Jazz on Sundays

*Names have been changed.

Of course I remember Scott*, the borderline alcoholic gourmet chef. On my 21^st birthday I was kind of dating David* again, he drove me around that night. Apparently, at Mag Bar I threw a pool stick at David but I don’t remember this.

 

Early in the evening we had dinner at my parents’ restaurant where I drank Cosmopolitans and ate lobster ravioli. Later, at the bar, someone bought shots of whiskey. I immediately went to the crusty dive bar bathroom, which always smelled like sour piss, to throw up.

 

Once I was sitting back down at the booth, Scott was across from me. He held my hand under the table while David was elsewhere. I was drunk enough now for Scott to try and fuck me. There was another shot of whiskey, possibly a beer? Scott and I looked at each other trying not to smile.  Was I horny? I don’t know. Probably. I didn’t know what to do with this attention. 

 

David drove us back to my apartment. I fell trying to walk up the two stairs leading to my building. Inside, I fell once more going down the stairs. My phone began to ring as we were getting into bed. Scott was calling. I picked up the phone and locked myself in the bathroom, slamming the door in David’s face. Scott said he wanted to pick me up, knowing I had left with David. I scrambled for words, saying “I can’t” over and over. David kept knocking on the door and I had to say goodbye to Scott, who only wanted me because I was too drunk to say no. 

 

Many years later, Scott came home with me the night of the Kentucky Derby. By the time we got into bed, it was after three in the morning. We kissed and kept kissing, keeping each other warm. I moved my right hand lower until I heard him tell me to stop. Stop? Collaborate and listen? Why the fuck was I thinking about Vanilla Ice? Why did he come home with me without intention?

 

I spent the night rationalizing this situation in my head, the innocence of sleeping together without the indiscretion. As if justifying male attention was a party trick I wish I had never learned. He must have felt sorry for me, I thought. Earlier that evening at the bar we had talked more than we had when we actually dated. I confided in him because I was lonely and had gone to the bar alone. 

 

My body wouldn’t move unless he moved, as if I didn’t want him to know I was here too. In my own bed. Early in the morning my dog jumped onto the corner of the bed while he slept. I was wide awake and warm. It was like listening to jazz records on a lazy Sunday. 

 

I am unsure why I am sharing this with you. Perhaps as a reminder that there are plenty of ways to feel trapped by a man. I told this “stop” story to a male friend of mine and he thought it sounded like negging. 

Here is the dictionary definition of negging: the act of insulting someone or something with a backhanded compliment or with qualified approval, especially as a ploy to lower the self-esteem of a person or cheapen an object before showing romantic interest or making an offer.

 

I wrecked my brain going over this definition and if that was what had happened. There were too many whys I was never able to figure out. But it doesn’t really matter now. He wasn’t the kind of guy I could listen to jazz with on Sundays anyway.