Eye Contact

“Well, have you ever had any curiosity or inclination to be with a guy?” continued the conversation with a notoriously heterosexual friend over half-emptied drinks in a dark and dingy Dublin bar. Obviously, when I type “notoriously”, I don’t really mean that he has attained sufficient infamy in certain circles as to be spoken of in hushed whispers, his menacing visage staring down on the streets from posters proclaiming him “Wanted: For reasons of sexual preference”. He’s just verging on flamboyant in his lust for and pursuit of the lady folk. Also, it reads better than to deem him “militantly heterosexual” (the only other phrasing my mind was offering up to me at the time), as that leads to a whole different thought of a man at war, toting the implements of his hostile invasion….I’m going to leave that strand there and get to the point, kind of.

His question fell in the course of a discussion that sprang from his having been propositioned (quite rapishly) by a rather aggressive German with a side hair parting (no, not that one). Playing devil’s advocate in the field of human sexuality, I attempted to garner and present any manner of insight into the mind-set of experimentation-minded souls. Now, in spite of previously outlined instances (wherein I have done such deeds as leading a French heartbreaker astray and even out-gay chickening an undeniably homosexual dude), I am in fact set in my straightitude and have never contemplated testing other waters, Thus, I opted to present the (to my mind laughable) views of a former acquaintance, as follows:

“Well, I once had this guy try to convince me that you can never be 100% certain in your sexual conviction until you have fucked another creature of the same sex. And even though he himself was some manner of slimy rodent, he did relate tales of having undertaken just such a test of his being through intercoursing a human of the less fair sex. In fact, he’d even gone back for seconds, just to be sure that the first results hadn’t been corrupted by poor quality, and assess the LAY of the land as it were. Eventually he determined that he was not attracted to men. And he set about trying to fuck every woman that would cross his path from that day forth”.

Unfortunately, I took an ill-timed sip of my beer right at the start of that story. The result was my pausing and helplessly locking eyes with mi amigo as he broke down giggling (manfully) at the gap below:

“Well, I once had this guy….”

I could have timed that particular pause better, in light of the topic at hand.

The uncomfortable beat that comes when eyes meet at a moment of ill-timing is one that I have come to know, even abuse for my own sordid entertainment. Making a first-time acquaintance fear you may have killed before? Done. Muttering the name of a girl’s ex-boyfriend when you kiss her? Done and done! Those I enjoy, as the conductor of such curious concerts in conversational catastrophe. It’s those occasions outside of my control that I am given to loathing. Helplessly trapped in another’s gaze, incapable of breaking free, and with a body unwilling to respond to my entirely reasonable demands. Lost in despair. Fucked.

A routine doctor’s visit, for an embarrassing impact injury sustained in the course of some indoor football, was all going better than expected. A bit of bruising to a *ahem* sensitive area but no longer term discomfort forecast. At such times (not that I have been in a position such as this on any more than one occasion) I suppose it’s natural to let your glance drift around the room, rather than cultivating some manner of illicit eye-contact. Then it hit. I was stuck in an unwinnable staring contest with the doc’s wife and two young children. Why in the Christ had he set his family portrait to face outwardly towards me? I couldn’t break off. I was lost in my own world of horror.

“Er….you can put it away now”.

“Oh….shit….I….I mean yeah, of course” and back went it to where it belonged, free from the gloved hands of medical professionals and the static eyes of their families.

I’ve not been sick enough in the last few years since that one to really warrant convincing myself to return to that doctor. I could lose an arm and still justify some form of home remedy, just to avoid catching the glare of his poor, traumatised family picture. To be frank, I’m quite confident I have fought off a few fatal illnesses out of embarrassment alone.

Yet that ranks as a mere trifling footnote in the grand scheme next to my dealings with a particularly outstanding memory buoy of a fella with whom I shared patronage of a public house some years back. T’was a bar of not entirely reputable nature, to put it mildly, but he seemed like a decent sort. We shared a laugh or two as our paths would, on occasion, cross in front of the bar. The course of one conversation slanted my views somewhat though.

Regular guy at the bar: *long sigh*
Blissfully ignorant Deebs: “You alright, man? Looking a bit shattered there.”
Regular guy at the bar: “Ah, bit stressed. Have to find a new place to stay.”
Blissfully ignorant Deebs: “Everything alright?”
Regular guy at the bar: “Ah they kicked me outta the hostel round the corner. Found the samurai sword under my bed….”
Moderately alarmed Deebs: * widened eyes catch his casual stare*
Samurai sword owning guy at the bar: “….well, my parole officer did….”
Alarmed Deebs: *splutter*
“Your….parole officer?”
*uncomfortable eye contact maintained*
Parolee, samurai sword owner at the bar: “Only out a few months. Shot a guy in the head for what he did to my sister.”
Panicked Deebs:*eyes searing*
*attempting to hide panic while choking on beer*

Amazingly, conversation did continue and, to be truthful, he was a friendly guy nonetheless and I never felt he’d be likely to endanger me any time soon. Still, I was happy for the handful of potential eye-witnesses in the vicinity.

Regular convict at the bar: “Fancy a game?”
Just a small town Deebs: “Alright, whaddya have in mind?”
Regular convict at the bar: *places knife on the counter*
Inner monologue of a near-death Deebs: “Holy cocking mother of fuck!”
Eyes of a Deebs: “Holy cocking mother of fuck! Target acquired. Blinking abandoned for foreseeable future.”
Knife-wielding convict at the bar: “You put your hand flat on the bar, like this, and I go through your fingers with the knife. Every time I hit you, I give you a fiver. Then you have a go. Every time you hit me, you give me a fiver. Yeah?”
Squeaky voiced Deebs: “Er….you’re alright.”
Knife-wielding convict at the bar: “OK, you hit me, you give me a euro. I catch you, I pay a fiver. Deal?”
Over-compensating deep voiced Deebs: “Maybe another time. For now, I still have high hopes to find a use for these hands of mine.”
Rueful, knife-wielding convict at the bar: “Fine, another time. Speaking of things for hands to do though….”
*nods head at the girl behind the bar approaching with our drinks*
“The things I’d do to her if I were a few years younger. I tell ya, if I was her boyfriend, I’d jump over the bar, cover her in whipped cream and….”

I choose to trail off at this point out of a hitherto unknown sense of moral decency. Things got weird and funky at that point. I began to squirm, while still unable to speak in a coherent tone or break free from the spiralling stare of doom.

Sex monger at the bar: “What has you in here so often anyway?”
Regular Deebs at the bar: *nods head at that same approaching girl behind the bar*
“I come to see my girlfriend.”

Finally I expect that mortification will cause his eyes to widen beyond their regular parameters. There’s a brief pause….

Regular, samurai sword owning, knife wielding, sex mongering convict at the bar: “Well….? What are you waiting for then? I’ll get you the whipped cream….”

And that, children, is the story of how I lost my eyesight, when my eyeballs spontaneously combusted.