To Beg or To Choose

I think the cosmos is screwing with me.

Okay, that's a bit grandiose, even for me, but about nine hours after my last post, the situation about which I had just written reared it's morally questionable head again. Am I facing a Groundhog Day-esque situation here? Are attached men going to be the only ones who want to sleep with me until I get it right and refuse? In my defense, Friday night's circumstances caught me completely off guard. While I wasn't exactly ambushed, I did feel rather... put on the spot. Which leads me to another question, but I'll get to that shortly.

It started out like any Friday night for me. Met my friend Brent at his place for drinks, where we were later joined by two friends of his he hadn't seen in ages, Martin and Thomas, who'd come all the way from suburbia to hang out. I'd met them before but don't know them all that well. We chit-chatted, danced around the living room a bit to Madge, and then headed out to a local gay dance bar for some booty-shaking and more bevvies.

We'd only been there about an hour or so when Brent wanted to leave to get something to eat. I begged him to wait - it's nearly impossible to get me off a dancefloor once I've planted myself there - but he and Martin took off anyway. When I ran into Thomas, he expressed some dismay as he was supposed to be crashing at Brent's place that night, so I told him not to worry, I had a pull-out sofa bed he could crash on if we couldn't find Brent later. He protested, saying he didn't want to be an inconvenience, but I waved his concerns aside. I'm pretty easy-going, I told him, don't worry about it, really, it's absolutely fine. This seemed to sate his worries and we continued dancing.

Meanwhile, I notice this gorgeous guy named Adam that I'd met the Saturday night prior (see "hangover" as mentioned in "On the Bandwagon") and much to my surprise he seems into me. We end up dancing together on and off as the night progresses towards last call, and eventually we end up making out a bit. I kind of feel bad Thomas has to watch this, but I make a point to still hang out with him in between touchy-feely sessions with Adam. Thomas has a boyfriend back home, though, so I really don't feel that bad.

When the night winds down and it's time to leave, I tell Adam I'd invite him over, but I have a friend staying with me. He tells me he couldn't visit tonight anyway for the same reason (as I sit here writing this, I find myself cynically questioning the truth of this - after all, his attachment-status has yet to be determined), so we kiss good night and go our seperate ways.

I try to call Brent while waiting outside for Thomas, but can't reach him. Thomas tumbles out of the bar and we walk to my place. He's apologises so much for being an inconvenience, I tell him to cut it out before I change my mind.

Back at mine, we share some leftover pizza I had in the fridge and shoot the shit. I get the pull out ready, get him a toothbrush, inquire as to whether or not he needs an alarm clock set, wish him good night, and head to bed. I'm slipping under the covers when he appears in my doorway.

"It's cold out there."

As if my living room has penguins parading through it or something.

"Um, well, do you want an extra blanket or something?" I say stupidly.

"It looks like it would be warmer in here." And the forecast calls for cheating with a sixty percent chance of light guilt and scattered dignity.

This was the moment: politely suggest that it would be better for all involved if he remained in the living room, or...

"Alright," I say, tossing back the duvet and patting the empty spot next to me. "It probably will be a lot warmer in here."

We laid there for a few moments like two hesitant fourteen year-olds: you know what you want to happen, but at the same time you're dreading it and the consequences. And then our gay natures took the all-too-usual course.

Shit.

Why do I feel remorse about this one? Was the situation all that different than what had transpired a mere two slutty days before? Not really. Does it have something to do with Thomas mentioning that, though he was in my bed, he was feeling some guilt and anxiety about it? Probably. Although it's possible he felt he had to say that so I didn't think he was a horrible person. I don't have a problem sleeping with an attached guy if the desire is unadulterated and the adultery unmentioned. But Thomas expressed hesitation, which means it's likely that someone will be hurt, and I should have put a stop to it at that point.

So I've learned a lesson here. This moral gray area is now a little less so. But now the new question: why can't I say no? Okay, I was surprised when he showed up in my doorway, but calling it "ambushed" is definitely a stretch. It's not his fault I'm often rather oblivious to the obvious. So why couldn't I choose (to borrow a good friend's term) emotional safety for all involved?

It would be easy to chalk it up to selfishness. But having spent my formative years geeky and unpopular, I'm still surprised when someone wants me. I shouldn't be. Most of the evidence, from both the feedback of friends and fucks, points to me being more than averagely attractive. But I just can't fathom that. I'm just... me. I feel like I need to grab the opportunities when they present themselves, just in case it might never happen again. But isn't it time I accept that it's okay to be a chooser rather than a beggar? Wouldn't that be a healthier way to approach, not only sex, but everything?

And here I thought I was over all that insecure bullshit. Damn.

A Moral Gray Area

I had sex with a guy the night before last, but he has a boyfriend. I knew that before going home with him and I didn't care. I can't decide if this is wrong or not.

