James story is my story....(II)

II
Still a little stunned at James news. I make my way into the shopping complex when I spot an attractive handsome man about to walk in through the opposite door. And when I say attractive, I don’t meant in a pretty way, er, Matthew kind of way - even though he is not European – but rather jaw – droppingly stop-me-my-tracks attractive, short hair, beautiful tan skin, a cute and full, kissable lips.

For a moment, I don’t know what to do. I could hold the door open for him, of course, but he might turn out to be one of those asshole who then decides to punch me in the face for being nice enough to imagine he couldn’t possibly manage this big heavy door without assistance.

Alternatively, I could just walk on through, thus making him wait, which would give me longer to stare at him. But by the looks of him, he’s in a bit of hurry, and whilst I quite enjoy bumping into attractive man on the street or shopping mall – especially since it’s the only physical contact I get with the same sex at the moment –given the speed he’s going, I might come off worse.

I make an executive decision to hold the door open and stand to one side, bracing myself for a verbal onslaught, or physical one, or even worse, a complete lack of acknowledgement, but instead, the guy smiles at me, and actually says thanks. And his smile is so warm, so genuine, so intoxicating, that perhaps foolishly I mistake it for more than just politeness, and so after I’ve waited for a couple of seconds, I turn round and follow him back into the shop, I am single, after all, as James’s recent announcement has reminded me, and besides, I owe it to myself to check him out.

As the security guard gives me a funny look, I quickly make the “I’ve forgotten-to-buy-something” face, and head off in the direction the guy’s gone, although where this turns out to be along the ‘feminine hygiene’ aisle, I have to make a quick detour. But when I emerge from the ‘skincare’ section, he’s nowhere to be seen. Hurriedly, I peer around the store, but there’s no sign of him, and I am just thinking about giving up and heading outside when I spot him, now dressed in a long white coat, emerging from a door behind the pharmacy counter and taking over behind one of the cash machine.

There’s a queue of customers, which I instinctively join the end of, while wondering what my approach should be. Only problem is, I don’t have a prescription like the rest of them seem to be clutching, so I quickly step back out of the line and stand there, looking at the cold remedies, while trying to work out what to do. I’ve got to see whether that initial smile was anything more than that, which means going over and talking to him, but about what? I’ve never been good at this chat-up lark, and especially under pressure.

And I know why: it’s the fear of rejection- the worry that the moment I lay myself bare, he’ll send me scampering shame – faced from the shop, my ego crushed by a simple ‘no’.

Because by suggesting something like a coffee, or drinks, or even dinner, what I am really saying is ‘I want to get to know you better, then have sex with you, with a view to maybe us spending the rest of our lives together.’ And that’s a scary thing for anyone to propose – even when it’s disguised as a latte at Starbucks – and especially when you’re making that proposal after something as simple as a smile.

Mindful of my earlier conversation with James, I realized that I have a decision to make, and it’s one that every single single man makes at least once a day –do I risk the humiliation of crashing and burning in an attempt to rid myself of my unattached status, and what’s worse, risk it when I am pretty sure any new relationships going to go the same way as all the others?

Well, given how attractive he is, and the alternative, there’s really just one answer to that. I pick up a bottle of Night Nurse and pretend to study the label, while actually studying the queue. Amid the coughing, spluttering, and limping line – and God knows what medicine they think they’re going to get to help them- there do seem to be a few people who are just buying deodorant, maybe because the queue here is shorter than the one at the cash counter at the front of the shop.

But that raises another issue – do I risk my own well being by queuing up with this unhealthy lot? Given that I need as excuse to talk to him, I don’t seem to have any choice, so I grab the nearest toiletry and rejoin the end of the queue. But then it occurs to me that simple walking up and paying for a tube of Lynx shower gel isn’t going to do the trick, so I put it back, than pick it up again hurriedly as edge closer and closer to the counter.

I am desperately starting to wonder how much conversation I can make out of the purchase of a packet of Nurofen as well when I have an idea. There’s a sign above the counter that says “ASK YOUR PHARMACIST”, and while I know they don’t meant ‘for a date’, this at least gives me a chance to have an actual conversation with him.

So, in theory, all I have to do is invent an ailment. But what? Because thinking about it, there’s a very short list of ailments that will show you in a positive light. A simple cold or flu, maybe – but trouble is ,I don’t sound like I’ve got any symptoms.

There’s only one person in between me and the counter now, and I am starting to panic. Excessive sweating? No- not good, especially since the combination of the store’s air-conditioning system that not cold enough, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention to that. My mind is playing tricks on me, suggesting the most embarrassing ailments. Athlete’s foot? No- he might think I need the cream for another itchy area. Piles? Best not. The runs? The runs! That’s it. Or at least, a sport injury. Gay man like sporty guys, right? And although apart from the odd game of tennis, the most sporty I get is when I watch the ‘footy game’ with my mate back in Melbourne, it might just work.

Happy with my plan, I slip the shower gel back onto the nearest shelf, and when I eventually get to the counter, surreptitiously check the name badge pinned to the lapel of his white coat – Frans Tjoeng – and prepare to launch into my story. But as he looks up at me, my mind goes blank.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Er, yes,’ I say, followed by ‘yes’, but an octave or two lower than my first, nervously squeaked reply. Trouble is, I can’t think of how, and the only thought that leaps to mind is why didn’t I hold on to the shower gel? I look around, but it’s too far away to reach without me losing my place in the line. What if I buy something that at least doesn’t have aloe-vera in it – that suggests I am a real man? But what? ’I’d like to buy some, I mean. I need…’ I stop talking, because he really is very gorgeous attractive man. And more importantly, I can’t think of anything.

