Left/Right Love
Originally published on www.inthefray.com
by Tania Boghossian Beyond Pennsylvania Avenue and the polling booths, Republicans and Democrats are finding innovative ways to bridge the political divide, but they still have miles to go before they can sleep together peacefully
I swore I would never date a Republican. Ever. Then I met Miles. Alcohol and its logic-impairing effects were, undeniably, contributing factors. We met at a soiree in San Francisco’s Mission District, which served as a veritable breeding ground of multiculturalism before the dotcom explosion rocked the hood into gentrification. It was during the reign of the first Bush administration, and with all of the glory and trauma of the Gulf War still a sore wound in my mind, it seemed unlikely that I would bond with someone so radically opposed to my progressive ideology.
But I did.
 |
When he lauded Ronald Reagan for his
trickle-down economic policy in public,
or when he lambasted “fat, lazy welfare
mothers” for milking the system dry,
I could feel the blood rush straight to
my cortex |
Three dirty martinis into the evening I met Miles, a disarray of limbs and a blur of khaki and plaid. With a full head of wavy, auburn hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and alabaster skin, he appeared too straight, too conservative, and too damn uptight for my taste. Oddly enough, Miles turned out to be a good kisser. A great kisser. A most supreme kisser with a killer physique to match. What he lacked in aesthetic appeal, he made up for with animal magnetism. He possessed that rare combination of child-like wonder and wanton virility that made me want to rip off his starch-white, Polo button-down shirts with my bare hands.
He tried to convince me that he wasn’t like the rest of his ilk. Sure, he shared many neo-conservative views, but he was definitely not racist, sexist, or homophobic. This, however, begged the question: why then was he a Republican? I mean, just because someone subscribes to a flag-waving, family-values, NRA-lovin’, pro-prayer-in-schools, three-strikes-you’re-out, say-NO-to-drugs-abortion-and-porno, capital-driven mantra doesn’t necessarily mean you should avoid dating them. You have to keep an open mind and put your tolerant liberal theories into practice for a change, I told myself. Opposites attract. Look at Maria and Arnold, an ill-conceived convergence of brains and muscle yet a couple who have remained happily married despite their political rivalry.
I tried. God knows I tried.
At first, I desperately tried to overlook certain things, but slowly these “things” began to fester in my head, causing what I feared to be a brain hemorrhage. When he attempted to regale me with diabolical sentiments such as “if it weren’t for Rush Limbaugh,” or when he lauded Ronald Reagan for his trickle-down economic policy in public, or when he lambasted “fat, lazy welfare mothers” for milking the system dry, I could feel the blood rush straight to my cortex. At moments like this, I would cringe my face into a spasm and walk to the nearest wall and hammer my head against it. Hard.
The fact that we met during a hell-ridden recession that left both of us out of work and flat broke didn’t help matters. Poverty, our common denominator, was the source of our bonding and dissension. Who’d pick up the tab was the terminal sore spot of our dates. Usually we’d end up splitting it in half, but more often than not I picked up the bill for no other reason than to avoid a scene. To my dismay, he was able to attend dinner parties, cocktail parties, pool parties, backyard parties, football parties, campaign parties, office parties, and rooftop parties without spending a dime. I held anti-party-parties. Parties where no one showed up — except me and a bottle of wine. I drank to forget him.
But it didn’t work.
At the time, I lived with three guys from Italy in a flat where the blow, the booze, and the women revolved through the front door 24/7. The first time Miles came over for a house party, I found myself avoiding him at every turn. I orbited the room in chronic circles, veering off into the crowd, dodging in and out of conversations, making small talk with complete strangers. Off in the distance I heard Miles’ voice rise and say, “bunch of fucking illegal immigrants can’t even speak English …” I knew he was referring to my roommates. When Giovanni turned to me with a questioning look that said, “where did you find this whack job?” I did the first thing that came to mind: I ran. Down the hall, out the door, up the hill, and into the first place I spotted with lights on — an Irish pub. There I lingered, sunk deep in the dark recesses of the tavern until last call and then stumbled home only to find the place completely empty except for a note on the refrigerator that simply read: “Dump him.”
1 of 2
continues...Page.. 2 |
|
|
See Also:
Confessions of an Internet Dating Junkie 
God, a Neaderthal and Hope
A Matter of Necessity
Meeting Mr Right Now
Missed Connections
|
