I ended up leaving at 3am.
Time flies by when you're a bit drunk, dancing with your friends, trying to get to know and help out a Singaporean girl who, for unfathomable reasons, drank a whiskey and white wine mix; and enjoying attention from people of your preferred gender, especially days after getting dumped. In my usual reactionary manner, I'd told John and Mag that I now want to date a guy who is sophisticated, well-read, well-dressed, polished; and so when a guy in a suit started talking to me, I didn't mind it at all. One minute I was dancing with Kaara and Luiza, and the next minute, the guy in the suit and his friend had came over to talk to Kaara and me. I don't remember how the conversation started, or even how I ended up talking to the guy in the suit while the party went on around us. After some time, Kaara had stopped talking to his friend; after some more time, his friend came by to tell him that he was taking off.
I'd had a few drinks already, and it was late, and I was tired, and there I was, talking about freedom of speech in Singapore and Denmark to this guy in a suit. He's from Denmark, he said; he's doing some course on leadership in China. I said 'free speech' when he asked what issues I had with the Singapore government, and this prompted a rather long conversation about the value of free speech, the line between freedom of expression and freedom to offend with reference to the Danish Muhammad cartoons, the arrogance of the West when it tries to impose its own liberal standards on countries like China... At one point, I thought, 'Why am I having this serious conversation when I'm drunk?' I hadn't even asked for his name.
After what felt like forever, he suggested that we got more drinks. I didn't want to drink anymore so I got myself some water, and when I turned back, he was talking to some other group of people. I went to the sofa and sat down, wanting a break; but minutes after sitting down, this French guy that I spoke to briefly a few hours ago came up to talk to me. He was clearly being a bit flirty. From the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the suit look over at me a couple of times.
Eventually, the French guy took off. I found myself back to talking to the guy in the suit. He was tall - very tall. He towered over me even though I was wearing a pair of rather high heeled boots, which gave me so much height that I was almost the same height as a lot of people. He was also in a suit, and I like a man in a suit. He'd just came from formal, hence the suit. It wasn't the best reason for a man to wear a suit but I would take what I could get.
There was a song, and there was alcohol, and I was nursing a broken heart and a wounded ego, and so I found myself doing what I hadn't done in a very long time. Moved closer to him, closing the physical distance, touched him lightly on the arm, tilted my head up to his, at a specific angle - and reciprocating when he kissed me. I'd stopped doing this because I didn't see the point in making out with strangers whom I was kissing only because I was a bit drunk, but the point that evening was to forget that, in the plainest possible terms, someone had just told me that he didn't want me. The best way to forget this was, of course, to replace his lips with someone else's.
We made out for a bit. Then I told him that I was really tired and wanted to go home. I went up to Kaara's room to take my coat and bag, telling him that I'd be back when he said, 'Will I see you again?' He left the party with me, then took the taxi back with me. At my doorstep, we made out a bit more, and unsurprisingly, he'd wanted to come in. To his credit, he was almost shy and embarrassed about it as I'd made it quite clear that all I'd wanted was to go to bed. 'Maybe I'll see you again soon,' I said, as we said goodbye.
Maybe not. I don't really remember what he looked like. Most importantly, it wasn't the most enjoyable making out session. At the risk of sounding a bit gross, he was a bit slobbery; too much tongue on my lips, just too much tongue in general. I shudder a bit at the memory. He also seems to be one of those white guys with a thing for Asian (by 'Asian' it usually means 'East Asian') girls, and I just find it really weird, as if I'm being fetish-sised - and I don't like it. It makes me feel as if I'm liked for a reason that has little to do with who I am as a person. Of course, it's as much as a type or preference as my liking dark-haired men, or men who are not fat, etc; there's nothing wrong with it per se. But it makes me uncomfortable nonetheless.
In any event, he hasn't asked me out, and the texting hasn't been amazing, so I'm happy to just leaave it at that. In fact, I don't really have too much an interest in going out with a guy that I made out with at a house party when he was even more drunk than I was (he told me TWICE in the span of 15 minutes that he plays tennis, and responded to my tennis-playing the same way EACH TIME, i.e. 'Wow, you play tennis? Blah blah'; and 5 minutes later, 'Wow, you play tennis? Blah blah'). It's just a bit...anti-climatic, isn't it? It doesn't exactly lay the foundations for a proper dating sort of scenario.
As for whether kissing someone I'd just met helped with anything at all, I'm afraid to say this, but: hell no. I keep having dreams. I wake up with the fast-fading memory of the dream in my mind - Matt telling me that he wants to get back together - and I begin the day with an unwanted sense of melancholy. I don't even want to date him again, I really don't, and I'm absolutely done with him, and yes, I know that these things take time, but I don't want to wait to stop feeling this fucking melancholy from losing him because what did I really lose? Nothing much, just the trappings of being with him, the fantasy that I spun in my head; but also a place where I'd previously gone to for comfort when something had gone wrong with some guy I was seeing at some point. Now I can't just sit in what was my favourite cafe and read a book to feel better about a guy who did me some wrong, because this guy who'd done me some wrong works in this favourite cafe.
I don't miss being with him, not really, not the times when I felt unhappy, and just the times when it was fresh and exciting and he was excited to be with me. I don't miss the rest of it - his indifference, his awkwardness, his lack of interest, his lack of affection. So what I miss, then, is the idea, the fantasy. All that has been destroyed by my need to satisfy my curiosity.
I'm meant to see him tomorrow to talk about a couple of things that I had on my mind when I wrote the previous entry. I don't know if I want to anymore. Let me be more specific: I want my answers, but I don't want to see him. I didn't go to Fitzbillies these past two days because I didn't want to see him, and I still don't. But I want my answers. I need to know if I was imagining things when I felt like he was pulling away just before I left for the US, and I need to know, too, what he liked about me. If only I could send a representative to this meeting.
Oh, whatever. I'm just going to stop writing this and re-do my art wall now. (This is the side of the wall that I face when I'm sitting in my bed on which I have put up all the postcards and prints of art works that I've seen and liked in the various museums that I have visited over the years.)