See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble and Purgatory for the background on this one.
It’s amazing how holding a man at bay only serves to bring him closer. After being grumpy and distant with #126, he called me the next night to ask if he could use my computer—and then maybe we could go get food, he said. My grumpiness had waned with a good night’s sleep and a reality check: he’s leaving, he’s not boyfriend material, it’s just supposed to be fun.
When he came over, he sat next to me on my sofa as I did a quick search for mattresses online. Then he said he wanted to get a bike, so I looked at Craigslist and sent a message to someone with a bike. After that, he wanted to buy a ticket for Burning Man. He pulled out his credit card and said he wasn’t good at online forms, so I started filling in his information. When we got to his address, he got confused and didn’t know which one to use.
“Where does your bill come?” I asked.
He couldn’t work out the right billing address—he was here…he used his card there…he was going to live in Arizona…where did his bill go? He tried his 2nd Street address in New York. Rejection.
“Oh, that’s right. I guess my bill still goes to New Mexico.”
Maybe my impression from James’ birthday—that he was an idiot-genius—wasn’t far off. Becoming a vet? No problem. Putting his address into an online form? Forget it.
After we bought his ticket, I put down my computer and said, “Are we done with our tasks?”
Sex with #126 is interesting. The last time, we never made it off the sofa; this time, my feet never touched the floor. It’s a big difference from a year ago when #111 never even carried me to the bed—we always got up and walked, and usually he went first.
This time, just like the last few times, there was potential for a happy ending, but it stayed at potential, so, once more, I feigned my way to the finish. Because our original plan was computer tasks and maybe food, we headed out and just started walking. Neither of us was really hungry, so we wandered in the direction of Thompkins Square Park. On the way, we were talking comfortably about our various aches and pains and I said, “Doesn’t it feel like we’ve met before?”
I’d been thinking it for a while, wondering if we had. Something was very comfortable about being with him. Even when he acted weird, it didn’t bother me. Maybe it was that way because I knew he was going away. I couldn’t think of a time when we’d met. Maybe it had been in a past life.
As soon as I posed the question to him, he stiffened.
“Oh, maybe we have,” he mumbled, increasing the distance between us by about an inch. Fortunately, if he felt a little cornered by my question, I didn’t care. I just chuckled to myself and changed the subject.
When we got to the park, a huge crowd was sitting in front of a screen watching "Raging Bull." We sat toward the back on the dirt and watched the last 20 minutes as the relationship between Robert DeNiro and Cathy Moriarty disintegrated. And then she announced she was leaving him.
#126 was next to me but we sat separately, with our own arms around our own knees. We didn’t touch. We didn’t lean in and whisper to each other. Maybe we had met before, but maybe it had been in another life—because, at least in this one, even though it felt like we were disintegrating, we’d never even integrated.
Signs of Hope: He called me just one day after my grumpy episode. Maybe grumpy is the way to go.
Red Flags: We were pre-disintegrated.
Also, and I hate to keep harping on it, but he can buy a $350 ticket for Burning Man, but he can’t buy me a $5 frozen yogurt?
Turning Point: None. It was just supposed to be sex, so all was back on track.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s staying the course.
For me: I veered off course momentarily, but, after tonight, I’m back on it.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Purgatory
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First? and Trouble for the background on this one.
After I had the walk-around with #126, I confessed to Zoe that I was in trouble.
“I knew you’d get attached,” she said.
“Yes, you told me so. If I don’t hear from him for a few days, then I’ll be fine. I’ll get over it.”
Zoe was having an online tryst with a gambler from Connecticut. Zoe being Zoe, she'd asked him how big his willy was and he'd sent her photos, which she'd then shared with me and just about anyone she'd met more than once. "I do love a bit of girth," she said, "but this is major." He was the equivalent of two stacked cans of soda. I know because I saw all of the angles.
"And he's not even hard in these photos," she said.
After two days of scrutinizing his willy, it suddenly occurred to me to put a question to her. "What does his face look like?" I asked.
It turned out he was pretty cute.
"I know I'm going to get shagged senseless with this one," she said. "I just know it."
Distracted by the adventures of Zoe, I was feeling a little more over #126. Three days after the walk-around, I’d just gotten home from work and was feeling irritable when he called asking if I wanted to hang out with him and his best friend, who I knew, too, though more tangentially. I told him I was grumpy.
“What might make you feel better, sweetie?”
"The gym," I said. "I have to go."
“Why don’t you call me after,” he said.
After the gym, I was still grumpy—probably because the whole time I was at the gym, I was trying to talk myself out of hanging out with him. I'd talked myself into a state of neutrality and, when I got home, called him. He wasn’t with his friend anymore, so I asked how his visit was. He said it was good and then added, “Matt thinks you’re fantastic. And that was unsolicited. He really does. He thinks you’re a total babe.”
“He must think you’re a pretty lucky guy then.”
“I haven’t told him anything…I haven’t told anyone a thing.”
That was good. I think.
He asked me how my mood was.
“I’m still grumpy,” I said.
“What can I do to make you feel better, sweetie?”
“You can take me for frozen yogurt.”
“OK, let’s go get some frozen yogurt.”
He swung by my apartment and picked me up. Walking down the street, he asked what was getting at me. I vented about this and that, circling the truth.
He said that he was feeling a little sad, too, that he was meeting all these people—me?—but that he knew he wasn’t staying, so he was kind of just here waiting for his real life to start.
At least I knew where I stood. I was part of the stalled part of his life—the staging ground, the opening band, the commercial segment, the temporary shelter, the purgatory, the waiting room.
“It would help if I had a bed,” he said. “Would you want to split a bed with me? Then I can use it for the next couple of months and it could be yours in the apartment.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
When we got to the register at 16 Handles, again, he didn’t make a move for his wallet. At the park nearby, I finished my yogurt, leaned forward on the bench and, on the verge of tears, put my head in my hands.
“You seem sad,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong was that I was growing attached to someone who only wanted me to help him kill time and couldn’t even spring for a frozen yogurt after offering to.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just grumpy. It will pass.”
He walked me home and we hugged outside my building. “I would hang out longer, but I’m just too grumpy,” I said.
Signs of Hope: When the best friend loves you, it always works to make them love you—even if just a tiny bit. And at least he offered to do something to make me feel better.
Red Flags: Even though he offered to do something to make me feel better, he didn't do it. There was that and, now, I knew I we were just hanging out temporarily in purgatory. His real life was waiting for him on the other side of the River Styx.
Turning Point: There was none. The whole thing was very confusing: He offered to take me for frozen yogurt but then didn’t; he said he was building new friendships and would miss people (me?) but then said he was unsettled and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
Diagnosis: For him: He has good intentions, but you know what they say about the road to hell.
For me: If I could separate what I want from him from what I want in general, I’d be fine. But I can’t.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Trouble
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love and Who Falls First? for the background on this one.
Three days later, on Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in bed working on my “personal essays” when #126 called and asked what I was doing.
I vagued it up. “Writing,” I said. I was also still in my pajamas and in the middle of a deep conditioning hair treatment.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out.”
“Give me half an hour,” I said. “I have to wash my hair.”
“You don’t have to wash your hair,” he said. “A little dirty can be kind of sexy.”
I looked in the mirror at my hair, moistly crunchy and thick with conditioner.
“No, I really have to wash it.”
“Oh, OK,” he said. “Call me when you’re coming out and I’ll meet you on 3rd Street.”
Thirty minutes later, I went to meet him on 3rd Street dressed in my pink-and-white checked tube-top sundress and saw him walking toward me from a distance in his plaid shorts and white T-shirt. He had a bouncy swagger that was kind of cute. He looked good in plaid. And white T-shirts. He had a cute little crooked smile, actually.... Uh oh. What was happening? Something inside me was lighting up. And when I walked up to him and hugged him nervously, I knew I was in trouble.
“Hey…you dressed up like a picnic table for me,” he said.
“Shut up,” I said. “I’m going to a BBQ, so I dressed for that. And I actually have to go in 45 minutes.”
I was glad when he seemed disappointed that I had plans. And what I said was only half true. I really was going to a BBQ in 45 minutes, but I hadn’t worn the dress for that. I’d worn it for him.
A minute later, he must have realized his mistake because he said, “You look really pretty—very pretty, actually.”
“Jeez, took you long enough,” I said. “Back there, you were telling me I looked like a picnic table.”
“Sorry, sometimes I just say all the wrong things,” he said.
“I noticed…but I know you’re heart is in the right place.” And I knew it was.
He asked where we should go. I led him to 16 Handles. He didn’t get any fro-yo, but he followed me down the line as I got mine. At the cash register, he didn’t make any moves, so I paid for it.
I took him to a bench in the park in front of St. Mark’s Church and asked him why he didn’t get any. He said he had candida and couldn’t have sugar. If he had any sugar or carbs, he said, he wouldn’t be able to function for a couple of days.
“That’s why I have this,” he said, patting his gut.
“Ohhhhh, that explains it,” I said.
He walked me home, telling me about the person he’d been 17 years before—angry, short-tempered, confrontational. He was trying to impress me with the person he’d become. And even though I was now in danger of becoming hooked, I still knew what that was: someone who was emotionally unavailable and couldn’t even spring for a girl’s frozen yogurt.
And then, as we approached my building, he said this: “I was thinking about our complicated relationship and there are four parts to it: We’re having sex, we’re also friends—at least among the people we know—we’re brother and sister and we’re landlord and tenant.”
He thought about our relationship?
“Yeah, it’s so great,” I said. “Especially the sister part, that’s my favorite, it just fucks with everything else.”
“It would be bad if any of my neighbors saw us making out.”
“Hee hee.”
He left me in front of my building with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. It felt somehow lacking. Something about the whole thing did.
Signs of Hope: He called me just to hang out and walk around—a little QT.
Red Flags: Buying a girl a frozen yogurt isn’t a marriage proposal, it’s a gesture. It says, “I like you, you’re more than just a booty call.”
Turning Point: The moment I saw him and knew I was in trouble.
Diagnosis: For him: He may not have an anger problem anymore, but he sure as hell has an availability problem. And his heart may be in the right place, but you know what they say about the path to hell...
For me: I want him to want to hold my hand. I want him to want to make out with me in public. I want him to fall for me…because, despite my better judgment, I may be falling for him.
Three days later, on Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in bed working on my “personal essays” when #126 called and asked what I was doing.
I vagued it up. “Writing,” I said. I was also still in my pajamas and in the middle of a deep conditioning hair treatment.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out.”
“Give me half an hour,” I said. “I have to wash my hair.”
“You don’t have to wash your hair,” he said. “A little dirty can be kind of sexy.”
I looked in the mirror at my hair, moistly crunchy and thick with conditioner.
“No, I really have to wash it.”
“Oh, OK,” he said. “Call me when you’re coming out and I’ll meet you on 3rd Street.”
Thirty minutes later, I went to meet him on 3rd Street dressed in my pink-and-white checked tube-top sundress and saw him walking toward me from a distance in his plaid shorts and white T-shirt. He had a bouncy swagger that was kind of cute. He looked good in plaid. And white T-shirts. He had a cute little crooked smile, actually.... Uh oh. What was happening? Something inside me was lighting up. And when I walked up to him and hugged him nervously, I knew I was in trouble.
“Hey…you dressed up like a picnic table for me,” he said.
“Shut up,” I said. “I’m going to a BBQ, so I dressed for that. And I actually have to go in 45 minutes.”
I was glad when he seemed disappointed that I had plans. And what I said was only half true. I really was going to a BBQ in 45 minutes, but I hadn’t worn the dress for that. I’d worn it for him.
A minute later, he must have realized his mistake because he said, “You look really pretty—very pretty, actually.”
“Jeez, took you long enough,” I said. “Back there, you were telling me I looked like a picnic table.”
“Sorry, sometimes I just say all the wrong things,” he said.
“I noticed…but I know you’re heart is in the right place.” And I knew it was.
He asked where we should go. I led him to 16 Handles. He didn’t get any fro-yo, but he followed me down the line as I got mine. At the cash register, he didn’t make any moves, so I paid for it.
I took him to a bench in the park in front of St. Mark’s Church and asked him why he didn’t get any. He said he had candida and couldn’t have sugar. If he had any sugar or carbs, he said, he wouldn’t be able to function for a couple of days.
“That’s why I have this,” he said, patting his gut.
“Ohhhhh, that explains it,” I said.
He walked me home, telling me about the person he’d been 17 years before—angry, short-tempered, confrontational. He was trying to impress me with the person he’d become. And even though I was now in danger of becoming hooked, I still knew what that was: someone who was emotionally unavailable and couldn’t even spring for a girl’s frozen yogurt.
And then, as we approached my building, he said this: “I was thinking about our complicated relationship and there are four parts to it: We’re having sex, we’re also friends—at least among the people we know—we’re brother and sister and we’re landlord and tenant.”
He thought about our relationship?
“Yeah, it’s so great,” I said. “Especially the sister part, that’s my favorite, it just fucks with everything else.”
“It would be bad if any of my neighbors saw us making out.”
“Hee hee.”
He left me in front of my building with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. It felt somehow lacking. Something about the whole thing did.
Signs of Hope: He called me just to hang out and walk around—a little QT.
Red Flags: Buying a girl a frozen yogurt isn’t a marriage proposal, it’s a gesture. It says, “I like you, you’re more than just a booty call.”
Turning Point: The moment I saw him and knew I was in trouble.
Diagnosis: For him: He may not have an anger problem anymore, but he sure as hell has an availability problem. And his heart may be in the right place, but you know what they say about the path to hell...
For me: I want him to want to hold my hand. I want him to want to make out with me in public. I want him to fall for me…because, despite my better judgment, I may be falling for him.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Who Falls First?
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park and Squatter Love for the background on this one.
Two days after our turn on his twin mattress, #126 called saying he was starving.
“I’m going to go to that place...Angelina?” he said. I told him I’d be 10 or 15 minutes. “I might die, so is it OK if I go ahead and order?”
When I walked in, I was taken aback. Not because he had a half-eaten plate of food in front of him, but because he was sitting with a table full of people, all of whom I knew and some of whom he knew—he knew enough of them to sit with them anyway.
“When I came in, they asked if I wanted to sit with them because I was alone,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?”
I felt internal contradictions brewing. At the same time that I was annoyed that he didn’t get a table for two, I also desperately didn’t want the people to think we were together.
Fortunately, I knew more of the people than he did, so I managed to look non-contradicted. I told them funny details about my new job—a company proud of its employees’ can-do attitude; yet, somehow, every time I asked people to do something, they'd say, “I can’t do that.”
