The Albanian

This piece of TMI has been sitting in the drafts box for a while, from back in the days when Europe was at my feet and real life was a faraway haze my parents sometimes spoke of. I was on my way to someplace pretty (wasn't that all I did, those days?), but there were people in the way of my scenery and I owed my friends a life update, so I settled into my train seat and gave them the story of The Albanian. It had sass, (incessant talk of) sex, bitchiness and misogyny. Booze and drugs and tattoos. Alcoholic missteps, fumbled flirting and lame comebacks. Really, pick a cliche and it was there. 

And, for the rest of you, here it is. For context - I really didn't like men in early 2017. 

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The story starts one wintry February, when Annie-with-a-boyfriend announces that she thinks B, he of the long hair, tattooed arms and constant cigarettes, is hot, and that I, single-af-Sam, should go for it. Personally, I'm more inclined towards his good-boy-looks quiet-but-witty friend - let's call him D - but D is still in love with his ex (as am I? Maybe), and what is exchange for if not experimentation?

The Albanians in the house tease B about me in Albanian. The Indians of the house tease me about B in Hindi. The stage is set.

Then follows a series of flirtatious encounters so smooth and skilled that they will make you, dear reader, wonder why you ever thought yourself awkward. He compliments my hoodie. He compliments by pyjamas. And lest you think he is just a platonically inclined boy with exceedingly good taste in clothing, he compliments my fingers. He compliments my name, repeatedly and more than a little drunkenly. He calls me beautiful.

Given his tendency towards baggy t-shirts and baggier basketball shorts, I don't have too much to compliment in return, but I am open to listening, and he wants to talk. Boy, does he want to talk. He comes and sits with me in the kitchen we share, not eating or cooking or cleaning (even, almost especially, when it is his week to clean the kitchen), just talking at me. I am in a new country with new people for new experiences, and I am curious. He tells me about his family fleeing to Greece when there is a coup against the Albanian government of which his father is a member. He tells me about the mountains and beaches of Albania, about the women and...then some more about the women. He talks a lot about the women. Much of the time he wastes in being a man™, in that he repeatedly shares with me his authoritative opinions about myself and my life without having any knowledge, insight or foundation whatsoever for the same. He ignores my indications that I am familiar enough with my own life, and would prefer he stick to talking about his own fairly interesting narrative. 

We drink together sometimes, the two of us and the other housemates, in various permutations and combinations. The alcohol loosens lips, begets questions ("no, but how are you still a virgin?"). Weeks of awkward kitchen encounters pass. By the time that fateful night arrives, I have thought about him, told my friends about him, and talked about him when there was nothing to talk about. I have considered the possibility of liking him, or even just making out with him, of switching my measure from "why him?" to "why not"? He has left hearts on one of my facebook posts. 

Then, that night, we decide once again to drink together, me and B and D and a common friend, L. By this point, dear reader, it is clear that the more I interact with him, the less I want to keep interacting with him, and on this night, I mostly keep to myself. But while I may have all but dismissed him internally, the elephant in the room has only grown larger externally. We play a game, and I choose dare, and am asked to kiss the wall for a minute. He walks over to examine the sight closely, and declares that he doesn't want to kiss me if that's how I kiss. I tell him not to worry about it - he is unlikely to ever be allowed to kiss me. On his part, in the manliest™ of moves, he is all over L, a friend of mine and a fellow housemate he has lived with for nigh on a year and a half. It seems like our charade of mutual forced interest (which self-proclaimed player hits on a woman like that if he actually wants to get anywhere?) is finally over, and I am relieved. 

But no! In an almost impossible twist, we find ourselves walking to a club, arm in arm. Our friends take a turn around the road and suddenly, his mouth is on mine, his tongue exploring the contours of my chin, lips and nose in what has to be the worst kiss I will hopefully ever experience. I am flummoxed. I am confused. I am, by god, going to get a better kiss out of this. I push him away and blink confusedly up at him in my classic sexy way, and then reach up for a kiss worthy of the name. Alas, friends, while the tongue stays where it is supposed to this time, it still turns out to be nothing to write home about, and we proceed onwards as though nothing has happened.

But something has happened. My tongue has been loosened, by both drink and touch, and before I know, out pops from my mouth, "Wow, you're a terrible kisser."

There is a pause, and then a longer pause because I have not yet realized that the words have been spoken out loud. Another stretch of time passes while my alcohol-addled brain catches up with my mouth, and it's a few more minutes before my brain and mouth are able to co-ordinate a rescue. Finally, in a save as bad as his kiss, I attempt to assuage his inflated ego and my inflamed sense of guilt with a weak, "Hey, I didn't actually mean that. You know I was kidding, right?"

