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.
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.
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.
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