Naked Party

Being in a corner, he’s told you, makes him feel safe, like you can’t shoot him without his seeing you. You’ve always marveled at his enthusiastic insistence that he’d rather look death in the eye than have it sneak up and take him down when he’s least expecting it.

Jules isn’t even close, and there are enough people between you, the pool, and the Clubhouse for him to have to strain to find you. But you know he’s there. Even before you make eye contact, you can feel a stare, like the soft tickling flurry of tiny ant feet navigating the fine hairs on your arm. And you look only to confirm what you already know – yes, there’s an ant, and yeah, he’s looking. He’s standing on one leg, other leg bent, sneaker leaning against the wall, making sure that wall’s still there to protect him. You watch his head tilt back and you see him laugh, mouth slightly ajar as if he’s catching the punch-line in the back of his throat. Even as you look away, you know he is laughing at his own joke, probably in the company of some hot chick who’s laughing with him. She’d be brunette – long, straight hair – because he can’t stand blondes, who are, in his opinion, “super dumb,” and curly hair “reminds him of pubes.” You don’t even have to look and you know he’s got an open can of Beast, that cheap beer he lugs to every party you guys have ever gone to – even the dinner party your prof threw at his house on Faculty Row. Jules probably recognized you by the way you are leaning over onto the bar, throwing your entire body weight on your elbows, as you hoist yourself up on tippy-toes waiting for the bartender to make your drink.

And you are both there wearing the exact same thing you had on the last time you saw each other. Nothing, that is. Sounds like something rhetorical your mother might ask you as you try to leave the house: “Hey, just because everyone else is walking around naked, are you going to do it too?” In this moment, the answer is ‘yes.’ And in this moment, the moment you realize Jules has seen you, you decide, “It sucked,” is going to be your understated, pithy summation, when you tell your friends how awkward it was to see your ex at the Alpha Chi “birthday-suit-formal.”

Before your last flight home to Atlanta, you leafed through some trashy fashion magazine at one of the newsstands. A sociological study, you reason. The beauty editor of this magazine tells you to ask yourself when you’re in doubt over an outfit, “Would I want my ex to see me in this?” She says, “If not, I think you have your answer.” You mulled this over, and at the time, you thought, sure. Now you ask yourself, “Would I want my ex to see me wearing nothing?” There, as you look down and contemplate that little protruding roll right below your bellybutton – the one Jules always called “your pooch” – you have your answer. You are most definitely underdressed.

It’s taken a good couple hours for you to stop sucking in your stomach and scrunching your elbows into your sides to accentuate your cleavage. As you turn around and ease away from the bar, bodies part, forming a channel that leads you in a direction away from Jules. You discover that people – especially the ones new to this scene -- give you more space. They stand about 4 feet away when you’re talking, rather than the usual arm’s length. You scan the scene for your roommate, Laura. Before arriving, you’d made a pact not to abandon each other. By the pool, girls and guys are sitting with their feet dangling in the water, sipping cocktails or beer. You recognize that girl at the shallow end, the one who just ducked under. She’s in your Lit class and you try not to stare, but as she emerges, you notice that her left breast hangs way lower than her right. Near the clubhouse, there’s a giant penis-shaped ice luge. One of the Alpha Chi brothers is pouring a bottle of Smirnoff at the top, unabashedly checking out the lithe little blonde with blue eyeshadow and sparkly silver chandelier earrings, kneeling at the edge of the table, with her lips pressed to the icy tip. Still no sign of Laura. Pretending everything’s normal makes your head hurt. It seems the less you wear, the more uncomfortable people are about standing close to you or talking about the things that matter. Don a fuzzy duck suit, you think bitterly, and everyone wants a hug.

As you make your way behind the ice luge, away from the clubhouse, skirting around the edge of the pool, you find yourself rehearsing a what-if-you-run-into-Jules scenario in your mind. You will coolly ask him about his architecture school apps or his recent trombone fetish. But asking about the latter would let him know you’ve been stalking the pics of his new band on Facebook. Really, it doesn’t matter what you say; you know you will be so focused on trying to read his eyes, trying to figure out what he remembers and what he has chosen to forget. You have this feeling that bodies don’t forget, that they remember the way they’re supposed to slide into each other, which limbs go over and which fold under. Your knees find the cushy bits on your partner’s flanks and your head steers straight for soft part on his chest, there, under the collarbone, next to the sternum.

You remember the last time you are with Jules, both of you lying naked in dark on a pile of unlaunched accusations. His nakedness is nothing personal; he’s just hot. Even in the dead of winter, he sleeps naked with the covers at his feet. He is curled up on his side, one hand tucked beneath his chin and the other under his pillow. His back is towards you and you are spooning your pillow, instead of him. You get out of bed, pretend you need a glass of water, then come back and sit on his side of the bed, at once determined and vulnerable. You were right and he’s not asleep. But he stares straight ahead, not even at your thighs right in front of his face. He refuses to look up and he refuses to touch you even though you’re willing it, and you’re naked, and you’re there. You reach for the arm tucked under his chin and with two fingers, you gently stroke his underarm, teasing that part between the wrist and elbow – the part you know drives him crazy. Still not looking, he registers your touch by stiffening; he continues to stare, unflinching, at something he can see and you can’t. When he closes his eyes, you get up quickly and leave because you don’t want him to see you cry.  

Hate greets you like an old friend, scooping you up in a big hug and wrapping his heavy wool jacket of resentment around your shoulders to warm you up inside. You think, how can Hate be bad, when he’s so comfortable, so easy to be around, and so dependable? You finish your drink and set the glass down on a table wedged between two pool lounge chairs. But as you turn around, Jules is standing there. Not there there in the corner, but here there, looking at you, naked.