Mr. Unavailable #121: Superpowers

See Unavailable By Design, He Touched Me, Mrs. Robinson and The Fantasy Reaches Fruition... for the background on this one.

I once joked that one of my superpowers was the ability to turn available men unavailable (my other superpower is farsightedness). It seems that my powers have multiplied because I can now turn unavailable men even more unavailable (although I still can't see them coming from even an eighth of a mile away).

While I did choose #121 for his exquisite unavailability--being 13 years my junior and directionless in life--it appears as if the entirety of our affair may amount to one mere roll in the hay. I had hoped it would continue--it would have been a nice diversion for me and a good learning opportunity for him--but it looks as though he's gone off prematurely.

I left him alone for a week after our dalliance, partly because I didn't want our thing to become too much of a distraction and partly because he had been concerned that I might be crazy ("crazy, you know," he said, "texting and calling all the time."). I'd seen him from across the room at a Thursday night event but we never quite crossed paths. Kevin had recommended playing it cool and aloof, which was what I was doing. But I didn't want it to completely fizzle out and Zoe was due back in a few weeks to occupy my sofa, so I was also on a deadline.

On Friday, at dinner with Nora and Sean, I wanted male advice, so I quickly filled Sean in.

"I've taken a lover."

"Wow, that's not what I was expecting," he said.

"She's branching out," Nora said.

After explaining the scenario, Sean said if I'd wanted to date him, then I shouldn't contact him, but since I only wanted him for sex, it was fine that I text him with something suggestive. So I did.

Since the last time I texted something suggestive was never, at Sean's suggestion, I texted, "You looked really hot last night."

In reply, I heard...nothing.

And more nothing.

A few hours later, Nora said that maybe he was doing something and didn't see it yet. But I knew better. He was 25, which meant he probably couldn't write his name in cursive, but he was sure as hell fluent in texting. At any rate, during our previous text sessions, he'd always replied instantly.

For more than 24 hours I heard nothing. I felt stupid, rejected, needy. But I forgot one very important thing--I'd pursued him, I'd been the aggressor and I'd gotten exactly what I wanted. Anything after that would have been gravy. There's no way he could have been rejecting me because, as Nora said, I'd rejected him already in only wanting him for one thing, which I got.

By the time I woke up Sunday morning, I was fine again. So, naturally, there was a reply from him, sent around 3 a.m. All it said was, "Thanks I didn't even see you there."

Now, I already knew that there was nothing worth getting upset over, so I didn't get upset, but of course he'd seen me there. Maybe he was ashamed of his performance. Maybe he thought I wanted something more. Maybe he has a really, really hard time with intimacy. Maybe he thinks I'm crazy.

On Sunday, he didn't show up to the usual gathering.

I felt bad for the kid. There was no need to avoid me, but he didn't know that.

"I just want to fix it," I told Kevin. I could feel the need to fix it in my gut.

"He just needs space," Kevin said.

"I just want to text him to say that I'm not going to text him not because I'm upset with him but because I'm giving him space and I don't want anything from him...except one thing, which we should do again."

"Remember when he was worried about you being crazy?"

"I just wish he knew that I really don't give a shit."

Nevermind about my superpowers (even the farsighted thing) because sometimes it seems that all we women have the power to do is either say no, do nothing or walk away. Or, apparently, take a lover for just one night.

Diagnosis: For him: Poor kid. He clearly has no idea that I am completely, horizontally available to him.

For me: I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed. I'm actually pretty proud of myself. I have zero qualms about showing up in places #121 might be. As Kevin said, "If he only knew how little you expect from him, he be so psyched."

Mr. Unavailable #121: The Fantasy Reaches Fruition

See Unavailable By Design, He Touched Me and Mrs. Robinson for the background on this one.

You might remember that I mentioned something in an earlier #121 post about telling Kevin how I couldn’t picture a conversation with #121 because all I could picture was #120 walking into my apartment, picking me up and throwing me on my bed.

Somewhere along the way, I became so determined to make the fantasy happen that I figured I’d better be prepared with a playlist that would go well with a vigorous night. Titled, uncreatively, “#121 songs,” I picked a saucy assortment that included Catherine Wheel, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Florence + the Machine.

The day after our heavy flirtation, I caught sight of him at my usual Friday night gathering of like-minded downtowners. When Nora arrived—late—she asked, “Is he here?” I nodded, unable to quash a grin. After things wound down, I saw him walk around the side of the room toward me. I got up and moved toward him, smiling. His usually impassive expression melted into a smile, too. We hugged.

