A few months pass by and it’s winter. I’m going on a two week ski holiday trip in Austria with many other young people around my age, 16.
With the girls #50 and #49 of the previous posts, I could still find half-assed excuses why I’m not to blame that I screwed it up like, “still a kid” or “naturally had other interests than girls and the real stuff with them, was just too naive, etc.”.
Now, every month that passes by, the margin for error narrows down. Sex is on the table with increasing frequency and bluntness, although it takes me another six months to lose my virginity (however, that experience doesn’t belong here by definition of the blog: it was clumsy, a bit embarrassing but not disastrous. I got cougared by a dance teacher from Africa).
I was very happy to “have become a man” back then but already sensed that I just landed a lucky shot in the dark (pun not intended ;).
I didn’t even tell Puntozenon about this case #48—my mistakes here were so titanic and obvious, there’s no need to analyse them deeper:
We enter a tour bus very early in the morning and I’m a bit shy and intimidated by all the new people and especially by the cool sporty guys that go on this tour the third or fourth time. So I sit near my two buddies and try to not expose myself too much. I don’t register any girls, specifically.
After a week I have made some new friends and overall warm up to the situation. The interesting and Nice Guy I am, I connect with other guys quickly, as usual. Dirk is one of them and part of the in-group, on the tour for the third time. He appears to be a Nice Guy too, maybe as an effect of his cheilognathoschisis (harelip) which has huge impact on his pronounciation.
Lateron it will turn out he really is very nice and friendly: he never shows any attempt to cockblock me when it comes to Daniela—his sister.
They probably have loving, undivorced parents, because Daniela is very down-to-earth and easy going, despite her outstanding beauty. Probably the reason why I initially am only a little bit nervous and talk to her naturally. She’s open and only after several interactions I notice that I “have hot ears”, as we say in German: I have a crush on her!
Needless to say, that realization makes me think and worry and I start acting uptight. She is soooo good looking, she’s out of my league. Every guy is after her, why should she take me? I’m not as good a skier as the locals, I’m not good enough for her! Is she my type anyway?
The BS in my head leads to inertia, a pattern I now realize I ran in other areas of my life too.
I also notice that I feel a surge of anger. I’m getting annoyed—at her! This happened more than three decades ago but the memory of this emotion is clear like a gill: I’m angry because she doesn’t come over, takes my hand and shows me she likes me.
Puntozenon would ask: why should she initiate? That’s your job as a man. He’s right and I believe I knew it back then but the feeling and my inner blockage was just there. It had to do with my parents and my expectation that they made up for something. Actually, I was hoping that my father would take my hand and show me how our world works. And that other world, too, the girls. He never did or, maybe, I didn’t see it.
So I don’t make the move but Daniela is still signaling interest. She’s patient with me. I instead firmly believe she has done something wrong, it’s her fault we’re not yet happy together.
I am a decent looking and entertaining young man and maybe to an extent larger than imagined, because at the end, Daniela is taking the initiative and talks to me, that she likes me and that we should go to where we’re alone.
This is far more than any guy can expect, even more so by the cutest girl around. Even the blind should see the occasion and appreciate its beauty. Well, not me.
My stupid ego sees an opportunity, yes, but not for a happy end but for —revenge! Too late, honey, you should’ve done that right in the beginning, now I’m upset. Here, take this, I punish you hard now and reject your approach. Try again!
She does not. I don’t know what’s going on in her head. All I see is that she’s looking sad and moving away. Later I see her crying, huddled on the warm masonry heater, like a hurt cat licking her wounds.
That’s also the moment when even me dickhead realizes his mistake. I see the absurdity of the situation and of my behavior, I’m feeling guilty, embarrassed and depressed.
Nothing worth reporting happens after that incident. Well, not quite true: back home in school, in my daily routine, I cannot stop thinking about her. It might be retroactive idealization of her and her indicators of interest. Anyway, my parents do not doublecheck why I’m pushing them to register me for the next season’s ski event, ten months ahead.
The whole year I can’t wait to go on the ski trip and see her again. How will she look like, as beautiful as last time? Will she remember my fuckup? Will I be given a second chance?
The day my dad has to drive me to the bus departure, noticeably not too amused about getting up at 5am, I am wake an hour before the clock, full of energy, in anticipated joy and expectation. I wouldn’t repeat my past mistakes for sure, I would be super nice to her and talking to her as soon as I see her, I even have wrapped a small gift.
When we reach the parking lot, it’s still dark and the bus surrounded by a crowd of kids and parents. But I keep my cool, they will call out every person on the booking list. So I’d even know in which row she sits and already daydream about walking over to her in front of everyone and saying hello.
When the 38th name is called out, my raising fear turns into certainty: she’s not on the trip!
But her brother is and at the first possible break I head over to him and shake hands. As a surprise to me, he’s still very friendly.
With a subtle but perceivable tone of satisfaction he informs me that his sister couldn’t make it because she now uses all of her free time to work as a model. She’s just now having a gig in Milan.
I am left a bit surprised because I do recall her as a nice, shy, but open girl. Aren’t models bitchy and arrogant? Well, how could I know? The next ones I meet in person are only #39 and #36 of this blog but don’t await a story of glory.
And needless to say, I never see Daniela again.