There's nothing so satisfying as setting a goal and then achieving it. My goal this week was to have a great one night stand. After the whole waiter debacle, I was feeling the need to put the casual back in casual sex. Besides, it's spring. Spring always seems to bring out my inner slut.
Mission accomplished.
I went out last night with some friends, bar hopped, and brought home a cute boy. We had three hours of fun then fell into a deep and restful slumber. Well, at least I did. The poor fellow had to work today and got about an hour's sleep. I don't even remember him leaving, which is too bad, really. He was sweet. I would've liked to have gotten his number. But that would've defeated the whole purpose of the thing, I suppose, so it's better this way. I got everything I needed out of it. Besides, knowing my luck, he probably has a boyfriend anyway.
I feel like I should be ashamed or something, but it's just not happening. With the exception of my slight hangover, I feel fantastic.
Hilariously, in the midst of last night's action, I finally got a text message response from the waiter. He apologized for not getting back to me sooner and said he would explain himself when he gets back from Coachella next week. I suppose I'll hear him out if he calls, simply out of curiousity, but at this point I really don't give a shit if it happens or not. Way too little, way too late, buddy. I didn't even bother replying to his message. I started to formulate a response this morning, and then realized I was being nice, so I stopped. I don't have enough time as it is. Why waste any more on him?
Speaking of a waste of time, I posted my profile on a gay chat site the other night. I'm not sure if it's really my thing. It feels weird to me. I know it's just another forum for contact, but I can't shake the idea that there's something a little desperate about it. I have no problem spilling all the lurid details of my life here, but somehow having a profile on a chat site makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. Maybe it's because the gay community is so small. The idea of someone I know stumbling upon it kind of freaks me out. As does the idea of some freak I don't know stumbling upon it. Plus it's hard enough avoiding charlatans in person, how the hell am I going to manage it from a desktop?
Hmmm. I seem to be talking myself out of it already. But I'll give it a shot for a little bit. If I'm going to find a fuck buddy, I should be taking some steps to put myself out there. I'm just not sure how out there I'm comfortable being. What if I suddenly find myself so far gone I can't find my way home? I envison myself following the trail of used condoms back to my door. Not exactly how I pictured my life would be at this stage of the game. Thank god for the little bursts of satisfaction I get out of achieving small goals.
Most days, that's all I've got.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Moving On to Me
The best part of a relationship ending, even one as slight as mine with the Waiter, is the moving on. I tend to be a man of emotional extremes. If you've got my attention, you've got it all, but once we're done, that's it. It's over.
That's not to say I haven't given people a second chance at times (this won't be one of them). Circumstances always vary. It's usually depends on... well, basically, it depends on how fucked over you made me feel and how avoidable I think it was. I can forgive a lot if I can tell you didn't mean to fuck me over, if it just kind of happened because of bad timing or what have you. But if you were simply an ass, well, sorry. You should have been more careful. I won't carry a sack of bitterness on my back for the rest of my life over it, but I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time, either.
Moving on, for me, is all about me time. I'm the first to admit when I'm into someone, I'm obsessive. I drop everything. I lose focus on myself, on what I want to be working on to be a better person, on the extra things I should be doing to improve the state of my life. I believe time is a gift and if you're important to me, I feel it is important to give you time. Inevitably I don't check in on myself, and then realize I've lost my sense of balance about things (which I hope is not the same thing as being unbalanced). I foresake too much of my me-time and then end up playing catch up.
I think this stems from worrying that I'm selfish. I've always believed I tend to be, and as a result I give too much of myself away. I do not think this is a good thing. Which is why I'm writing this down. I want to remember this lesson.
Still, I'm optimistic. I refuse to become cynical. The right guy, whenever we stumble into each other, will give time to me in return for mine, and the scales will even out. Not that I'm gonna sit around waiting for that to happen.
Yes, once I've decided it's over, it's over. I have no feelings of loss. I feel liberated. No more time wasted wondering, waiting for phone calls that will never come. Deep down, I guess I knew the Waiter was never gonna work out. I feel a welcome overwhelming sense of relief, as if I've narrowly escaped the path of an oncoming train. Nothing could feel better. I have new appreciation for my life. It's a good one. Things could definitely be a lot worse. And the timing is perfect. Summer, my favourite season, is nearly here.