“Are you going to Evan’s show?” he asked.

Expecting something more in line with the suggestive content of the previous nights’ texting session, I said, confused, “I don’t know, are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What should we do?”

“How about we go hang out at your place.”

“OK.”

Phew.

Heading east on Houston together, conversation didn’t exactly flow. He expressed dissatisfaction with his construction job, so I asked what he liked to do.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What kinds of things are you good at?”

“I think I’d be good at sales,” he said.

“That sounds good. I bet you would.”

“I was really good at selling drugs,” he said. “But those things sell themselves.”

I really didn't know where to go from there. I felt like I was doing the walk of shame even though nothing shameful had happened—yet.

On the corner of Houston and Broadway, he noticed I was toting a handbag, an umbrella and another small shopping bag. “Do you want me to carry some of your shit?” he asked. Ah, see. There’s a gentleman in there somewhere.

He took my umbrella and we managed to chat about dogs, siblings and his two-time unclehood. He showed me some photos of his brother and sister and their kids on his phone. It occurred to me only later that the conversation might have been stunted because maybe—just maybe—he was nervous.

At my apartment, I offered him a drink, which he declined. I put on the aforementioned playlist and, when I turned on the string of mini Chinese lanterns (my hunk-lair mood lighting) hanging next to him, he put his hand in my back pocket and pulled me down onto his lap. Articles of clothing were quickly piled on the floor and he swooped me up and over to the bed. It was, now that I think about it, kind of like my fantasy. Everything seemed in order. His strength? Check. His energy? Check. His drive? Check. His body? Double check. But…

…The thing about having sex with a 25-year-old is that you’re having sex with a 25-year-old. The word “foreplay” must have been absent from his vocabulary because he pretty much went straight for the finish line. We went one round and then had a difference of opinion about protection, which resulted in the second round being cut short. Although he did honestly compliment me on my various bedroom skills (“I usually never ______.” and “________ usually doesn’t work on me.”), he used almost every excuse in the book to keep things going without a condom, including his non-ejaculatory skill, his weak sperm and the fact that he couldn’t—just couldn’t—do it with a condom despite the fact that he just had.

He deemed our standoff a “predicament,” the most multisyllabic word he'd used yet, and we changed the subject. He confessed that he didn't usually go for tiny girls like me—that he usually liked a significant ass. “How’s my ass?” I asked.

”You have a nice ass. A lot of people have flat asses but you have a nice one, you should show it off more.”

“How?”

“You should wear tight jeans.”

Then I confessed that I had first noticed him more than a year ago. “You’ve been eyeballing me that long?” he asked.

Not intending to make a huge emotional investment in this, there was no point in holding my cards close. “Mmm Hmm,” I said.

After a few more wanton gropes and some truly sexy rolls around the bed in which he held me to him and flipped us both over, he said he had to get up for work in the morning. It had only been a little over an hour, which didn't surprise me, but what did surprise me was what came next. We dressed and sat on the sofa. I lit a cigarette and then lit one for him, too.

"I didn't know you smoked," he said.

“I do sometimes, but you can probably tell I’m not a real smoker,” I said.

He smiled. “Yup.”

Then he gave me a lesson on how to hold a cigarette and smoke properly.

“Like this,” he said, placing the low part of his cigarette between his second knuckles and moving his hand around as if the cigarette was just an extension of it.

I practiced. He told me I was getting better. “And then you’ve gotta flick it,” he said, flicking his thumb against the cigarette so the ash fell in the ashtray.

“I think that’s the one thing I do right,” I said, flicking my cigarette to show him. He nodded.

“Cosmic Love” came on over the stereo.

“I like Florence + the Machine,” he said. “Have you ever heard “Howl”?” He got up and plugged his phone into my stereo to play it. Sitting down, he said, “I listen to this on repeat when I’m depressed and it makes me feel better…Great lyrics...About love…Not romantic love…but love that either you receive from the world or that you…give off into the world.”

“I like that,” I said. I looked at him and wondered if I was dealing with something fragile here.

I got up and sat on his lap so I was facing him. We locked our fingers together and he pulled me forward and backward, holding me so I didn’t fall, like in one of those trust games.

“You’re not crazy are you?” he asked.