After they left, it was just the two of us. He looked at me, lingeringly. "What?" I asked. He just shook his head.
We talked. Here are a few things that we learned about each other:
• We learned that we both make the same amount of money (good for me as a writer, less good for him as a vet).
• He learned that, in my spare time, I write “essays about my life that have a larger point.” (i.e., I finally figured out how to describe this without describing it.)
• He learned that I’m a little bit psychic (I knew he was going to say his dog was a mastiff a second before he said it).
• And, I learned that back in the 1980s, he paid $250 for his apartment.
When the bill came, I started to get out my money but then stopped and said, “Is this a date?”
“Would you like this to be a date?”
“Yes,” I said.
“OK, it’s a date. I was kind of thinking maybe I’d pay but then you make the same amount I do…”
"And your apartment that you could rent for $2,000 a month, you bought for $250," I said.
He put down the money. "Thank you for dinner," I said sweetly.
He started walking back toward his place. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“We’re going to my place,” he said.
“Oh good, I’m glad we’re on the same page. But we can actually go back to my place because Zoe’s staying at a friend’s.”
We turned and started walking. He seemed hesitant.
“Is it OK if I don’t stay over,” he said. “I’d love to sleep in a bed with you sometime, but I’ve got to get up for work early tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I didn’t stay over the other night.”
Back at my place, we never made it past the sofa. It was vigorous and enjoyable, but, again, I simulated satisfaction. And when he left, I was glad he was gone. I liked my space. It wasn’t personal.
Signs of Hope: We were on the same page.
Red Flags: I didn’t mention it earlier, but at one point on the sofa something he was doing hurt and when I told him, he sounded a little angry, asking, “In a good way or a bad way?”
Turning Point: When he left. It was nice to get some action and then just be alone.
Diagnosis: For him: 1. Maybe I'm succeeding at making him fall for me. That's what the look at dinner felt like. 2. Looking at the red flag above, maybe his anger problem isn’t as far in the past as he thinks it is.
For me: I don’t care when I see him next + I’m glad he left = I’m not falling for him.
Two days after our turn on his twin mattress, #126 called saying he was starving.
“I’m going to go to that place...Angelina?” he said. I told him I’d be 10 or 15 minutes. “I might die, so is it OK if I go ahead and order?”
When I walked in, I was taken aback. Not because he had a half-eaten plate of food in front of him, but because he was sitting with a table full of people, all of whom I knew and some of whom he knew—he knew enough of them to sit with them anyway.
“When I came in, they asked if I wanted to sit with them because I was alone,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?”
I felt internal contradictions brewing. At the same time that I was annoyed that he didn’t get a table for two, I also desperately didn’t want the people to think we were together.
Fortunately, I knew more of the people than he did, so I managed to look non-contradicted. I told them funny details about my new job—a company proud of its employees’ can-do attitude; yet, somehow, every time I asked people to do something, they'd say, “I can’t do that.”
After they left, it was just the two of us. He looked at me, lingeringly. "What?" I asked. He just shook his head.
We talked. Here are a few things that we learned about each other:
• We learned that we both make the same amount of money (good for me as a writer, less good for him as a vet).
• He learned that, in my spare time, I write “essays about my life that have a larger point.” (i.e., I finally figured out how to describe this without describing it.)
• He learned that I’m a little bit psychic (I knew he was going to say his dog was a mastiff a second before he said it).
• And, I learned that back in the 1980s, he paid $250 for his apartment.
When the bill came, I started to get out my money but then stopped and said, “Is this a date?”
“Would you like this to be a date?”
“Yes,” I said.
“OK, it’s a date. I was kind of thinking maybe I’d pay but then you make the same amount I do…”
"And your apartment that you could rent for $2,000 a month, you bought for $250," I said.
He put down the money. "Thank you for dinner," I said sweetly.
He started walking back toward his place. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“We’re going to my place,” he said.
“Oh good, I’m glad we’re on the same page. But we can actually go back to my place because Zoe’s staying at a friend’s.”
We turned and started walking. He seemed hesitant.
“Is it OK if I don’t stay over,” he said. “I’d love to sleep in a bed with you sometime, but I’ve got to get up for work early tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I didn’t stay over the other night.”
Back at my place, we never made it past the sofa. It was vigorous and enjoyable, but, again, I simulated satisfaction. And when he left, I was glad he was gone. I liked my space. It wasn’t personal.
Signs of Hope: We were on the same page.
Red Flags: I didn’t mention it earlier, but at one point on the sofa something he was doing hurt and when I told him, he sounded a little angry, asking, “In a good way or a bad way?”
Turning Point: When he left. It was nice to get some action and then just be alone.
Diagnosis: For him: 1. Maybe I'm succeeding at making him fall for me. That's what the look at dinner felt like. 2. Looking at the red flag above, maybe his anger problem isn’t as far in the past as he thinks it is.
For me: I don’t care when I see him next + I’m glad he left = I’m not falling for him.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Squatter Love
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound and No Picnic in the Park for the background on this one.
As predicted, within about 24 hours I'd recovered from #126's easy let-down. Twenty-four hours after that, it was the first day of summer and I was home looking at Gawker, lamenting having no plans to celebrate the solstice. Then #126 called.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Indulging in a rare moment of celebrity gossip,” I said.
“I just got home from work and was going to get something to eat. Do you want to get something to eat? Or is it too late?”
“No, I can get something to eat.” I suggested Café Angelina. “Give me ten minutes.”
“OK,” he said, I’m really hungry, so I might die if I don’t eat soon.”
“I’ll hurry.”
Even though the restaurant was only half a block from his apartment, he called me to say he couldn’t find it.
“You can’t miss it,” I said. I was three-quarters of a block away, so by the time I got there, he was sitting at a table out front. He pointed to a small, potted tree they had in front of the place and said, “It was camouflaged.”
On the pros side, that was cute.
On the cons side, he didn’t get up, didn’t kiss me hello, nothing. I reminded myself that I already knew he wasn’t boyfriend material.
He launched into talk about previous girlfriends, saying that most of his relationships started with first-date sex. However, the most recent girl, he said, he dated for two months and she never had sex with him. "Isn't that fucked up?" was his meaning.
For him, immediate sex was not only normal but required. I was beginning to feel a little groomed.
“It doesn’t matter if you have sex on the first date if you’re looking for the same thing,” I said. “The only problems come in if one person is only looking for a fling and the other wants something more.”
Both of us leaned in over the small table.
“The relationship between men and women got all messed up, youknowwhatImean?" he said. "I think men are built to sleep with as many women as possible and women are built to screen: ‘No, no, no, yes, no, no,’” he said, pointing at imaginary suitors next to the potted plant. “But somewhere along the way it went wrong and now we have these men that don’t have to do anything and they get women anyway. They can’t seem to make a decision, but there’s always a woman for them, so they float."
He was speaking my language. “I totally agree,” I said. “So what happened that these guys are like this?”
“Probably the women’s movement…youknowwhatImean...maybe not, but...even me, I say I want to get married and have kids but I’m 45 and have neither. I mean, I raised my ex’s kid until he was five, but that doesn’t really count because he wasn’t mine...youknowwhatImean?”
“It's like you said," I said, coolly picking up a forkful of salad. "You have to make a decision.”
He nodded, gazing at me as if that was one of the most insightful things about himself he’d ever heard.
I should probably mention that even though we were in cahoots conversationally, we weren't etiquette-ly. It looked like he was being careful about his food when it was on the plate, but it was a different story when it got closer to his face. His chin was spackled with condiments and crumbs. He actively chewed as he spoke. He even picked his nose. And then, when the bill came and I got my money out, he didn’t shoo it away. I had to remind myself that I was merely in this to get laid.
Reverting back to talk of the apartment, he mentioned a hole underneath the radiator.
“There’s a hole under the radiator?” I sensed an opening. “How did I miss that?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to come take a look at it?” He must have sensed the opening, too.
We paid the bill and walked back to his place, where he showed me the hole. “Yup, that’s a hole,” I said. I took another look around, lingering in each room. It looked like a squatter’s apartment. He’d slung one lone twin mattress with crumpled up sheets in the middle of the living room floor. The bedroom, which was dark, had a bookcase and a flung-open suitcase in it. The whole place was humid and stinky, like a dog had just been given a bath with all the windows closed. There was something squalid about the lightbulbs, too. They flickered putridly from the ceiling. With every step, I looked at him weightily; a look that he returned. I could feel an internal struggle building inside him. It only made me bolder. I stepped closer as my phone beeped, meaning that I’d received a text. It was Zoe.
I looked at it and read it out loud. “Where r u? Are u OK?"
I looked at #126. “Am I OK?”
“I don’t know, are you OK?”
“I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“I’m OK.”
We just looked at each other. Someone had to make a move.
And then he said, “OK, I’ll walk you home.”
“OK,” I smiled. He’d chickened out. I knew it and he knew it, too.
We got about halfway down 2nd Street when he said.
“So, that was really intense in the apartment, huh?”
“Yes, it was,” I said. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
We stopped in the middle of the block.
“It could get complicated,” he said. “You’re renting my apartment and, like you said before, if someone wants something more…”
“Oh, right,” I said, feeling vaguely insulted. “You’re afraid you might fall for me and not want to move to Arizona.”
He shifted uncomfortably, looked at me and said, “I’m not sure if you’re kidding or not.”
“I’m kidding. So…what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK,” I said. And then, sounding rational and accommodating, I added, “Let’s just put it on the shelf.”
He grabbed me and kissed me, backing me up against a parked car. It wasn't as hot as it may sound. I sort of had to walk backward and stick out my butt so I didn't fall back against the car. He was kissing me so hard, I actually had to turn my face to breathe. I was nervous, too, because I knew what kind of deal I'd just made. He'd been preparing me at dinner. This wasn't going to be an innocent make-out session.
Then he took my hand and headed back toward his place. “We can put other things on the shelf,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Going to the post office,” he said.
“I dunno,” I said. “I actually need to go to the post office.”
“The library,” he said.
“Now that you mention it, I’ve got a library card that I’ve never used that I'd really like to use. We should go.”
Back at his place, he closed the door, picked me up and maneuvered me down onto the mattress. I looked up at the sickly light bulbs. This was probably as close to squatter love as I was ever going to get. I kind of liked it.
As I continued struggling to breathe under his firm kisses, I suspected it had been a while for him. It was also difficult to move around on the twin mattress. Between the two, I started to get tired. And then something dawned on me...
A little background: I’ve never faked it. It either happened or it didn’t, and it never occurred to me to pretend it had just to spare my partner’s ego. In my early years, I was easy to please so it was rarely a problem. And then I’d had a long dry spell. And then, well, I got back in the game and had spotty success. If I’d only just faked it with #111, maybe we would have lasted longer. Then again, it’s best it didn’t last longer, so maybe not faking it weeds them out.
At any rate, I could tell that, with #126, the window of opportunity for a natural reaction had closed—but that there was definite future potential—so I was OK with putting a stop to things.
And then I began….as I did, some thoughts went through my head:
“Wow, that really does sound like how I sound.”
“I wonder if I could fake myself into it really happening…fake it ‘til you make it.”
“That was pretty convincing. I was fooled anyway. I wonder if he believed it.”
A minute later, he was done and we laid there for a while as he kissed my forehead, cheeks, neck, telling me how beautiful I was, how womanly and delicate I was. I actually liked him better afterward. He seemed smarter, funnier, sexier, manlier, more engaging.
We talked for an hour and then I told him I had to go. He told me I could stay. I really didn’t want to. I was ready to get back to an apartment with furnishings and flattering lighting.
“Bye, gorgeous,” he said at the door. As I walked the block and a half home, I called Zoe.
“I’m just coming from the vet’s.”
“Oh, I was so worried. You’d left the lights on and it looked like you were going to come right back but it’s been hours. It occurred to me you might be with him. So, yeah, come on, what happened?”
I broke the most exciting news first: “I finally faked it!”
“Well done, darling,” she said.
Signs of Hope: He’s a vigorous lover with definite potential for orgasmic success.
Red Flags: He could have at least bought me dinner.
Turning Point: When we turned back toward his apartment.
Diagnosis: For both of us, this could be a lot of fun.
As predicted, within about 24 hours I'd recovered from #126's easy let-down. Twenty-four hours after that, it was the first day of summer and I was home looking at Gawker, lamenting having no plans to celebrate the solstice. Then #126 called.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Indulging in a rare moment of celebrity gossip,” I said.
“I just got home from work and was going to get something to eat. Do you want to get something to eat? Or is it too late?”
“No, I can get something to eat.” I suggested Café Angelina. “Give me ten minutes.”
“OK,” he said, I’m really hungry, so I might die if I don’t eat soon.”
“I’ll hurry.”
Even though the restaurant was only half a block from his apartment, he called me to say he couldn’t find it.
“You can’t miss it,” I said. I was three-quarters of a block away, so by the time I got there, he was sitting at a table out front. He pointed to a small, potted tree they had in front of the place and said, “It was camouflaged.”
On the pros side, that was cute.
On the cons side, he didn’t get up, didn’t kiss me hello, nothing. I reminded myself that I already knew he wasn’t boyfriend material.
He launched into talk about previous girlfriends, saying that most of his relationships started with first-date sex. However, the most recent girl, he said, he dated for two months and she never had sex with him. "Isn't that fucked up?" was his meaning.
For him, immediate sex was not only normal but required. I was beginning to feel a little groomed.
“It doesn’t matter if you have sex on the first date if you’re looking for the same thing,” I said. “The only problems come in if one person is only looking for a fling and the other wants something more.”
Both of us leaned in over the small table.
“The relationship between men and women got all messed up, youknowwhatImean?" he said. "I think men are built to sleep with as many women as possible and women are built to screen: ‘No, no, no, yes, no, no,’” he said, pointing at imaginary suitors next to the potted plant. “But somewhere along the way it went wrong and now we have these men that don’t have to do anything and they get women anyway. They can’t seem to make a decision, but there’s always a woman for them, so they float."
He was speaking my language. “I totally agree,” I said. “So what happened that these guys are like this?”
“Probably the women’s movement…youknowwhatImean...maybe not, but...even me, I say I want to get married and have kids but I’m 45 and have neither. I mean, I raised my ex’s kid until he was five, but that doesn’t really count because he wasn’t mine...youknowwhatImean?”
“It's like you said," I said, coolly picking up a forkful of salad. "You have to make a decision.”
He nodded, gazing at me as if that was one of the most insightful things about himself he’d ever heard.
