Mr. Unavailable #71: Lame

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa 1998/1999.

Vital Stats: 6’2”, 170 pounds. Work-wise, he was some kind of project manager. Aesthetic: Sometimes he wore see-through silk long underwear shirts as regular shirts, so he looked kind of gay-gay. He also had a goatee and got his hair highlighted—again, gay-gay—but I suppose it was 1998. Demeanor: Languid bordering on dumb.

Background: One of the members of the fabulous group of gay men I ran with in Chicago threw a Snow Ball every year in his Lake View apartment. At the 1998 ball, I met a guy who said he wanted to set me up with his friend. A month or so later, the guy arranged a meeting at a bar art show for a group of people, including me and #71.

First Impression: He seemed kind of dumb. It was the way he spoke. He sounded sort of like Goliath from that creepy 1970s animated Christian cartoon Davey and Goliath. But he was kind of cute. And tall. And he had a cool black leather jacket.

First Date: He asked me out for pizza and pool. When the bill came, he had us split it. (It was 1998 and I didn’t know any better.) I remember I was feeling unsure about him, but, like I said, he was kind of cute and his highlights looked good…and then he told a joke. I thought, “Oh, look! He’s funny. Yay. I can date him.” I hung onto that joke for the next eight months.

The Next Eight Months: To be fair, I’m trying to think of the good things about him, too, but it’s hard. The most succinct way to cover good and bad may be to do bullet points.

Signs of Hope:

• He had cool friends.
• He liked to get dressed up to go to parties.
• We had a lot of sex.*
• He knew how to make a yummy burrito and had a great recipe for spaghetti that involved raisins.
• He was blogger before there were bloggers.

*Although he was kind of pushy about it.

Red Flags:

• He was a cheap bastard:

1. When I was sick, he bought me medication and then the next time it was time to pay for something, he said, “I got you that medication, so you can get this.”
2. Possibly more horrifically, another time when it came to paying for something, he said, “I got you those flowers for your birthday, so you can get this.”
3. He fancied himself a music connoisseur and had thousands of CDs. He would make copies of his CDs onto tapes for me if I bought the tapes.

• He was a homebody—he was a Cancer, after all (not that there's anything wrong with Cancers, just this Cancer)—and would often have no interest in going out but would say, “You can come over after,” which only made me feel, well, cheap.
• He was always blaming me for anything that went remotely wrong and never apologized for anything.
• Whenever I tried to talk to him about something that bothered me about our relationship, he’d tell me I was being passive-aggressive. OK, I admit that a couple of times I was passive-aggressive, but he used it as a weapon.
• He’d pick fights—especially after weekends where we had a good time:

1. One time, we were driving back from Wisconsin after a pretty nice weekend in my sporty red stick-shift Toyota Celica and he told me that my driving was choppy and then, to make his point, jerked himself forward and backward in his seat. Hence, a fight.
2. Another time we took a trip to New York, where I had lunch with a managing editor of a big travel magazine. He was jealous, so he picked a fight and then said that, actually, he had an important meeting set up, too, and then he went off to “meet someone.”

• He had given me a tattoo necklace from a trip to Barcelona that he’d taken with a friend. After we broke up, I noticed it had disappeared. And then, after we agreed to be friends, he stopped by my apartment and it miraculously reappeared.
• He didn’t have a protective or supportive bone in his body. Once when I’d gone to a party—by myself (see "homebody")—and then told him afterward that I thought my friend’s husband had been hitting on me, he said, “Well, you should have called him on it.”
• Not only did he sound dumb, he sometimes looked dumb, too, especially when he ate. It was like he lacked nerve endings in the area around his mouth because he constantly had crumbs sticking to his face. And he’d talk with his mouth full.
• He gave me a bracelet for our six-month anniversary and said it represented “early love,” which, even at the time, I thought was gay-gay. The bracelet was made of cheap metal and soon fell apart.
• He only told me he loved me at the end of a fight, like it was a reward for behaving.
• Sometimes, when he was naked, he’d stand up in the middle of his tiny studio apartment, twist back and forth so that his penis slapped against his legs and cry happily, “Wheeeeee!” #71 was only the second man I’d slept with, so I assumed at the time that all guys must do that. Of course, I soon discovered that this was not the case.
• After he thought I was asleep, he’d watch soft porn on cable.

Turning Point: He was suffering from his “January Depression,” which was basically his excuse for acting like a total asshole. I had a revelatory conversation with my friend Tim (of the great couple Tim & Tim, or “The Tims”) in which he asked me:

“What percent of the time are you actually happy in the relationship?”

I calculated for a moment in my mind and said, “Maybe 20 percent?”

Tim just looked at me, and I realized that was not good enough.

I tried to get ahold of #71 that night, but he wasn’t answering his phone, so I broke up with him on his answering machine.

The next day, of course, I felt bad about it, so I asked if we could at least talk. I didn’t want to get back together, I just wanted to end things on a good note. He said he didn’t want to talk—he was having a difficult month and didn’t want to deal with anything more.

I vaguely recall lots of nasty emails back and forth and me losing ten pounds as I tried to get him to see his part, too. But, of course, everything was my fault.

I remember saying to my friend Christine, “Why can’t he see it? Or even try to see it?”

“Sometimes some people never do.”

A month after the breakup, he came over and we finally talked. Neither of us wanted to get back together. By then I had experienced such great relief at not being involved with him anymore that it was like a huge weight had been lifted. I realized how much I had been enjoying life again without the burden of him.

A few weeks after that, he stopped by for sex. We did it, but I wasn’t really into it, so the next time he came over and tried for it again, I said, “You’re just torturing yourself.”

“Aren’t I torturing you?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said.

A few months after that we went for drinks and he made references to getting back together. It was something along the lines of, “I thought we might get back together after a few months.”

“Um, uh uh,” I said, shaking my head, and then told him I was having too much fun dating two men bi-coastally (See Summer of Love Part 1 and Part 2).

We tried to be friends and I even invited him to a party I had but I saw how asocial he was and I didn’t feel like exerting any compassion after that, so I didn’t invite him to my going-away party before I moved to New York. He found out about it and sent me a nasty email.

Oh yeah, and he owed me money. In 2006, I got an email from him over Friendster in which he told me I looked too skinny in my photos and then he went on and on about his life—that he was writing a novel, that he had a girlfriend who was a doctor who he kept fighting with, that he knew he owed me money and would send it to me “no strings attached”—and, oh yeah, that he knew that he’d broken up with me sooner than I’d wanted to.

I went to therapy laughing, “I broke up with him!”

“In a few more years,” my therapist said, “he’ll probably think that you owe him money.”

She suggested I email him back with my address and a little joke about how I wasn’t charging him interest.

Forgetting that #71 lacked a sense of humor (remember, he told one joke on our first date, and that was pretty much the only joke he ever told), he wrote a vicious message back to me and said that, actually, he didn’t have the money to send me after all.

He wrote again in 2010, another long missive, but this time over Facebook. He said that he often thought fondly of me and had thought a lot about our relationship and the breakup and his part and my part and how we were both to blame and how he was married and how he would send me the money once he had it.

This time, knowing he only had an appetite for conflict, I figured out how to respond. I ignored any potentially incendiary content, thanked him for his sweet note, said that I was very happy for him and his relationship, that it was so kind of him to offer to pay me back and that he should let me know when he had the money so I could give him my address.

As I suspected, he never wrote back.

Diagnosis: For him: The friend who set us up said to me after it was over, “Clearly, he had an expiration date. Sorry about that.“
For me: I nicknamed him “Lame,” a moniker that my friends happily adopted. They would gleefully call me whenever they had Lame sightings. I called him that because, yes, he was lame, but it wasn’t so much that I was mad at him but, rather, I was mad at myself for staying in that miserable relationship for so long. After that, I swore I’d never date another Cancer. And I did well for 12 years, until #120, who was a Cancer. Oops.

Mr. Unavailable #121: He Touched Me

See Unavailable By Design for the background on this one.

I knew there was a chance I’d see #121 at my usual Sunday night gathering of like-minded downtowners, so I washed my hair, put on full makeup and called Kevin to ask him if I could be talking to him on the phone when I walked into the place. As soon as I walked out my front door, I called Kevin for the walk-in conversation.

“I just want to make sure—is there any chance he might have interpreted my messages to him as crazy?”

“No, no way,” he said. “Just fun and flirty.”

The thing was, I needed a team of four to compose those fun and flirty messages. Left to my own devices, I'm a prime candidate for Remedial Flirtation.

I walked around the corner and into the courtyard where the gathering was and there was #121, sitting outside with a few other people. I waved awkwardly. He just looked at me. Unsure if he’d actually seen me wave at him, I passed a person who was blocking my view and then waved again. He made more of a motion to indicate he’d seen me. Maybe it was a head nod. Maybe it was a wave. But I don't know because I quickly became too horrified with myself to remember.