I smiled. His bluntness was refreshing. “No," I said. "We’ve all got our things, but, no, I’m not crazy.”

“I mean like manic-depressive. That’s one of my rules, I don’t get involved with manic-depressive girls.”

“No, I’m not manic-depressive,” I said. “How does that play out anyway?”

“They constantly text and call. And are really codependent.”

I smiled. If he only knew how very not obsessive I was feeling about him.

“What sign are you?” he asked.

“Do you know about signs?”

“I only know the ones that are bad for me.”

“Oh, which ones?” I asked.

“No, I can’t say now. You might be one of them,” he said.

“Come on. I’m sure I’m not one of them.”

“Leo, Scorpio, Aquarius.”

“Nope, nope, nope.”

“Gemini, Cancer.”

“Nope, nope.”

“What are you?”

“Virgo. What are you?”

I was afraid he was going to say Aquarius because I knew his birthday was in January. I’d dated two Aquarius (#73 and #78) and it hadn’t gone well. But then he said he was a Capricorn.

“I think they’re supposed to be pretty laid-back,” I said, although I really had no idea how they were supposed to be and had no reference point because I’d never dated one, which was probably a good thing.

Then he stood, picking me up with him so that his arms were around me holding me up and my legs were around him.

“You’re strong,” I said.

“You weigh, like, four pounds.”

“No. 110.”

“That’s nothing.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“180.”

Yum.

“This is fun,” I said as he swayed a little, holding me.

We stayed like that for several minutes until he said he’d better go because he might be tempted to start something again if he didn’t. As he went out the door, he turned, said, “See you soon?” and we kissed one last time.

Signs of Hope: As Nora said, “He’s only 25. You got him before he spoils.”
As Kevin said, “For someone like #111, who’s 45 and not gonna change, there’s no hope. But for #121, he’s young and malleable.”
As Heidi said, “Maybe he just needs some training. You can be Mrs. Robinson.”

Red Flags: His whining about protection.

Turning Point: The real connection came on the couch.

Diagnosis: For him: He lacks tact, bedroom skills and an understanding of the importance of protection. But it was sweet that he showed some vulnerability and I could see that it wasn’t an act. In ten years, he’s going to make some woman very happy, so maybe, while I’m at it, I should start him on some training.
For me: Although I’m becoming more and more fond of him, I'm not obsessing about him, not wondering why he isn't calling or texting, not plotting my next move and not dissecting our last interactions searching for what I could have done wrong. Come to think of it, maybe he's actually training me.

Mr. Unavailable #121: Mrs. Robinson

See Unavailable By Design and He Touched Me for the background on this one.

In the week following the muffin conversation, I saw #121 twice, but it was from-across-a-crowded-room twice.

Fighting the temptation to feel disheartened—which would have been pointless because a real #121 relationship wasn't in the cards—I met up with Evan for Naked Angels and revealed to him who the object of my bed-centered interests was. "He's perfect!" he said. "You'll never fall in love with him!"

"It's so other-side-of-the-tracks," I agreed.

I was in a feisty mood that when I showed up at my usual Thursday night gathering of like-minded downtowners and saw him sitting alone, I had no qualms about walking over to him, sitting down and saying, “Hey.”

“Hey," he said. "How are you?”

“OK. How are you?”

“Alright. Well, actually, I’m kind of pissed off.”

In his low-talking, slow-paced and near-mumbly way, he told me about how he’d taken in his laundry and they’d lost two of his shirts. “I guess I should stop buying $250 shirts,” he said.

We talked some more and I found out he rented a room in Woodside and worked construction, meaning that he was right, he really should stop buying $250 shirts.

“You look nice,” he said, eyeing me like a piece of meat, which I loved. “Are you doing something after?”

“Thanks. Oh, you know, just hanging out." The truth, of course, was that I got all dressed up on the off-chance I’d run into him.

As things wound down, he asked where I was headed.

“Home.”

“I thought you had plans.”

“They got canceled.”

“Oh, well, I’m heading to the F train,” he said, hinting that I should walk with him.

We hit the sidewalk, walked a few yards, coincidentally passed Evan and a few of his band mates and called to them. Evan turned and looked from me to #121 and back. His jaw fell open and he looked somewhere between amused and impressed.

We kept walking down Avenue B. “You look really hot,” #121 said. “I kind of thought you had a date tonight.”

“Thanks. No, no date.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, no boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?” I felt like I was 12.