I should probably mention that even though we were in cahoots conversationally, we weren't etiquette-ly. It looked like he was being careful about his food when it was on the plate, but it was a different story when it got closer to his face. His chin was spackled with condiments and crumbs. He actively chewed as he spoke. He even picked his nose. And then, when the bill came and I got my money out, he didn’t shoo it away. I had to remind myself that I was merely in this to get laid.
Reverting back to talk of the apartment, he mentioned a hole underneath the radiator.
“There’s a hole under the radiator?” I sensed an opening. “How did I miss that?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to come take a look at it?” He must have sensed the opening, too.
We paid the bill and walked back to his place, where he showed me the hole. “Yup, that’s a hole,” I said. I took another look around, lingering in each room. It looked like a squatter’s apartment. He’d slung one lone twin mattress with crumpled up sheets in the middle of the living room floor. The bedroom, which was dark, had a bookcase and a flung-open suitcase in it. The whole place was humid and stinky, like a dog had just been given a bath with all the windows closed. There was something squalid about the lightbulbs, too. They flickered putridly from the ceiling. With every step, I looked at him weightily; a look that he returned. I could feel an internal struggle building inside him. It only made me bolder. I stepped closer as my phone beeped, meaning that I’d received a text. It was Zoe.
I looked at it and read it out loud. “Where r u? Are u OK?"
I looked at #126. “Am I OK?”
“I don’t know, are you OK?”
“I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“I’m OK.”
We just looked at each other. Someone had to make a move.
And then he said, “OK, I’ll walk you home.”
“OK,” I smiled. He’d chickened out. I knew it and he knew it, too.
We got about halfway down 2nd Street when he said.
“So, that was really intense in the apartment, huh?”
“Yes, it was,” I said. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
We stopped in the middle of the block.
“It could get complicated,” he said. “You’re renting my apartment and, like you said before, if someone wants something more…”
“Oh, right,” I said, feeling vaguely insulted. “You’re afraid you might fall for me and not want to move to Arizona.”
He shifted uncomfortably, looked at me and said, “I’m not sure if you’re kidding or not.”
“I’m kidding. So…what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK,” I said. And then, sounding rational and accommodating, I added, “Let’s just put it on the shelf.”
He grabbed me and kissed me, backing me up against a parked car. It wasn't as hot as it may sound. I sort of had to walk backward and stick out my butt so I didn't fall back against the car. He was kissing me so hard, I actually had to turn my face to breathe. I was nervous, too, because I knew what kind of deal I'd just made. He'd been preparing me at dinner. This wasn't going to be an innocent make-out session.
Then he took my hand and headed back toward his place. “We can put other things on the shelf,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Going to the post office,” he said.
“I dunno,” I said. “I actually need to go to the post office.”
“The library,” he said.
“Now that you mention it, I’ve got a library card that I’ve never used that I'd really like to use. We should go.”
Back at his place, he closed the door, picked me up and maneuvered me down onto the mattress. I looked up at the sickly light bulbs. This was probably as close to squatter love as I was ever going to get. I kind of liked it.
As I continued struggling to breathe under his firm kisses, I suspected it had been a while for him. It was also difficult to move around on the twin mattress. Between the two, I started to get tired. And then something dawned on me...
A little background: I’ve never faked it. It either happened or it didn’t, and it never occurred to me to pretend it had just to spare my partner’s ego. In my early years, I was easy to please so it was rarely a problem. And then I’d had a long dry spell. And then, well, I got back in the game and had spotty success. If I’d only just faked it with #111, maybe we would have lasted longer. Then again, it’s best it didn’t last longer, so maybe not faking it weeds them out.
At any rate, I could tell that, with #126, the window of opportunity for a natural reaction had closed—but that there was definite future potential—so I was OK with putting a stop to things.
And then I began….as I did, some thoughts went through my head:
“Wow, that really does sound like how I sound.”
“I wonder if I could fake myself into it really happening…fake it ‘til you make it.”
“That was pretty convincing. I was fooled anyway. I wonder if he believed it.”
A minute later, he was done and we laid there for a while as he kissed my forehead, cheeks, neck, telling me how beautiful I was, how womanly and delicate I was. I actually liked him better afterward. He seemed smarter, funnier, sexier, manlier, more engaging.
We talked for an hour and then I told him I had to go. He told me I could stay. I really didn’t want to. I was ready to get back to an apartment with furnishings and flattering lighting.
“Bye, gorgeous,” he said at the door. As I walked the block and a half home, I called Zoe.
“I’m just coming from the vet’s.”
“Oh, I was so worried. You’d left the lights on and it looked like you were going to come right back but it’s been hours. It occurred to me you might be with him. So, yeah, come on, what happened?”
I broke the most exciting news first: “I finally faked it!”
“Well done, darling,” she said.
Signs of Hope: He’s a vigorous lover with definite potential for orgasmic success.
Red Flags: He could have at least bought me dinner.
Turning Point: When we turned back toward his apartment.
Diagnosis: For both of us, this could be a lot of fun.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: No Picnic in the Park
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure? and Spellbound for the background on this one.
The day after the party, Zoe and I were having a Remedy brunch on Houston and deconstructing the night before. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t know you’re interested,” she said. “You left. Even when he was dancing near you, he was looking at you trying to get your attention.”
“Come on, we both know that wasn't dancing," I said. "Besides, it was time to go. I wasn’t going to hang out all night waiting for him to do something.”
“Send him a text. The thing is, is, he wanted it to be a date when you went out the other night. He’s interested and he needs to know you’re interested.”
Zoe and I always seem to get into trouble when we get together for brunch and start texting boys—#120, #125, now this.
I picked up my phone and looked at it.
“Go on,” she said.
I started a text, changing it about 12 times before coming up with: “Shall we go on another date this week?”
It took me another ten minutes to send it, but a second later, I got this: “Where r u now? I’m at Thompkins Square.”
Me: Having brunch with Zoe. Want to meet up in an hour?
#126: Yes.
Me: There’s a coffee place on 7th and 2nd.
#126: Want to come to the park?
The day after the party, Zoe and I were having a Remedy brunch on Houston and deconstructing the night before. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t know you’re interested,” she said. “You left. Even when he was dancing near you, he was looking at you trying to get your attention.”
“Come on, we both know that wasn't dancing," I said. "Besides, it was time to go. I wasn’t going to hang out all night waiting for him to do something.”
“Send him a text. The thing is, is, he wanted it to be a date when you went out the other night. He’s interested and he needs to know you’re interested.”
Zoe and I always seem to get into trouble when we get together for brunch and start texting boys—#120, #125, now this.
I picked up my phone and looked at it.
“Go on,” she said.
I started a text, changing it about 12 times before coming up with: “Shall we go on another date this week?”
It took me another ten minutes to send it, but a second later, I got this: “Where r u now? I’m at Thompkins Square.”
Me: Having brunch with Zoe. Want to meet up in an hour?
#126: Yes.
Me: There’s a coffee place on 7th and 2nd.
#126: Want to come to the park?
Me: OK. See u in a bit.
Zoe asked for our salads to go, made me up—“subtly, for daytime”—at home and sent me off.
When I reached the park’s notoriously homeless entrance, I called him.
Zoe asked for our salads to go, made me up—“subtly, for daytime”—at home and sent me off.
When I reached the park’s notoriously homeless entrance, I called him.
"Hi, I'm at the homeless entrance," I said.
“Hi, we’re over on the grass,” he said.
We? I stopped. I wanted to turn around. Really? We?
“Hi, we’re over on the grass,” he said.
We? I stopped. I wanted to turn around. Really? We?
"OK," I said. "'ll look for you guys."
I moved forward ever so slowly, feeling overdone and exposed at the same time.
I called Zoe, but she didn’t pick up, so I left a message. It was a really long message because, even though she wasn't an active participant, she was accompanying me across the park. I wanted to be on the phone when I found them—you know, like I wasn’t at all embarrassed about anything…how I looked, who was there, what I was expecting….
The jist of my message to her: “I feel really stupid. He’s not interested. He’s just trying to let me down easy. I’m such an idiot.” Over and over again.
I crossed the park and saw three of them on the grass--James, Georgette and #126. They all looked at me as if they could see into my paranoid brain and were carefully examining it. That's what it felt like anyway.
A few minutes later, as I sat twitching on their picnic blanket, I got a text from Zoe. She must have listened to my message outlining my idiocy—or part of it—because she texted, saying, “They have no idea you feel that way.”
I tried to fake normalcy as best as I could. Ultimately, that meant ignoring #126. Even when he asked me questions, I’d address my answers to the others. So, a few minutes later, when we were alone, I was in turmoil. I tried to speak, but everything I said deadened the air between us--unless it was already dead. He certainly wasn't looking at me like he had before.
After about an hour of supreme discomfort, he had to leave to go to a basketball game—some ex-cons versus doctors game or other, I didn’t know, and I’d started to not really care. I got up to say good-bye to him, but when he hugged me, it was without feeling. Maybe by inviting me to the park he was just trying to be friendly, you know, let me down easy. James told me they were all going to a movie that night and asked if I wanted to go. Fortunately, I had plans to meet someone in Union Square later.
Later, I was heading to Union Square when I looked at my phone and saw #126 had called. I called him back.
“Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you were going to the movie?”
“No, I’m meeting someone in Union Square.”
“Oh, OK,” he said. He sounded legitimately disappointed. “Well, we’ll talk soon then.”
“Definitely,” I said.
Signs of Hope: When he texted me back and asked if I wanted to meet him in the park.
Red Flags: When he wasn’t alone in the park. The chemistry that I thought had been there before was gone.
Turning Point: The moment I heard, “We.”
Diagnosis: For him: It was beginning to feel like he just wanted to be friends. At least he was letting me down easy.
For me: My pride will recover in about 24 hours. He likes me in some way, at least. Maybe we really can be friends. It'd be better that way. He's going to be my landlord, after all.
I called Zoe, but she didn’t pick up, so I left a message. It was a really long message because, even though she wasn't an active participant, she was accompanying me across the park. I wanted to be on the phone when I found them—you know, like I wasn’t at all embarrassed about anything…how I looked, who was there, what I was expecting….
The jist of my message to her: “I feel really stupid. He’s not interested. He’s just trying to let me down easy. I’m such an idiot.” Over and over again.
I crossed the park and saw three of them on the grass--James, Georgette and #126. They all looked at me as if they could see into my paranoid brain and were carefully examining it. That's what it felt like anyway.
A few minutes later, as I sat twitching on their picnic blanket, I got a text from Zoe. She must have listened to my message outlining my idiocy—or part of it—because she texted, saying, “They have no idea you feel that way.”
I tried to fake normalcy as best as I could. Ultimately, that meant ignoring #126. Even when he asked me questions, I’d address my answers to the others. So, a few minutes later, when we were alone, I was in turmoil. I tried to speak, but everything I said deadened the air between us--unless it was already dead. He certainly wasn't looking at me like he had before.
After about an hour of supreme discomfort, he had to leave to go to a basketball game—some ex-cons versus doctors game or other, I didn’t know, and I’d started to not really care. I got up to say good-bye to him, but when he hugged me, it was without feeling. Maybe by inviting me to the park he was just trying to be friendly, you know, let me down easy. James told me they were all going to a movie that night and asked if I wanted to go. Fortunately, I had plans to meet someone in Union Square later.
Later, I was heading to Union Square when I looked at my phone and saw #126 had called. I called him back.
“Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you were going to the movie?”
“No, I’m meeting someone in Union Square.”
“Oh, OK,” he said. He sounded legitimately disappointed. “Well, we’ll talk soon then.”
“Definitely,” I said.
Signs of Hope: When he texted me back and asked if I wanted to meet him in the park.
Red Flags: When he wasn’t alone in the park. The chemistry that I thought had been there before was gone.
Turning Point: The moment I heard, “We.”
Diagnosis: For him: It was beginning to feel like he just wanted to be friends. At least he was letting me down easy.
For me: My pride will recover in about 24 hours. He likes me in some way, at least. Maybe we really can be friends. It'd be better that way. He's going to be my landlord, after all.
Mr. Unavailable #126: Spellbound
See The Imprinter and Business or Pleasure? for the background on this one.
For the next two days, I had more than a cheap apartment on my mind. On the evening of day two, I'd been invited to a rooftop party and I plus-oned James, hoping word would slip to #126. But when I met up with James in Thompkins Square Park to head to the party, no #126.
Still, at the party, I made the most of things by doing some quality primary research on the other Unavailables in attendance. I struck up a conversation with one Mr. Unavailable I'd had a crush on several years before. I’d met him one night at dinner with some friends. We’d chatted amiably and, when he'd left, he'd touched me on the shoulder and smiled. After that, whenever I’d see him around, I’d turn mute and eschew eye contact. Eventually, it was easier to take the low road and pretend I had no idea who he was.
So I surprised myself when he approached me at the party and I didn’t go silent or become oddly interested in the ground. On the first encounter, he walked by me and touched my shoulder to say hello; I smiled and said hello back. Later, in the same mingling circle, we started talking. It turned out he’d just broken his collarbone in a bicycle accident and that, because he wasn’t wearing any kind hospital-issued contraption to demarcate injury, women continued to give him big hugs and, men, buddy-like arm jabs. I threw out a few practical suggestions:
“Maybe you should get a fake cast to get the visual message across.”
“Maybe you should wrap caution tape around yourself.”
And then one silver-lining comment for good measure:
“At least this way, you don’t have people coming up to you at all times, asking, ‘What happened?’”
He didn’t laugh. Was he paying attention? Had he lost his sense of humor in the accident? Had he never had a sense of humor? That’s the problem with a lot of really attractive men. They’ve never had to hone their humor to get a girl.
And then, out of nowhere, #126 appeared through the darkness, eyes gazing at me, arms enveloping me. The other guy stopped existing. And when #126 let go, I looked into his eyes and said to him, “You got a haircut.”
He smiled at me, crookedly.
“I figured I should probably try to fit in at least a little bit,” he said, his voice cracking in that deep, throaty way that it did.
“Yeah, you’re in Manhattan, none of that longed-haired, muesli-eating, sandal crap goes far.” He nodded as he usually did--with the whole upper half of his body--and just gazed at me, so I kept talking. “Did you see my email? I think you should get a ceiling fan for the bathroom.”
“OK,” he said a millisecond later.
There’s nothing like telling a man an idea and hearing, “yes,” before you’ve even have a chance to inhale at the end of the sentence. That’s all we women want—what we want.