There are degrees of right and wrong, seeing as the world is not black and white and context being everything, but most decisions usually fall more to one side than the other. I don't think it's a big deal, but I was definitely getting a hint of scorn vibe from my roommate. While blearily stumbling home the morning after the dirty, I called her from my cell to let her know I wasn't dead. I explained where I had been, and shared my joy of finally managing to have some decent sex this calendar year.

"Are you going to see this guy again?" she asked.

"Well, no, probably not, though I'll probably run into him again at [mutual friend]'s birthday party. I'm pretty sure he has a boyfriend."

"Oh. A cheater." {insert disgusted tone here} "That's not good."

O-kay then. Maybe she's right. But I don't know anything about their relationship. For all I know they have an arrangement where the occasional guest star is permitted, provided it doesn't lead anywhere. I've encountered that before. I was looking to get laid, not build a picket fence and adopt a child.

I can't help thinking that a lot of people don't see it this way. In this instance, I only know he had a boyfriend because the mutual friend with whom we were out told me so. (Not in words, mind you. In response to my behind-the-prospective-trick's-back, what's-the-story-with-him? look, my friend returned the classic putting-the-wedding-ring-on, shrug-of-the-shoulders move. Translation: he's taken, but don't rule out some action.) The man didn't tell me himself he had a boyfriend. They never do. Definitely signs that this is a moral gray area.

Not quite a month after I first became single, I was out on gay pride weekend at a bar and crossed paths with this hot shrink I'd been running into for months. Previously there'd been a lot of meaning-laden lingering glances, but this time I felt free to bump and grind all night. We left together, but once outside his apartment building, he looked unsure of how to proceed.

"I'd invite you up," he said with a rueful look, "but I think you have a boyfriend."

"Oh, no," I said, probably a bit too gleefully. "We broke up."

"Well, in that case..."

So to a psychiatrist, at least to this particular one, sleeping with me was a no-go if I was still in a relationship. Although it's possible that he was hoping to begin one with me and wanted to make sure the coast was clear.

(He needn't have bothered. He never returned my phone call anyway. I still run into him now and again but I'm too chicken to ask why I didn't hear from him again. I'm afraid he may have gleaned some brilliant behavioural insight into the workings of my mind and ran for the hills. It must be weird to be a shrink on the dating scene. Can you simply turn off your sharply honed analytical talents at will? Or do you find yourself working through the headcase checklist on every date? Hmm.)

Another time I was having amazingly good sex with this hot french guy (Montreal french, not France french) when we hear his "roommate" get home. Frenchie tells me to get under the covers and a moment later the "roommate" bursts into the bedroom, obviously high as a kite. Frenchie introduces me - as if we're rubbing elbows at an art show opening rather than sitting there naked, slathered in lube, porn flickering away on the television. The two of them chit-chatted about their respective evenings while the "roommate" went through the closet looking for something to change into before heading out again. The "roommate" finally leaves, and we're just getting back into it when he bursts in again!

Back into the closet. "I just need one more thing, sorry guys!"

Unbelievably this happened a third time. I didn't even bother getting back under the covers and even joined in their conversation.

Obviously he wasn't a roommate. I should have clued in earlier that something was up when Frenchie couldn't find a condom anywhere (it's okay, he did eventually). Roomie was definitely a boyfriend with prearranged play rules, but Frenchie didn't tell me this in advance. Could it because he thought I might decline his company if I knew? I'm thinking that's pretty likely.

Maybe I'm simply selfish. It doesn't affect me if they have a boyfriend or not, so I simply proceed either way. I don't think I'm destroying any homes. And it's not as if I'm some irresistible temptation - if they weren't fucking around with me, it would be with somebody else. So it might as well be me. Besides, if I'm incorrect and proceeding while in possession of boyfriend knowledge is totally wrong, karma will get me for it in the end.

It's not like I haven't encountered that before.

Assume Nothing

How much can we ever really know another person?

I've been wondering about this lately. A close friend of mine recently broke up with her boyfriend. They've had a rough year, lots of ups and downs, and have been living in her parent's house. Probably not a great living arrangement for building a successful relationship (although it is arguably a pretty good one for a crappy sitcom) but not necessarily a reason to sound the death knell, either, given it was supposed to be a temporary thing. So my friend wasn't all that surprised when her boyfriend started spending more time out of the house.
Who wouldn't need space in this instance?

Still, it seemed to be getting more frequent, and naturally she suspected something fishy was going on when he disappeared for longer than usual without calling her or returning her calls. It was soon discovered that he was not visiting his parents as he claimed - and that the previous four or five visits to them hadn't happened, either.

"But don't worry," the absentee boyfriend's father told my anxious friend after delivering this shocking news, in the false belief he was being soothing. "He disappears like this all the time. He'll be back."

Oh?

After nearly three days had passed without word, my friend starting packing the boyfriend's shit. And discovered an interesting piece of paper. It seemed her now-ex boyfriend had once been charged with soliciting a prostitute. Who, unfortunately for him, had turned out to be one of our city's finest. Whoops.