“Oh my god, I just acted like a crazy person,” I said to Kevin on the phone once I was inside. “I just waved to him like a complete nut job.”

“This is awesome,” he said. “So what if he thinks you’re a nut job, you just totally did what you wanted to do. Let him think you’re crazy. You're the crazy, flirty lady.”

Once I got over the initial horror, I was actually pretty proud of myself. I took a seat by the windows and saw #121 come in. Usually he would sit across the room from me, but today he positioned himself just a few seats away. Evan came over and sat down next to me, which was a relief because then I wasn’t sitting alone.

About 45 minutes later, I got up to get coffee and cake and wound up in a discussion by the kitchen with another woman about work stuff. I saw #121 walk past—probably into the kitchen. A few minutes went by and he didn’t appear to be coming out. And then, using my powers of peripheral vision, I saw him standing against the wall. He looked like he was waiting. Finally, I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped a little. It was him. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but you guys got cake,” he said.

“Oh yeah, you didn’t get any? It was good.”

“The only thing I don’t like about cake is all the frosting.”

“Oh, then you probably like muffins.” (Did I just say that?)

“Yeah, I do like muffins.”

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to stop talking about muffins.

Preoccupied with #121's animal magnetism as well as the inanity of our conversation, it took me a while to notice that the woman I was talking to had disappeared.

“I like this,” he said, reaching for my necklace and fondling a bead in his fingers.

I may have stopped breathing for a moment.

“Oh, this, yeah, I like it, it’s just plastic.”

“Oh, I thought it was stones,” he said. “Well, I like it.”

“It was good to see you the other night,” I said.

“Yeah, if you go to any other events like that, let me know, I’ll go with you.”

“I will,” I said.

As we talked, I noticed that he wasn’t very tall, but then I remembered that, if all went according to plan, that wouldn’t matter because we’d be lying down.

A minute later, we parted ways and I sat down and texted Kevin: “He touched me!”

“Yay!!!” he texted back. “Your boob?”

About half an hour later, when everyone was leaving, it looked like #121 was hovering again. I was engaged in conversation with someone else about my work situation. Finally, he gave up on his hovering and walked past us to leave, saying, “See ya.”

“Good night.” I chirped, and subsequently wanted to die.

I called Kevin when I got home.

“I could so have him,” I said, although I added that I was a tad worried that he was put off somehow by the whole good-bye scene and my talk of work stuff.

“He’s a guy—all he cares about is your tits. He doesn’t care about what you do for a living."

“What’ll I do when I see him next? I was so nervous talking to him.”

“Just picture yourself going up and talking to him.”

“All I can picture is him walking into my apartment, picking me up and throwing me on the bed.”

“This is kickass in 7 different ways,” Kevin said. “You just put courage and fun and passion in your life.”

He’s right. I have.

Signs of Hope: He totally came up to me to talk to me all on his own. He even hovered for a while.

Red Flags: Since I want so little from #121, there really aren’t any.

Turning Point: The moment he put his hand on my shoulder.

Diagnosis: For him: Possibly available for a cheap fling.
For me: I really, really want to be available for a cheap fling.

Mr. Unavailable #121: Unavailable By Design

Vital Stats: 24, 5'8"ish. Otherwise, I don't know what he does for a living and I don't care. Aesthetic: Holy shit. (Translation: He looks great in a tight shirt and jeans.) Demeanor: Oh. My. God. (Translation: Smoldering.)

The day after the haunted-apartment dinner party, Zoe packed up and ran off to the airport for three weeks of international errands, including a long-overdue shag with an Egyptian, and I retreated to my suddenly silent and spacious apartment to sleep and throw myself into work—but mostly sleep. I stirred from hibernation long enough to meet Nora and Kevin at a Friday night gathering of like-minded downtowners. I got there late, sat down next to Nora and looked up.

There, front and center, was The Only Guy On Earth With Whom I’d Consider Having a Meaningless Sexual Relationship. Seeing as I’d just ended things with #120 because he wanted to continue to sleep around, the paradox of it was not lost on me. I thought about calling #120 and saying, “Actually, on second thought…”

...Because standing at the front of the room was the picture of smoldering manliness. I'd seen him around for more than a year, had referred to him as my "inappropriate crush" and wondered if other women thought “sex” when they laid eyes on him, too, or if it was just me. Only somewhere in his early 20s, he’d already been through a lifetime’s worth of pain. But it wasn’t the details that intrigued me, it was the way he wore them. Physically, he was built, it was true, but he had a strong, nonchalant kindness mixed with enough of a self-deprecating sense of humor to tell me he was neither a total asshole nor a complete idiot. I’d probably never said more than 15 words to him, but, then again, my designs on him weren't verbal.

When a woman who was sitting to my right spoke to him, I looked over at him and had to immediately look away. I looked again. And again, I had to look away. Either he was staring at me or he had eyes that looked like they were following you. I looked at him about a dozen more times and, every time, it seemed like he was looking at me. Afterward, I got caught up in conversation with other people and, when I turned around, he was gone. Still, I was giddy. I headed to Quantum Leap on Thompson for dinner with Kevin and as soon as we sat down, I said, “I have a question for you.”

“This sounds good,” he said. It was more my level of excitement that Kevin was reacting to than my imminent question—I was practically bouncing in my seat.

I told him about The Only Guy On Earth With Whom I’d Consider Having a Meaningless Sexual Relationship and then said that I thought he was staring at me.

“I swear, every time I looked up, I was like, ‘Whoa!’”

“He probably was staring at you,” Kevin said.

I asked Kevin if I should friend #121 on Facebook. He said yes. I picked up my phone and sent the request. A few seconds later, it was accepted.

“Holy shit,” Kevin said, remarking on the promptness of the acceptance.

Over the next hour, I messaged #121 and every time I sent him a message, he’d reply instantly. And, when he did, just like a girl, I’d scream. The only reason it lasted an hour was because I was checking out his Facebook profile—he was 24—and taking between five and 25 minutes to compose what I wanted to say. I wanted him to catch my drift, but I didn’t want to completely cross the line.

“I’m tired of everything being so heavy. I'm tired of meeting these guys and hoping that they're 'the one' and then investing so much emotional energy and then being crushed when it inevitably ends,” I said. “I don’t want to care so much. I just want to have fun. And with this, I only want him for one thing. It's kind of a relief to not want anything more. I don’t even care if I get rejected.” And I kind of didn’t.

Kevin was excited for me. “This is great,” he said. “You’re doing exactly what you want to do and not overthinking it.”

Not yet anyway.

After dinner, Kevin and I met Nora and Liz for coffee at Café Dante (incidentally, the scene of my third date with #111). The four of us composed the last couple of messages—and not without hilarity. Nora told us about the time she texted a guy she was obsessed with and, trying to get him to respond to her, wrote, "It's not like I boiled your bunny." We also proposed and rejected several messages that I could've sent to #121 that would've not only crossed the line but completely leapt over it, such as, “Would you like to see my vagina?”

The closest to the line I was willing to get was my last message to him:

“What can I do to make sure you won’t forget about me?”

“I wount I promise,” he wrote back.

We were all puzzled, unsure if he got it or not.

“I’m going to let it rest for now,” I said, and then we did a re-enactment of the potential-staring situation right there in Cafe Dante. Nora and I lined our chairs up next to each other and sent Kevin diagonally across the room. Kevin looked at me and I said to Nora, "Does it at all look like he's looking at you?"

"He's definitely not looking at me," she said.

Kevin walked me home so he could pick up his Tony Robbins CDs and, because I’d been on a bad post-#120 sugar bender, so he could take the ice cream out of my freezer.

“This is so awesome,” he said. “To do what you did takes…spirit.”

I liked that. I wasn’t slutty, I was spirited.

Signs of Hope: #121 wrote back instantly every time. And maybe he was staring at me.

Red Flags: I know I was being evasive, but did he catch my drift?

Turning Point: When I friended him on Facebook, all the lights changed to green.

Diagnosis: For him: Hopefully available for a roll in the hay—or several.
For me: Hopefully available for a roll in the hay—or several.

On a sidenote: When, after #120 and I had gone our separate ways and Jo had said, “Just focus on finding #121," I don’t think she had this kind of #121 in mind—not only because I have specific designs on him, but also for the fact that when I was beginning high school, he was beginning life. But no matter.

Mr. Unavailable #72: Me and a Stripper Named Amber

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa 1999-2000, Chicago.

Vital Stats: 6’1”. 210-ish lbs. Pinball and video-game designer. He had a cute face and a buzzed haircut that was spiky in front, which he liked to call “the car crash.” Aesthetic: 1990s hipster gas-station attendant. Demeanor: Easygoing, easy-living but energetic Midwestern guy.