For the next 45 minutes, we talked as if we were under some sort of spell, about I don't know what, but we kept coming up with things because neither of us wanted to stop talking. I vaguely remember seeing Eva come nearer, see us and then walk away. The spell was only broken when Elaine came over and insisted we dance. On the other side of the roof—the dance floor—everyone was dancing more than acceptably well. And then I looked over at #126. His arms floated around without purpose and he swayed his hips in a way that was entirely not aligned with the music. I wasn’t sure if he was joke-dancing or real-dancing.
I had to look away and, when I turned back, he was gone. James was nearby and, as “Bizarre Love Triangle” played, I asked, “ Where’d [#126] go?”
“Oh, I’ll go get him,” he said, spinning around to go. The way he jumped made me think #126 had said something about me.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” I said.
He insisted. “No, I can just go get him…”
Signs of Hope: The moment he walked up to me at the party. Said Eva, “You were into each other, that’s why I stayed away. And, by the way, he looked far more nervous than you did.”
Red Flags: When he was talking to girlsss—and never came back to talk to me.
And then, of course, there was the dancing. Said Eva, “Can you imagine taking him to a wedding the way he was dancing? What a doughnut.”
Turning Point: There were two. The first was when he appeared at the party and the second was when I left the party. The two points lay at the exact opposite ends of the hope spectrum.
Diagnosis: For him: He's into me. Right?
For me: Dammit, I'm into him.
Still, at the party, I made the most of things by doing some quality primary research on the other Unavailables in attendance. I struck up a conversation with one Mr. Unavailable I'd had a crush on several years before. I’d met him one night at dinner with some friends. We’d chatted amiably and, when he'd left, he'd touched me on the shoulder and smiled. After that, whenever I’d see him around, I’d turn mute and eschew eye contact. Eventually, it was easier to take the low road and pretend I had no idea who he was.
So I surprised myself when he approached me at the party and I didn’t go silent or become oddly interested in the ground. On the first encounter, he walked by me and touched my shoulder to say hello; I smiled and said hello back. Later, in the same mingling circle, we started talking. It turned out he’d just broken his collarbone in a bicycle accident and that, because he wasn’t wearing any kind hospital-issued contraption to demarcate injury, women continued to give him big hugs and, men, buddy-like arm jabs. I threw out a few practical suggestions:
“Maybe you should get a fake cast to get the visual message across.”
“Maybe you should wrap caution tape around yourself.”
And then one silver-lining comment for good measure:
“At least this way, you don’t have people coming up to you at all times, asking, ‘What happened?’”
He didn’t laugh. Was he paying attention? Had he lost his sense of humor in the accident? Had he never had a sense of humor? That’s the problem with a lot of really attractive men. They’ve never had to hone their humor to get a girl.
And then, out of nowhere, #126 appeared through the darkness, eyes gazing at me, arms enveloping me. The other guy stopped existing. And when #126 let go, I looked into his eyes and said to him, “You got a haircut.”
He smiled at me, crookedly.
“I figured I should probably try to fit in at least a little bit,” he said, his voice cracking in that deep, throaty way that it did.
“Yeah, you’re in Manhattan, none of that longed-haired, muesli-eating, sandal crap goes far.” He nodded as he usually did--with the whole upper half of his body--and just gazed at me, so I kept talking. “Did you see my email? I think you should get a ceiling fan for the bathroom.”
“OK,” he said a millisecond later.
There’s nothing like telling a man an idea and hearing, “yes,” before you’ve even have a chance to inhale at the end of the sentence. That’s all we women want—what we want.
For the next 45 minutes, we talked as if we were under some sort of spell, about I don't know what, but we kept coming up with things because neither of us wanted to stop talking. I vaguely remember seeing Eva come nearer, see us and then walk away. The spell was only broken when Elaine came over and insisted we dance. On the other side of the roof—the dance floor—everyone was dancing more than acceptably well. And then I looked over at #126. His arms floated around without purpose and he swayed his hips in a way that was entirely not aligned with the music. I wasn’t sure if he was joke-dancing or real-dancing.
I had to look away and, when I turned back, he was gone. James was nearby and, as “Bizarre Love Triangle” played, I asked, “ Where’d [#126] go?”
“Oh, I’ll go get him,” he said, spinning around to go. The way he jumped made me think #126 had said something about me.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” I said.
He insisted. “No, I can just go get him…”
He took a few steps and, as if he'd just thought better of it, stopped, saying, "Oh, he’s fine, he’s just talking to some girls.”
Girls? To me, he was far too awkward to be talking to girls—plural.
A few hours later, I was becoming tired—and hopeless—when my little gang decided it was time to go. I located #126 across the roof talking to a girl—singular—but I chose to not let it visibly bother me and walked over and hugged him good-bye. He held on for a few extra moments and then said, “Good night, sweetie, we’ll talk soon.”
Girls? To me, he was far too awkward to be talking to girls—plural.
A few hours later, I was becoming tired—and hopeless—when my little gang decided it was time to go. I located #126 across the roof talking to a girl—singular—but I chose to not let it visibly bother me and walked over and hugged him good-bye. He held on for a few extra moments and then said, “Good night, sweetie, we’ll talk soon.”
Signs of Hope: The moment he walked up to me at the party. Said Eva, “You were into each other, that’s why I stayed away. And, by the way, he looked far more nervous than you did.”
Red Flags: When he was talking to girlsss—and never came back to talk to me.
And then, of course, there was the dancing. Said Eva, “Can you imagine taking him to a wedding the way he was dancing? What a doughnut.”
Turning Point: There were two. The first was when he appeared at the party and the second was when I left the party. The two points lay at the exact opposite ends of the hope spectrum.
Diagnosis: For him: He's into me. Right?
For me: Dammit, I'm into him.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Business or Pleasure?
See The Imprinter for the background on this one.
We ordered and discussed the apartment. He again outlined the parameters:
I told him I’d be subletting my place anyway to short termers, so I could arrange to stay there when any construction was going on. As far as the crashing, I was game.
“Doesn’t that frighten the neighbors?”
“They’re used to it. My dad’s a famous porn star from the ‘70s.”
“Oh, it all makes sense now,” I said.
“Yeah, he really likes his body.”
My thoughts, naturally, went to the part of his father’s body that got him jobs.
“I didn’t end up with anything like what he has,” he said.
I was surprised he offered up the information. Why not just let me assume? Or maybe he was managing expectations.
Although I’d deduced from Facebook that he was a veterinarian, when he started talking about the job in Arizona, telling me he was going to get to work on exotic animals, I feigned surprise, “Oh, you’re that kind of doctor.”
“Yeah, I’m a vet.”
I told him that my cat had been scratching at her ears for weeks. “If you want, I can come over and take a look at them,” he said.
I called Zoe. “Are you awake? Just wanted to let you know that my friend [#126] is going to come over to look at Molly’s ears, so hide the bras and panties.”
“Actually, don’t,” he said.
When the bill came, he said, “I’ll get this. It makes me feel like I’m on a date. And I feel good when I’m on a date—especially if I’m out to dinner with a beautiful woman, which you are a beautiful woman.”
I smiled.
We walked back to my building and, when I unlocked each door, he leaned close and held each one open for me.
Upstairs, Zoe had done a brilliant job throwing things into closets and under the sofa and bed. I introduced the two of them and we all stood there for a moment. I could feel his eyes on me. Then he put Molly on the kitchen counter and took a look at her ears.
I looked at Zoe. She exaggeratedly looked me up and down and then pointed to him. I nodded.
“Yeah, it looks like she might have some kind of infection,” he said.
“OK, I’ll take her in. She’s due anyway.”
I walked him out the door and, holding it open behind me with my foot, hugged him. He looked at me, we had a moment and then I said good-night and went inside.
Signs of Hope: The compliments, the familial admissions, the "date" reference.
Red Flags: All the checking out he was doing. If he was doing it that much to me, he was probably doing it all over town.
Turning Point: When he paid for dinner.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just the nice veterinarian next door or does he have other designs on me?
For me: I hope to god he has other designs on me. I know he’s not boyfriend material, but there’s chemistry, I’m sufficiently flattered and it's been months since #121, so I'm incredibly bored.
#126 called that night and asked if, instead of going for coffee, I wanted to go for dinner. I suggested the Thai place I’d gone to with #111 (last date) and #12o (first date). He said he’d meet me there.
When he walked in, he looked as if he’d just woken up—mouth hanging open, eyes alternately wandering and staring, walking like he could bump into something at any moment. With a white undershirt pulled over his gut and a pair of plaid shorts on, he woozily plunked himself down in the seat across from me. And then I remembered that was just how he looked. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there'd been a trail of dried drool running down his chin.
We ordered and discussed the apartment. He again outlined the parameters:
- He wanted someone who looked like his sister so he could save $100 in maintenance.
- He wanted someone who didn’t mind if there was construction going on.
- He wanted someone who could find another place to stay during major overhauls.
- He wanted someone who could help him make decisions on exactly how to redo his apartment.
- He wanted someone who would alert him if coop board meetings happened.
- He wanted someone who didn’t mind if, when he had to come back to New York, he crashed on the floor.
I told him I’d be subletting my place anyway to short termers, so I could arrange to stay there when any construction was going on. As far as the crashing, I was game.
"Cool," he said.
"Cool," I said.
Eye contact lingered over our pad Thai and noodles.
I really didn’t want to spend the whole dinner talking business, so I was glad when he started asking me about my family and where I was from. I filled him in on my family’s sad-but-true details and he did the same.
“My dad likes to walk around without any clothes on," he said, nodding and wiping curry off his face. "He even answers the door naked.”
Eye contact lingered over our pad Thai and noodles.
I really didn’t want to spend the whole dinner talking business, so I was glad when he started asking me about my family and where I was from. I filled him in on my family’s sad-but-true details and he did the same.
“My dad likes to walk around without any clothes on," he said, nodding and wiping curry off his face. "He even answers the door naked.”
“Doesn’t that frighten the neighbors?”
“They’re used to it. My dad’s a famous porn star from the ‘70s.”
“Oh, it all makes sense now,” I said.
“Yeah, he really likes his body.”
My thoughts, naturally, went to the part of his father’s body that got him jobs.
“I didn’t end up with anything like what he has,” he said.
I was surprised he offered up the information. Why not just let me assume? Or maybe he was managing expectations.
Although I’d deduced from Facebook that he was a veterinarian, when he started talking about the job in Arizona, telling me he was going to get to work on exotic animals, I feigned surprise, “Oh, you’re that kind of doctor.”
“Yeah, I’m a vet.”
I told him that my cat had been scratching at her ears for weeks. “If you want, I can come over and take a look at them,” he said.
I called Zoe. “Are you awake? Just wanted to let you know that my friend [#126] is going to come over to look at Molly’s ears, so hide the bras and panties.”
“Actually, don’t,” he said.
When the bill came, he said, “I’ll get this. It makes me feel like I’m on a date. And I feel good when I’m on a date—especially if I’m out to dinner with a beautiful woman, which you are a beautiful woman.”
I smiled.
We walked back to my building and, when I unlocked each door, he leaned close and held each one open for me.
Upstairs, Zoe had done a brilliant job throwing things into closets and under the sofa and bed. I introduced the two of them and we all stood there for a moment. I could feel his eyes on me. Then he put Molly on the kitchen counter and took a look at her ears.
I looked at Zoe. She exaggeratedly looked me up and down and then pointed to him. I nodded.
“Yeah, it looks like she might have some kind of infection,” he said.
“OK, I’ll take her in. She’s due anyway.”
I walked him out the door and, holding it open behind me with my foot, hugged him. He looked at me, we had a moment and then I said good-night and went inside.
Signs of Hope: The compliments, the familial admissions, the "date" reference.
Red Flags: All the checking out he was doing. If he was doing it that much to me, he was probably doing it all over town.
Turning Point: When he paid for dinner.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just the nice veterinarian next door or does he have other designs on me?
For me: I hope to god he has other designs on me. I know he’s not boyfriend material, but there’s chemistry, I’m sufficiently flattered and it's been months since #121, so I'm incredibly bored.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: The Imprinter
Prologue: I’m stuck on the idea of imprinting, a concept of nature I learned in biology. It goes something like this: When a baby bird hatches out of its shell, the first thing it sees is what it attaches to. For example, if it hatches and falls out of the nest and a Hell’s Angel picks it up, it thinks the Hell’s Angel is mom. After that, it can never shake the idea and if it ever couldn’t find its tattooed, leather-jacketed, beer-gutted, foul-smelling, crude-talking mommy, it’d be dead.
After the psychic planted in my mind the idea that my Mr. Available—a year and a half to two years away, she said—would be an outdoorsy type, I couldn’t shake it. My little brain went backward into recent memory in search of an outdoorsy guy and attached to the first one it came up with: #126.
Vital Stats: 6’. 45. Some kind of doctor. Demeanor: A bit out to lunch but in an endearing way. Aesthetic: Agave-syrup-and-hiking-boot man in New York.
First Impression: Far too cheerful outdoorsy guy—with a gut.
What Happened: The day I sent #120 the “Cake” IM over Facebook, I went to see Bridesmaids with my friend James and some of his friends. #126 was one of them. He had just moved back to New York City after 14 years in the great southwest and looked like he hadn’t completed the transition. Walking down 2nd Avenue, he was outfitted like he was going on a hike—backpack, waterproof jacket, hiking sneaker things and wraparound shades. He also had blonde hair just long enough to tuck behind his ears. And he was so damned cheerful. It was all too much. When we shook hands to say hello, I practically rolled my eyes. On edge over#120's potential response, I really didn’t feel like making nice with the new guy, so I pulled my hat down and walked ahead.
“Are you interested?” he asked.
“I am.”
And then he revealed his one regret about leaving New York: “There are so many beautiful women in New York. Everywhere I go,” he said. James nodded in agreement, and then both of them looked at me as if I were one of the beautiful. And then #126 continued, “There are so few good-looking women in the southwest, so it’s kind of ridiculous here, you know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem for us,” I said, “us” being New York City women. “The guys here are like, ‘Well, I’ve got this one but, oh wait, there goes another one…’”
“Maybe you’re both a genius and an idiot, which means you’re normal,” I said.
He had to think about that for a while.
After the psychic planted in my mind the idea that my Mr. Available—a year and a half to two years away, she said—would be an outdoorsy type, I couldn’t shake it. My little brain went backward into recent memory in search of an outdoorsy guy and attached to the first one it came up with: #126.