Time for new adventures. Bring it on.
That's not to say I haven't given people a second chance at times (this won't be one of them). Circumstances always vary. It's usually depends on... well, basically, it depends on how fucked over you made me feel and how avoidable I think it was. I can forgive a lot if I can tell you didn't mean to fuck me over, if it just kind of happened because of bad timing or what have you. But if you were simply an ass, well, sorry. You should have been more careful. I won't carry a sack of bitterness on my back for the rest of my life over it, but I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time, either.
Moving on, for me, is all about me time. I'm the first to admit when I'm into someone, I'm obsessive. I drop everything. I lose focus on myself, on what I want to be working on to be a better person, on the extra things I should be doing to improve the state of my life. I believe time is a gift and if you're important to me, I feel it is important to give you time. Inevitably I don't check in on myself, and then realize I've lost my sense of balance about things (which I hope is not the same thing as being unbalanced). I foresake too much of my me-time and then end up playing catch up.
I think this stems from worrying that I'm selfish. I've always believed I tend to be, and as a result I give too much of myself away. I do not think this is a good thing. Which is why I'm writing this down. I want to remember this lesson.
Still, I'm optimistic. I refuse to become cynical. The right guy, whenever we stumble into each other, will give time to me in return for mine, and the scales will even out. Not that I'm gonna sit around waiting for that to happen.
Yes, once I've decided it's over, it's over. I have no feelings of loss. I feel liberated. No more time wasted wondering, waiting for phone calls that will never come. Deep down, I guess I knew the Waiter was never gonna work out. I feel a welcome overwhelming sense of relief, as if I've narrowly escaped the path of an oncoming train. Nothing could feel better. I have new appreciation for my life. It's a good one. Things could definitely be a lot worse. And the timing is perfect. Summer, my favourite season, is nearly here.
Time for new adventures. Bring it on.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Nothing But a Piece of Juicy Fruit
I decided to go to Steve's place of work today. I got on the subway and walked down Spadina to College Street. I knew what I was doing was wrong. The little voice in my head kept telling me to stop and turn around immediately. But I didn't listen. I couldn't help myself. I had to know.
As if ignoring my instincts weren't bad enough, I was even sent a sign from the heavens. I was trucking down College Street, destination in sight, when I crossed paths with the Shrink. He was the first person I bedded after the Ex and, while I didn't fall for him or anything, I deluded myself at the time that there was a chance we would date. When he never returned my phone call, I was baffled, though I got over it quickly (for more on the Shrink, see February's A Moral Gray Area.)
We said hello as we passed each other and continued on our respective ways. I thought "this is a warning. Abort mission immediately." It was like the cosmos was trying to tell me, just like I had with the Shrink, that I have been misreading Steve's intentions all along: "Remember this guy, Brad? Remember he was so interested in you and then it abruptly stopped? Haven't you learned anything?"
No, cosmos, it appears that I have not.
After waiting for a crowd of at least fifteen people to file out of the restaurant, I head inside. I don't see Steve at first, but then catch a glimpse of him around the corner. I ask the woman at the bar if I can just sit anywhere and I do. Steve is clearing a table as I sit down. Then he sees me.
"Bradley!"
(Not, for the record, my name - it's simply "Brad" - but I let others use it as a term of endearment for me if I like how it sounds when they say it. Which is rare.)
Okay, I think, he doesn't seem upset I'm here. Maybe I've been driving myself crazy for nothing.
"Hey," I say.
He tells me they just had a big rush and that he'll be with me when he can. The girl from the bar comes over with a menu. When she returns to take my order, I realize Steve will not be my server. It becomes readily apparent that he's avoiding me. I pull the book I'm reading out of my bag and make an effort to concentrate on the words in front of me. Steve comes by and says something about how they have a lot of dishes and rushes off again.
Right. Dishes. I sip my coffee and turn a page. I should never have come here.
My tomato and cheese sandwich with coleslaw arrives. It's quite tasty, actually. If nothing else, at least I'm getting a good meal out of this.