"Of course you didn't mean that," he says, in a weak imitation of his usual swagger, "how could you possibly have meant that?" 

Needless to say, the compliments stop. My taste in fashion is no longer worthy of his attention. Suddenly, I am not a very good cook; suddenly, I am defensive and not funny; suddenly, he is no longer compelled to sit with me in the kitchen for hours. Something about a rude virgin who knows how she likes her kisses has rubbed him the wrong way (swear it wasn't my tongue, though), and he is not a happy man.

Now, someone normal would have breathed a sigh of relief at being left alone and moved on to other, fun-er experiences in literally the most beautiful country in the world. But you know me better than that, reader. You know about my overactive guilt glands, and while I thought I had lost them after The Break Up, along with my kindness and other virtues, I was wrong. They were there, and they made themselves heard. Suddenly, I was the one maneuvering to catch his eye in the kitchen, seeking him out to say nice things to, complimenting his...basketball shorts.

It wasn't much, of course - I really didn't want to push it enough to make him think I wanted to kiss him again. But they were attempts, however feeble, to be nice and charitable; there was a sense of being plagued by guilt for the rest of my life, for the awful words that had slipped through my mouth.

That was, fortunately, not to be. Showing true chivalry, he bided his time, and responded with enough meanness to assuage more vestiges of guilt than even my unduly engorged guilty glands could produce. This is how it happened.

A few exams and papers after The Kiss, I found myself once again drinking in his lacklustre company, with our mutual friend once again the object of his affection. I was there because she had asked me to be; when it was clear a threesome was unlikely, he was evidently not pleased to have me there. I intended to enjoy a few drinks and take my leave, aiming for a largely uneventful evening, but my life took one look at my plans and said, "lol."

And thus began a journey of self-awareness that I had hoped would occur more organically in this exchange. For, dear friends, he called me fat. Then he called me asexual. Then he said he was joking and begged my forgiveness, but that is irrelevant to this story and to the larger scheme of life.

Now of course, there is context to this hurling of names. A boy, however chivalrous, does not simply say such a thing out of the blue. First, we talked about the meaning of the word "bitch", and he vociferously defended the rights of women to be as slutty as they pleased. Then, we talked about the use of protection - specifically, his preferred contraceptive of "pulling out" without use of either condom or birth control. The mutual friend and I were, obviously, aghast. I argued for the use of the pill - no, he said, it fucks with women's bodies. Before I could fully be amazed at his knowledge of the process and its side-effects, of his surprising sensitivity to the hormonal and physical pains the pill can inflict on women, he went on: it makes them fat.

Another pause; another few moments simply to attempt to comprehend the sheer magnitude of his ignorance and entitlement. A confession - I know what I'm talking about because I was on birth control for nearly a year. A retaliation - is that why you're fat?

I waited for more, but that was honestly the only comeback he had. I had expected something - he had hinted sufficiently earlier on at my terrible taste in "many things" to make it clear that a retaliation for my kiss comment was on its way - and, despite all evidence to the contrary, I had really expected something a little more imaginative. I mean, it had taken him three months to come up with this? 

Then, as is customary in such gatherings, I was interrogated about my intact hymen. My friend was genuinely curious - was I not scared that I'd never lose it? Was I worried about the pain? Why, in the course of a year-long relationship, had I not felt like having sex? I attempted to answer, but the mansplainer got in my way. "It's against human nature not to want sex," he crowed. What about asexuals, I asked? What are they, he forced out, seeming to have trouble admitting ignorance. I explained, and he dismissed them as "some bullshit". Just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't valid, I said. I'm not gay but I'm okay with homosexuals, he countered. I...was lost in the face of the sheer brilliance of the argument, such a behemoth in its logical fallacies that I did not even know where to begin to take it apart. Sensing victory, he went on - so you don't want to have sex, you have no desire, you're just like every other virgin waiting for a right time that will never come, you're asexual. You aren't even being consistent, I wanted to say; please stop talking, I wanted to say; please come stand over here so I can kick you in the balls and shut you up long enough to talk some sense into you, I wanted to scream.

But I said nothing. I sipped my wine and let him blubber away into silence, which soon turned to apologies - you don't hate me, right? It was just a joke. Hey, you don't hate me right?

I did not hate him. He was not remotely important enough to be worthy of that.

But he was a man™. How was he to know?

~ Sam