First, Second and Third Impression: He was friends and neighbors with #71, and they both lived in a building down the street from me, so while I was dating #71, we’d all hang out for rooftop BBQs and other cocktail-oriented events. He was easy to talk to, easy to hang out with, easy, easy, easy. At our rooftop BBQs, he’d man the grill and tell stories about the strippers that he was friendly with. There was one particular one he would talk about named Amber. I was so naïve then that it never occurred to me that he probably met Amber and her friends at actual strip clubs. When he actually went there. As an actual patron.

What Happened: The day after #71 and I broke up, someone buzzed from downstairs. It was #72. He came up to my apartment. We chatted and, even though nothing explicit was said, I sensed he wanted to remain friends despite the breakup.

After that, we’d hang out every week or so. Sometimes he’d just drop by and ask if I wanted to go for a drink. Other times, he had a truck, so he’d take me to do laundry or we’d go to brunch somewhere. Eventually, he moved out of the building he shared with #71 to somewhere far downtown. Various members of my gaggle of gay men suggested to me that maybe he liked me, but I really didn’t think so. After all, he liked strippers and how could I ever compare to a stripper?

One night, we went out drinking. He’d already been out drinking before he’d met me, so by the time it was time to end the night, he was pretty far gone. I told him that instead of driving home, he could sleep on my pullout sofa. I made up the sofa-bed and, as he climbed between the sheets, he said, “You and Amber. Both of you. You know that I’m in love with you.”

“I know,” I said and turned off the light.

But I hadn’t known.

A few months later, I was offered a job in New York City and told him I was moving. I hadn’t realized it then, but our conversations after that were pretty brief. He also didn’t show up to my going-away party. When I got to New York, still clueless, I called him to catch up.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said.

“Hey, good. Look I can’t really talk right now, I’ll talk to you later,” he said. And then he hung up.

I was stunned. We never spoke again.

Signs of Hope: For a real friendship? Apparently, as far as he was concerned, none. For a relationship? As far I was concerned, none.

Red Flags: He was interested in me…and a stripper named Amber. That’s not a red flag, that’s flattery.

Turning Point: When I told him I was moving to New York.

Diagnosis: For him: He must’ve liked women who were unavailable. In fact, in the two years I knew him, I don’t think he ever had a girlfriend. Or even a real date.
For me: Clearly, clueless.

Mr. Unavailable #120: Life is Great

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu, The Duel, The 36-Hour Freakout, Him, Himself and He, Million-Dollar Me, One Block from Heartbreak

and I'd Like to Introduce You to the Curb

for the background on this one.

I’m not going to lie. Once I make a decision and act on it, I spend the next two or three weeks second-guessing it, wondering if I made a mistake and asking myself if I’m too unreasonable in my requests.

After I told #120 I couldn’t see him anymore, it was no different. I tried to keep busy, keeping the voices of regret at bay. 

I kept busy for the rest of the week, occupying myself with heavy sugar intake, writing and parties, one of which was a Thursday night St. Patrick's Day party. It was a low-key affair and Nora and I hid out on the couch after consuming all varieties of green sweets. I admitted that I was sad about #120. She said she was sad about her guy, too, who she'd finally dumped a month and a half before. "I just thought he was so great," I said.

"He wasn't really all that," she said.

"Really? Thank you!" I said.

"How about mine? Was he anything special?"

"Not at all," I said. "He was extremely...regular."

"Thank you," she said. And then we doubled over over our plates of green foodstuffs and laughed.

There was something deeply healing about putting down each others' exes. I always wondered why she thought her guy was so great because I certainly didn't see it, and now she was telling me the same about #120. It was a relief.

On Facebook later that night, #120 instant-messaged me.

“How are you?”

I was stunned. He messaged me in a complete sentence. He told me that he took the job at the restaurant up the street from me and that he’d therefore be seeing me around the neighborhood. And then he said. “Will I see you on Monday?” Again, a complete sentence. I told him I would be there.

“I KNEW IT!!!” Nora emailed after I told her he’d IMed me. “If he wants you back, make it really hard for him.” It was true. The first time around, I’d made it too easy.

When Monday rolled around, I showed up early at the usual gathering of like-minded downtowners and saw what looked like his coat on one of the chairs. As more and more people arrived, I still didn’t see him. And then, once things got started, I looked over, the coat was gone and someone else was in the seat. Either he’d never been there in the first place or he’d shown up, hidden somewhere, changed his mind about being there and escaped unseen. As the gathering wound down, though, I didn’t see anyone with that coat. And he never appeared.

“Why would he ask if he was going to see me and then not even show up?" I asked Zoe later.

“Why would he talk about taking you to Nobu and then say that he wasn’t going to take you after all? It’s the same thing. He makes promises he isn’t going to keep.”

The next morning, I was back on Facebook and saw a post of his from the night before. In it, he said that life was great and he was having a great time with school and work and loving life.

I began to spin out. “I’m sure he knew that you would see that,” Zoe said.

Then I got a message from the freelance job. They needed something pronto. I threw myself into it even though I was unable to concentrate. As I tried to power my way through it, Jo’s phone rang and she called from the other room, “My gay boyfriend wants to know if you want to come to dinner?”

"I'd love to, but I can’t," I said. I was angry and upset, feeling powerless over work and boys. Finally at around 5 p.m., I got a note from the project manager on the freelance job that said if I needed more time, then that was OK. I went out into the living room where Zoe was, collapsed on the floor and cried.

“I’m coming to dinner,” I said.

An hour later, we jumped in a cab, made a pit stop in the West Village to pick up live casting supplies—inadvertently taking our cab driver hostage as we forced him to keep the meter running and wait as we got the supplies and then had him keep driving—and headed out to Green Point. The apartment was an old, rickety railroad apartment that looked like it had been decorated by a museum curator on acid. Old, framed paintings lined the living room from floor to ceiling and the centerpiece of the neatly cluttered room was a massive chaise longue with a tiger-print throw thrown on it.

The kitchen was done in bright pink and green and lovingly strewn with paraphernalia from the 1960s and '70s. For dinner, we had grandma's fried chicken and the champagne and sparkling water flowed.

Somehow, we got onto the topic of otherworldliness and they told me that they saw ghosts in the apartment on a fairly regular basis. “We think our dressing room is a portal." I pressed them for more details. They talked about harmless, floating half ghosts, evil sickly-looking apparitions and red-eyed demons.

“Are you feeling better now?” Zoe asked. I was.

After dinner, we set to work making live casts, making a supreme mess of the kitchen. At about 2:30 a.m., I went to lie down on the chaise longue. Zoe and her gay boyfriend were finishing up making a cast in the kitchen. I was secretly hoping to see a ghost, but, at the same time, terrified to. Then I fell asleep. Zoe came in about an hour later and we decided to stay over on the tiger-print chaise instead of taking a late-night cab ride home. In the morning, we peeled ourselves off the sofa, packed up the live casts and rode the L train into the city.

We saw no ghosts and, later that day, I posted photos of our devilishly fun night on Facebook. #120 was right. Life is great.

Mr. Unavailable #120: I'd like to Introduce You to the Curb

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu, The Duel, The 36-Hour Freakout, Him, Himself and He, Million-Dollar Me and One Block from Heartbreak for the background on this one.

Prologue: When I was in high school, I was so shy that I found it almost impossible to talk to boys. I’d develop deep crushes based on exchanges in front of the soda machine that went something like this:

Me: I’d silently put in my change and punch the big orange soda button.
Boy: “Oh, you got Orange Crush? That’s the best.”
Me: More silence. I'd try to eek out a smile but, really, it looked like I was about to cry.
Boy/New Crush: “Later.”

I dreamed of getting stuck in the school’s elevator with my crushes. Then they’d finally see how smart and funny I was. Today, I have the equivalent of my high school elevator. I go on dates. On these dates, guys see how funny and smart I am. Some of the ones I pick even stick around for a while. The only thing is, sooner or later, they always seem to want to get out of the proverbial elevator. Or, really, I discover they were never really in the elevator. My mistake has always been to be sad about it, but maybe, really, they were doing me a favor.

Encounter #9: Immediately after he left, I texted Zoe and left a message for Nora telling them what had happened. And then I stayed up, cursing him, cursing myself and writing. At about 4 a.m., Zoe phoned post-Van Dam and offered her support. “Fuck him,” she said. Nora texted around the same time and told me she was in Boston but would call me in the morning. I went to bed at 5 a.m., I woke up at 10 a.m. and talked to Zoe and Nora on the phone. Both of them agreed that #120 can’t have his cake and eat it, too. I wasn’t, after all, asking him to marry me.