The CD playing in the restaurant is changed. It's Annie. At whose concert Steve and I met. This can't be a coincidence. Is this his way of saying "I'm sorry I haven't called you, remember how great it was the night we met?" Or is he trying to tell me, as Annie sings on the album's opening song, "you think you're chocolate but you're chewing gum." As in, you tasted great for a while, but the flavour has disappeared and now I'm spitting you out.
Steve reappears midway through my sandwich and ask me how my gig went on the weekend. I tell him it was a smashing success, which doesn't suprise him. "Not really my scene, though. Too many fags for me."
I tell him I know, it's not a big deal that he didn't come. Which it isn't. He told me all along he wouldn't be going. Yet his comment is interesting to me. Is he hinting at what he perceives the differences between us to be, that we are from two different worlds or something? Am I too gay for him? It doesn't really fit, based on the things we've done together.
"Well, I'm at work," he says, stating the obvious, "so I can't really talk here..."
This is it. The moment.
"... but we should talk."
He looks me right in the eye, gives me a bit of a squint as he says this.
Right then, I know. In that one glance, I can see everything that he will eventually say to me flash across his eyes. It's not me, it's him. He thought I was what he wanted but it's just not happening. I can see that something has happened with him in the past few days that has nothing to do with me that is going to terminate this relationship. He's slept with someone for sure, possibly he's reconnected with an ex. The details, every one of which I want to know, of course, being the obsessive freak I am, aren't really important.
He tells me he's done work at five and then going to the gym, asks if I'm free. I tell him yes, he can just give me a ring when he's done at the gym and we can meet. The unspoken tension is palpable.
He goes back to work. I finish up my meal, put my book away, and pay the bill. I thank the woman who served me on the way out and give Steve a "I'll talk to you later?" He nods. I give a curt wave and get the hell out of there.
I feel sick. I could see this coming all along, but I feel like bursting into tears anyway. As I suspected would happen during my long, thoughtful walk back downtown after this most disastrous mission, it is now 6.35pm and he has not called me. It's over.
I am nothing but a piece of gum.
As if ignoring my instincts weren't bad enough, I was even sent a sign from the heavens. I was trucking down College Street, destination in sight, when I crossed paths with the Shrink. He was the first person I bedded after the Ex and, while I didn't fall for him or anything, I deluded myself at the time that there was a chance we would date. When he never returned my phone call, I was baffled, though I got over it quickly (for more on the Shrink, see February's A Moral Gray Area.)
We said hello as we passed each other and continued on our respective ways. I thought "this is a warning. Abort mission immediately." It was like the cosmos was trying to tell me, just like I had with the Shrink, that I have been misreading Steve's intentions all along: "Remember this guy, Brad? Remember he was so interested in you and then it abruptly stopped? Haven't you learned anything?"
No, cosmos, it appears that I have not.
After waiting for a crowd of at least fifteen people to file out of the restaurant, I head inside. I don't see Steve at first, but then catch a glimpse of him around the corner. I ask the woman at the bar if I can just sit anywhere and I do. Steve is clearing a table as I sit down. Then he sees me.
"Bradley!"
(Not, for the record, my name - it's simply "Brad" - but I let others use it as a term of endearment for me if I like how it sounds when they say it. Which is rare.)
Okay, I think, he doesn't seem upset I'm here. Maybe I've been driving myself crazy for nothing.
"Hey," I say.
He tells me they just had a big rush and that he'll be with me when he can. The girl from the bar comes over with a menu. When she returns to take my order, I realize Steve will not be my server. It becomes readily apparent that he's avoiding me. I pull the book I'm reading out of my bag and make an effort to concentrate on the words in front of me. Steve comes by and says something about how they have a lot of dishes and rushes off again.
Right. Dishes. I sip my coffee and turn a page. I should never have come here.
My tomato and cheese sandwich with coleslaw arrives. It's quite tasty, actually. If nothing else, at least I'm getting a good meal out of this.
The CD playing in the restaurant is changed. It's Annie. At whose concert Steve and I met. This can't be a coincidence. Is this his way of saying "I'm sorry I haven't called you, remember how great it was the night we met?" Or is he trying to tell me, as Annie sings on the album's opening song, "you think you're chocolate but you're chewing gum." As in, you tasted great for a while, but the flavour has disappeared and now I'm spitting you out.
