Bang-ups and Hang-ups

I walked into his gallery on a Sunday, when most of the other galleries, stores, restaurants in downtown Portland were closed (I'm figuring something about Sunday being the official "day of rest" for everyone and everything here). The funny thing was that I really didn't like him much.  He was handsome, ambitious and artistic, but he was also sleazy in that conman, "sizing you up," telling you what you want to hear kind of way. Yet, I liked his youthful energy (he was in his early 30s): the way he promised to cook for me, take me to all the lighthouses in Maine, expose me to the songs of the most romantic singers in Turkey.  YES, he was a conman, but I wanted to be a conned; I didn't want to see the signs of a man who just wanted sex. Who even in his first "message," said he could not sleep without me in his "cold, cold bed." 

You have to give it to a man who alludes to grand, eternal love in the first text. As for me and my delusion about falling in love at a gallery. It could have been something about starting to get bored with this dull city, about wanting to meet someone who does not take pride in being from this god-forsaken puritanial, pot smoking, falling on your knees drunk, mountain man/woman dress code kind of life, a life where there is a list of what is inappropriate to wear, think, say, do, etc.   

Yes, the rose-colored glasses are off: Portland, Maine is dull, dull, dull.  Really, it's just a bastion of puritanical thought, rooted in the voyage of the 1600's Mayflower and stuck in 70's architecture, clothes, drugs and alcohol. Already, I dream of cities where people are superficial, vain, modern; where they wear clothes they can't afford, but look marvelous, intriguing and mysterious nonetheless; where the food is cooked by real Chinese, Middle Eastern, French, Italian, Japonese, chefs and not some inexperienced Mainer kid trying to prepare something he or she will never understand...NEVER.

In the end, he took me to the Lighthouse in Cape Elizabeth (the one pictured in all the post cards),  shared with me the vodka mixed with Red Bull he kept in his thermos while we sat in his Lexus SUV and stared at the water. Offered me more exciting things to do: dancing the night way in clubs of Portland, and traveling to his country to get lost in the caves of Capedocia.  He said I had to be open-minded when I was with him. I loved it all, his big strokes of foreign ambition in a small, rural New England town playing the part of a big city.

Then we were in the back office of his gallery. I did some "belly dancing" with my scarf.  Then, he played some Turkish songs, gave me more to drink. Then, I gave him what he wanted, all oral and hot.  After that it got weird.  While he came, he held his hand up to his face in embarssment.  "I can't believe we did that here," he said afterwards, as if we had done the deed in the Blue Mosque; quickly put on his pants; said I was making too much noise. What? He told me to get dressed. Held the gallery door for me so that I could leave.

I left my five-minute lover with a breezy wave of my hand and walked the streets of downtown Portland thinking about a quote by Dr. Seuss:  "I'm sorry to say so but, sadly it's true that bang-ups and hang-ups can happen to you." Memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO