[This was originally published in Underground Experts United Issue #514 and mirrored on attrition.org. The exact publish date is not known.]
Sunday night has come and gone, time spent at the usual. I can’t help but wonder why I go to that place with all the preppy assholes. Even dancing alone I feel a thousands eyes staring me up and down, as if they are fighting over which one will come up and verbally molest me next. I can’t even wear half my clothes in that place since they take nice outfits to mean “please, date rape me”. Fuckers.
Tonight was different though. Four hours of public solitude interrupted by some guy who had the nerve to catch my eye. Just as I had resolved myself to give up on dating and men in general, someone stands out and actually makes me wonder. I am not pleased with myself. Becoming a lesbian had a certain appeal.
Nothing stood out about this guy at all. Perhaps that is what bothers me and has prompted me to flesh out my thoughts right now. Average height, average looks. He looked a bit beyond his age from what I could tell, but not unattractive. For all intents and purposes, just ‘average’. dressed in solitary, unrelenting black, except for his shirt, which stated in bleach discolorment “shy”.
No doubt that is what prompted some dickhead jock to start in on him. At first it was just bumping into him while dancing. Then it lead to dirty looks and implied confrontation, as if the jock was begging for a fight. Mr. Shy shrugged it off and continued to dance to himself, barely looking up at anyone, often dancing for minutes at a time with his eyes closed.
I thought nothing would happen. Mr. Shy showed patience and tolerance well beyond what I would have had I been in his boots. Anyone that received that much shit in a one hour period was a likely candidate to go postal (to be politically incorrect). So I danced, all night long as close to him as I could. No matter how much I looked at him I couldn’t get up the nerve to talk. Yes, me, the so called slut couldn’t hit on him.
The last part of the night was a blur, but I won’t forget it I don’t think. The jock squaring off with Mr. Shy under the light in the parking lot. Challenging him and insulting him for every pathetic reason that came to mind. Situations like this disgust me and I guess I wasn’t the only one. Mr. Shy stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, with a look of pity on his face.
Before a crowd could gather, jock loser lashed out and punched Mr. Shy in the jaw. It whipped his head around in such a way I thought his neck could have been broken. Surprise. Instead of falling back or reacting in any normal fashion, Mr. Shy slowly turned his head back around. A trickle of a tear streamed down his left cheek. The smile that adorned his face was one of intense pleasure and evil rolled in one. It had the same shocking effect on jock loser as it did me I believe.
I can’t remember exactly what Mr. Shy said, and I don’t think I heard it all either. He was smiling, licked the blood running at the corner of his mouth and said “Any more of that and you’re going to turn me on.” I don’t know if he meant it or was just saying it to get a reaction out of the preppy asshole, but it worked. Jockboy looked around as if this was some kind of joke, or maybe looking for his friends or merely reassurance that he was still cool. Didn’t matter.
Jockboy tried to don a face of anger and lashed out again, once again to the jaw. Mr. Shy stood there, head whipped back again, hands clasped behind his back. It was my turn to look around as if this was some kind of joke. Compared to the jock, he was small, almost frail even. I had stepped forward to see what was going on and hear anything further. I’m glad I did. Mr. Shy responded to the second hit with a more disturbing comment. “This is foreplay bitch.”
It must have been a minute later, that or Mr. Shy’s reflexes were much better than I could imagine. It seemed like five seconds at the time. Four hits to the face, three to the gut, and a swift kick to jock’s balls making sure he would get no play that night. The controlled rage that must have been pumping through Mr. Shy was impressive. No other way to describe it.
As jock loser lie bleeding on the ground, Mr. Shy sat on his chest pinning him to the asphalt. He reached down grabbing Jockboy’s shirt, half pulling him up, half leaning down. I couldn’t hear what Mr. Shy said, but it had its intended effect. I don’t recall seeing terror personified on someone’s face like it was on Jockboy’s. Scary shit.
The transition from shy dancer enjoying the music to savage ass kicker extraordinaire. Someone so plain and average, yet so different even though we didn’t talk. I’m glad to have seen him for the short term tonight. He is the first guy that has brought back feelings I lost over a year ago after breaking up with John. Strangers dance in the night, and I pay the price of solitude a bit longer.