Vital Stats: 6’. 45. Some kind of doctor. Demeanor: A bit out to lunch but in an endearing way. Aesthetic: Agave-syrup-and-hiking-boot man in New York.
First Impression: Far too cheerful outdoorsy guy—with a gut.
What Happened: The day I sent #120 the “Cake” IM over Facebook, I went to see Bridesmaids with my friend James and some of his friends. #126 was one of them. He had just moved back to New York City after 14 years in the great southwest and looked like he hadn’t completed the transition. Walking down 2nd Avenue, he was outfitted like he was going on a hike—backpack, waterproof jacket, hiking sneaker things and wraparound shades. He also had blonde hair just long enough to tuck behind his ears. And he was so damned cheerful. It was all too much. When we shook hands to say hello, I practically rolled my eyes. On edge over#120's potential response, I really didn’t feel like making nice with the new guy, so I pulled my hat down and walked ahead.
Fast-forwarding a few weeks to the post-psychic period, I had plans to hit an anniversary party uptown, but I’d spent a less-than-fun, extra drama weekend with the partygoers a few weeks earlier and really didn’t feel like mixing with them again so soon. Then James called and invited me to his birthday dinner that night.
I had to examine my priorities: Go uptown to a party where there were people I didn’t like that much and maybe new boys (but most likely not) OR go to dinner with James and a few close friends. #126 was also in the back of my mind, and when James mentioned he was going, my priority became clear.
When I walked into the restaurant, I was the third one there—it was me, James and #126. When James re-introduced us, #126’s eyes went big and his voice went silent. He stared at me as if he was absorbing my general being. I started talking about my great search for small chandelier lampshades and #126, staring, asked if I had good taste in interior design.
“If I get this job I interviewed for, I may be moving to Arizona, so I need someone who looks like my sister to rent out my place, maybe help me fix it up, you know what I mean?” he said.
Moving? Already? He’d grown tired of New York fast. But I liked that he was a schemer. I also liked that he had a two-bedroom on 2nd St. and Ave. A about two blocks from my apartment.
“Are you interested?” he asked.
“I am.”
And then he revealed his one regret about leaving New York: “There are so many beautiful women in New York. Everywhere I go,” he said. James nodded in agreement, and then both of them looked at me as if I were one of the beautiful. And then #126 continued, “There are so few good-looking women in the southwest, so it’s kind of ridiculous here, you know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem for us,” I said, “us” being New York City women. “The guys here are like, ‘Well, I’ve got this one but, oh wait, there goes another one…’”
He just nodded and stared. It was hard to tell if he was paying attention—or if he was even able to pay attention—but then I heard James mention that #126 was some kind of doctor. In the sharp-knife drawer, where did he fall? Then he started rambling on about some tests he’d taken and how on half of them, he’d been declared a genius and on the other half, he’d been declared nearly retarded.
“Maybe you’re both a genius and an idiot, which means you’re normal,” I said.
He had to think about that for a while.
More people arrived and he had to move down the banquette, but, for the rest of the night, I felt his eyes on me even when he wasn’t looking at me. My eyes were—and weren’t—on him, too.
At the end, I gave him a hug and said, “Oh, yeah, get my number from James for the apartment.” He seemed confused.
“Or you can get my number from him,” he said.
A few days later, I got his number from James and called him. He called back a while later and said he needed a trustworthy person for the apartment. “Are you trustworthy?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not so I chose to believe he was.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not so I chose to believe he was.
“Yup, I am. James can vouch for me.”
He said a few other dopey things, which I found endearing, and then said I could come over to his place the next day—preferably later because he and James were pulling up the floor and he hoped it would look better.
The next day when I went over, James was pulling up pieces of floor and even though #126 had a face mask on, he still stared. I took a look around. It was no two-bedroom, but it was a nice-sized one-bedroom.
“Maybe want to get coffee tonight? We can talk about plans and things like that, you know what I mean?” Then he said he'd call me later.
As I left, bits of floor stuck to the bottoms of my flip-flops. I lifted one foot up behind me and reached to pull the pieces off, but then #126 came toward me and mumbled through his mask, “Wait, I’ll get that.” Then he gently peeled the bits of wood from the bottom of my foot and held them in his hand, looking at me. I took another step and my other flip-flop took pieces of floor with it, too. But this time, I lifted my foot and waited, letting him lean in and peel the bits off. Again, he held them and just looked at me. If it was up to me—and it didn't seem crazy—I would have walked slowly back and forth across his floor for the rest of the day.
Signs of Hope: All the staring he was doing. And when I walked across his floor.
Red Flags: “There are so many beautiful women in New York.”
Turning Point: Pre-psychic, I wasn’t interested. Post-psychic, I was.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s moving. Clearly, he’s unavailable for a relationship.
For me: #126 has imprinted all over me. Although I don’t want a relationship with him, I am due for a summer fling.
For me: #126 has imprinted all over me. Although I don’t want a relationship with him, I am due for a summer fling.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #125: A Man's Best Friend
See Fetishists Are People, Too and Dens of Sin for the background on this one.
Zoe resurfaced first via text: "Hi darling I have just seen my phone am ok be back tom am getting sex major x did u do the swinger?”
No, I hadn’t done the swinger And then two more days passed and I began to wish I had because it was looking like I’d missed my chance.
Finally, I broke down and texted him: "Hi [#125] I’d love to get together again soon. You?"
Nothing. The next day, a friend of Zoe’s had a party at his store on Orchard Street. Evan met up with us and I told him about #125 and his leisure pursuits.
“They’re just geeks and nerds,” he said matter-of-factly, giving the entire subject a disinterested sneer. He’d done a magazine story on the fetish thing a few years back. “It’s people who can’t be intimate so they come up with this way of looking like they’re capable of it, but we all know sex does not equal intimacy. They feel like social outcasts, so they just want to feel like they’re part of something. All they talk about are their outfits. It’s like anything else, people who are really into something and get together and spend hours talking about it.”
“Like Dungeons & Dragons nuts or video-gamers…or like us, when we all get together,” I said.
He looked at me and said, “Yeah.”
I thought back to the black vinyl pants that #125 had seemed so eager to tell me he'd bought. He'd had someone put zippers up the sides and replace the crotch zipper with laces. It made sense. My first impression of him had, after all, been awkward computer guy. This was how he’d found a way to fit in. But instead of turning to video games, he’d turned to kinky sex.
I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. My unfettered—and fettered—futures were drained of not all, but most, of their intrigue. Now, swingers and fetish parties seemed a lot less glamorous, a lot less taboo and a little bit sad.
Three more days went by. Even though my excitement had waned, I hated feeling rejected. Zoe and I were having brunch at our favorite brunch spot that’s not really all that good, but we like to think it is, when she gave me Suggestion A, “Why don’t you text him again? He’s a swinger. Ask him if he fancies a blow job and a cup of tea.”
It seemed overwrought, so I went with Suggestion B, “Does your silence mean you don’t want to play? Just let me know :) “
He wrote back almost immediately: “Hi. No. Bad week ++.”
Zoe egged me. “He’s a busy man. He needs to know who wants it and who doesn’t.” Trusting that Zoe was probably more familiar with this territory than I, I took her advice on what to text next, although it was not something I would ever say and sounded like it was not something I would ever say.
“Hey Swinger, want to get my knickers off?...how big’s your willy? Hee hee hee :)”
Four hours went by. Zoe was baffled. “I thought you’d be over his place and back by now. Maybe he’s got someone there.”
Finally, an hour later:
#125: Very cute. Swinger?...How did you know
Me: A little bird told me…these things have a way of getting around you know.
An hour and a half later:
#125: :) Funny how things go. I wanted to tell you on our date but I figured you were not so interested. So nice research ;)
Me: I’m an excellent researcher. And quite interested.
An hour and a half later:
#125: Perfect
Me: Where shall we go this week? Another secret bar?
And then nothing. At this point, I began to ease out of feeling rejected and ease into viewing the relationship as a game and #125 as something to be played. We already knew he was a bit ADD about his sexual partners, but why not jump on an opportunity? Something was up.
The answer came one day later:
#125: ;). Perhaps dinner for three?
Ah, there it was. Now in full game mode, I wrote back:
Me: I’d like to get to know you a bit better first. Just out of curiosity, are we talking 1 of me and 2 of you?
25 Hours Later:
#125: ;). Yes. I wish I were able to share in person. But yes, Sarita and I are engaged and would love to engage you in some friendly fun. :)
He’d not once mentioned anyone named Sarita—and certainly not any kind of engagement. I went back onto Facebook to look at his photos and he must have given me greater access because all in almost all of the photos was this Sarita person. She was cute, sure, but this was not how I’d envisioned things going. There went my chance to be a voyeur in the world of swingers and fetishists. But, like I said, this had become a game, so I was not above a little lie or two.
I wrote back: Damn…I don’t do boy/girl couples…just one boy at a time…although sometimes two. Ah well, if you ever change your mind and it’s just me/you, you’ve got my number. :)
For the next week, I had great fun telling the whole story. Everyone was pretty much baffled that he would go trawling around on his own, pretending to be on a date but really looking for a woman to bring home to his fiancee.
Out to dinner with the 50/50 Club one night (except me, all men; half gay, half straight), I pulled Facebook up on my iPhone and got some professional opinions about #125 and his manty-clad package.
“It looks like he folds it up to make it look bigger. It could be long, but that’s it. It looks like he’s got everything squeezed up—and he’s even got it held up with laces. Yeah, it’s probably not that big.”
I showed more photos. One looked like it was taken at a family reunion, another looked like it was taken at a picnic. Everyone was dressed appropriately in shorts and T-shirts—except #125. There he was in his custom-made manties—one pair even resembled a Nerf Football, which I suppose makes it somewhat appropriate for a picnic. It was bright blue with red piping and white laces criss-crossed over what I don’t think anyone would argue was his best friend.
A selection of reactions:
“Oh my god, there are children around.”
“Wow, what a narcissist.”
“Maybe he really just stuffs the whole thing.”
But the general consensus—from many non-judgmental people—was that he was just a freak.
Signs of Hope: When he responded to my text.
Red Flags: Everything other than that initial text response.
Turning Point: When he mentioned the fiancée, all my dreams of a lascivious life evaporated.
Diagnosis: For him: Narcissistic freak.
For me: I guess I’ll be sticking with “one boy at a time.” But if I’ve learned anything from all of this, it’s never say never.
The day after our date, I didn’t hear from #125. I also didn’t hear from Zoe, who’d disappeared into the nether regions of New Jersey in pursuit of a shag.
Zoe resurfaced first via text: "Hi darling I have just seen my phone am ok be back tom am getting sex major x did u do the swinger?”
No, I hadn’t done the swinger And then two more days passed and I began to wish I had because it was looking like I’d missed my chance.
Finally, I broke down and texted him: "Hi [#125] I’d love to get together again soon. You?"
Nothing. The next day, a friend of Zoe’s had a party at his store on Orchard Street. Evan met up with us and I told him about #125 and his leisure pursuits.
“They’re just geeks and nerds,” he said matter-of-factly, giving the entire subject a disinterested sneer. He’d done a magazine story on the fetish thing a few years back. “It’s people who can’t be intimate so they come up with this way of looking like they’re capable of it, but we all know sex does not equal intimacy. They feel like social outcasts, so they just want to feel like they’re part of something. All they talk about are their outfits. It’s like anything else, people who are really into something and get together and spend hours talking about it.”
“Like Dungeons & Dragons nuts or video-gamers…or like us, when we all get together,” I said.
He looked at me and said, “Yeah.”
I thought back to the black vinyl pants that #125 had seemed so eager to tell me he'd bought. He'd had someone put zippers up the sides and replace the crotch zipper with laces. It made sense. My first impression of him had, after all, been awkward computer guy. This was how he’d found a way to fit in. But instead of turning to video games, he’d turned to kinky sex.
I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. My unfettered—and fettered—futures were drained of not all, but most, of their intrigue. Now, swingers and fetish parties seemed a lot less glamorous, a lot less taboo and a little bit sad.
Three more days went by. Even though my excitement had waned, I hated feeling rejected. Zoe and I were having brunch at our favorite brunch spot that’s not really all that good, but we like to think it is, when she gave me Suggestion A, “Why don’t you text him again? He’s a swinger. Ask him if he fancies a blow job and a cup of tea.”
It seemed overwrought, so I went with Suggestion B, “Does your silence mean you don’t want to play? Just let me know :) “
He wrote back almost immediately: “Hi. No. Bad week ++.”
Zoe egged me. “He’s a busy man. He needs to know who wants it and who doesn’t.” Trusting that Zoe was probably more familiar with this territory than I, I took her advice on what to text next, although it was not something I would ever say and sounded like it was not something I would ever say.
“Hey Swinger, want to get my knickers off?...how big’s your willy? Hee hee hee :)”
Four hours went by. Zoe was baffled. “I thought you’d be over his place and back by now. Maybe he’s got someone there.”
Finally, an hour later:
#125: Very cute. Swinger?...How did you know
Me: A little bird told me…these things have a way of getting around you know.
An hour and a half later:
#125: :) Funny how things go. I wanted to tell you on our date but I figured you were not so interested. So nice research ;)
Me: I’m an excellent researcher. And quite interested.
An hour and a half later:
#125: Perfect
Me: Where shall we go this week? Another secret bar?
And then nothing. At this point, I began to ease out of feeling rejected and ease into viewing the relationship as a game and #125 as something to be played. We already knew he was a bit ADD about his sexual partners, but why not jump on an opportunity? Something was up.
The answer came one day later:
#125: ;). Perhaps dinner for three?
Ah, there it was. Now in full game mode, I wrote back:
Me: I’d like to get to know you a bit better first. Just out of curiosity, are we talking 1 of me and 2 of you?
25 Hours Later:
#125: ;). Yes. I wish I were able to share in person. But yes, Sarita and I are engaged and would love to engage you in some friendly fun. :)
He’d not once mentioned anyone named Sarita—and certainly not any kind of engagement. I went back onto Facebook to look at his photos and he must have given me greater access because all in almost all of the photos was this Sarita person. She was cute, sure, but this was not how I’d envisioned things going. There went my chance to be a voyeur in the world of swingers and fetishists. But, like I said, this had become a game, so I was not above a little lie or two.
I wrote back: Damn…I don’t do boy/girl couples…just one boy at a time…although sometimes two. Ah well, if you ever change your mind and it’s just me/you, you’ve got my number. :)
For the next week, I had great fun telling the whole story. Everyone was pretty much baffled that he would go trawling around on his own, pretending to be on a date but really looking for a woman to bring home to his fiancee.
