Different Mountain, Same American

I'll catch you up, dw :)

this is part two of this story:

Up A Mountain With An American

TL;DR: I climbed a mountain with a group of strangers, met a nice American man, we hit it off, I ended up staying over at his and we continued to text, I thought that was as far as it would go.

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when last I left you, I said I thought my lovely time with the American was a one-and-done situation, but that I ‘will probably keep talking to him until it inevitably peters out.’

I expected it would peter out fairly soon without amounting to anything else as, as much as I was enjoying our continued conversation, I wasn't anxiously awaiting his every text, and it didn’t seem likely that we’d ever again have cause to be in the same vicinity.

but unexpectedly, he texted asking if I wanted to climb another mountain with him and then stay over at his again. I actually did want to do that quite a lot. so I agreed.

we met at the train station on the Saturday morning, by which point the rain had already begun. it only increased as we travelled to the mountain and tentatively began our ascent.

the rain was coming down hard and fast and the path became treacherous so we ducked into a tiny little mountain-side bed and breakfast. unfortunately, the woman at the desk told us there was only one room available, and in it was only one small bed. we had no choice but to take it. it was only once we were in the room together that we realised how drenched we had gotten in the rain. we were soaked to the skin and freezing cold. so we absolutely had to take off our wet clothes. and we had to warm up somehow…

I’M KIDDING

we suspected the rain might become ridiculous (it did) so we thought fuck that and abandoned all plans. we got a train to a relatively nearby town and just wandered about there for most of the day, then went for dinner, to the pub and back to his.

we were, once again, sitting on his couch having a lovely time and a lovely chat when conversation turned to the American college experience (I am obsessed with the American college experience). he was talking about what he and his friends used to do at college parties. one of the things he and his friends used to do at college parties was vodka eyeballing. I have never known anyone to have actually done this irl, and I told him as much.

he asked, ‘do you want to do it now?’

‘no!!!’ I cannot stress enough how much I did not want to do it now. or, indeed, ever.

‘okay, I can just show you if you want.’

‘haha. i’m alright. haha.’ (this is me trying to convey my attempt to shut this idea down pronto while also attempting to couch the shutdown in a way that seemed like I thought he was being fun! rather than horrifying!)

‘I have vodka in the kitchen, it’s really not that bad.’

‘no. please. don’t.’

‘seriously, you want to see this.’

‘alright then.’

I wasn’t about to ask a 30-odd year old man not to pour vodka in his own eye for my benefit.

so he poured vodka in his eye. as he did so, he went ‘aaargh. arghghgh. aahahghghghgghhh FUCK!’ which, like, yeah, thought as much.

watching a grown man pour vodka into his eye gave me— what’s one stage beyond the ick? the alarm? watching a grown man pour vodka into his eye gave me the alarm. and a bit of a twitch in my own eye, tbh. I wasn’t exactly hiding that fact from him, either. after I watched him do it, I said something along the lines of, ‘fucking hell, that was grim.’ and I imagine I looked duly horrified as I said it.

alarm or no alarm, I was there for the night. i’m mostly kidding about the premium-ick thing, but I must admit it wasn’t the most seductive thing he could’ve done. nor were the visuals and accompanying sound-effects at all possible to wipe from the absolute forefront of my brain. even in the morning when he was once again perfectly normal, as I sat at his kitchen table while he toasted me a croissant with cheese and tomato (evidently his standard breakfast), I could not, try as I might, forget the self-administered vodka eye bath I’d witnessed the night before. it’s the fact that he did it to himself voluntarily. entirely without peer pressure. in fact, entirely against any attempted peer pressure.

needless to say, things did not progress (nudge nudge, wink wink) much with the American that night. this had less to do with the eye-cohol than it did with the fact that I had delivered what is becoming my standard line—‘i’m not going to have sex’—by text earlier in the week. but I did once again have a very nice time.

since I have recently learnt the things that will cause people to get up in arms on this platform, the vodka eyeballing was literally five minutes out of over 24 hours that we spent together. it didn’t actually change my opinion of him at all, I am simply regaling it for the sake of anecdote. I assure you I was much more brutal in my slagging of him in person. if anything, as I wrote this on the train home, eyes stinging after sleeping in my contacts again, it was slightly comforting to think i’m probably not the one who got off worse on the eyeball front.

will I see him again? is third time really the charm? will the third-date rule dissuade me from employing the old ‘i’m not going to have sex’ line? stay tuned to find out! I actually don’t think there will be a next time. as I say, he lives so far away. and the weather is no longer weather in which I want to be flinging myself up mountains.

so I think this really is the end of the saga, which will be remembered for giving me one mountain to tick off the list and two lovely nights with the American, who I will probably keep talking to until it inevitably peters out.

I wrote this last Sunday afternoon then psyched myself out of posting it cause I couldn’t imagine sending an email to 500 people which was, frankly, never part of the plan. but i’m over that now! now i’m delighted that there’s so many eyeballs ready to judge me! (i’m completely kidding. genuinely thank you so so much for being interested in my nonsense, I actually can’t believe it <3<3<3)