Touched, Clutch

“You don't look so happy."

The interruption of my thoughts. Startled back to reality.

Reality is a bar, and a man sitting next to me. A stranger, no . . . perhaps it is me who is stranger.

I don't know this man, nor do I know happiness.

Happiness, is it too much to ask for?

I've had fleeting glimpses of happiness. But it never lasts. Many things can make me happy; love, a raise, a friend at a time of need, a smile from a stranger that communicates with my soul, a good meal, a good cup of hot chocolate with a warm ski lodge around it, good sex, a sunny day . . . somehow the list is longer than my happiness.

It is all so artificial. These things come into my life to show me what happiness could be. But when I try to hold on to them they slip through my clutching fingers like sand.

To a tormented soul, happiness is the calm before the storm. But I am one to never see the storm coming. My focus always seems within, making most of my interactions with the outside world surrealistic. It's rare when an outside influence is strong enough to break through my private bubble.

Even now, this man, who is roughly my age, sits next to me at the bar, his attention on me. But as I glance his way it is obvious that he thinks his statement has gone by totally ignored, for he's now a million miles away, staring at his beer.

Was I attracted to this man? Something about him was alarming. His baby blue eyes somehow didn't fit the rest of his appearance. He was a big man, somehow strong without coming across as macho. Maybe it's that I sensed vulnerably from him. His bulk and size, there only to cover the frailties within. I could picture this man falling down in a china shop, but the only thing he would break would be his neck.

This man, who sat next to me, was far from my concept of a "dream man." I have always been more attracted to the scholarly type, the weaklings who sacrifice their outside strength for a greater strength within. Somehow it correlates to a deep rooted belief I have that men use their physical beings to hide their flawed essences within.

But this man, who no longer focused any of his attention on me, was different. I could feel it. And my first impressions were always right, whether I choose to acknowledge them or not.

Still unsure if I was attracted to this man, I know at least that he was attracted to me. It was a safe assumption. Men are always attracted to physical appearance, and I've often been told that mine is about as close to perfect as it gets. Blond, blue eyes, a figure that stays 35" 24" 34" even when I don't work at it. I have a face that has been on the cover of magazines. I am comfortable with my beauty. It is something I have had to live with my whole life and, truthfully, have only come to honestly accept within the last three years.

I no longer have to hide behind my looks.

When he looked over at me, what did he see? Another pretty girl? But is that all he sees in me? Looks are enough to get men's attention, but do I have enough substance to hold it? Can my inner beauty ever match my outer?

The more I think, the more the fear inside escalates. Thoughts lead to inaction. Who is this man anyway? Just a stranger in a bar. Probably either out for a one-night stand, or to drown in his alcoholism. Why is it so important to get and hold his attention? Maybe he is just a symbol of all the past men in my life who I never let get close enough to see the real me. I have been too afraid to share my true self with any of them. My beauty was definitely skin deep, and I would not let anyone in to see any further.

My symbolic man, sitting at the bar, in the stool next to me. Probably he has long since forgotten I am even here.

On cue, he casts a quick, but revealing, glance my way, and I instantly know that he is not just like one of the many from my past. He is different.

His was a gentle spirit. I felt safe. I felt a warmth coming from him. More than a warmth, I sensed a spark, a fire.

I could feel this man's power. Maybe this man had the key to happiness.

Breaking the silence like a thunderbolt on a clear night, I found myself saying, "I am unhappy at my cluttered thoughts that dampen my spontaneity."

At first I wasn't sure he knew that I was talking to him. Finally, he turned to me as a spring breeze, just his look enough to bring a thaw to my winter ice.

"I admire someone who understands themselves so well."

I didn't know what to say. How do you respond to something like that?

Before I could think of a thing to say he asked, "How come you don't seem satisfied?"

I could tell from the start that this wasn't going to be a normal bar conversation, but I still couldn't tell where he was coming from.

"No, really," I mustered up my most sincere voice, "This drink is mixed very well. I am very satisfied."

"Is that what your heart wanted to say, or is that coming from your head?"

Who did this guy think he was? "O.K. if you don't like my jokes, and you think I'm a walking analytical machine, and you obviously aren't blown away by my looks, why are we sitting here carrying on this . . . for lack of a better word . . . conversation?"