Out to dinner with the 50/50 Club one night (except me, all men; half gay, half straight), I pulled Facebook up on my iPhone and got some professional opinions about #125 and his manty-clad package.
“It looks like he folds it up to make it look bigger. It could be long, but that’s it. It looks like he’s got everything squeezed up—and he’s even got it held up with laces. Yeah, it’s probably not that big.”
I showed more photos. One looked like it was taken at a family reunion, another looked like it was taken at a picnic. Everyone was dressed appropriately in shorts and T-shirts—except #125. There he was in his custom-made manties—one pair even resembled a Nerf Football, which I suppose makes it somewhat appropriate for a picnic. It was bright blue with red piping and white laces criss-crossed over what I don’t think anyone would argue was his best friend.
A selection of reactions:
“Oh my god, there are children around.”
“Wow, what a narcissist.”
“Maybe he really just stuffs the whole thing.”
But the general consensus—from many non-judgmental people—was that he was just a freak.
Signs of Hope: When he responded to my text.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #55: The Bad Boy
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa February 1988, the suburbs of Buffalo.
What Happened: It was the winter of my sophomore year. My younger brother was in travel hockey and because he was the baby, the favorite, the golden child—not that I’m bitter—my parents carted the whole family to his out-of-town games, which were mostly in Canada. #55’s little brother was on the team and, as I mentioned, #55 was also friends with my older brother, so we were all in the same hockey circle. One night, #55 came out to dinner with my family. He sat next to me. There was some flirting although I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I just knew I felt delightfully uncomfortable.
It was Sadie Hawkins season and, a week or so later, with the dance on my mind, I was sitting on the living room floor with my older brother listening to records when I started fishing for information.
“I want to go to Sadie Hawkins, but I don’t know who I could ask,” I said, crinkling my forehead to feign perplexity.
“I know who you could ask,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, knowing who.
Inevitably, #55’s name came out. I got his number from my brother and called to ask him out. When the asking was done and he’d accepted, one word formulated awkwardly in my brain and found it’s way to my lips: “Thanks.”
(Really? Really? Did I really just say that?)
Despite my overt gratitude, for the next day or so I felt genuine excitement. Bursting to share it, one day in school I told a friend who I was going with.
“[#55]!” she replied, letting one hand come up off of her Trapper Keeper in order to cover her mouthful of horror. “He takes my bus. I heard him saying he was going, but I didn’t know he was going with you. You know he smokes, don’t you?” she asked.
All of my excitement vanished. Not because he was talking publicly about going to Sadie Hawkins. Not because he smoked (and we're talking cigarettes here). But because I cared about what other people thought. And I cared a lot. I spent the rest of the days before the dance actively trying to avoid him. I was mortified when, one day, he appeared beside my locker. Dance transportation was on his mind. Who had eyes on us at that moment was on mine. He was looking at me and I was looking everywhere else.
“Yeah,” he said, “I have a friend who has a scooter and he says maybe I can borrow it.” He hovered close to me, smelling of past cigarettes. He followed me as I closed my locker and started down the hall.
Walking with him in my lime-green Esprit pants and matching orange and green sweater, I wished I was invisible—and not because of my outfit. I was terrified of him, to be seen with him, to be alone with him, and the thought of the two of us on a scooter—with one of us in a dress…with me having to really be with him—troubled me.
Fortunately, the scooter thing fell through, so my mom drove all of us—including my brother and his towering, redheaded date—in our big brown Ford Econoline van decked out with a mini TV and, I’d estimate, about two dozen cup holders. At the dance, I remember dancing with #55—even to the slow songs—and smelling the smoke clinging to his clothes from his trips to the boys’ room. I don’t remember enjoying my time much, and I definitely don’t remember preserving the evening with a photo under the heart-shaped faux-flower trellis.
In the following months and years, whenever he would come over to see my brother, I avoided him. But even though I was the one to put out the sparks, I held a candle for him for years. I’d babysit the kids down the street just so I could watch MTV and, whenever U2’s “With or Without You” video came on, I’d imagine us in the black-and-white scene trying to find each other through the artistic haze. But not even Bono’s silken voice could bring us together.
Signs of Hope: Our mutual attraction
Red Flags: His bad-boyness; my teenage insecurity
Turning Point: When my friend had to stifle her horror upon hearing that I was going out with him.
Diagnosis: For him: If he was anything like my brother, he was probably an un-medicated ADD kid just trying to make it through high school without imploding. The last I heard, which was many years ago, he’d made a few trips to jail and was living out of a van somewhere.
For me: I was a fairly typical teenager—insecure, prone to peer pressure, more concerned with what other people thought than with what I thought, pretty much spineless.
(He deserves an) Epilogue: Now looking back, it makes perfect sense that I was attracted to him in the first place. Bad boys are the quintessential Mr. Unavailables. They’re just easier to spot when they’re in high school because the cliques are so well defined. Later in life, they disperse, blending in amongst the Mr. Availables as writers, lawyers, pastry chefs, ex-cons, construction guys or even plain old office workers—you know, the guy everyone has a crush on. The guy you probably have a crush on, too.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #62: The SEAL Team 6 of Dating
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa 1989-1990, senior year of high school, the suburbs of Buffalo.
Vital Stats: 5’9”ish. 17. Bodily, I remember him being fairly evenly proportioned, although my best friend, who didn’t even go to my school, often remarked on the oversized nature of his head. Aesthetic: Generally, he was a clean-cut suburban public school boy. Demeanor: I'll save my comments for the end.
What Happened: I had a massive crush on #62 starting in September of our senior year. I also possessed a great deal of patience (which, from another angle, could be seen as a great deal of tolerance for going unnoticed), so when Sadie Hawkins rolled around nearly six months into the school year, I had had plenty of time to go all SEAL Team 6 on my asking strategy.
Strategy in Action: One day after social studies, we were walking out and I casually veered toward him and walked in step. Nearing the yearbook room, I segued from talking about yearbook, for which he was writing a story, to talking about a certain dance that was coming up.
“I wanted to ask if maybe you might want to go to Sadie Hawkins with me?” I cleverly asked as if I was asking permission to ask him to the dance not now but, rather, at a future, unspecified date.
There was only silence. And then he broke into the kind of pained smile that comes with an unwelcome surprise and stuttered, “O-o-o-okay.” But the message was clear.
I should probably mention that my high school was built in the early 1970s and, in an effort to promote a communal atmosphere and heightened concentration, had no walls. Only low-ish bookshelves, tallish cabinets and thin-ish partitions separated one classroom from the next.
That meant that as we approached the yearbook “room,” my friends saw everything.
After #62 walked away, three of them gave me the outside perspective. “Well, you looked really, really nervous and he was bright red and looked shocked, like you’d just told him something horrible had just happened.” We were in yearbook, after all, so we were into detail. They would have gone on, but they saw me shrink at what they'd said.
“But he said, yes, right?” one of them asked, trying to give things some positive spin. “So that’s great, Tar.”
I didn’t allow myself to get excited about the date. Instead, I threw myself into finding the perfect dress. I imagined an off-the-shoulder affair and pictured a 1990 version of the dress from Disney’s "Sleeping Beauty." But, after a trip to the sprawling, low-slung cement compound that was the Eastern Hills Mall, I wound up with a blue-and-white floral-patterned Diane Chambers frock with a neckline that was, indeed, at the neckline.
The actual dance was in the school cafeteria. I don't remember how we got there or what it was like. I vaguely recall perking up while dancing to "Bizarre Love Triangle"—New Order was my salvation then, as it sometimes is still now—but, except for the staged photo under the heart-shaped trellis that captured the supreme awkwardness of it all, the rest is thankfully lost to the recesses of my mind.
Signs of Hope: When he said yes.
Red Flags: His mouth said yes, but everything else said no.
Turning Point: When he said yes. It was all down hill from there.
Diagnosis: For him: He might have been gay. Now wait, I’m not just saying that because he wasn’t at all interested in me. Seriously. He had sort of a funny, nasally voice and always took his friend Stephanie as his date to every dance—except, of course, Sadie Hawkins 1990. For that, he was all mine.
For me: You have to admit I had balls. I knew what I wanted—him—and after six months of SEAL Team 6-level preparedness, I got him.
Vital Stats: 5’9”ish. 17. Bodily, I remember him being fairly evenly proportioned, although my best friend, who didn’t even go to my school, often remarked on the oversized nature of his head. Aesthetic: Generally, he was a clean-cut suburban public school boy. Demeanor: I'll save my comments for the end.
What Happened: I had a massive crush on #62 starting in September of our senior year. I also possessed a great deal of patience (which, from another angle, could be seen as a great deal of tolerance for going unnoticed), so when Sadie Hawkins rolled around nearly six months into the school year, I had had plenty of time to go all SEAL Team 6 on my asking strategy.
Strategy in Action: One day after social studies, we were walking out and I casually veered toward him and walked in step. Nearing the yearbook room, I segued from talking about yearbook, for which he was writing a story, to talking about a certain dance that was coming up.
“I wanted to ask if maybe you might want to go to Sadie Hawkins with me?” I cleverly asked as if I was asking permission to ask him to the dance not now but, rather, at a future, unspecified date.
There was only silence. And then he broke into the kind of pained smile that comes with an unwelcome surprise and stuttered, “O-o-o-okay.” But the message was clear.
I should probably mention that my high school was built in the early 1970s and, in an effort to promote a communal atmosphere and heightened concentration, had no walls. Only low-ish bookshelves, tallish cabinets and thin-ish partitions separated one classroom from the next.
That meant that as we approached the yearbook “room,” my friends saw everything.
After #62 walked away, three of them gave me the outside perspective. “Well, you looked really, really nervous and he was bright red and looked shocked, like you’d just told him something horrible had just happened.” We were in yearbook, after all, so we were into detail. They would have gone on, but they saw me shrink at what they'd said.
“But he said, yes, right?” one of them asked, trying to give things some positive spin. “So that’s great, Tar.”
I didn’t allow myself to get excited about the date. Instead, I threw myself into finding the perfect dress. I imagined an off-the-shoulder affair and pictured a 1990 version of the dress from Disney’s "Sleeping Beauty." But, after a trip to the sprawling, low-slung cement compound that was the Eastern Hills Mall, I wound up with a blue-and-white floral-patterned Diane Chambers frock with a neckline that was, indeed, at the neckline.
The actual dance was in the school cafeteria. I don't remember how we got there or what it was like. I vaguely recall perking up while dancing to "Bizarre Love Triangle"—New Order was my salvation then, as it sometimes is still now—but, except for the staged photo under the heart-shaped trellis that captured the supreme awkwardness of it all, the rest is thankfully lost to the recesses of my mind.
Signs of Hope: When he said yes.
Red Flags: His mouth said yes, but everything else said no.
Turning Point: When he said yes. It was all down hill from there.
Diagnosis: For him: He might have been gay. Now wait, I’m not just saying that because he wasn’t at all interested in me. Seriously. He had sort of a funny, nasally voice and always took his friend Stephanie as his date to every dance—except, of course, Sadie Hawkins 1990. For that, he was all mine.
For me: You have to admit I had balls. I knew what I wanted—him—and after six months of SEAL Team 6-level preparedness, I got him.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #63: The Prom
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa spring 1990, senior year of high school, the suburbs of Buffalo.
Vital Stats: 6’1”ish. A gaunt acne-sufferer who’d just moved to town after the beginning of our senior year. Aesthetic: Button-down shirts and jeans. Demeanor: Friendly and outgoing but, ultimately, dorky.
What Happened: He was the new kid in town, so he had instant cool cred even though he was awkwardly tall and thin and had bad skin, which would normally have made him a prime candidate for merciless torment. We somehow became friends and he asked me to the prom—as a friend. A bunch of people rented a limo and we cruised down to the Buffalo convention center downtown. The moment we found our balloon-bedecked table, he was gone, sprinting off after a blonde, tan classmate.
The rest of the prom portion of the evening was pretty much a blur, my goal being to get through it and make it to the after-party to which, fortunately, prom-goers and non-prom-goers alike had been invited, which meant my yearbook friends—that is, my real friends—would be there. The after-party was at a big suburban house on a manmade pond; the suburbs of Buffalo, not being truly coastal in any way, had a lot of those. Once we got there, I changed into my regular clothes and found my regular friends and actually started having a regular good time.
As I swung in the hammocks and talked with my friends for hours by the “pond,” my date was MIA. But as dawn broke and it was time to go home, our designated driver rounded him up. In the back seat, I sat as far away from him as I could, which meant that when we had to pull the car over for him to vomit, I was safely out of range.
Signs of Hope: When he asked me to the prom. Even though we were going as friends, I was still flattered.
Red Flags: When he hit on another girl, got drunk and disappeared.
Turning Point: Usually I make the “turning point” the point at which everything goes bad. But I’d like to make this one the point at which everything got good: after the prom, hanging out with my friends—even into the next day when, sleep-deprived, I met up with my best friend for an outdoor volunteer thing and we sprawled in the grass, exhausted, between events.
Diagnosis: Let me sum up with a bit of an epilogue. My mother, who was taking a photography course at the time, had taken pictures of the beginning phases of prom night: me getting ready, me being picked up, my date putting the tight, circulation-preventing corsage around my wrist. When she showed the photos to her instructor, he said, “Your daughter looks pretty, but who’s the dork?”
#63 later apologized for being such a prom-night dork, but the damage was done. Maybe the old adage “the worse the wedding, the stronger the marriage” can be somehow altered and applied here. Maybe…the worse the prom night, the stronger the friendships.
Vital Stats: 6’1”ish. A gaunt acne-sufferer who’d just moved to town after the beginning of our senior year. Aesthetic: Button-down shirts and jeans. Demeanor: Friendly and outgoing but, ultimately, dorky.
What Happened: He was the new kid in town, so he had instant cool cred even though he was awkwardly tall and thin and had bad skin, which would normally have made him a prime candidate for merciless torment. We somehow became friends and he asked me to the prom—as a friend. A bunch of people rented a limo and we cruised down to the Buffalo convention center downtown. The moment we found our balloon-bedecked table, he was gone, sprinting off after a blonde, tan classmate.
The rest of the prom portion of the evening was pretty much a blur, my goal being to get through it and make it to the after-party to which, fortunately, prom-goers and non-prom-goers alike had been invited, which meant my yearbook friends—that is, my real friends—would be there. The after-party was at a big suburban house on a manmade pond; the suburbs of Buffalo, not being truly coastal in any way, had a lot of those. Once we got there, I changed into my regular clothes and found my regular friends and actually started having a regular good time.
