Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

A__ and I had such a good time flirting over brunch a couple weeks ago and talking about our respective exploits that we agreed to go out this weekend. We decided on dinner Friday night. I nearly caused a fuss with K__ squirming out of watching I__ (technically it was my scheduled weekend off) but I’d been looking forward to this. Naturally, A__ promptly fell asleep after work and stood me up. I wallowed in Murphy’s Law and self-pity for a little while, but then the whole episode gave me a great idea for a writing project making forgiveness nearly instant. I went out alone and met up with some acquaintances — it was fun; the simple, genuine stuff of making new friends. The bars closed and I walked back to my car, alone but in a good mood. A pretty girl (with two guys) said hello to me, and I said hello back without stopping. It wasn’t until the morning I realized the mistake.

A__ had sent a text around 1 AM confirming what I’d already deduced. We got brunch Sunday and caught up. She’s beautiful and intelligent but a little neurotic about her guy hangups. We bond over this mutual flaw and I wonder if it’s not every bit as dangerous as alcoholics who call themselves “drinking buddies.” I lured her to my studio for some tea and kissed her, but she didn’t seem into it. We talked a long time and it didn’t feel awkward even though it could (should?) have.

Saturday, I was T__’s “plus one” for a wedding. She lives a couple towns away, so most of our relationship has forged over email. We went out once, and I thought for sure we were hitting it off, but when I tried to kiss her goodnight she turned and presented a cheek. When she sent the wedding invite the word “date” was in scare-quotes.

She promised we’d (there would be four of us) do the ceremony and reception and blow out of there by eight or so and hit the town in style. I figured it’d be fun, even if it wasn’t Fun ™. As the day approached, her emails got more suggestive, and she kept the momentum going once we met up before the event yesterday afternoon. She was dressed to kill, as was I. I’d gotten a devil’s haircut, a fancy new dress shirt and skinny tie — red to match my rock-n-roll belt. She had some kind of lacy, long-sleeve top over which she had a little dress that hit her about mid-thigh. She had these great, colorful tights, and was showing a whole lot of leg. Have to say, we looked pretty hot.

I won’t retell the sordid drama here, but T__’s friend K__ didn’t have a date because her plus-one had been revoked. Don’t ask me — I didn’t understand it, and they actually told me the story. She wasn’t looking forward to flying solo, and I didn’t blame her. We all talked a lot of trash and joked around on the way to the hall together. K__ said we had to stop talking about sex now because she was getting turned on and didn’t have a date. “Excellent,” I thought to myself, “it’s working.”

At the reception, K__ warned me to cut T__ off at her second glass of wine, but what was I going to do? By the time we were having champagne and cake, her flirt was starting to turn downright raunchy and if I’d been able to scope out a private spot for us to disappear to, I would have gone for it.

We (five of us now) ended up in one of the coolest bars I’ve ever seen, which is good because I’d soon need the entertainment. T__ had sent texts to some locals to meet up with us. I was hoping this was an attempt to find K__ some guys to play with, and perhaps, initially, it was. In no time, I was feigning a lot of interest in the piano player’s chord fingerings because she was paying attention to everyone and anyone but me. Dancing, hanging on necks, holding hands. I tried not to be jealous, and it was working — working a lot like if I was trying not to fall asleep, or breathe, or come. Only a matter of time.

She circled back around eventually and seemed all about me as if she’d never left my side in the first place. I surmised that she was, in fact, wasted. She wanted to split another whiskey. I protested. She begged. I dodged. She worked her hand under my shirt and ran her nails down my back. Damn. I made one more weak attempt to derail her and she dug in hard. I said, “Uncle!” and she didn’t immediately let go. It was hot, but I’m a total pussy about pain.

I started doing the math: How drunk I was vs how drunk she was vs our respective body weights. If I knew what was good for me, I’d make sure I kept at least 80% of this drink to myself. By the time I could get another pour from our sharply-dressed and competent (if perhaps deliberate and unhurried) bartender, I’d completely lost her attention again.

Her friends noticed this. Hell, even the guys she was pawing noticed, and eventually there was a polite intervention. They probably felt sorry for me, and if anything, that was the embarrassing part. I don’t like to let people use alcohol as an excuse for shitty behavior, but I found myself giving her a pass.

I found us a nice spot to sit, and got busy working on a kiss. She nearly bit my lips off. On the one hand, I was disappointed (ouch!) and on the other, so willingly being led to slaughter.

Our party moved to the dance club next door, much to my chagrin. T__ said later she didn’t like it and didn’t want to be there in the first place, but she could have fooled me. For one, I could have sworn she was the instigator, and two she spent the better part of the time we were there simulating sex acts on my leg. I did my best to oblige her despite A) being a terrible dancer B) noticing we were the only white people there and C) noticing we were the only people simulating sex acts, period. At some point, I quit bothering to hide needing to adjust my erection.