“Who’s to say that in three weeks, when you ask him again if he won’t sleep with anyone else, what’s to stop him from saying, ‘Well, it’s going along fine as it is and you’ve been fine with it so far, so can’t we just continue to see what happens?’” Nora said over the phone from Boston. “At that point, you’ll be even more involved and you’ll only be more hurt. He can’t have it both ways,” she said. The friend she was staying with in Boston, whom she’d accidentally hooked up with the night before, agreed. “He has to make a decision,” I heard him say in the background.

Because Zoe and I had learned not to trust the ideas that came from putting the two of our heads together, when she came back from her 24-hour Van Dam outing, she said she’d even asked all the gay boys. “No way,’” she said they said. “That’s not on.’”

On a sidenote: A few days earlier, Zoe and I had had something of a light-bulb moment. “Why don’t we look for a place together?” We both wanted space and light and a two-bedroom offered more of that for more reasonable money. Plus, we were getting along living together in my tiny studio and, to be perfectly selfish, I was kind of enjoying having a live-in therapist and makeup artist.

So, later that gray day, we were coming back from looking at apartments, Zoe was hungover from her night at Van Dam, which included a full-on snog with her new gay boyfriend, and I was dragging.

“Look, just say to him…’” she started to say.

But I already knew what I was going to say to #120.

I got ready and walked into my usual Monday night gathering intentionally late, to make an impression, knowing that #120 would already be there. I decided that I had to tell him I wanted to talk to him before everyone went over to the restaurant.

He was looking at his phone when I walked in and seemed unable to look at me. Finally, he looked up and we waved to each other.

At the end, he came up and gave me a hug. He said he had to help clean up.

I waited for him, getting into a conversation with someone else, but when I turned around, his coat was gone. He hadn’t said anything about leaving. I was on a mission now. I’d talk to him one way or another. I’d take the subway up to his apartment if I had to, but I was going to get this over with.

When I got to the restaurant, he was there. A seat was open across from him. I sat down. I was as cool as anything. I didn’t want him to know that anything was wrong because I didn’t want him to get spooked and leave. But even if he had started to get up prematurely, I was prepared to say in front of everyone: “Can I talk to you outside a minute?”

There were about eight of us around the table. And, finally, I saw him in new light. He didn’t ask anything about anyone else and when people asked him about him and why he was going to pastry school, he said, “It’s the only thing I don’t know how to do.” I could see it now. Finally. He was overcompensating.

“I need to get cigarettes,” he said.

“Guess who has some.”

“Duane Reade?”

“No,” I said, and pointed to myself.

When the bill came, we all paid and it worked out that he and I were the first outside on the sidewalk. “Which way are you going?” I said. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

We started walking. I gave him a cigarette, took one myself and he lit both.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Well, I was thinking about our little talk yesterday.”

“Were you thinking about it all day?”

“No. I went to the gym, looked at apartments…” Like I said, I was cool.

“So, what were you thinking?” He sounded nervous.

“I totally get it. New York is like a playground for young, single men, so, yeah, I totally get it….. But if that’s what you want to do, then I can’t see you anymore."

A pause.

“Well, this is an unexpected development,” he said.

“I can’t see you while there’s a possibility you’re sleeping with other women. That’s just how I am.”

“Can we still get cake?” It sounded like some sweetly pathetic kind of last-ditch effort.

“Sure.”

“But probably not as often,” he said.

“No, not as often,” I said.

I changed the subject, asking him about which job he would take and, again, we talked all about him. To be fair, he was probably too stunned to think of any topics of conversation that revolved around me.

I walked him to the subway.

“This is my stop,” he said.

We shared a small kiss on the lips and a hug. He kissed my cheek and held me for an extra moment.

“Good-night,” I said as he headed for the subway stairs.

He said nothing.

Walking home, I was positively striding down the sidewalk, smiling and holding my head up high.

“Hey, beautiful,” a man I passed on Bleecker Street said. I didn’t even care that he may have been homeless, because, for once, I believed what he said.

Mr. Unavailable #120: One Block from Heartbreak

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu, The Duel, The 36-Hour Freakout, Him, Himself and He and Million-Dollar Me for the background on this one.

Encounter #8: Sunday morning, I woke up late. #120 and I had vaguely discussed going to Williamsburg to look at dinner jackets and vintage sunglasses for him but neither of us mentioned it the night before and I really didn’t want to go to Williamsburg two days in a row. I was starting to get into the swing of our plan-less rendez-vous, so I knew I’d hear from him at some point.

I went to the gym and, as I was finishing my workout, he texted me, asking me what I was doing. He asked if I wanted to meet for lunch in an hour. Zoe needed me in about two hours so she could practice her airbrush on me in preparation for her big outing to Van Dam that night with her new gaggle of men, so I said, “30 minutes?”

30 minutes later, he texted me from The Bean.

I went downstairs. We were both hungry. I suggested Boca Chica and we went. It was already almost 4 p.m.

“We’re having Brlinner.” I said.

“Ich bin ein…” he said.

He mentioned he was supposed to see one of his friends that day, but, he said, “I’d rather hang out with you and get gentle kisses.”

I leaned over and kissed him, gently.

He was so hungry and liked the food so much that he ordered a second dish of exactly the thing he’d already had. We sat in the restaurant for a long time just talking. But, again, I couldn’t help but feel that he was holding back somehow. I was ready to melt into him right there in the restaurant, but it seemed that if I even let my legs touch his, he’d pull away.

We left the restaurant and got him cigarettes. He said a nap would be nice, so I said we could go to my place, which I’m sure is what he had in mind.

We lay down together for a while and he even sweetly asked me, “Will you visit me in my apartment in the West Village?” It wasn’t long before we started rolling around. Eventually, I had to break some bad news.

“We have a small problem,” I said. “It’s that time of the month.”

“That’s not a small problem,” he said. “That’s a big problem.” And he sounded like he was actually almost angry.

We rolled around some more and he seemed to recover somewhat from his disappointment.

“You know that one of these days, I’m going to make you scream,” he said.

"I know," I said.

After some more rolling around, I figured it was time to ask the question that I’d put to #111. It was a question I’d learned to ask after the #100 experience.

“So, when you’re sleeping with someone, do you generally sleep with other people?”

There was a pause. A long pause. And I knew something was very, very wrong.

“Are you kind of asking me, ‘What the hell are we doing here?’”

“Kind of.”

He was at a loss for words. “Well, that kind of killed the mood, didn’t it?” he said.

I was shocked. When I asked #111 the same question, it was a no-brainer. But here? Yes, it had killed the mood—which was particularly awkward considering we were topless.

“I honestly haven’t thought about it,” he said. “’Generally,’ I don’t. I mean, I’ve never cheated on anyone, but it’s a different story when I’m just dating. Do you want me to tell you if I do sleep with someone else?”

He really didn’t even need to go on because I was now clear as to where I stood. We were just dating. If we had sex, it would be of the casual nature. And if he wanted to sleep with someone else, he would, apparently, tell me about it. I hadn’t had casual sex since Summer of Love, Part 3. And that was 12 years ago. I wasn’t about to backtrack more than a decade.

He said he didn’t know how to answer my question a few more times and I said, “Well, I’ll answer it. When I start sleeping with someone, I don’t sleep with anyone else. And I don’t date among our little group. I haven’t in six years. I don’t mess around like that.”

He then listed the ways that our little liaison didn’t count as messing around within the group: we only saw each other within the group once a week and, otherwise, he was only keeping four or so friends in the group. He completely missed the point.

“In Virginia, you can’t mess around because everyone knows everyone else,” he said.

I’m not sure if he was telling me this to show that he wasn’t a mess-arounder, but what he inadvertently admitted was that he couldn’t mess around in Virginia, but he sure as hell could mess around here.

“Well, that’s the problem with New York,” I said.

“What I can tell you is that right now I’m not,” he said. “You know I just came here to go to school, right? And between that and work, I’m not going to have much free time.”

“I know,” I said, watching him emotionally wriggle farther and farther from me.

There was another long pause and he went and lit a cigarette. He sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “You know, you realize you just asked me to be your boyfriend.”

“Well, I don’t like to put labels on it,” I said.

“We’re 38 and 40,” he said. And then I don’t remember what he said after that. It was some kind of argument against my claim that I didn’t want to label it, but I’m not sure it made any sense. Actually, I doubt it made any sense because the truth is that we’re 38 and 40, too old to be messing around—especially if we’re looking to settle down one day, which, clearly, he is not.

“Why me?” he asked. I knew what he was asking—if I hadn’t messed around in the group in six years, why would I break my rules to mess around with him? Instead of being flattered, he was angry. It actually seemed like he didn’t want someone to like him that much.

“You know I don’t make plans for anything,” he said.

I knew he wasn’t good at making plans, but it was news to me that he was actually making a concerted effort to not make plans.

“Can’t we just see what happens?” he said.

“Maybe.” I said. “I can think about it.”

And then he said he had to go.