“No, I was seeing one girl that I met randomly but she was crazy, so I thought I’d try to find a girl in our crowd—you know, a girl people know."

“So, have you found one yet?”

“Well, I was kind of thinking maybe you…” he said. We were crossing the street, but, for a moment, I was blind to all traffic and deaf to all horns—all I saw and heard was the echo of him saying, “You.”

“…But then I thought maybe you’d say, you know, that I was too young.”

“Oh…really…no….”

“Do you like younger guys?”

“Yeah, well…age doesn’t make a difference.” The truth was that the “youngest” guy I’d “liked” was 23, but that was when I was 26.

“Do you like older women?”

“Yes,” he said as if there was no question about it. “You can’t be much older than me. What, 29/30?”

“I like that you think I’m 29 or 30.”

“How old are you?”

I hesitated.

“I can find out, you know.”

“How?” I asked, impressed.

“Facebook.”

Instantly less impressed, I said, “It’s not on there.”

“Come on. It doesn’t matter—if people take care of themselves, you know,” he said.

"I’m 38."

“You’re 38? Wow, you’re hot.”

And then he told me I was hot about two or three more times.

“You’re 24, right?”

“I’m 25,” he said, correcting me proudly.

“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said. He'd caught my sarcasm and sounded like he wanted to drop it. I dropped it. And then there was silence.

“So, what else should we talk about?” I asked.

“My mind is in the gutter,” he said.

Somehow we made it to the front of my building conversing about something. And when we got there, making out was a forgone conclusion.

“I would be tempted to invite you up,” I said as he grabbed my ass, “but I have to call my parents.”

“Are you sure there’s no boyfriend up there?”

I shook my head and he applied his powers of persuasion to the situation:

“I’ll be really quiet.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“I could just pick you up right now and take you upstairs.”

I know I'm prone to hyperbole, but I was so excited my knees were actually shaking. I managed to hold firm on not letting him upstairs. What also helped was that, although I didn’t mention it to him, my apartment was in chaos. It wasn’t the first time I’d used my messy apartment as a chastity belt.

“There’s always tomorrow,” I said.

He put his arms around me and picked me up off the ground. “I feel like I might break you,” he said. “You’re so tiny.”

“You won’t break me. I’m tough,” I said as he put me down. My knees still shaking, I propped myself up on the stone column and added coyly. “Don’t you want my number or something?” He took it and texted me. I managed to send him on his way after a few more grabs, calling after him, “I’ll tell my parents you say hello.”

I really did call my parents—about potentially cosigning for the apartment—and when my dad said, joking, “I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to come up with $3,700 a month,” I said, “I guess that means you’ll have to prostitute your daughter.”

He laughed, but, if #121 had possessed rich money-management skills instead of poor ones, I wouldn't be all that far from it.

After I got off the phone, I looked at the text #121 had sent and laughed. All it said was, “[#121].” I texted him back and we traded messages as he tried to get me to talk dirty. Finally, I got as close as I was going to get:

“I don’t mind if you break me,” I wrote.

“Only a little promise you’ll enjoy it,” he wrote back.

Later, I phoned Kevin with the general details: I’m older “but hot"; he’s 25, a construction worker and dying to take me upstairs and break me.

“If this were a porn, that would be the setup,” Kevin said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this porn.”

Signs of Hope: Just about everything above.

Red Flags: It was hard to figure out what to talk about. Do we have enough in common for even a casual relationship?

Turning Point: That "You."

Diagnosis: Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo). God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey…hey, hey, hey).

This Mrs. Robinson's prayer: Please God, let tomorrow be.

Mr. Unavailable #111: Freedom

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound, In Between Appointments, The Last Breakfast, Arizona Convalescence, Knocking Him Off His Pedestal and The Measure of a Man for the background on this one.

It was a dark and rainy Friday night. I was at Silver Spurs on Houston and Thompson enjoying a Diet Coke with Eva. She had just finished a diatribe about a recent liaison with a man we both thought was gay but deeply closeted, and I was in the middle of telling her about my designs on #121.

“When you look at him, do you think, 'Sex.'?” I asked.

"He does nothing for me," Elaine said.

Contemplating how that could be possible, I glanced out the window behind Eva and saw the silhouette of a dark-haired man walking by. “He’s cute,” I thought vaguely. And then the man stopped, looked in the window and waved. My eyes focused. It was #111.

