Mitch was unbelievably cute. He made noises when he kissed – sweet, tender, passionate kissy noises that I’d only otherwise heard in John Hughes movies and early Beverly Hills 90210 episodes. He had a scruffy goatee, slightly off white olive peach skin, a tall and slender build, a skateboard, a squared face, and was spending his junior year abroad at Oxford Brooks University in Oxford, England.
The first time I met him, I he was hanging out with my friend Alex in line for kebas. Alex had met him another night prior – in line for kebabs. The night I met him, Mitch was wearing a woven winter hat with two straps hanging down either side of his face, and his just above shoulder length hair was pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. He seemed like my type – offbeat pseudo counter culture white boy excited to talk about music and art and intellectual things.
The first time we really hung out was maybe a week or so later with Alex and some other friends of mine from my postgraduate program at the Oxford Tutorial College. We went to Po-Na-Na – a very chill bar and live music venue that my friend Kat and I frequented often (especially Tuesdays for funk night). Mitch and I sat cross legged across from one another in one of the alcoves floor lined with pillows next to a table where Alex, Kat, and our other friends sat.
We talked about Jurassic 5. And A Tribe Called Quest. And old school hip hop. And ska. And punk. And Phish. And music. And how he did theatre. And how I did theatre. And how he skateboarded. And how I snowboarded, and once taught myself to skateboard on a boring Saturday afternoon in 10th grade. And how he was from San Diego. And how I was from Chicago. And we talked. And flirted. And mostly just connected. Really clicked and connected.
The first time we kissed was maybe a week or so later when he came out with my friend Hilary and a few of her other friends. We went to the Cellar – a bar next to the Oxford Student Union – that featured excellent hip hop and freestyle nights. It was a Friday. I was drinking Smirnoff Ice – all I ever drank the three months I lived in Oxford. Mitch said I should be sponsored by them – I was such an avid supporter. I was really sweaty and it made me self-conscious. He rubbed my upper back gently and said it was cute and sexy that I was sweating.
At one point, he was on the dance floor in the back room with Hilary et al. I was stranded – perhaps placed by fate and circumstance – in the middle of the main room, when the bouncer came over to me and whispered in my left ear.
“I fancy you a lot. I’ve seen you here before. I’ll see you later.” And then he made a slight jerking head toss motion towards the back door that was for employees only. I watched him push and walk through the door. “I mean, why not?” I thought, “This is one of those moments that I’ll never have randomly happen like this again.” So I followed him.
And I hooked up with him – the bouncer. Back there against the wall outside his bosses office door. Up against the wall I made out with this bouncer whom I barely knew – while Mitch, the guy I actually liked and had a crush and solid chance with – was outside dancing with my friends. I eventually said I had to get back to my friends, and we walked back into the club, parted ways (he to the door, me to my friends on the dance floor). No one asked where I’d been, not even Mitch. It must not have been that long. And I’m an independent, wanderer anyhow, who doesn’t cling to friends or dates in public spaces.
The night went on. Mitch and I became inseparably flirty and sweet. We parted ways with Hilary and crew and headed to the Bridge – a posh club and bar where my friend Kat and her boyfriend Chris worked. Mitch was wearing an orange T-shirt and baggy cargo pants or jeans (I can’t remember…but it was cute). His hair back in a ponytail, small front ends falling out which he’d pull behind his ears. I was wearing a powder blue tank top, a white shrug that tied around my midriff and ruffled at the sleeves hitting my mid-forearms. I had on dark blue stretchy jeans from H&M (years before the store would ever hit the United States).
At one point, I remember him kissing my cheeks, then my forehead, then my lips. I can’t remember why. Or for what. But I remember it being romantic, and sweet, and precious. And I remember him telling me I was beautifully – looking at Kat at the end of the night when she began cleaning up. He stood there, staring at me, and says to Kat, “Isn’t she beautiful?” And I remember it being romantic, sweet, and precious.
And since Kat and Chris were going to drive me home, and Mitch has his bike to pick up down the street and ride home, I walked him outside to say goodnight.
We began to kiss. I pulled away. I got bold and honest and serious.
“I want to take this slow,” I began, “Because I really like you. And usually by now, I would have jumped your bones. But I actually like you, so I want to take this slow.”
He blushed. He was flattered, and kissed me more. And it was an amazing kiss. And I pulled away. And said goodnight. And flustered, he began walking in the wrong direction for his bike. And then laughed at himself and changed directions.
We would hang out a few more times. He wore a leather jacket, which drove me nuts. Nuts in the vexed way. The unprecedented vexed way that only insecure and judgmental people who don’t know how good they have it react. I remember his internal, fabricated, unnecessary downfall in my mind. We were at a bar with pool tables. He, Kat, myself, and two of his other friends. I watched his long hair – free from ponytail. His black leather jacket – tacky and unfit for his skateboarder ways. I decided I didn’t like him anymore. Even though he kissed me with sunset and held me with moonlight. Even though he smiled with pureness and complimented with dignity. Even though he was adorable. Even though he was respectful. He was too real. And I wasn’t ready. And when he and Kat and I walked home that night and he asked me to come over to his place to snuggle and kiss, I said no. And he kissed me as Kat and I got in a cab and drove away.
The last time we talked was on the phone. I was sitting in the lobby of the Oxford Tutorial College. It was mid morning. I was apathetic, and uninterested upon his request to meet up that night. He must have heard it in my voice. I never heard from him again. I called the house where he stayed once several weeks later, but his land lady said, “Mitchell doesn’t live here anymore.” I heard from Alex that he got a job working at a bar – that bar where he’s played pool in his leather jacket and I gave up on him.
***
I thought about Mitch this morning – seven years later – when the customer to my right at a local coffee shop here on the Lower East Side put on a leather jacket to cover his tattoos. Maybe it’s because I thought he was cute, and hesitated to continue my fawning when he put on his jacket. Maybe it’s because last night my friend Matt told me he was going to Oxford for the month of July, and England’s on the mind. Maybe it’s because I would do anything for a Mitch. Mitch himself or a Mitch incarnate. A cute guy to ask my friend, “Isn’t she beautiful?” A sweet guy that kisses like sunset. A respectful guy that wears whatever kind of jacket and hair cut he wants.
And this time, this time I wouldn’t follow the bouncer through the “Employees Only” doorway. This time I wouldn’t jump to conclusions prematurely. This time I would go back to his place – to snuggle and kiss.
This time, I wouldn’t pull away when we had our first kiss.