My friend was devastated. Not necessarily because of the prostitute, but because the boyfriend hadn't felt he could be honest with her. And, I suspect, because she felt duped. How long could it have gone without her finding out about what had happened? "You think you know someone," she said.

Indeed.

I've been single now for nine months. My six-year relationship ended last June. (On the fifth, actually, but who's counting?) There were a myriad of reasons the relationship needed to end, but one of the reasons was that I felt lost. Like a sponge soaking up spilled wine, the relationship had somehow absorbed me. If you looked closely, you could still me staining the fibres, but I wasn't really there in my true form. I was a smudge of my former self.

My other complaint was that The Ex didn't seem to know me anymore either. Our conversations became stilted. He'd want to talk about things in which I had no interest - and vice versa I'm sure - to the point where I couldn't even reply anymore. I'd just sit there, silent, feeling unable to connect with him. "Doesn't he know me?" I thought. "Shouldn't he know me well enough to find a way to let me into this conversation?"

He couldn't, and eventually, frustrated, I stopped bothering to try to find ways to let him in, too.

I'm still not certain which occurred first: did I get absorbed and disappear and he couldn't find me anymore? Or because he couldn't find me, did I then disappear?

When we stop looking for a person, do they vanish?

I guess it depends on many things. How honest you were with each other in the first place. How much you decide to let another person know you. How much another person decides to let you in. We regulate these connections, keep watch over the comings and goings of potentially risky information. After all, the more of yourself you give away, the more you stand to lose.

For years, I wore a broken watch. I've never really had any luck with watches. They always break on me, or disappear, or simply stop. This particular watch originally belonged to my grandfather, who died when I was four, and so I took some pleasure in having something that had belonged to him on my person at all times. My friends seemed to find my logic strange, but it made sense to me: since every watch I'd ever had simply stopped working, I would just wear one that wasn't ever going to work and I would never have to worry about it stopping.

Besides, it was a nice looking watch, silver, very shiny, simply designed, with a stretchy band you just slipped over your wrist that stretched back closed to fit you, and I like nice things. I have really small wrists, and most men's watches have these huge faces that look ridiculous on me, but this one looked alright.

It was funny, though. You didn't wind it, it was one of those that are powered by the motion of your body or something. I'm a fidgety person, always moving and on the go, so it seemed doubly funny to me that it didn't work. It would work in spurts, though. I'd always set it to midnight (or noon, same thing) but the hands would't remain there. I'd look down one day and notice it was suddenly 12.35.

It became something of a joke with my friends, who would always forget and ask me for the time. And when inevitably a stranger would ask me if I had the time on the subway or in the street, I'd say "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't know." Mostly they'd look at me funny, as if I were being rude, and turn away. But once someone wasn't so quick to jump to this conclusion.

"But you're wearing a watch," he said, pointing to my wrist.

"Oh, this?" I said, looking at it. "It doesn't work, actually."

"Oh. Well how come you wear it then?"

"I just like how it looks," I answered, and smiled. "Plus, it belonged to my grandfather, who I never really knew. So there's kinda some sentimental value, I guess."

"Hmm," the guy said. "Well, it's a really nice watch. Have a good day."

"Yeah, thanks," I replied. "You, too."

I realized then that all those people before had thought I was being rude, and that you really can't look at anyone and assume you know what's going on, that you know the whole story. That watch, until it's untimely death in a moving accident, took on a whole new purpose for me after that. It became my daily reminder to assume nothing, ever, even with seemingly obvious clues right there in front of my face.

After all, how much can we ever really know about anyone?

On the Bandwagon

So here I am. Joining the blog bandwagon. Really it's just a way to put an anagram of my name to some kind of use. And to avoid doing my work whilst at work. Will anyone read this? Probably not. Do I really care? Not particularly. Well, maybe a little. I don't dislike attention. Let's be honest - why would I be here if I didn't like it somewhat?

God, I'm hungover. Working on Sundays sucks. I vaguely remember a time when nearly everything was closed on Sunday. That would be pretty fantastic. What the the hell do we need this seventh day of shopping for anyway? Our vacuous culture is so bent on consumption that now you can buy shit without even stepping outside of the house. Now, I'm not an organized religion guy at all, but I think the whole "day of rest" concept has some merit. I'd much rather be at home nursing my hangover in the comfort of my bed.

Of course, I'd also be fine with not having to work ever again. I've more than enough interests to sustain the remaining days of my life. Those people who say "Oh, I'd be so bored if I didn't have to go to work everyday" are bloody liars. I mean, really - you can't be serious. I can't think of anything more depressing than being that unimaginative. I'm quite certain I could contribute to society in a more meaningful manner if I didn't have the distraction of worrying about little trifles like the rent.

Earning a living. How tedious.

And what is there to earn exactly? My life is pretty much the only thing I've ever gotten for free.