Frans smile at me sympathetically, then taps the glas counter infront of him. Where the condoms are.

‘What size?’ he whispers

‘Pardon?’

‘Condoms,’ says Frans, slightly louder this time.

‘What size do you need?’

This takes me by surprise, not only because I am pretty sure I hadn’t said anything out loud about actually needing some, but also because I’ve been buying condoms for seventeen years, and never knew that they come in different sizes. But all of a sudden, it strikes me that buying a packet of condoms is an excellent idea. Two, maybe, to suggest that not only am I getting a lot of sex, but I am responsible as well, and what’s more, if I go for ‘ribbed’, it’ll make me out to be a considerate lover too. But then again, it’s embarrassing buying condoms at the best of times. And especially from the guy you fancy.

‘Er..’

‘Yes?’ says Frans

There’s a murmuring from the queue behind me, and I realized that I don’t have long. Maybe

I should just go with the condoms after all. But the who-wants-to-be-a-Millionaire? Million-dollar question still remains, and it’s a lot harder to answer than anything I’ve seen on the programme.

‘I am not sure. I mean. I’d like to say ’large’, obviously. But being honest. I am probably more of a medium. Not that I’ve ever had any complaints.’

Frans looks at me levelly. ‘What size packet?’

I am a little stunned at him directness. I mean. I know he’s a medical person, but surely this is a bit, well forward. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to explain.’

‘Well?’ say Frans, patiently, ‘Thee? Six? Twelve?’

I want to say that I’ve never actually measured it, but I am sure most man would know that to be a lie.

‘Er.. Do you mean in “inches”?’

‘No,’ says Frans, producing a selection of different sized packet of Durex from beneath the counter. ‘How many?’

‘Ah,’ I say, although aargh might be more appropriate.

‘Well I, er, don’t actually need any. Condoms.’

‘You don’t?’ says Frans

‘No. I wanted some advice.’

‘Advice? Are you sick?’

‘Not exactly, ’I say, although I am beginning to worry that yes. I am. “I’ve got a, um, sport injury,’

Frans looks at me suspiciously. ‘Really? What have you done?’

Don’t say groin strain. Don’t say groin strain. ’It’s a. er, groin strain.’

Frans raise one eyebrow. ‘How on earth did you get that?’ he syas, tapping the top of the largest condom box with his index finger. ‘Or daren’t I ask?’

As I try and come up with a valid scenario, one of Frans’s colleagues opens up the next counter, and the people in the queue behind me move across to that one. Which of course means I’ve got no reason to hurry up. Even though now, I actually want to.

‘No, it was from playing…’ Playing what – the piano? ‘I mean, I was in the gym. And I, er..’ I stop talking, as I am in danger of getting myself into more trouble.

What more, it’s clear that Frans’s not buying any of this. ‘So, what would you, you know, advice?’ I say, pointing at the ‘Ask Your Pharmacist’ sign above his head, just in case he think I am acting inappropriately.

Frans thinks for a second or two. ‘Well, generally with any kind of strain, we advice something called RICE.’

I am a little confused. ‘What- like basmati?’

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘It’s an acronym. R-I-C-E stands for rest, ice, compression, elevation.

Though given that it’s your groin, I think we’d better forget the ice, compression, and, you know..’

‘Elevation?’

Frans nods. ‘Exactly, so just make sure you rest the affected area.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that the way he’s looking at me suggests he doesn’t think that’ll be a problem. ‘Thanks.’

‘So you won’t be wanting these, then?’ he says nodding towards the bumper pack of Durex.

I give the box a cursory glance, then suddenly feel guilty that I haven’t bought anything, though why, I don’t know. It’s not as if Frans owns the shop, or is he on commission, or something. ‘No, I’ll take them anyway. For when I am, you know..’

Frans picks up the box and scans it through.

‘Better?’

‘Yes, Better, and thanks.’

‘For the condoms?’

‘No. The advice.’

‘It’s what I am here for.’ Says Frans, although perhaps a touch ironically, before extending a hand towards me.

I take it, and give it a shake. ‘I am George, nice to meet you,’ I say, realizing that now’s my chance, and if I am going to ask him out, then I won’t get better opportunity. But whether it’s from a lack of confidence from all the failed relationships in my life, or the knowledge that I’ll have to buy my toiletries from Guardian from now on if he turn me down, or simply that I am over-whelmed by how handsome he is, I just can’t get the word out.

Reluctantly, I let go of Frans’s hand, but he keep sit extended. ‘It’s nice to meet you too, George, but I was actually after your nineteen ringgit.’

‘Oh. Right. Sorry. Of course.’ I feel myself blushing and hurriedly fish around in my pocket.

‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’ He says, handling me my change, along with the condoms, which he’s mercifully pit in a plastic bag, ‘And in the meantime, take care of that groin.’

‘Sure. Will do. Bye.’

He smiles. ‘Bye George.’

Reluctantly, I turn and start to walk away from the counter, only remembering that I should perhaps be limping when I am halfway out of the store, and when I look back over my shoulder to see whether I’ve been sussed. I guess the answer must be ‘yes’, because Frans’s smiling to himself, while shaking his head.

When I get outside, I peer into the bag to see exactly what it is I’ve ended up spending nearly twenty ringgit on, but the first thing I notice is the use-by on the box. Even though it’s a good two years away, given the way things have been going, my first thought is that I might end up having to throw most of them away.

Till then, I hope this is the good one and make you think how stupid man can be sometimes huh!....