Tags
dating, fling, Frankenstein, heart, injury, love, men, one night stand, relationships, sex, stitches
My face made acquaintance with the pavement this weekend, and, needless to say, they didn’t get along. I’m not talking about tripping, falling, and bumping my head either. I’m talking about a head-first plummet onto the cement. I didn’t even have enough notice to try to shield myself from the impending impact. How it happened really doesn’t matter as much as the fact that it was my forehead that broke my fall. Further, my feet also flew backwards over my head (this is called a pagoda in circus speak, which I have never even dreamed of being able to do–but apparently can under extreme pressure, haha). As a result, I’m in bed right now with 46 stitches in my forehead, two black eyes, and a variety of scrapes, bumps, and bruises all over my body.
I’ve come up with several stories to explain my injury to people in the hopes of creating some epic super-rumor that will combine somehow into one gigantic mess of a fabrication. I told my students that it happened when I decided to join Fight Club. I always tell them that I’m from Detroit, as if that automatically makes me some kind of bad-ass. In return, they always ask me if I’ve been in a fight before and what I do on the weekends, so I figured Fight Club seemed like the only logical thing. In an email sent to my coworkers, I instructed them to please defer to rule number one if any student asks about my injury: no one talks about Fight Club. Unfortunately, the irony of me actually beating myself up is entirely lost on them (sigh–too bad I can’t make Fight Club part of the new English curriculum at my school). When I told one of my old coworkers about my head injury, she actually asked me if it happened while having sex in a parking structure. I’m not sure how she jumped to that conclusion, other than the fact that she was very much like me at my age, ha. I could only imagine a guy smashing my head repeatedly into a cement support beam, screaming, “Oh, so you like it rough, huh?!” I also thought I could tell people I was attacked by some sort of wild animal, like a bear or cougar (my friend suggested feral cats, but I’m thinking that doesn’t really fit what I’m going for in this situation). Choose whichever version you please, or feel free to create your own story to add to my increasingly lengthy list.
Despite being severely injured, my weekend was actually quite spectacular. My four-month dry spell had finally ended the night before. A friend of a friend/coworker was stopping through Denver on his way to his new home across the country. He asked if she had any single friends, and, as everyone knows, that’s me. We all met up for dinner and drinks, then headed back to my place for a smoke and a few more drinks (mostly because I wanted to avoid my old regular bars for obvious reasons). This new man, who I’ll call Dr. Frankenstein for now (I swear this nickname has a point), and I weren’t ready to stop partying when my friend and her boyfriend were ready to go, so I offered to take him home later (and when I say I wasn’t ready to stop partying, I mean that I wasn’t letting him leave until we fucked, haha).
Once they left, we smoked a bit, talked a bit (our favorite books, work, commitment-phobia, adventures, and dating philosophies, among other things) and watched a movie (Bridesmaids, if you were curious) on the couch the way teenagers do, tension building at each moment, with neither person making a move. Finally, his hand was on my knee, and we were slightly cuddled up. We took the movie into the bedroom (thank goodness!), and his hand began to wander much further than my knee (again, thank goodness–he had no idea how much I needed this!). Our lips met, and there was an instant chemistry.
At that exact moment, the wedding scene of the movie began and Wilson Phillips burst out with their song “Hold On.” Talk about a mood killer. I started cackling instantly because there was no way I could make out with a stranger in my bed to a song I used to roller-skate to with my Walk-Man in tow. Once I managed to turn off the movie and settle myself back down, the action proceeded, and I was very much satisfied. He was much rougher than I expected; I didn’t mind, but for some reason it took me by surprise from him. It was a good surprise, of course.
The following morning, we woke up and went at it again. My aerial partner called shortly after and suggested that the naked man next to me and I meet her for breakfast. Dr. Frankenstein (okay I can’t stop giggling at this name for him…hopefully you all know that he created the monster, as so many people incorrectly believe that the monster’s name was Frankenstein) and I had been talking about French toast in bed for the last hour, so we figured why not? We finally got out of bed and managed to get dressed, and this is where things went downhill (note to self: never leave a bed with a naked man in it for any reason). The next thing I knew, I was in my aerial partner’s backyard spewing blood from my forehead and all over my brand-new, canary-yellow, $80 shirt. Considering the impact and the unnatural positioning of my body, there is no reason I should be able to walk right now. For some reason, I am very lucky in unlucky situations. I didn’t even lose consciousness or get a concussion, and despite feeling the impact spread down my spine and through my entire body, I quickly stood up. Dr. Frankenstein went to get something to stop the bleeding (note: he is not a doctor in real-life), and I began staggering into the house. Despite their best efforts to get me to sit, I wandered into the bathroom to see the damage. I will never get my reflection at that moment out of my head. I looked like Carrie when she had the pig blood dumped on her head at homecoming, and there was a huge hole in my forehead, through which I could see my skull. But, in the words of one of my cute male coworkers (and former collegiate wrestler), “Not everyone can say they’ve seen their skull.” Silver lining? I think so. But regardless, I shrieked, covered it back up, and walked out of the bathroom, demanding that everyone panic just a little bit more.
I managed to walk myself out to the car, and after my Driving-Miss-Daisy car ride from my Lyra partner, I finally arrived to the emergency room and immediately began insisting on a plastic surgeon (I figured they might as well fix my worry lines since my forehead was wide open anyways. I mean, hell, what’s a couple more stitches at that point?). I never did get that plastic surgeon, but thankfully the PA who did my stitches did a fantastic job. He also appreciated my sense of humor, which helped greatly, as I’m much more at ease when I’m joking loudly–in fact, I only really panicked during those moments of silence when people were staring at the train-wreck in middle of my forehead.
During all of this, my poor one-night-stand was by my side (and to think, he probably thought I was easy–nothing about me is easy!). I felt terrible, and I told him he could leave, but he refused. He couldn’t believe I thought he would just leave (if he knew even a handful of the men I’ve been with in my lifetime, he would understand, haha). But, not only did he come to the hospital with us, he actually stayed the entire time. Not only did he stay the entire time, but he was also AMAZING! He held my hand, comforted me when I cried, watched each stitch get put in my forehead, told me I could squeeze his hand as hard as I needed, and laughed when I joked with the nurse and the doctor that this poor man was my one-night stand. I could tell that he was thankful for my sense of humor during the whole ordeal. I imagine that being with someone less tough in that kind of situation would have sent him running, regardless of his sense of obligation or morals. But, me-being-me, I told him that my nipples didn’t even feel sore anymore from him being so rough the night before, that we now had a blood-bond, and that he might have a new stalker now.
When I was finally all stitched up, I didn’t want to leave because I didn’t want him to leave. I held on to him for a minute before getting off of the hospital bed, and I started to cry. He looked at me, licked his thumb, and used it to rub some of the dried up blood off my face. I’ve been with many men, but I don’t think any of them have ever done anything that hit me as being quite so intimate as that single gesture. I realized that although he was a complete stranger, a man I had only known for less than a full day, was comforting me more than any man I have been with in at least the last 5 years. He even spent that evening with me, holding me in his arms and doing everything in his power to help me feel better before leaving town the next morning. He left me longing for that feeling of intimacy that I have been fine without for so long now.
The final outcome of my head injury, aside from being slightly traumatized, is that my outside scars now match my inside scars (which, eerily enough, my dad mentioned when I was on the phone with him earlier…we really are too much alike in our melancholy). On the inside, my heart is like one of Frankenstein’s creations: a little battered, lifeless, and stitched together, waiting to be shocked back to life. It’s only fitting that my forehead be equally monster-esque: newly stitched together and perfectly centered for optimal visual impact (vanity, be damned!). But perhaps my face-plant into the Earth created the exact type of shock needed to bring me back to life. I needed to be reminded that as dead as my heart feels, it is not too late for someone like my Dr. Frankenstein to bring me back to life.
It may be the head injury speaking, but I think I might just be in love. Maybe this was fated (coincidentally a f-word?). Maybe it all happened to show me that I can have feelings for a good man and that it’s okay to be vulnerable in front of a man, despite any experiences I’ve had in the past.
Now let’s just hope that my fate is better than that of Frankenstein’s monster!