“Would you have stayed if we hadn’t had that conversation,” I asked.

He said he was planning on going to a thing at 10:30 p.m. anyway. “Remember?” he said. He had told me that before. But I was also smart enough to know that if he thought sex was in the picture, he would have skipped it and stayed.

We changed the subject, talking about nothing of importance as he got his things together and we awkwardly put our tops back on. He kissed me and then, as he walked out the door, he turned and said, “Try not to worry about that conversation.”

“I won’t,” I said. “You don’t worry about it either.”

But I knew he wouldn’t. And as soon as I closed the door, I knew it was over.

Signs of Hope: He asked if I would visit him in the West Village—a small sign of some kind of future.

Red Flags: My almost constant nagging feeling. I'm starting to think it's not just my own insecurity.

Turning Point: When I asked the question.

Diagnosis: On some level, we’ve got a semantic misunderstanding. When he hears “don’t sleep with anyone else,” he thinks “marriage.” When I say, “don’t sleep with anyone else,” I mean “I want to remain disease-free.” It does mean commitment, yes, but not “marriage” commitment, just “see how it goes” commitment.

I’ve had a niggling worry in the back of my head the whole time I’ve been dating him—his lack of planning, or “spontaneity,” is all very exciting but, at the same time, perhaps a way of avoiding commitment and seeing if I would put up with it, which I did, to a point. I asked the question thinking I was just clarifying the obvious. I didn’t realize things would go so very wrong. Of course, they didn’t go wrong, they were always wrong.

Epilogue: A few months ago, a restaurant opened a block away on the corner of 2nd Street and 2nd Avenue. For the longest time it had no name. Then one day a giant sign went up with two words wrapped around two sides of the building. And there in bright red capital letters, it read, “HEART BREAK” like a gigantic code red. Maybe it somehow registered in my mind. Or maybe I’m just getting better at not putting up with bullshit. Because, as far as heartbreak, I’m about to save myself from a whole hell of a lot of it.

Mr. Unavailable #120: Million-Dollar Me

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu, The Duel, The 36-Hour Freakout and Him, Himself and He for the background on this one.

Encounter #7: The next morning, Zoe and I got up and took the L to Williamsburg to look at vintage dresses. A few weeks before, she’d made a new friend of a vintage-clothing dealer and had gone to his warehouse to sift through his backlog. They’d found a pile of 1950s dresses that Zoe said would be perfect for me—and perfect for swing dancing that night.

We went to the stall inside the cavernous Artists and Fleas market on North 7th and began pulling out dresses. They zippered me into the first one and we all fell in love with it: a champagne and pink-copper embroidered evening dress with soft pink netting and chiffon around the bottom and deep chocolate velvet piping around the middle.

“I’m buying that for you,” Zoe said. She wanted to get it for me as a thank you for rescuing her from her psychotic roommate and giving her a place to stay. The dress was gorgeous, so I decided to let her.

Zoe had also gone on a hunt for a crushed velvet dinner jacket that #120 had described. They pulled it out and Zoe said, “Send him a picture.” Anxiety welled up. It felt like too much pressure somehow--whether for him or me I wasn't sure. I took a photo with my phone anyway and sent it to him. They pulled out a few more jackets and Zoe said to take pictures. “No, no,” I said. “Those aren’t the right ones.” It was the anxiety again.

#120 never replied to my text, but I managed to not let it get to me. That night, Zoe did my makeup and I put on my new dress. I met Evan for swing dancing uptown. He was dressed swingingly, too. After we got our old swing legs back, we swung out across the dance floor. Random people came up and told us we looked great. The crowd was a tad on the geriatric side, so we just stayed for a few more songs and then headed to Soho for a birthday party.

I admit that sometimes I exaggerate things, but when I say that all heads turned when we walked into the party, I’m not exaggerating. Complete strangers told me I looked gorgeous, that it looked like my dress was made for me, that Evan and I looked like a million dollars. I felt like a million dollars.

Walking home later, I was sad that #120 wouldn’t see me in my dress, but I was feeling so good about myself that I decided that if I never heard from him again, that was fine. “His loss,” I thought, and I actually meant it.

About a minute later, he texted me. “Where are you?”

“Come downtown,” I wrote.

“On my way.”

“Yay.”

When we met outside my apartment building around midnight, I practically leapt into his arms.

“You’re all dressed up,” he said.

“I’ve had a night on the town,” I said.

We walked with our arms around each other all the way to Veneiro’s. It was just after midnight, so the seating area was closed. We got chocolate and red velvet cake slices to go and went to the benches outside St. Mark’s Church to eat it. I got out my phone and showed him the photo of the velvet dinner jacket we’d found. “That’s it,” he said.

At about 1:30 a.m., he said, “I’d better get you home.” We walked down to Third Street and he came up to use the bathroom. I warned Zoe, “There’s a boy coming in.”

While he was in the bathroom, Zoe whispered to me asking if he’d seen me in the dress. I told her not really, we’d been outside the whole time. I took off my coat and he came out of the bathroom.

“Did she tell you?” Zoe said. “She was the belle of the ball. Everyone told her how gorgeous she was and that it looked like that dress was made for her.”

He agreed that I was, indeed, gorgeous. He pulled me to him and we began to slow dance in place, talking to Zoe, who was lying on the sofa. We turned in slow circles, swaying back and forth, as he told us about the restaurant where he’d just tried out. I rested my head on his shoulder, or we’d kiss, but we kept quietly talking, circling, dancing. Something about it was like magic.

At around 2:15 a.m., he said he should be going. I walked him out the door. We briefly made out in the stairwell.

“Am I doing better with the touching you more?” he asked.

“Yes, you are,” I said.

Signs of Hope: Seeing him really was like magic.

Red Flags: I later put my finger on the cause of my dinner-jacket anxiety: I felt like I was doing too much for him too soon, making things too easy. It was making me uncomfortable. Zoe was operating under the assumption that #120 and I were already a done deal. But because of my history with Mr. Unavailables, I wasn’t feeling so sure.

Turning Point: When he texted me. I was on such a high from the whole evening that I didn’t feel like I needed to be coy at all about the fact that I wanted to see him.

Diagnosis: For him: He seems very into me.
For me: I seem very into him.

Mr. Unavailable #120: Him, Himself and He

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu, The Duel and The 36-Hour Freakout for the background on this one.

Encounter #6: On Friday morning, he texted me asking if I wanted to go to lunch. Tired of all the texting, I just called him. He arrived an hour later and texted me from The Bean. Zoe and I spritzed the scarf that he'd lent me two days before with my perfume--Sexy 212. I met him downstairs and handed it back to him. He didn't seem to notice the new scent. "Let's go to Momofuku," he said. He knew the owner somehow from Virginia. “It’s funny how I seem to know a lot of famous people,” he said.

Yes, funny that.

Momofuku didn’t open until noon, so we killed time renewing our search for his Cecil B. Demille sunglasses. We stumbled upon an antique glasses shop called Fanny’s and went in. “These are them,” #120 said, putting on some tortoise shell frames and looking at me. The place had everything. I tried on a pair tof sexy librarian frames and #120 said, “That’s hot.”

By the time we got to Momofuku at 12:03 p.m., we weren’t even the first inside. We sat at the bar and ordered. I looked at him. “What?” he asked. I’d been waiting to say something all morning. I’d decided to take Nora’s advice and talk to him—clear the air—for my own sake if not his.

“I feel bad. I think I may have confused you. When I said I wanted to take things slower, I didn’t mean we should see each other less,” I said.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, laughing.

“I know, I know. It’s fine. I’m just making sure. I also didn’t mean that we should be less physical with each other.”

“Are you saying you want me to touch you more?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He turned red and started laughing.

“You’re turning red,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.

“It’s funny,” he said.

We ate about 5,000 calories worth of really good pig fat in various forms and then walked all over the city. He wanted to buy shoes, so we went uptown. He wanted to look at scooters, so we went back downtown. I was feeling a bit lost in the shuffle.

We walked by the Merchant House Museum, a museum I’d always wanted to go into, so we went inside. He didn’t want to pay for it, but I told him I could get us in free. It was a self-tour and, because I asked him to, he started reading the history aloud.

Maybe I just have a constant need for physical affirmation to show me that everything is OK, but I wanted us to be more affectionate as we walked around the museum—really, I wanted us to be more affectionate all day. I rested my head on his shoulder. He didn’t respond and, after a few minutes, walked away to look at something else.

Afterward, he said he had to go meet a friend, so he walked me home. We stood talking outside of my building. A friend of his texted him and he texted him back with messages that were intentionally difficult. I wasn’t impressed.

"What I like to do is when people text me, I just call them," he said.

"I did that with you this morning," I said.

"I know. When you called, I thought, 'Oh. She does that, too.'"

Sometimes it's nice to beat them at their own game, especially when you don't know you're doing it.