"You are obviously very beautiful. You know that. I know that. You want to ask the bartender? I know he would agree."

That was the worst way I have ever been told I am beautiful. I've heard it from thousands of people, hundreds of ways, but never anything close to that!

Before I could fully process that, and come back with a response, he went on, "But I see something more . . . hidden. And I got to wondering . . . if you ever let it out?"

Suddenly I found it hard to swallow.

“Your beauty is powerful, but I think you use it to hide something you fear is even more powerful. What is it you hide?"

My eyes, like clouds in the spring. That ominous first drop of rain trickles down my cheek. My head, trying to control the weather and deny the coming storm, while my heart does a rain dance. My fear grows as the thunder rolls over me.

"By being numb to the pain and fear, you also remove yourself from experiencing the joy. Or is it the joy and pleasure you fear most?"

Oh God. Stop it! Stop his talking . . . Stop my tears.

"Fear is most often what keeps us stuck. Fear is natural. It's all right. Facing fear is the only way to move on, to grow."

Crying in a bar. Who is he that he could do this to me? I must control these tears. It is silly.

Then he touched me. In a bar.

This man I do not know, came and put his arm around me. An arm he obviously no longer wanted . . !

Sure it was a perfectly natural thing; I often let strangers fondle me in bars!

But as he pulled me toward him, I, busy fighting the tears, found it hard to fight him too.

He pulled me close. He didn't grab at me. Holding me, "It's All right," he said.

What's all right!? The fact that I'm so screwed up? The fact that I let this man molest me in a bar . . . but no, he held me, not in a sexual way. It was comforting, warm. I think it was different from how I have ever been held before. Somehow I couldn't even picture one of his hands moving slyly to one of my tits. But that is what he wanted. Wasn't it? This had to be a trick. Get me comfortable, relaxed, then . . . attack!

"It's O.K." his voice so soothing. "Cry. Let it out."

He's not telling me not to cry? Who wants to take home a hysterical woman? No one wants to be screwing someone who is crying . . .

Crying. Like a dam breaking loose. I could no longer control it. Sobs welled up from my very soul. I was not conscious of anything I did. I may have cried for hours there in his arms. Safe. Safe from the world, and my own judgements.

He never attempted to quiet me, though I must have embarrassed him so. He actually seemed sincere in encouraging me to get it all out, and God, I had a lot of it in me. Yes, didn't I even hear him saying, "make the noise," when I quivered from the things inside that I so feared letting out?

Not just tears, they were sobs of pain.

When it all finally stopped and I seemed, for the time being, to have no more possible tears inside me, I would have thought that the embarrassment would have been earth shattering. But I didn't leap from his arms, run from the bar, never to look back, or come back, to that unbearable place again.

He stayed there and, more significantly, I stayed there. I even let him continue to hold me.

His hands never did move anywhere threatening. I no longer envisioned his hands moving to my tits. I no longer feared it. I could not even imagine it now.

I looked at him. His eyes, so penetrating, looked into my soul. I did not resist. I let him in. I felt an energy pass through our eyes.

His eyes so beautiful, or were they my eyes? Our eyes were one, for I not only saw him, but through him I saw myself. I saw myself as I have never before dared to look. But it wasn't so bad. So much of the pain was gone. Maybe I did have a sliver of what's called "inner beauty." I knew it could never compete with my "outer beauty," but it was a start.



.





It's been over a month since our encounter in the bar. He is not now my lover. We are not friends. I have not seen him since. He has not called. He never asked for my number. I didn't go home with him that night. After my crying fit, we just talked a while longer, and since it had grown late, we said our good-bye with a hug.

"Call me anytime," he said as he gave me his number. He left it at that. No promises. No requests.

I fully expected to run into him again, or to get a surprise call late one night. Surely he would find a way to get my number; track me down.

But not a sign, or a word. I even went back to that same bar a few times, just to see if I would run into him, but he never came back. I even asked the bartender if he had seen him again, but the bartender couldn't even remember him, "Obviously not a regular," the bartender smiled. Neither was I, but the bartender seemed to have no difficulty remembering me.

But I will never forget the man I met at the bar...