“Holy shit!” I said and then motioned for him to come in as he motioned that he was coming in.

“What?” Eva asked.

“My ex is out there—the one from last summer—and he’s coming in.”

He came through the diner door and, as he walked up to me, a tumble of not completely formed thoughts rolled through my head. Altogether, this is what they amounted to: “Him? Really? This was the guy I was so crushed over?”

I felt nothing except perhaps fondness.

He was smiling. “I can read lips, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“'Holy shit,’” he said.

I laughed. “Oh.”

We hugged. I introduced #111 to Eva and he sat down in a chair at the next table over.

“How are you?”

“Good,” I said. “How are you?”

“Same old, same old...just coming from BookWorks.”

I nodded.

“You know, I have to tell you,” he said as he assumed a tone of gravity, “the comments and edits you made on my stories were really excellent."

“Oh, I enjoyed doing it."

“Really, they were just fantastic notes. Really...and very helpful for my revisions and I really want to thank you.”

“You’re welcome."

That was nice.

“I’ve submitted them and they’re probably being rejected at this very moment,” he said.

“Don’t say that. You never know.”

“How’s the job?”

The last he knew, I was at the-job-I-didn’t-want, although I had never let on to him that it was, in fact, the-job-I-didn’t-want.

“Oh, I left that place. It was awful.” I turned to Eva. “Did I ever tell you about that law firm job?”

She shook her head.

“The only good things about it were that I had my own office and there was a frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria.”

“Those were the only things I heard about,” #111 said, sounding a tad taken for a ride yet amused by it.

“Well, you never asked,” I said to give him a hard time, which I could tell he appreciated.

“What are you doing now?”

“Freelancing for a couple of ad agencies and a financial company,” I said. “What are you up to these days?”

“Still volunteering at BookWorks,” he said, motioning in the direction of the store.

“Oh, sometimes Zoe and I go there during the week to work.”

“Did I see pictures of her?”

“Yeah, she was the friend I met in Australia. Are you still teaching at…” and I pointed uptown because I couldn’t remember the name of the college.

“I’m still there,” he said, nodding for a moment as he looked at me. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your conversation. It was good to run into you.”

“Yeah, it was good to run into you, too.”

And then he left.

It was a miracle. I had the same lack of attraction to him that I had on our second and fourth dates. Once again, just like those two days back in June, he seemed a little oafish and kind of awkward. He wasn’t very tall and he had kind of a funny walk, where his lower half led and his upper half followed. He was also nowhere near as hot as he was to me at the height of my infatuation, which, now that I mention it, maybe that’s all that it was. Six months ago, when we were at the doctor’s office after we’d broken up, I caught his scent and longed for him. Now, I sensed nothing. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, of course. It was me. I just wasn’t into him anymore. It’s amazing what hormones and pheromones can create—and even more amazing, once they wear off, what they can destroy.

“Did I look OK. How did that seem?” I asked Eva.

“That was awesome,” she said. “You looked great and you seemed totally fine.”

I felt totally fine, too.

When I got home, I called Julie, who had provided me with my post-#111 convalescence.

“Guess who I just ran into?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “there are so many possibilities.”

“#111.”

“#111?”

“Yeah, you know, me-lying-on-your-couch-in-misery-for-ten-days #111.”

“Oh, that #111.”

We agreed that the timing of the run-in could not have been better. A few weeks before and I would have been at my pre-Zoloft worst. It also happened on a Friday night when I had my game face on and I was feeling good.

“I feel a little disloyal to that miserable girl on your couch,” I said. “She was so messed up over him for so long.”

“I think if couch girl knew that what just happened was going to happen, she would have felt a lot better, so I don’t think you’re being disloyal at all,” Julie said.

After I got off the phone, something about #111's departure from the diner that had seemed a little fuzzy became clear. Bear with me as I explain: In order to get from BookWorks to the subway, he would have had to pass by the diner going south to north. But, when he walked by, he was going north to south and then, when he left, he didn’t pass by the window again, which meant he went north. All of this meant one thing. He had actually seen me on his usual south-to-north pass but I hadn’t seen him. So, in order to get my attention, he did an extra, fake pass complete with a look of mock surprise. Who knows why he did it, but, if I had to guess, maybe he simply wanted to talk to me.

Diagnosis: For him: His life sounded very much the same as it ever was, which probably means he’s just as unavailable as he ever was.
For me: I’m free from #111—and now more available for the next more available guy.