“We’re going swing dancing tomorrow night, so I was going to invite you if you were free,” I said. But he was working the next day, all day.

“Do you know how to swing dance?” I asked.

“I’m from the South,” he said. “We have cotillion.”

Even though the little voice in my head wasn’t entirely happy with the day, he said he knew how to dance, so I was impressed all over again. It doesn't take much.

Signs of Hope: The talk at Momofuku seemed to go well-ish.

Red Flags: The whole day was mostly about him. We did go to the museum, but that was only because I could get us in free. I know I could have insisted on doing some of my own errands, but errands aren;t necessarily my idea of fun. A question from him like “Is there anything you’d like to do?” would have been nice.

Turning Point: I did feel a little better after the talk at Momofuku. At least I was practicing my communication skills even if he wasn't.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s available for doing his errands and random museum visits.
For me: Am I just needy? Or is he not what I want—no, what I deserve.

Mr. Unavailable #120: The 36-Hour Freakout

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu and The Duel for the background on this one.

Encounter #5: “All he did was give you a kiss on the cheek?” Zoe asked when I got home. “Didn’t say anything about when he’d see you next?”

“Well, I did tell him I wanted to take it slower,” I said.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to see him.”

We started going back over everything, parsing and diagramming, whirling up a tale of great lies and underhanded manipulation.

Maybe he was just in it for a quick shag.
Maybe he was just looking for a free place to stay.
Maybe Zoe had foiled that plan by moving in.
Maybe his father wasn’t some rich southerner.
Maybe he wasn’t even really a chef.
Maybe he wasn’t even going to school.
Maybe it was all a big lie.

The only naysayer was Nora, who called from Mexico as soon as she got my message saying #119 was just in it for an easy lay. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You did tell him you wanted to take it slow. He may just not know what to do right now.”

“But if he’s confused, he should ask me,” I said. “I want someone who isn’t afraid to talk to me.”

Nora wasn’t buying it. “You should talk to him,” she said just before getting off the phone.

Having exhausted ourselves, Zoe and I decided it was time to go to bed.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” she said.

But I didn’t. I woke up feeling horrible.

“OK, you’re coming with me to the beauty show. We’re going to have a girly day buying makeup.” In an attempt to evade the $80 entry fee, I got together some outdated business cards where the only correct information was my name and ”Writer/Editor," some press clips and an email from an editor at a men’s magazine and we headed to the show. In the Javits Center press room, I told one of the press women that I was doing a freelance story for a magazine and gave her an outdated card. “OK, here’s your badge," she said. Done and done.

Even though we plunged ourselves into a world of frivolous consumerism, which would have distracted any girl’s heart, I still checked my phone every three minutes. Nothing from #120. We stopped at a Starbucks kiosk for refreshments. Verging on total despair, I took the doughnut Zoe got me, walked to the side of the kiosk, pulled my hat down over my eyes and let the floodgates open. She came over with the coffees. “I would never be this upset about this if I were used to being treated better,” I said

It was true. I was so accustomed to the male disappearing act that this kind of thing was par for the course. If I’d been used to good treatment—and had more self-esteem—such disappearances would simply make things abundantly clear for me. I’d be done. But, for me, that was not the case.

I rallied enough in the last 30 minutes of the show to buy a complete set of makeup brushes and discounted eye shadow and lipstick. It was good.

I went home and, via email, told Kevin and Nora what had gone down, and, out of anger, included some unfortunate words about the size of his penis.

“The first day is the worst day,” Zoe said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Still, the next day, I didn’t feel better. I just needed to know. One way or another. What was going on.

"You should text him, "So, are we friends or what?'" Zoe said. But, technically, nothing was wrong, so I had to act like nothing was wrong.

“Hey there. You’ve been quiet. How you doing?” I texted to him.

About 20 minutes later, he called. He said he was in the East Village about to meet a restaurant owner about a job. I sat up on the edge of my bed as we talked for a few minutes, both of us sounding fairly animated. I was waiting for his next move. Then he asked if I wanted to meet for coffee. There it was. But instead of making me happy, it made me sink back into panic. In the past, whenever a guy’s gone quiet and then reappears wanting to go for coffee, it means he’s about to end things.

“OK,” I said.

Ten minutes later—grabbing only my coat and some cash because I figured I wouldn’t be gone long—I met him down at The Bean. I kissed him and sat down across from him, waiting to take my coat off in case he wanted to get it over with quickly.

“Do you want a coffee?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. I slid my coat off and over the back of the chair and he slid his credit card across the table, saying I’d have to get my coffee because he was wedged into his seat.

When ordering, I didn’t hold back. If this was the last thing he was going to ever buy me, it was going to be good. So I got the biggest almond latte they had and a carrot cake cupcake. As I sat down, he got a phone call. He told the person on the other end he’d be there in 20 minutes.

“So, he’s going to do it in the next 20 minutes,” I thought. We chatted some more, and, about 20 minutes later, he said, “So, do you want to go meet a French restaurant guy?”

I was stunned. “Sure,” I said, thinking, “Could he be that much a coward that he’d take me to meet someone and then dump me?” I’ve met bigger cowards. I once dated a guy who, I found out later, wanted to break up with me but was so afraid of doing it, he road-tripped with me across five states to a wedding first. Only when I went on another trip a few days later, flying ten states away, did he have the courage to dump me over the phone.

I played along. We walked arm in arm to the restaurant, where we met an Irish restaurateur and took a tour. Afterward, we started walking downtown and I figured he was going to drop me off in front of my place and end things there.

“So, where are we going?” he asked.

“I don’t know."

“I know," he said. “Tacos.”

It finally dawned on me: he wasn’t about to end things. He just wanted to spend some time with me. I relaxed. We went for tacos and then to BookWorks to warm up and tell each other stories. He wanted to show me Mario Batali’s Eataly, so before we left BookWorks, I told him I needed to go to the ladies room. I didn’t actually have to pee, I had to call Zoe. She’d been texting and calling me asking if I was OK.

“Everything’s fine,” I said when I called her from the toilet. “I was totally wrong. We’ve been together all afternoon and I’m still with him.”

“Well, that's a shock," she said. "OK, go have fun. Tell me what happened later.”

Back outside, it was clear I was underdressed and freezing. He gave me his scarf, which I wrapped around my neck.

We headed up to Eataly and walked around arm-in-arm. It was like Disneyland for fancy Italian food. He told me all about the different cuts of meat and described where they came from. He saw that they were serving shad roe and we sat at the counter and ordered a dish to share. He touched my leg. I held his hand.

We saw Daniel from our Monday night gathering of likeminded downtowners. ”Let’s stalk him,” we said at the same time. Linked together, we hunched down and followed him stealthily, catching up to him and tapping him on the shoulder. Talking to Daniel, he looked at #120 then me then back again. I could see him sussing out the situation.

We let Daniel get back to his wandering and headed toward the exit ourselves. #120 slowed as we passed the gelato counter. “My treat,” I said. I chose hazelnut and pistachio.

“You chose well,” he said.

“I always do,” I said.

He walked me to therapy and we kissed good-bye.

“So when will we see each other next?” I asked. I wanted to have at least some vague idea.

He had orientation for school the next day, which was Thursday.

“Friday?” he asked. I nodded.

I bounded into therapy and bounced onto the sofa. “I love being wrong,” I said.

But was I?

Signs of Hope: He didn’t end things. In fact, he wanted to spend all afternoon with me.

Red Flags: We didn’t actually talk about what had happened or my request to take it slow. Did we need to or were we just not good communicators?

Turning Point: When he suggested going for tacos. I could breathe again.

Diagnosis: For him: He looks like he may be available. Again.
For me: I have far too active an imagination combined with far too much insecurity for my own good.

When I told Zoe what had happened, she said, "I was ready to go beat him up. When you started crying at Starbucks, I was ready to kill him."

Zoe and I decided that we aren’t allowed to talk about boys anymore because our two brains put together are far too creatively powerful, concocting bad-boy conspiracy theories that could make even the most trusting of women run straight to the convent.

On a side note: Later that day, I alerted the troops that, in fact, nothing was wrong and that of course I was exaggerating when I included the unfortunate words about the size of his penis.

Mr. Unavailable #120: The Duel

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts and To Nobu or Not to Nobu for the background on this one.

Encounter #4 (Because #120 and I have ceased to have proper dates): #120 and I had talked about going to Williamsburg the next morning, but when the next morning rolled around and I didn’t hear from him, I saw him on Facebook and instant messaged him. “Hello, lover.”

I wrote that I wanted to see a movie.

His messages were laconic, using lots of Cs and Us and kept to five words or less. He said that he had a movie-theater phobia. "nothing to worry about," he said.

Zoe and I put our overactive imaginations together and determined that he might have been molested at a movie theater as a kid.

