Blood On The Tracks (and the kitchen table)

For a few weeks back in September, I dated a 25 year old named J. Our first three dates went surprisingly well, considering he wasn't big on the talking. Amazing how when a boy rides a motorcycle, a set of leather chaps and a dark, brooding nature can offset a variety of significant deficiencies. Like verbal communication skills, for example.

Anyway, there was our very first round of get-to-know-you beers that were so spontaneous and last minute I could barely believe I participated. That was followed a few days later by a really atrocious yet surprisingly fun attempt to salsa dance. My skills were the issue, not his. Our third date was attending his 21 year old cousin's Christian nuptials (read: no alcohol or dancing, though I'm fairly sure the absence of the latter was simply a result of both the wedding location and budget rather than a Footloose-esque mandate in homage to J.C.).

In between each date, J called or emailed. Pretty attentive for a youngster. Actually, had I not been so troubled by the fact that when I was a senior in high school, he was in 5th grade, his age really wasn't seeming to be much of an issue.

With three or four dates now under our belt, J called one night and asked if I wanted to "come up to the castle." Having never been asked that question before, there was clearly only one appropriate answer...and that would be (obviously) "hell, yes."

I'd seen it from the road. *Everyone* had seen it from the road. The place was legendary. J had actually pointed it out to me on the way back from his cousin's wedding the week before, remarking that he grew up with the son of the couple who built it and he still hangs out there often. It struck me as an interesting anecdote at the time, I probably asked a question or two in response, but never did I think I'd find myself with a castle invite squarely in hand, and in such short order, no less.

It was set high upon a hill (you know, as castles often are), and J advised that it would be a bit hard for me to find in the dark. Always the gentleman, he offered to drive his sister's car down the mile-long driveway and meet me at a pre-arranged spot.

I hopped into the car and J immediately warned me that once we got up there, I might see some "weird stuff" going on. A band was jamming, there would be a bunch of people drinking and perhaps even some drug use. Totally fine, I thought. Nothing I haven't seen before. What I was *not* prepared for, however, was the next sentence out of J's mouth.

"And...they were almost done when I came down to get you...but...you should be prepared...they've got a deer in the kitchen."

I'm sorry...but what the hell did you just say?

As we drove the long, winding, dark, and rather creepy road up to the castle, I got the chills more than once. My mom would so totally kick my ass if she knew what I was doing, where I was headed and with whom. I mean, really, J wasn't much more than a perfect stranger at this point. The three (or was it four?) preceeding dates, as lovely as they were, could have been part of his master plan to lure me to the castle, chain me to a gallows pole in the dungeon and enslave me for the next 20 years. Too late now, I thought to myself, this will either be a night I won't soon forget or it will end very, very badly.

The castle was not to be believed. It was like freaking medieval times up in there. I mean, it was a full-on castle, I exaggerate not. It had turrets with those little square cut-outs at the top and weird curved windows and shit. Winding staircases were punctuated by mounted heads of deer, bears and other large forest-dwelling mammals with small cranial lobes and bad timing. Books covered in dust lined every step. There were crazy rugs and animal pelts and unidentifiable furry things strewn everywhere. A gothic iron birdcage, suspended rather unhygenically over the living room, housed the largest parrot I'd ever seen. Cobwebs connected one freaky light fixture to the next while others descended from the frames of oil paintings that hung on every conceivable vertical surface. A bearded guy played sitar in front of an enormous stone fireplace...or was it a didgeridoo? And the joint smelled weird. Like a castle, I guess. Or deer.

I spent what felt like it must have been literally hours to take it all in. And then, as I stepped into in the kitchen, there it was.

Three dogs lay within feet of the dining table, paws bloodied, gnawing at the carcass. In fact, there was blood everywhere. On the carpet beneath the table, on dish rags, on knives, on the outside of the Ziploc bags into which an older couple were placing endless ruby red chunks of venison.

It was, in a word, surreal. It was also gross as hell.

J looked for my reaction and wisely offered me a glass of wine. Grasping my hand, he then led me up a series of staircases to the top of the main turret. The ease with which he navigated his way around this insane place, even knowing where the light switches were, gave me both pause and a great sense of relief. We're either going somewhere safe and quiet and free of bloodshed or he's taking me to the roof to kill me.

We made out for the next 45 minutes atop a turret accompanied by just the moonlight and the sound of cows in distance.

We made out a lot that night.

At the end of the evening, J's sister offered me a ride back down to my car. Knowing that J's mode of transport to the castle was his motorcycle, I declined her offer and opted to hop on the back of his bike instead. Worried that I'd be cold in just a thin sweater, J slipped out of his leather jacket and wrapped it around me. Tightly clasping my arms about his waist, I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek firmly between his shoulder blades. Shielding myself from the biting wind, I'd never felt such a sense of exhilaration in my entire life. I was freezing and scared shitless and thankful that I was walking away from the evening with my life and my lips were raw from J's stubble yet I felt completely and totally safe.

We were both shivering by the time we reached my car. I shrugged off his jacket and as I returned it to his shoulders, he pulled me inside. For a few moments, we leaned against his bike, sharing one another's warmth. J sweetly kissed me good night. About 25 times.

J and I didn't last a whole lot longer. His non-talking eventually proved to be our demise. But for a few truly remarkable hours on an unseasonably chilly evening, in a castle upon a hill, I felt completely and utterly alive. (And let's face it, the whole 25 thing? Well...that was way hot.)