Steve reappears midway through my sandwich and ask me how my gig went on the weekend. I tell him it was a smashing success, which doesn't suprise him. "Not really my scene, though. Too many fags for me."
I tell him I know, it's not a big deal that he didn't come. Which it isn't. He told me all along he wouldn't be going. Yet his comment is interesting to me. Is he hinting at what he perceives the differences between us to be, that we are from two different worlds or something? Am I too gay for him? It doesn't really fit, based on the things we've done together.
"Well, I'm at work," he says, stating the obvious, "so I can't really talk here..."
This is it. The moment.
"... but we should talk."
He looks me right in the eye, gives me a bit of a squint as he says this.
Right then, I know. In that one glance, I can see everything that he will eventually say to me flash across his eyes. It's not me, it's him. He thought I was what he wanted but it's just not happening. I can see that something has happened with him in the past few days that has nothing to do with me that is going to terminate this relationship. He's slept with someone for sure, possibly he's reconnected with an ex. The details, every one of which I want to know, of course, being the obsessive freak I am, aren't really important.
He tells me he's done work at five and then going to the gym, asks if I'm free. I tell him yes, he can just give me a ring when he's done at the gym and we can meet. The unspoken tension is palpable.
He goes back to work. I finish up my meal, put my book away, and pay the bill. I thank the woman who served me on the way out and give Steve a "I'll talk to you later?" He nods. I give a curt wave and get the hell out of there.
I feel sick. I could see this coming all along, but I feel like bursting into tears anyway. As I suspected would happen during my long, thoughtful walk back downtown after this most disastrous mission, it is now 6.35pm and he has not called me. It's over.
I am nothing but a piece of gum.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Notes of Rejection
Okay. I know I said last time that I thought I'd scared off the "boyfriend" but I didn't seriously think I had. Not really. I thought a few days would pass and he'd call and we'd laugh about my silly drunk voice mail and plan a date and I'd be back on the crush rollercoaster.
But he hasn't. Swallowing my desire to not appear perturbed by this, I tried to call him. Voice mail. I listened to his greeting, really just to hear his voice, and then hung up without leaving a message. Realizing this would come off as kind of bizarre - why wouldn't I leave a message? - I followed it with a very casual text message which simply asked what he was up to tonight.
Ignoring me, apparently.
Nothing to do now but contemplate my next move. Tomorrow will mark a week since I've seen him. Last Monday I went to his work to see him and have a bite to eat. Do I go there tomorrow and see if he's working? Truthfully, I am a little worried about him. I don't know him all that well, but he never came off as the type to simply disappear like this. I've seen him get pretty blotto - what if something has happened? Even if we're through, I'd at least like to know that he's okay. But I don't want to come off as a stalker. Or as so boring that I've nothing better to do on my day off than to try to track him down.
Mind you, if he really thought that, it would certainly give me pause. There's nothing wrong with showing concern about someone. And if he can't handle me blatantly revealing through action that I really like him, it'll never work anyway. I might as well find out now.
Or I could take his ignorance of me as the sign it probably is and begin the process of moving on. I don't know. I'll decide tomorrow.
In other news, I turned down an offer of sex for the second time this week. I really don't know why - it's been four weeks now since I've had any action beyond making out, which I think is about six months in GST (Gay Standard Time). Once again, it was from someone I've had sex with before. We've hung out once or twice since then, but nothing more has happened between us. I was spinning on Saturday night when I spied him dancing in front of the dj booth. We waved hello to each other and, sweetly, later on he brought me a beer. Later in the night I came back from the loo and discovered a note from him awaiting me on the mixing board saying that he would wait until I was done for the night if he could come home with me.
This was kind of thrilling. Who wouldn't want to get a note like that? It made me feel sexy and desirable. Problem is, though we had a good time together in bed and he's very nice and all that, I'm just not that into him. He has a beautiful cock but a distractingly tragic underbite, and is a little too into spiritualism and the like for my taste - not that I'm not a spiritual person, but I can't deal with new-agey hippy-dippy stuff on any kind of ongoing basis. It upsets my delicately cultivated sense of life's inherent absurdity.
