By Kate
“They call me Superman,” were the first words he said to me. I thought he was some lame guy just trying to pick me up in the bar, just like every other weekend. (Don’t get me wrong, he was.) This guy wasn’t worth my time, I remember thinking, especially if he was corny enough to actually use that as a pick-up line. This guy was not even good enough to buy me a drink. He was nothing special, just a regular guy trying to get a girl to go home with him for the night. We wouldn’t talk about anything of substance, I wouldn’t be compelled to share my life story with him, nor would he with me. He would stare at my breasts, touch my body and try to seduce me. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why I turned around. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I hadn’t just rolled my eyes before I turned to face him. I wonder what would have happened if I would have declined my friends’ invitation to go out that night, because if I wouldn’t have met him, I wouldn’t be telling you this story now. So, now that I’m rambling, I’ll actually continue on with the story.
So there we were, in some club my friends had dragged me to, claiming that I needed to get over my crap-ass ex-boyfriend. I was sulking to say the least. I had made a beeline to the bar and away from the dance floor. I was not, and still am not, fond of shaking my ass against men I don’t know just so they touch and grope me in public while I think that I’ve stooped to a new low. So, I was at the bar drinking. A lot. I spotted my friends on the dance floor dancing with each other and a couple guys watching them. I scanned the crowd some more and saw my aforementioned ex-boyfriend. He was practically raping some twelve-year-old blonde. I harbor no resentment, by the way. Okay, so she wasn’t twelve and he wasn’t raping her, for you can’t rape the willing. But whatever, right? He’s my ex-boyfriend. I had every right to be pissed.
And that was when he said it. Those lame words I already told you. Honestly, who says shit like that? After I downed a shot out of boredom and desperation to escape this hellhole of a club, I coughed because I had choked a little bit, rolled my eyes and then turned around to face the guy who was trying to pick me up. I coughed again. You will not believe who I saw. Okay, you might believe it, but I didn’t when it first happened. It was Joey. Joey Fatone. That one guy from *NSYNC, that one boyband. And he was picking me up in a bar. I could not believe it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “Did you just tell me that people call you Superman?” I didn’t mean to laugh once I said it, it just happened. I was a little buzzed and really, if you heard someone try to pick you up with that line, wouldn’t you laugh too?
I remember that his cocky smirk fell from his face and he looked a little bit angry. Maybe he thought that I would just fawn over him, like the rest of his little groupies, but obviously, if you can’t tell yet, I was a little different. My reddish hair, I remember, was in my face and his had the audacity to push my bangs behind my ear. “Not interested,” he asked me.
I didn’t say anything at first. I just kinda stared at him, thinking:
1.) why are you touching me?
2.) why are you speaking to me?
3.) shouldn’t you be hanging around with people like Britney Spears and P. Diddy or something?
He removed his arms from around my shoulders and shrugged, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his designer jeans. “There are so many other chicks who would kill to be where you are right now. I’ll move onto someone else then.” The words actually stung. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him. It wasn’t that at all, I couldn’t place him at first, so I really had to focus on the fact that it really was him. And then, sure, laughing at him was bad, but honestly, who wouldn’t? He deserved it. It had to have been one of the cheesiest pick-up lines I’d ever heard.
For your sake, I’ll continue on with the story and quit bringing up the fact that he told me everyone calls him Superman. I let him leave. I watched him as he walked through the crowd. I lost sight of him after a second and called for another shot from the bartender. It was really too bad I was getting shit-faced in front of a really, really hot bartender. That always seems to happen to me, even still. (Not that I get shit-faced often.) After I downed another shot, he asked me if I wanted one more. I smiled sweetly and told him I’d had enough, but could I please just have some water? You know how that goes. So I turned around to face the dance floor. I was sipping my water when I saw one of my friends dancing with Mr. Superman.
I don’t know what made me do it. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it alcohol, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it made me set my glass down on the sturdy bar, strut across the dance floor in my ass-hugging jeans, grab the front of his shirt with one hand and press my lips to his.
When we parted, I told him, “They call me Jackie.”