Then he said he had some stuff to take care of. “Maybe we get together later?” he said.

“Oh, no,” Zoe said. “He was talking about going to Central Park and everything today and now 'maybe later'?" Tell him you’ve got a girly night planned. That’s not on.” I sent him a message saying I already had plans and he said to have fun.

I wasn’t feeling comfortable with any of it, so I wrote a new message to him, saying that I knew I said the day before that we should jump in the sack but, really, I said, I usually don’t take things quite this fast, so I thought maybe we could take things a bit slower.

He wrote back saying that that was fine, he was going to be very busy in a week anyway, with school and everything, so life was taking care of the slowing down for us. "Don't worry," he wrote at the end."Life is good."

On Monday, he texted me asking how I was doing.

We went back and forth once or twice and I said, “See you tonight?”

“Yup,” he said.

I arrived late that night and he winked at me from across the room. When the gathering was over, I went over to talk to some friends and I could see him trying to get to me, but chairs were in the way. He finally maneuvered toward me, gave me a hug and asked if I was going to dinner. I said I was. He said he was going outside to smoke and I’d see him when I came out.

On a sidenote, Zoe did my makeup that night. I noticed a spike in attention, including from #114, who was almost instantly at my side.

“You’re looking all sexy. Is there someone here or do you have a date?”

“Both, actually,” I said. “You might figure it out.”

“I think I already did,” he said.

We walked out together and I introduced him to #120. I could immediately feel the tension between them. They jostled to walk next to me but not look too obvious about it. When we got to the restaurant, there was a polite debate over who got to sit next to me. “No, you go ahead, no, you go ahead,” they said to each other. Finally, #114 said, “OK, I’ll go, I need the seat for my back” and jumped into the booth.

#120 and I sat across from each other and gave each other little looks but the strain between the two of them never went away. They cordially dueled, combatting each other through discussions of investments and real estate. #120 threw out references to how his parents just finished a sailing trip to the Caribbean, on their boat. #114 couldn’t beat that, but he was, after all, the one sitting next to me.

After dinner, #120 became antsy and seemed very interested in his watch. “I have to be uptown at 10:30,” he said.

It was only 9:15.

“It will only take you 15 minutes,” I said.

He stayed but so did his antsy-ness. Not too much later, he put on his coat and scarf and then said, “I just like to have my things near me.”

When we paid the bill, #120 let me go ahead of him out the door. #114 came out and asked if I was walking east. “Eventually,” I said shortly. I just needed him to go away. He walked off.

“Well, you’re the man about town,” I said to #120.

“What do you mean?”

“Going off to something else tonight.”

“Oh, yeah.”

There was no “Hey, walk me to the train?” or anything.

I walked to the corner with him and another friend and #120 gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and walked off.

I tried not to freak out, but when I got home, I said to Zoe, “I think he’s punishing me.”

What followed was a full 36 hours of me completely failing to not freak out.

Signs of Hope: I'm not sure if I've ever had two guys fighting over me before, but it was pretty sweet.

Red Flags: His attempted sudden departure from the restaurant.

Turning Point: When he walked off to the train alone, without trying to talk to me.

Diagnosis: For him: I have no idea.

For me: These are prime conditions for optimal freak-out mode.

Mr. Unavailable #120: To Nobu or Not to Nobu

See Sweet Virginia, The First Date and Just Desserts for the background on this one.

Date #3: We’d made plans for Saturday in the loosest sort of way, meaning that we said we’d get together but had no actual ideas. He texted me around 2 p.m. and said he was heading my way.

“What’s the plan, Stan?” I said.

“No plan,” he said.

I got ready and went down to the The Bean to meet him. He was standing out front and hugged me so that my feet lifted off the ground. He wanted to find vintage Cecil B. Demille sunglasses, so we wandered around the East Village in search of them. He seemed down, somehow. I couldn’t tell if it was the gray weather and low barometric pressure that was affecting him or if there was something really wrong.

We found a flea market and he talked about some of the jobs he was looking at. Still wondering if we would ever actually go to Nobu, I said as if to joke, “Well, I hope one of them works out great if we’re going to be having lunch at Nobu.”

“We’re not going to be having lunch at Nobu,” he said. “It’s easily $65 a person just for lunch.”

Good-bye Nobu.

We gave up on the sunglasses and agreed that it would be a good idea to go for cake. “Where should we go?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “This is your town.”

And then it came to me. I started jumping up and down. “The Little Cupcake Shop,” I said. We crossed down into Soho and I led him to Prince and Elizabeth. We snagged a table by the window and each got a gigantic slice of cake. When he dug into his, the biggest smile spread over his face.

“This is the happiest I’ve seen you all day,” I said.

“Yeah, it seems like all these places want New York experience, but if you can’t get hired, you can’t get New York experience.”

“The perpetual Catch-22,” I said. Maybe that was why he seemed off all day. I thought it might have been me. Sometimes it's exhausting being so self-involved.

He reached out and touched me on the arm briefly.

His funny mood had unsettled me and, whether or not I was suffering from codependence, I needed reassurance. I wanted us to be alone somewhere, so I asked if he wanted to go watch a movie at my place. Zoe and I had it worked out that I’d text her if I was going back to the apartment and she’d stay away.

At my place, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. He picked me up to take me to the bed. “You’re so good at that,” I said.

We rolled around for a while, losing articles of clothing, and I said, “I feel like a Calvin Klein ad.”

Things started to go a little farther than I wanted them to and I got nervous, and told him so, which only served to make him nervous. Plus, Zoe had been texting and calling, which certainly hadn’t helped to relax things, so I checked her messages in which she said she’d go get something to eat and stay out until she heard from me.

“Well, you’re hungry, too, why don’t we go eat with her?” #120 said.

I was alarmed. Did he not want to be alone with me anymore? It felt wrong somehow. Like we needed to talk about our nervousness and maybe even what, exactly, we were doing here.

Zoe came back and we went for Mexican. She had #120 and I sit across the table from each other so we could see each other, but it was a big table, so it only increased the chasm growing between us. I thought he seemed jumpy but wasn’t sure. Then he started talking about Zoe and he moving in together. He’d suggested it before and Jo had let it drop, but he brought it up again.

“That means that if you and I don’t work out,” he said, looking at me, “we’ll have to be friends.”

“Oh, you two will work out,” Zoe said. “Don’t be daft.”

I was fear-stricken. As soon as Zoe went to the bathroom, I bent my finger at him to beckon him closer. He leaned in as much as he could across the table. “Just for the record, I’d like this to work out,” I said.

“You didn’t like that at all,” he said.

I shook my head.

“OK, then we’ll work on it,” he said.

“We’re too far away,” I said and got up and sat next to him, kissing him. I still didn’t feel settled. He said he had to go home right after dinner. “To poop,” he said, because he didn’t like doing it in public and he didn’t want to do it at my place.

Outside, Zoe walked ahead and we kissed good-bye. I caught up to her and said, “Wasn’t he acting funny?”

“No, not at all. I actually like him even more. I think he’s just lovely,” she said.

“He seemed so distant,” I said.

“I didn’t think so at all,” she said.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Maybe I was just projecting. Because I’m currently a basketcase.”

Back at my place, since things had gone a bit off in the bedroom, Zoe suggested I text him.

I wrote: “I feel a bit weird about earlier. Do you? I think we need to get back in the sack as soon as possible. We were both nervous.”

He wrote back immediately: “Asap!”

Signs of Hope: He said, "We'll work on it."

Red Flags: Was it was “my town” only when it was convenient for him to not make plans? Would Nobu ever happen? Was the distance I felt after our Saturday roll in the hay real or imagined?

Diagnosis: For him: Is he available?

For me: Am I just an insecure mess?

Mr. Unavailable #120: Just Desserts

See Sweet Virginia and The First Date for the background on this one.

Date #2: #120 and I parted ways the morning after date #1 as I went to collect Zoe and her things and move her into my apartment. "Good luck with crazy," he said, kissing me.

Zoe and I were enjoying a post-move, deconstruct-the-crazy-roommate/talk-about-the-new-love-interest late lunch at Spring Street Natural when #120 texted me.

“Wanna make out.”

At the same time as that text made me feel elated, I was feeling spent and kind of didn’t want to be quite so available so soon, so I said, “Definitely. Let’s do something special on Saturday.” I’d told Zoe that he’d mentioned Nobu the night before, saying, “We’ll go sometime,” and she was encouraging me to grease the dating wheels in that direction. I didn’t care about Nobu, but I did care about him keeping to his word. I got no reply until the next day.

“I’m bored,” his text said.

I quickly consulted with Zoe via text over what to do. Some amount of game needed to be played, I knew, but I also really wanted to see him.

“Well, how shall we remedy that?” I replied to his text.
“Cake!”
“That was exactly what I was just thinking.”

