What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

Her Big


      Can it be true? I don’t even like the man. I don’t resemble him at all. I’m average. I call myself six feet tall because five eleven takes too many syllables. Plus, if I gel up my faux-hawk I’m there. I don’t have a chauffeur. I’m not particularly well off. Hm. I don’t have pale skin and thin, purple lips. (Sorry if that was snide of me.) I’d much rather be her Aidan, but I’m probably her Big. Ouch.
      It’s her fault—this yo-yoing I keep doing with her—all her fault. She has some wonderful qualities, but just when I convince myself to commit, something inside me takes over and runs me away. It’s silly. We make a nice couple, she and I. The age separation is within the acceptable range of my peers. She’s certainly fit and fits too. There are the expected nuisances that come with any mate, but this one does like cats.
      I’m a nice guy, though. I’m the sweet and gentle Aidan type. I calm and kind—the sort of fellow you’d love to cuddle with while sharing intimate thoughts about gene manipulation. (OK, I’m not that geeky, but it does interest me.) Women don’t stick to the Aidan version of me. He must be too easy. Bohr-ring.
      Big is full of mystery and romance. He’s unpredictable, but when she has him, he has her completely and constantly on the brink of climax. Except for when he’s pissing her off with his noncommittal cavalierity. (Yay, new word!) Ah, love around the edges—along the extremes—so fragile and exciting! She hates needy men, yet wishes for an occasional taste. Big provides it.
      I don’t want to treat any woman that way. I want to be in or out, not both. Big gave me the creeps when his pixels appeared. “What a horrible man. What on earth does she see in him?” Without words, my question answered. Poor, poor, oblivious me. “He’s gross. I don’t give a shit how many lofts and designer suits he owns. He … is … gross.” Another glare is returned for my cluelessness.
      That’s it. I am going to be her Aidan. Fuck! Aidan was left holding his own, wasn’t he? Sure, he made the cameo appearance, but Big gets the princess. So, by that logic, if I become this woman’s Aidan, she will burn rubber and find another Big. That won’t do. I’m sure she’d rather have the Aidan-me most of the time. Perhaps she’ll adjust. Doubtful.
      All right. I’ll be both—a schizophrenic batch of both—the alpha and beta male. (I will not, by the way, be a Steve. Ee-yuck.) It’s more likely I’d become a Big A, as in asshole. Well, there must be a compromise somewhere. Is it possible that four years of Big set our relationship up nicely for me to leave the cocoon as Aidan? I emerge the gentle butterfly that once caterpillared along her nerves with my creepiness.
      “I’m sorry for being what you needed before showing who I am. Hugs and kisses, my darling. Now, let’s sip wine and cuddle.”

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