As I swung in the hammocks and talked with my friends for hours by the “pond,” my date was MIA. But as dawn broke and it was time to go home, our designated driver rounded him up. In the back seat, I sat as far away from him as I could, which meant that when we had to pull the car over for him to vomit, I was safely out of range.
Signs of Hope: When he asked me to the prom. Even though we were going as friends, I was still flattered.
Red Flags: When he hit on another girl, got drunk and disappeared.
Turning Point: Usually I make the “turning point” the point at which everything goes bad. But I’d like to make this one the point at which everything got good: after the prom, hanging out with my friends—even into the next day when, sleep-deprived, I met up with my best friend for an outdoor volunteer thing and we sprawled in the grass, exhausted, between events.
Diagnosis: Let me sum up with a bit of an epilogue. My mother, who was taking a photography course at the time, had taken pictures of the beginning phases of prom night: me getting ready, me being picked up, my date putting the tight, circulation-preventing corsage around my wrist. When she showed the photos to her instructor, he said, “Your daughter looks pretty, but who’s the dork?”
#63 later apologized for being such a prom-night dork, but the damage was done. Maybe the old adage “the worse the wedding, the stronger the marriage” can be somehow altered and applied here. Maybe…the worse the prom night, the stronger the friendships.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #125: Dens of Sin
See Fetishists Are People, Too for the background on this one.
“I like that you seem more curious than judgmental,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m not one to judge people….(freak).”
He told me he’d gotten into the two scenes ten years ago in Boston, but that New York City was much better for that sort of thing. New York better for non-committal fetish and multiple-partner sex than Boston? I could have told you that.
Although that wasn’t hard to believe, when someone is telling me something that really is hard to believe, I ask, “Really?” It’s a habit I’ve gotten into over the years. And because I was hearing quite a lot of unbelievable stuff, I was saying “Really?” a lot.
The third or fourth time I did it, he looked at me and said, “Yes. And you don’t need to ask again.” The way he looked at me steadily without changing his expression—no emotion, no apology—was startling.
I knew I would never marry this guy but I still wanted a peek into his proclivities, so I slid closer to him and said, “OK.” And then my red dress came to the rescue. The straps had been sliding down all night and I’d slide them back up. Down, up; down, up. And then one of them went down.
“You know, you can just leave that down. It’s very sexy. And you look great in that dress.” Then he slid the other strap off my shoulder.
Now back on friendlier ground, I went to the bathroom and texted Zoe: “He’s a swinger and fetishist! But he’s so nice.”
I came back out and said I should probably be going home—work tomorrow and all. He paid the tab and led me out in a gentlemanly way. We put our arms around each other as we walked down the street toward home—my home.
“There’s a naked painting party coming up,” he said, adding that they were held at a bar on the Lower East Side. I restrained my urge to ask, “Really?” I would have thought something like that would be held in a gritty, abandoned warehouse out in Bed-Stuy, not at a bar down the street.
“Oh, I saw photos of that on Facebook,” I said.
“I let you have access to those? That must mean I really like you,” he said, squeezing me closer. In the photos, everyone was mostly naked but covered in paint. It looked much more constructive than just sitting at a bar, clothed.
We got to my doorstep and immediately started making out.
“You’re neat,” I said.
“You’re neat, too,” he said. As we looked at each other—and I can’t think of any other way to describe it—his eyes flickered. It was kind of gay.
And then I said good-night. I know, I know, why didn’t I invite this handsome but gay-ish swinger and fetishist who clearly wanted to share his package with me up to my apartment? Well, I figured I’d draw out the excitement. I mean, even waiting one extra date makes things a little more exciting.
He texted me about 30 minutes later: “Had great fun getting to know you. ;)”
Signs of Hope: The strap episode, him walking me home, the make-out session, his post-date text
Red Flags: The mild feeling of duplicity I was getting. His odd reaction to my “Really?”ing him.
Turning Point: None. After I stifled my instinct to flee, it was full steam ahead.
Diagnosis: For him: Interested? Yes, in me and thousands of others. Available? Yes, to me and thousands of others.
For me: I’m beginning to like the idea of being introduced to his lifestyle. My 40s are right around the corner. Might as well flaunt it while I’ve got it.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #125: Fetishists Are People, Too
Vital Stats: 35, 6’3”. Aesthetic: As I came to discover…fully dressed some of the time; scantily clad most of the time. Demeanor: Laconic, awkward and effeminate yet strangely confident.
Oh, that kind of fetish party.
To be continued…
Signs of Hope: He was gentlemanly and bought me drinks, and we were getting cozy.
Red Flags: The multiple manty photos. And those recurring events.
Turning Point: When he told me about his recurring events.
Diagnosis: For him: For a committed, monogamous relationship, his level of availability is likely pretty low.
For me: I managed to stay on the date as if I was legitimately curious. And, lo and behold, I actually started to feel legitimately curious…
First Date: Monday night drinks at La Esquina
First Impression: Tall sissy boy.
What Happened: A week after my psychic reading, I was on my third day of my new job when a Facebook message from a guy I didn’t know popped up on my iPhone: “Hi just had to stop in and say your too cute.” (sic)
I have enough online experience to know that in 99% of unsolicited-message cases, there’s not a whole lot to get excited about. I waited until later that night to open Facebook for a look-see. To my surprise, he was cute. Really cute.
There had to be something wrong with him. Maybe he was short. Or weirdly asocial. A browse of his photos revealed that he towered above other people and was in a lot of party shots—both tall and social. It was perplexing. However, in the red flag category, I also noticed that there were quite a lot of photos with him wearing nothing but what looked like an itsy bitsy teeny weeny boxer-brief type of weeny bikini.
I wrote back: “Thanks. You're pretty cute yourself. And I see you have quite the array of boxer-briefs.”
He replied: "Yea... my best friend calls them manties. Lol would you like to meet for a drink this week?"
After a bit of a back-and-forth, we arranged to meet up for Monday night drinks at La Esquina. On the designated day. I emailed in to work to say I was working from home so that I could fit in a mani/pedi and decide what to wear.
He replied: "Yea... my best friend calls them manties. Lol would you like to meet for a drink this week?"
After a bit of a back-and-forth, we arranged to meet up for Monday night drinks at La Esquina. On the designated day. I emailed in to work to say I was working from home so that I could fit in a mani/pedi and decide what to wear.
The weekend before, Zoe had gotten back into town from what was supposed to have been a three-week tour that had turned into a three-month adventure. To celebrate her return, she settled back into living on my sofa and not really looking for her own place, and then we went shopping. I bought a bunch of dresses from the second-hand shop downstairs. One of the dresses was a nicely fitting red one. I was inspired to wear it.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked the morning of the date.
“The red dress.”
“Oh no, don’t wear the red dress. Red means sex.”
I wore the red dress anyway and, on my way to meet him, phoned Zoe. She was headed out to New Jersey to meet a music producer she’d met online.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“The red dress.”
“I’m wearing my red dress, too,” she said, laughing. Zoe’s laugh admits nothing and everything at the same time. From it, one gets a whiff of a diabolical plan camouflaged by an aroma of harmless fun.
La Esquina is one of those New York bars that’s intentionally impossible to find—hidden cool. I wandered around the Lafayette/Spring St. triangle for about 15 minutes and finally found a restaurant tucked around the side of a building that I thought was it. I sat on a nearby bench to wait and soon my phone rang.
A shy, effeminate voice said hello and then, “Where are you?”
“In front of the restaurant.”
I looked up. A tall—spindly, even—boy-man in a white shirt, jeans and a suit jacket saw me and started toward me.
He was awkward but seemed entirely unaware of it. Not when we went around the corner from what I thought was the restaurant and into a diner the size of my thumb. Not when a woman on a stool inside asked us if we had a reservation. Not when he told the woman we were just going to the bar. And not when the woman opened a seemingly unobtrusive door, let us through and we walked down some steps, down a little hall, through a tiny kitchen, down another little hall and through an archway that opened up into a subterranean den of tequila...and, probably, sin.
I picked a low-slung banquette while he went to get drinks. If I hadn’t known any better, the way he languidly stood by the bar waiting would have made me think he was gay. Hell, maybe he was about to tell me that he was gay but he liked to make new female friends on Facebook.
“So [#125], who the hell are you?” I asked.
It was a fair question, seeing as he appeared from nowhere. He was evasive. I began guessing. I actually insisted on guessing. I like guessing. From his myriad party photos in which he was prevalently “mantied” (so gay), Jo had suggested he was some kind of promoter or PR guy.
“PR guy? Promoter?” I guessed.
“No and no,” he said.
I sized up his awkward, almost timorous presence and then said, “You’re a computer guy.”
He looked shocked.
“How did you guess that?...Although I’m not sure I really want to know."
“I’m very intuitive,” I said, aiming to avoid telling him a fraction of what I've told here.
Then things got a little rocky. I wanted him to guess what I did. He wouldn’t.
“Ah, you’re trying to be cute,” he said. “But you’ve fallen short.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to be cute, but it’s not working.”
He’d not only found my buttons, he was leaning on them with his full 6’3” frame.
“Well, how do you propose I be then?” I said, fake-smiling up a storm.
He blinked slowly (so gay) and nudged me.
Ah, I saw, it was just his sense of humor.
We got cozier and cozier, leaning against each other, getting playful (so not gay).
Jo has a theory about men and the size of their packages. “Look at a man’s hands,” she would say in her Cockney-tinged accent. “If he has big hands, he’s got a big willy.”
If the manties-wrapped show-stopper he’d been throwing around on Facebook wasn’t a big enough clue, his hands certainly were. They were huge.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked the morning of the date.
“The red dress.”
“Oh no, don’t wear the red dress. Red means sex.”
I wore the red dress anyway and, on my way to meet him, phoned Zoe. She was headed out to New Jersey to meet a music producer she’d met online.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“The red dress.”
“I’m wearing my red dress, too,” she said, laughing. Zoe’s laugh admits nothing and everything at the same time. From it, one gets a whiff of a diabolical plan camouflaged by an aroma of harmless fun.
La Esquina is one of those New York bars that’s intentionally impossible to find—hidden cool. I wandered around the Lafayette/Spring St. triangle for about 15 minutes and finally found a restaurant tucked around the side of a building that I thought was it. I sat on a nearby bench to wait and soon my phone rang.
A shy, effeminate voice said hello and then, “Where are you?”
“In front of the restaurant.”
I looked up. A tall—spindly, even—boy-man in a white shirt, jeans and a suit jacket saw me and started toward me.
He was awkward but seemed entirely unaware of it. Not when we went around the corner from what I thought was the restaurant and into a diner the size of my thumb. Not when a woman on a stool inside asked us if we had a reservation. Not when he told the woman we were just going to the bar. And not when the woman opened a seemingly unobtrusive door, let us through and we walked down some steps, down a little hall, through a tiny kitchen, down another little hall and through an archway that opened up into a subterranean den of tequila...and, probably, sin.
I picked a low-slung banquette while he went to get drinks. If I hadn’t known any better, the way he languidly stood by the bar waiting would have made me think he was gay. Hell, maybe he was about to tell me that he was gay but he liked to make new female friends on Facebook.
“So [#125], who the hell are you?” I asked.
It was a fair question, seeing as he appeared from nowhere. He was evasive. I began guessing. I actually insisted on guessing. I like guessing. From his myriad party photos in which he was prevalently “mantied” (so gay), Jo had suggested he was some kind of promoter or PR guy.
“PR guy? Promoter?” I guessed.
“No and no,” he said.
I sized up his awkward, almost timorous presence and then said, “You’re a computer guy.”
He looked shocked.
“How did you guess that?...Although I’m not sure I really want to know."
“I’m very intuitive,” I said, aiming to avoid telling him a fraction of what I've told here.
Then things got a little rocky. I wanted him to guess what I did. He wouldn’t.
“Ah, you’re trying to be cute,” he said. “But you’ve fallen short.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to be cute, but it’s not working.”
He’d not only found my buttons, he was leaning on them with his full 6’3” frame.
“Well, how do you propose I be then?” I said, fake-smiling up a storm.
He blinked slowly (so gay) and nudged me.
Ah, I saw, it was just his sense of humor.
We got cozier and cozier, leaning against each other, getting playful (so not gay).
Jo has a theory about men and the size of their packages. “Look at a man’s hands,” she would say in her Cockney-tinged accent. “If he has big hands, he’s got a big willy.”
If the manties-wrapped show-stopper he’d been throwing around on Facebook wasn’t a big enough clue, his hands certainly were. They were huge.
I went to say something and stopped. “Well? What were you going to ask me? It looked like it was going to be a very interesting question,” he said. And then he looked at his package as if he’d thought I’d just looked at his package.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh, come on, I can see you were going to be naughty.”
I really, really wasn't, but it seemed like he really, really wanted me to be.
“So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve done in the last three months?” he asked.
I thought and thought.
I remembered Nora’s birthday. “I went roller skating on Staten Island a few weeks ago—and we took a limo…” I said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve done?”
“Well, anticipating you’d probably ask me the same question, I can’t remember exactly, but I have my calendar right here.”
He flicked through the calendar on his iPhone.
“Veronica, Tracy, Mary,” I teased, looking over his shoulder.
I leaned in for a closer look and saw two recurring events.
“What’s ‘Taste’ and what’s ‘Stimulate’?” I asked.
“Well…” he said, “…one is a fetish party and the other is a swingers party.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my flight response engage.
“What kind of fetish party?” I asked, striking a note of curiosity and thinking that he could just be talking about some kind of get together where people excited themselves by rubbing each other’s feet.
“I can show you pictures,” he said. And then he showed me photos of people dressed in combinations of black leather, black latex, zippers, safety pins, straps, laces…
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh, come on, I can see you were going to be naughty.”
I really, really wasn't, but it seemed like he really, really wanted me to be.
“So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve done in the last three months?” he asked.
I thought and thought.
I remembered Nora’s birthday. “I went roller skating on Staten Island a few weeks ago—and we took a limo…” I said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve done?”
“Well, anticipating you’d probably ask me the same question, I can’t remember exactly, but I have my calendar right here.”
He flicked through the calendar on his iPhone.
“Veronica, Tracy, Mary,” I teased, looking over his shoulder.
I leaned in for a closer look and saw two recurring events.
“What’s ‘Taste’ and what’s ‘Stimulate’?” I asked.
“Well…” he said, “…one is a fetish party and the other is a swingers party.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my flight response engage.