Zoe and I had plans to do speed dating that night so I told him to meet me at The Bean. I figured I’d get dressed for speed dating and meet Zoe after #120 and I had cake. I put on my little black dress cut down to there and met him on the corner. He grabbed me and picked me up, telling me I’d just missed a veritable SNL reunion. 30 Rock had been filming on my street all week and he’d just witnessed the wrap up. I’d been under the impression that his life was charmed and his casual run-in with celebrity only enhanced it, even if it was just seeing them on the street.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“We have unfinished business at Veneiro’s,” I said, taking his arm and steering him up 1st Avenue.

Naturally, I didn’t mention speed dating. I only said I was going to an event that Zoe had—something with movie people and producers, a way for her to make more connections in the city.

At Veneiro’s, we held hands across the table, kissing and intentionally neglecting the menus. I didn't mind if we dragged time out. He didn't seem to, either. Eventually, over chocolate cake and fruit tart, he told me about the job he’d interviewed for at Dean & Deluca. They loved him, he said. Every department wanted him, he said. Optimally, he’d work there as a floater, he said.

When the bill came, I offered to help.

“Let me be the man in this thing we’re doing, whatever it is,” he said. “Let me wear the pants.”

The clarity was refreshing. My role was to thank him for the cake, which I did gladly.

We walked around, stopping in a second-hand store, where he told me about his predilection for dressing inappropriately for formal functions—crushed velvet dinner jackets, leather pants and ensembles of that nature. “Excellent,” I said, telling him of the Chicago days when I ran around with a gaggle of gay boys who insisted on appearing somewhat inappropriate and almost every occasion.

We walked to Thompkins Square Park, but, cold, retreated to Café Pick Me Up, where we sat at a corner table. I leaned toward him, alternately holding his hand or resting my elbow on his crossed leg. “Well, you’re all sexed up, aren’t you? That’s incredibly sexy,” he said, nodding to the cleavage created by the way I was sitting. “And now you’re going to a fancy event and I’m heading home with my tail between my legs.”

After 20 minutes, I had to meet Zoe, so he paid and, as we left the café, he grabbed and swung me around, dancing with me on the sidewalk. “I also only dance where it’s inappropriate,” he said, kissing me.

Wrapped in each other, we walked to The Bean and went inside to warm up and wait for Jo. A minute later, she swooped in and took the arm he didn’t have, saying to him with a sly little smile, “She’s mine now.” We went outside and he and I kissed good-bye while Zoe hailed a cab and sing-songed, “Love is in the air.” As soon as we got in the cab, I confessed how far gone I was. “I’m crazy about him,” I said.

“He definitely didn’t want you to go,” she said. “Definitely. Do you think he's the one?"

"I always think they're the one," I said. "And then they never are."

Signs of Hope: He wants to see me all the time.

Red Flags: He has what looks to be a deeply ingrained inability to make plans. But I hoped from his “tail between my legs” comment, he was feeling the consequences. I hoped.

Diagnosis: For him: Too soon to tell, but he seems pretty available.
For me: I’m way too far gone, which worries me because, as they say, if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Mr. Unavailable #120: The First Date

See Sweet Virginia for the background on this one.

First Date: He called me in the morning, as he said he would, and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. He was disappointed when I told him I had to go to therapy and then wait for a conference call for a freelance project. We said we could do something that night.

I called him after therapy.

“Feel better?” he answered.
“I’m cured,” I said.

Signs of Hope: We met at The Bean, the coffee shop on the corner. When I walked in, he was sitting there with an empty cupcake wrapper on a plate in front of him. “You ate a cupcake without me?” I said.

“I’ll buy you a cupcake.”

We got up and he bought me one, telling me it was all mine, he wasn’t going to have any. When I finished, he pointed to the crumbs on the table in front of me and said, “By the way, that’s really cute.”

We took the train to DUMBO to see a show at St. Ann’s Warehouse. When we’d chosen it earlier, a poorly written review said something about “dance.” Neither of us wanted to see a dance performance, but the review was so indecipherable, I said, “I’m sure it’s not a dance thing. It’s about boxing.”

About 10 minutes into the show, the boxers threw off their gloves and started…dancing. He elbowed me. I elbowed him back and then we looked at each other, smiling, and leaned together sinking down in our seats to hide our laughter. At the end of the show, neither of us could really figure out what it was about, but I said, “My face hurts from smirking so much.”

On the platform waiting for the train back into the city, he put his arm around my waist and said, “Thank you for getting the tickets. Can I take you to dinner?”

I wasn’t sure where to go, but we passed a good, low-key Thai place on First Street and decided to go in. We talked about traveling and food and I impressed him with a story about how I’d ridden in a limo with Charlie Trotter—and his son. Afterward, it was chilly out, so he took my hands in his and then, standing on a corner, we kissed. I’ve run out of ways to describe a great kiss. I can only say that it was. And it helped that it was freezing out and no one was around, making the kissing not only practical but guilt-free.

I decided we needed more dessert and we walked to Veneiro’s but it was closed. Kissing in front of the locked-up window display of multicolored cakes, he said, “How about we go to your place and make out.”

“OK,” I said.

I neglected to mention that, throughout the evening, a crisis was unfolding. Zoe had been texting me that her roommate had gone mad and she was packing to leave. At my place, I told him I had to make a quick phone call. As I talked, he kissed me—fingers, forehead, neck, arms, it was fantastically distracting.

Poor Zoe started crying on the other end of the phone. I told her she could come over, but she knew that he was there and said, “Oh no, you two play,” and I could tell she was smiling. I told her I'd help her move her things to my place the next day and she could stay with me.

After I got off the phone, #119 leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head, saying, "How fortuitous. You're now going to have a roommate."

I love the part during the first make-out session when you’re alone in one of your apartments and you tell each other what you thought of the other person when you first saw them.

“Look at you. You only moved to New York a month ago and you’re already in some girl’s apartment making out,” I said.

“You’re the only girl I’ve looked at twice since I’ve been here,” he said. “That first night when you said you were going to dinner, I said to Ted, 'Teddy, we’re going to dinner.'"

“What would you have done if I hadn’t texted you?” I asked.

“I would have waited until next Monday,” he said.

After some more making out, he was telling me how much he liked me and said, “I really want to impress you.”

“So, what did you think of me when you first met me?” he asked. I thought it was cute of him to ask, because I would have done the same thing.

I told him how it was Valentine’s Day and I was in a terrible mood but that as soon as he said, “pastry chef,” I sat up and took notice.

A little while later, he said, “We actually met the week before, but you don’t remember it.”

! It was true. I’d even gone up to him and introduced myself but didn’t remember it—not at first. We also had a conversation in front of the restaurant—but I don’t remember that at all.

We made out on the sofa for hours. I confessed, "I almost never let a guy upstairs on the first date." He laughed and said, "almost?"

Finally, at about 4 a.m., he said, “I’m about to pick you up and throw you on that bed over there.” And then he did, and said, “I probably should have asked you this earlier, but do you have a boyfriend?”

“No. But I do have a husband. Is that a problem?”

I said he could stay over if we could control ourselves. And then I went to get him a toothbrush.

“Is it a toothbrush that was left over from the last guy and you just boiled it?” he said. I pulled out a packaged toothbrush, waved my hand along the bottom a la Bob Barker’s Showcase Showgirls and said, “As you’ll see, this toothbrush has been hermetically sealed.” I changed into my pajamas while he gentlemanly-ly closed his eyes. Then he undressed to his boxers and T-shirt. I remembered a list of things that “the last guy” didn’t like and pre-emptively framed them for #120 like this:

I hope you don’t mind the makeshift closet I’ve made of my canopy…stray cat hair…anything else…”

And he said, “I don’t care. I’m just happy to be in the same bed with you.”

We got into bed and wrapped ourselves around each other. And. It. Was. Lovely. I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t really want to.

The next morning, I got up to take Zoloft & Friends, and, standing in front of the cupboard in the kitchen, I heard the bedsheets move. I turned around and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, blinking his eyes sleepily and watching me. I walked back toward him and he held open his arms and grabbed me back into bed.

Yes, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

Red Flags: While I’m sooo hesitant to mention any because we’re very much in the honeymoon phase, there were a few. When the bill for dinner came, it was cash only and he didn’t have any cash. He said he would run to an ATM, there was one several blocks away. There was ALSO one right outside the restaurant, but it would have cost $3. I offered to pay and he was going to take me up on it, except I only had $2, so he ran to the ATM three blocks away. "I'm so cheap," he said. At least he knows it.

Turning Point: Usually I use this category to mark a turning point in the negative direction, but I’d have to say, the turning point here was toward the even more positive, and it came when we got into bed. He really did just want to be with me.

Diagnosis: As my shrink said the day before, “It sounds like he’s available.”