Exotic

...“exotic” cannot be a permanent quality of any object. In order to enjoy the exotic, we must keep it at a distance. As soon as we possess it, it becomes familiar...

by Shinen Wong, via Fridae


In University, I fell in love with a boy whose name is S. I was 21, and he was 19. I was in my third year of university, just one year short of graduation, whereas he had just matriculated, fresh out of high school, nervous and excited, a gorgeous mess of a character. He was scruffy, lightly bearded on his boyish face, with short sugary-brown hair gently tousled on his head. He was Caucasian, with a lean, tight-framed, slightly lanky body. He stood about half an inch or so taller than I, about 1.27 centimetres in metric, something he and I had joked about once, foreshadowing our insurmountable differences.

I remember seeing him during our first Gay-Straight Alliance meeting that year, and catching glimpse of his adorable features peeking out from behind the girl he was standing behind. He and I never made eye contact that night, he had a nervous timidity that meant he scurried away from the meeting as soon as it was over, and before I had had the chance to introduce myself. I could not stop thinking about him. I had felt my heart race like it had not for so long. I knew that I had to speak to him, the boy with the tuft of scruff under his chin, and the earrings that connoted: maybe he was a bad boy.

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