, relief and satisfaction from something in my life. It was like this incredible tangle of frustration and thwarted urges just all burst out, unable to be denied any longer. Perhaps it was the incredibly long build-up (as this had been simmering beneath the surface, on some level, since October 2009). Perhaps it was my frustration, as I'd mentioned to the Young Dutchman, of being too much "one of the guys". I'm sick of boys loving for me for my mind, and here was one at last lusting after me for my body. Perhaps it was feeling unattractive, between the weight I've gained since I injured myself, and being stuck on crutches with these stupid, hideous compression socks. Perhaps it was just too long going without, for all my endless talking with the Old Isis Blue, the Tall South African and the various boys in my life, without any action. There is some part of my repressed American upbringing that insists I should feel guilty about it all, but I've been unable to summon even the slightest little bit of regret. The whole thing was just hot, in the way that movie scenes are, an absolute blur where we were tearing each other's clothes off, flinging them into the furthest corners of the room, and it just seemed like we couldn't get enough of each other quickly enough. All I can say was that as we lay there panting at the end, all I could think was, "God, I needed that."
I thought about slipping away in the middle of the night (I was terrified of running into his flatmates, both of which are good friends), but without my crutches I realised I couldn't go anywhere. So I curled up next to him for the night, and had to wait for him to wake up in the morning to help me down the stairs, after his flatmates had left.
He walked me to the bus stop when we both left (him for work, me to go home), and talked a bit about how he was uncomfortable being single, how in the past 12 years he'd only been single for about eight months. When he's single, apparently he tries to keep himself busy every night, if only to keep the depression about being single at bay. He asked me if I were going to be out again this evening, but I told him I had no plans to be. I was so exhausted, I was looking forward to going home and taking a nap! It was a weird question though, as he was obviously feeling a bit awkward, yet in some way I think wanting to see me again, because I was obviously such an easy entertainment and distraction. Still, I wasn't about to change my plans for him.
On the bus on my way home, I discovered I had a million missed calls and texts from the Young Dutchman, who was quite worried about me after not hearing from me, since I always text him when I'm home safely at the end of an evening. He'd been hoping I was with the Old Isis Blue, on which point I sadly had to disappoint him. He called me when I got home and truth quickly came out, although he seemed so unobservant about how things had played out (it took him ages to guess who I'd actually gone home with, actually thinking I'd somehow ended up with the Tall South African), I'm sure he'll forget it all quickly too.
And then the Old Isis Blue friend-requested me on Facebook, and started a little chat with me. What on earth was this? Still smarting from last-night's rejection, I was a bit puzzled. Perhaps on some level he just wanted to follow-up on the idea of having a Blue's dinner, so I didn't think too much of it. But still, just one more way in which boys are confusing (as I told the Young Dutchman). He still seems to think that there's something there for me with the Old Isis Blue, but I have my doubts. That rejection was a bit too much.
Thank goodness for the American, who reminded me that I'm still desired, right when I needed it most.
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