“What kind of fetish party?” I asked, striking a note of curiosity and thinking that he could just be talking about some kind of get together where people excited themselves by rubbing each other’s feet.
“I can show you pictures,” he said. And then he showed me photos of people dressed in combinations of black leather, black latex, zippers, safety pins, straps, laces…
Oh, that kind of fetish party.
To be continued…
Signs of Hope: He was gentlemanly and bought me drinks, and we were getting cozy.
Red Flags: The multiple manty photos. And those recurring events.
Turning Point: When he told me about his recurring events.
Diagnosis: For him: For a committed, monogamous relationship, his level of availability is likely pretty low.
For me: I managed to stay on the date as if I was legitimately curious. And, lo and behold, I actually started to feel legitimately curious…
Friday, June 3, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #64: How Soon is Never?
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa summer of 1990, just after high-school graduation, the suburbs of Buffalo.
Vital Stats: 5’8”ish, 18. Aesthetic: Whatever band T-shirts 18-year-old suburban boys were wearing in 1990. Demeanor: Nice, not at all offensive, innocuous; ten years later I would have called that “having no edge.”
What Happened: At a post-graduation party, we were both crouched in front of the stereo. A Smiths tape was playing and, as soon as “How Soon is Now” came on, we looked at each other and needed no words to agree that it was the best song, like, ever. He was also a huge Peter Gabriel fan and he tried to impress upon me the very awesomeness of "Red Rain." I didn't say it then, but it was no "In Your Eyes." We became friendly and I arranged a whole trip to Toronto, including a stop by scenic Niagara Falls on the way home, with him and a few other mutual friends. Afraid my interest would be too obvious, I pretty much ignored him the whole time, causing my friend Vivian to say as we got back in the car after peering over the falls (Canadian side, of course), “Are you OK? You’re acting really weird.”
Despite my weirdness, we, at some point, exchanged college addresses. I sent him a brownie in the mail. I’m sure it had to have been some sort of inside joke, but I can’t recall what that joke could have been and I don’t think he remembered either because I never heard back about it. I saw him at our ten-year high school reunion. He was adorned with a standard-issue girlfriend and severely thinning hair, the latter of which he tried to disguise with a strategic pouf. Now that I think about it, his girlfriend was similarly pouffed.
Signs of Hope: Our Smiths bond.
Red Flags: My weirdness; his general lack of enthusiasm—it was more than the brownie silence.
Turning Point: When we went off to college. Even if I had been able to salvage things after I misplayed Toronto, there wasn’t enough there to keep anything going from a distance.
Diagnosis: For him: He was too disinterested to be available.
For me: I was so busy figuring out how to manage my own interest that I didn’t have the mental space to figure out how to be available.
Vital Stats: 5’8”ish, 18. Aesthetic: Whatever band T-shirts 18-year-old suburban boys were wearing in 1990. Demeanor: Nice, not at all offensive, innocuous; ten years later I would have called that “having no edge.”
What Happened: At a post-graduation party, we were both crouched in front of the stereo. A Smiths tape was playing and, as soon as “How Soon is Now” came on, we looked at each other and needed no words to agree that it was the best song, like, ever. He was also a huge Peter Gabriel fan and he tried to impress upon me the very awesomeness of "Red Rain." I didn't say it then, but it was no "In Your Eyes." We became friendly and I arranged a whole trip to Toronto, including a stop by scenic Niagara Falls on the way home, with him and a few other mutual friends. Afraid my interest would be too obvious, I pretty much ignored him the whole time, causing my friend Vivian to say as we got back in the car after peering over the falls (Canadian side, of course), “Are you OK? You’re acting really weird.”
Despite my weirdness, we, at some point, exchanged college addresses. I sent him a brownie in the mail. I’m sure it had to have been some sort of inside joke, but I can’t recall what that joke could have been and I don’t think he remembered either because I never heard back about it. I saw him at our ten-year high school reunion. He was adorned with a standard-issue girlfriend and severely thinning hair, the latter of which he tried to disguise with a strategic pouf. Now that I think about it, his girlfriend was similarly pouffed.
Signs of Hope: Our Smiths bond.
Red Flags: My weirdness; his general lack of enthusiasm—it was more than the brownie silence.
Turning Point: When we went off to college. Even if I had been able to salvage things after I misplayed Toronto, there wasn’t enough there to keep anything going from a distance.
Diagnosis: For him: He was too disinterested to be available.
For me: I was so busy figuring out how to manage my own interest that I didn’t have the mental space to figure out how to be available.
Me and Mr. Unavailable: The Psychic
Some of us who want to get married get married at 24. Others of us who want to get married linger on in the dating scene until our late 30s. We begin to wonder where we went wrong. Were we too picky? Were we just unlucky? Did our husbands marry other women?
We start to take radical measures, hiring expensive matchmakers; joining dating sites like “It’s Just Lunch,” “Crazy Blind Date” and “Date a Cougar” (when we’re still in our 30s); going speed dating; asking all of our friends if they have friends they could set us up with; being set up with the aforementioned friends of friends and feeling vaguely insulted upon meeting them, but, if we’re lucky, getting a dinner out of it; taking suggestions from our therapists to become more aware of whether or not we’re sexually attracted to certain men; becoming more aware of being sexually attracted to certain men; taking a break from serious dating to sleep with the 25-year-old men we’re aware of being sexually attracted to; and then, finally, after all of that and still finding ourselves single, we resort to psychics.
A few weeks ago, I pulled a bunch of stuff out of storage and found a tape from a psychic reading I had when I was 21 in Santa Cruz, California. I popped it in my old SONY Sports cassette player and had a listen. I'd always remembered some things she'd said...that I'd end up in New York...that I'd be writing books...but I'd forgotten a lot of what she had said, too. In particular, this:
We start to take radical measures, hiring expensive matchmakers; joining dating sites like “It’s Just Lunch,” “Crazy Blind Date” and “Date a Cougar” (when we’re still in our 30s); going speed dating; asking all of our friends if they have friends they could set us up with; being set up with the aforementioned friends of friends and feeling vaguely insulted upon meeting them, but, if we’re lucky, getting a dinner out of it; taking suggestions from our therapists to become more aware of whether or not we’re sexually attracted to certain men; becoming more aware of being sexually attracted to certain men; taking a break from serious dating to sleep with the 25-year-old men we’re aware of being sexually attracted to; and then, finally, after all of that and still finding ourselves single, we resort to psychics.
A few weeks ago, I pulled a bunch of stuff out of storage and found a tape from a psychic reading I had when I was 21 in Santa Cruz, California. I popped it in my old SONY Sports cassette player and had a listen. I'd always remembered some things she'd said...that I'd end up in New York...that I'd be writing books...but I'd forgotten a lot of what she had said, too. In particular, this:
"I see you getting married late," she said.
I turned up the tape player. So far, she was right.
"I see you not getting married until you're maybe..."
Oh, yes, I was listening.
"...until you're maybe 32."
I laughed out loud. Usually I'm a stickler for deadlines but I missed that one by six years and counting.
It was time for a refresher reading. And, because I have an inability to let go, I also wanted to know if I should bother giving any of the previous Mr. Unavailables a second look. My cougar friend’s roommate mentioned a psychic in California that had predicted she’d get back together with her ex-boyfriend. And it had happened.
I arranged a Thursday afternoon phone appointment. When she called, she sounded much more girlfriend-like than I had expected. We were actually giggling. Then she got down to business.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
“Well”—I suddenly felt silly—"I want to know when I’m going to find 'the one.'"
“You haven’t met your penguin yet,” she said.
I arranged a Thursday afternoon phone appointment. When she called, she sounded much more girlfriend-like than I had expected. We were actually giggling. Then she got down to business.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
“Well”—I suddenly felt silly—"I want to know when I’m going to find 'the one.'"
“You haven’t met your penguin yet,” she said.
Her name for “the one,” is your “penguin.” I hadn’t been a big fan of that penguin movie, but I did remember something about how they mate for life, so I went with it.
“But you have met one of your more significant others—a soul mate," she continued. "Although it ended a few years ago, you never ‘finished’ that relationship. The effect of that relationship poisoned your well.”
I knew of whom she spoke. I had glossed over him—in here and in my life. It was #88. After he broke up with me, it’s not an exaggeration to say that I was destroyed. For almost a year, I walked around as a sad shell of myself. Finally, I became sick of my sorry self, so I stopped. But I’d never finished healing.
“You have an internal battle. You want your [one] but part of you doesn’t believe he exists, so you pull in either nothing or half…people. They’re great on paper but really immature.”
I thought of #120 and #111 and on and on down the line.
“It doesn’t feel like you’ve resolved it and it has shaped your view of relationships.”
She said a lot of good stuff, so I’m going to let her talk for a minute:
“You need to recognize that what happened was that he wasn’t ready, it was too much for him. It scared him and he was not emotionally developed enough to handle it. His big terror was that he would disappoint you and that you would leave, so he left while the going was good so that he wouldn’t have to feel worse about himself. He just ran. If you had not had as strong a connection, then he would have stuck around.”
Ouch.
I knew of whom she spoke. I had glossed over him—in here and in my life. It was #88. After he broke up with me, it’s not an exaggeration to say that I was destroyed. For almost a year, I walked around as a sad shell of myself. Finally, I became sick of my sorry self, so I stopped. But I’d never finished healing.
“You have an internal battle. You want your [one] but part of you doesn’t believe he exists, so you pull in either nothing or half…people. They’re great on paper but really immature.”
I thought of #120 and #111 and on and on down the line.
“It doesn’t feel like you’ve resolved it and it has shaped your view of relationships.”
She said a lot of good stuff, so I’m going to let her talk for a minute:
“You need to recognize that what happened was that he wasn’t ready, it was too much for him. It scared him and he was not emotionally developed enough to handle it. His big terror was that he would disappoint you and that you would leave, so he left while the going was good so that he wouldn’t have to feel worse about himself. He just ran. If you had not had as strong a connection, then he would have stuck around.”
Ouch.
She continued:
“You are very deeply emotional, but you process things intellectually over and above all the heart stuff. Your head knew what happened but your heart closed down and went along with your head. Your heart needs closure. There were signs he was going to leave. It felt like you got blindsided—that’s a very powerless feeling. You need to tell your heart that you saw signs. Because as long as you feel powerless, you will want to keep safe.”
I don’t remember at which point I started to cry. Everything she was saying felt true. It was what everyone had told me—friends, my therapist, really nice strangers—but only now was I able to believe it...coming from a psychic...six years after the fact.
I needed, she said, to mentally get back into the relationship and chronologically go through it and see the signs and not excuse them now like I did then.
“Find the places where your heart is stuck. Your heart needs to connect to it. You need to re-break your heart. It will feel like knots are being released.”
Re-break my heart. Fun.
“You are very deeply emotional, but you process things intellectually over and above all the heart stuff. Your head knew what happened but your heart closed down and went along with your head. Your heart needs closure. There were signs he was going to leave. It felt like you got blindsided—that’s a very powerless feeling. You need to tell your heart that you saw signs. Because as long as you feel powerless, you will want to keep safe.”
I don’t remember at which point I started to cry. Everything she was saying felt true. It was what everyone had told me—friends, my therapist, really nice strangers—but only now was I able to believe it...coming from a psychic...six years after the fact.
I needed, she said, to mentally get back into the relationship and chronologically go through it and see the signs and not excuse them now like I did then.
“Find the places where your heart is stuck. Your heart needs to connect to it. You need to re-break your heart. It will feel like knots are being released.”
Re-break my heart. Fun.
After I got off the phone, I cried. And when Elaine came over that night, I cried. And when I told Nora the next day, I cried. And, a few days later, when I told Elaine more details of how horrible the days before he ended it were, I really cried.
“That was some awesome channeling you just did,” she said. “I think you’re just supposed to feel it. To let yourself feel it and move through it and heal.”
I’m not sure if I’m just a fast healer, but in less than two weeks, I felt freed. What the psychic said made a lot of sense. My head knew what had happened but my heart never did. I think now it does.
Diagnosis: For him: As I said before but now actually believe, he was a runner. His reality now: I heard in November that he was married with a kid and living somewhere in the Midwest. Even when I heard it, it stung. After the reading, I Googled him. He’s not on Facebook. He doesn’t have any photos. But I did find someone of his name and age in Ames, Iowa.
For me: I no longer feel a need to Google him on Facebook. And I truly wish him a wonderful life. The reading had a quick effect. Even right afterward, I was carrying myself differently. It was because I had an answer. And it felt like the right answer. I had something I could fix so that maybe I’d stop picking half people and finally pick someone whole.
Epilogue: In the last few minutes of the reading, she finally did get around to giving me a few details about “the one.” But not before saying that before he came along, I’d have a six to eight month relationship and end it because it lacked passion (and we know how I prefer being the dumper, so, yay). She said my “one” was a year and a half to two years away.
“What I like about him..." she said, "...and I know you’re going to groan at this, but he is very outdoorsy.”
I groaned.
“I know,” she said. “You, by your nature, do not do outdoorsy stuff, but he brings that out in you.”
She also said he had a practical side and was good at taking care of bills and stuff. That sounded more like it.
“That was some awesome channeling you just did,” she said. “I think you’re just supposed to feel it. To let yourself feel it and move through it and heal.”
I’m not sure if I’m just a fast healer, but in less than two weeks, I felt freed. What the psychic said made a lot of sense. My head knew what had happened but my heart never did. I think now it does.
Diagnosis: For him: As I said before but now actually believe, he was a runner. His reality now: I heard in November that he was married with a kid and living somewhere in the Midwest. Even when I heard it, it stung. After the reading, I Googled him. He’s not on Facebook. He doesn’t have any photos. But I did find someone of his name and age in Ames, Iowa.
For me: I no longer feel a need to Google him on Facebook. And I truly wish him a wonderful life. The reading had a quick effect. Even right afterward, I was carrying myself differently. It was because I had an answer. And it felt like the right answer. I had something I could fix so that maybe I’d stop picking half people and finally pick someone whole.
Epilogue: In the last few minutes of the reading, she finally did get around to giving me a few details about “the one.” But not before saying that before he came along, I’d have a six to eight month relationship and end it because it lacked passion (and we know how I prefer being the dumper, so, yay). She said my “one” was a year and a half to two years away.
“What I like about him..." she said, "...and I know you’re going to groan at this, but he is very outdoorsy.”
I groaned.
“I know,” she said. “You, by your nature, do not do outdoorsy stuff, but he brings that out in you.”
She also said he had a practical side and was good at taking care of bills and stuff. That sounded more like it.
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