We dropped off another couple and the three of us got back to K__’s place around 2AM, exhausted and hungry, munching fries and drinking too-sweet milkshakes. I tested the waters for a cuddly sleepover, but it wasn’t happening. Instead, T__ said we should plan a “slumber party” for the next weekend we’re both free. We kissed goodbye again at the door, although by now, no kiss would be enough.

I had a 1000% better time than I’d anticipated and drove home trying very hard not to think about the fact that I’d easily just spent $250.

Penis Size Around the World

The joke that should go here is DIY.

Interesting article on the subject of “Porn for Women” at Salon.

I just ran into E__ for the first time since our not-exactly-a-breakup. It’s a beautiful, sunny Spring day out, and I’d connived a friend into joining me for lunch at a sidewalk spot. R__ town isn’t that big, and I’ve been expecting us to cross paths for weeks. The fact that we hadn’t until now has only made it the more weird — a tiny knot of anticipation growing slowly over the days. We made the requisite small-talk, exchanged the how’s-it-goings, the nice-to-see-yous. It was as easy as such a thing can be.

She looked fantastic, as usual. I still miss her. There, I said it. (*sigh*)

What I know about love
would barely fill my coffee cup.
Just enough to enlighten a teenager
who wouldn’t like the taste.

A mere handful of total hours spent together
is usually plenty
seal the deal and become lovers
or regrets.

The hand I’ve been counting mine on
is finally full.
In America you’re my thumb,
but in Europe, the pinky.

Your name has so many letters
but only this one syllable.
My tongue doesn’t bother trying
to make sense of it.

Since I was a boy, I’ve rolled them
over inside my mouth.
What might one taste like
if it stayed, there, between two teeth?

How sweet, sour or bitter would it be to say,
“I love you ____.”
“I missed you ____.”
“____, are you ok?”

Twenty questions to guess one another’s tattoos, but we didn’t keep track.
Yours a secret hidden in plain sight.
Even ancient myths are unsure how many Pleiades sisters there really are.
A freckle mingles there pretending itself ink.

We broke some kind of record, you and I.
Asking each other if it was too soon
before we were completely sure
we wanted to.

We counted the months since our last.
You told me you might not get off
because it was our first time together.
I liked the implication,
the challenge.

It has been four days.
The text messages we’ve exchanged
land weightless.
Forever is a very long time.

After a solid week or two of maneuvering, I’d managed to stack dates four deep by the time this weekend finally sauntered in. This is neither my usual M.O. nor preference — I’m a quality over quantity man any day. And frankly, my favorite quantity is “one”. As the bastard said though, you don’t go to war with the army you want, you go to war with the army you have. And all’s fair, right?

Not only is it not my natural instinct to pursue more than one romantic interest at a time, but it goes against every basic understanding of Murphy’s Law and good sense to do what I did — scheduling four within forty-eight hours.

I have discussed this with friends over the years ad nauseum, and the consensus hasn’t budged — hate the player and/or the game all you want to, but this approach works. By “works” I don’t mean “will get you laid” (although that may be true as well), I mean “will keep you from spending stupid amounts of time unnecessarily alone.”

Your dates will cancel. They will stand you up. Jello-like loose plans to get together Saturday night will never actually solidify into a specific time and place at all. Some clever researcher has probably gathered statistics on this, and while it would satisfy my intellectual curiosity, I can’t help but think it varies widely from person to person. How generally attractive are you to the opposite sex? What kinds of people do you go out with? What venues / situations / etc do you meet them in? And, perhaps most importantly, do you aim high or low (so-to-speak)?

A good friend reminded me that we are all monkeys — highly intelligent monkeys (perhaps some of us), but monkeys. And monkeys just want to have monkey sex. A lot of monkey sex. Genetic imperative and all that. You don’t have to like it or even behave like it, but Darwin doesn’t give a goddamn how it makes you feel. At the end of the day, everyone wants to have the most, best sex with the most, best partners they can.

Friday night I went to a show by myself. Doing this makes me itch with anxiety, but I’ve been practicing my Don’t Give A Shit face, and after a good amount of faking it, I’m beginning to make it. Four women who want to go out with me, and I couldn’t get one of them to agree to Friday. However, I knew the shape and size of my little black book even if no one else there did, and the old mojo was therefore in a happy place. I caught a few smiles and did a little flirting, didn’t catch any traction and didn’t feel like I needed to be disappointed. When the bar flipped the lights on at closing, I was talking to, not one, but two pretty grad students. It was all nowhere fast, but good fun none-the-less.

Saturday had me sweating — by late afternoon I’d not heard from either Woman 1 or Woman 2. I’d already decided not to play favorites — it was going to be first come, first served. As afternoon became evening, I just knew that I was going to get myself busted double-booking. Two points: 1) Woman 1 called and we had a fine time, thanks (more on this later), but Woman 2 was MIA. No harm, no foul. 2) Even had there been a conflict (which I’m arguing isn’t statistically likely), it makes you more desirable to be unavailable. Note: don’t get too cocky and cancel a re-scheduled date.

Sunday was easier. Woman 3 and I are currently platonic (we’ll see about that) and scheduled brunch. Woman 4 wasn’t available until later in the afternoon. Safe enough — I figured the worst case scenario was that I’d end up sleeping with Woman 1 or Woman 2 making it impossible to guarantee keeping my brunch date, and/or awkward to get a private moment to text an apologetic cancellation. Altogether, that’s a pretty fantastic worst-case.

Naturally, I know assuming I can get away with this repeatedly puts me on a collision course with disaster. It worked out beautifully this time, but one cannot roll the dice and avoid snake-eyes indefinitely. But it hasn’t happened yet.

Also: T-minus one hour until coffee with the woman mentioned in the last post. Still not quite sure how to handle this ill-gotten knowledge.

A few hours ago, I posted the following on Twitter:

Don’t care about Lent, but can appreciate shaking up your status quo. Think I’ll give up cyber-prowling for a week.

You’re about to gain some insight into how long I can usually stick to self-imposed abstention. (Hint, it’s measured in minutes)

In much the same way no one quits smoking in the middle of a pack, I decided to take one last lap around my favorite dating/prowling websites, and boy do I wish I hadn’t. (I am well aware that wishing I hadn’t is proof I was on to something with my little experiment in self-control.)

A few days ago, I had a nice chat with a woman from datingSite.com, and after hitting it off, she asked me out. (I know, right?) We have loose plans for Sunday. She told me her name (first only), and being the curious (and technically inclined) sort, I plugged it into Facebook along with her city to see what I could see. Most of the time, the needle stays lost in the haystack (and probably for the best). Her name isn’t uncommon — especially, I’d guess, in this geographical region — so I didn’t expect to find much. Besides, who can see anything in those Facebook thumbnails? Well, I’ll tell you what you can see — redheads — they show up just fine. Not only that, but Facebook saw fit to put her in the top three or four results.

The next thing you know I’ve got a last name, and with a first name and a last name a person could Google, so Google a person did.

She’s got quite a story, it turns out, and a lot of it is online. I don’t want to divulge enough detail here that her identity is compromised (ironic, no?), but here’s the short of it: She’s got [genetically caused disease], and has had two [major organ] transplants. She’s written a book and has a blog about it, etc. Very inspirational and whatnot. Important detail: her dating profile does not mention this.

Two questions for you all:

• How creepy am I?
• When the topic comes up as inevitably, it must. Do I pretend it’s news? (I am terrible at this and will fail) Do I confess? Preemptively?

Shit.

I’ve never been one of those manly men who felt crying somehow made you less of one. I always thought I was fairly emotional, in fact. I’d have regular crying spells well into my teens. As I got older (and happier), this diminished — probably along with the last trickles of pubescent hormones that were the catalyst in the first place. In any case, I had plenty of experience breaking down in public as a child, and far from scaring me in some way, I now feel empowered to express myself come-what-may.

When K__ and I split, I fully expected to spend some (a lot of) time crying myself to sleep, rocking back-and-forth in the corner, etc. When it actually happened, the only thing I felt was alternating numbness and nausea. Was this some kind of sub-conscious, mental-health defense mechanism? Was I now one of those jaded, broken people I see in the street and had sworn to never become? A week went by. A month. A year. Still haven’t cried — about K__.

A few nights ago, I realized that I’d been brought to tears at least three times in the last twenty-four hours:

• Ray Charles singing “It’s Not Easy Being Green”
• A documentary short about a tattooed hipster in Portland putting his sick dog to sleep. I don’t even like dogs.
• An obviously emotionally-manipulative Youtube piece about a quadriplegic-eque man who gives inspirational talks to school kids. I’ve apparently lost my immunity.

It’s good to know I’ve not lost this part of myself, but I can’t help but wonder why this is happening now.

‘Til Death Do Us Part by Kate Bouman

I’m not sure how widely known this is, but I’ve just been turned on to a series of short films on vimeo that’s absolutely staggering. Break-ups: The Series

They appear to be mostly, if not completely, improvised, and range from psychotic to hilarious to simply (as though it was simple) touching. Most likely, your last relationship is in the mix somewhere. If only I’d come across this a few months ago — there’s a certain comfort in seeing other couples disintegrate, even when you know it’s only pretend.