A good friend came into the booth to hang out with me for a bit. I told him about the note as he is acquainted with it's writer.
"Oh, that guy? Daryl's friend?"
"Yeah, you remember him, right?"
"Oh yeah, for sure. He's totally in love with you, you know."
Shit. Of course he is.
I popped out of the dj booth and danced with him for a bit and then told him that, unfortunately, I had to work the next day. Which was the truth, but I'm an asshole anyway. I totally gave him the impression it was a raincheck rather than a kiss-off. In my defense, I didn't want to end a great night out for him with crushing rejection- if he's as in love with me as my friend says, it would have been devastating. I'd rather let him down on a night when he hasn't put himself quite so out there.
Questionable rationalization, I know. Great note, though, really and truly. It made my night. It's really too bad I'm not into him. I'd be set.
Why can't I just go for the nice ones? When I meet a guy I like who likes me, I inevitaby end up having to chase him, usually with dire results - and I'm really not one of these people who are into the whole chase thing. The ones who fall for me are usually nice but don't interest me in the least. For once, I'd like to achieve satisfactory reciprocation.
That's it. I need a breather from this complicated dating business. I need to get back on to familar ground: a few drinks, a sexy boy and total emotional detachment. A good old-fashioned one night stand.
When in doubt, stick with what you know.
But he hasn't. Swallowing my desire to not appear perturbed by this, I tried to call him. Voice mail. I listened to his greeting, really just to hear his voice, and then hung up without leaving a message. Realizing this would come off as kind of bizarre - why wouldn't I leave a message? - I followed it with a very casual text message which simply asked what he was up to tonight.
Ignoring me, apparently.
Nothing to do now but contemplate my next move. Tomorrow will mark a week since I've seen him. Last Monday I went to his work to see him and have a bite to eat. Do I go there tomorrow and see if he's working? Truthfully, I am a little worried about him. I don't know him all that well, but he never came off as the type to simply disappear like this. I've seen him get pretty blotto - what if something has happened? Even if we're through, I'd at least like to know that he's okay. But I don't want to come off as a stalker. Or as so boring that I've nothing better to do on my day off than to try to track him down.
Mind you, if he really thought that, it would certainly give me pause. There's nothing wrong with showing concern about someone. And if he can't handle me blatantly revealing through action that I really like him, it'll never work anyway. I might as well find out now.
Or I could take his ignorance of me as the sign it probably is and begin the process of moving on. I don't know. I'll decide tomorrow.
In other news, I turned down an offer of sex for the second time this week. I really don't know why - it's been four weeks now since I've had any action beyond making out, which I think is about six months in GST (Gay Standard Time). Once again, it was from someone I've had sex with before. We've hung out once or twice since then, but nothing more has happened between us. I was spinning on Saturday night when I spied him dancing in front of the dj booth. We waved hello to each other and, sweetly, later on he brought me a beer. Later in the night I came back from the loo and discovered a note from him awaiting me on the mixing board saying that he would wait until I was done for the night if he could come home with me.
This was kind of thrilling. Who wouldn't want to get a note like that? It made me feel sexy and desirable. Problem is, though we had a good time together in bed and he's very nice and all that, I'm just not that into him. He has a beautiful cock but a distractingly tragic underbite, and is a little too into spiritualism and the like for my taste - not that I'm not a spiritual person, but I can't deal with new-agey hippy-dippy stuff on any kind of ongoing basis. It upsets my delicately cultivated sense of life's inherent absurdity.
A good friend came into the booth to hang out with me for a bit. I told him about the note as he is acquainted with it's writer.
"Oh, that guy? Daryl's friend?"
"Yeah, you remember him, right?"
"Oh yeah, for sure. He's totally in love with you, you know."
Shit. Of course he is.
I popped out of the dj booth and danced with him for a bit and then told him that, unfortunately, I had to work the next day. Which was the truth, but I'm an asshole anyway. I totally gave him the impression it was a raincheck rather than a kiss-off. In my defense, I didn't want to end a great night out for him with crushing rejection- if he's as in love with me as my friend says, it would have been devastating. I'd rather let him down on a night when he hasn't put himself quite so out there.
Questionable rationalization, I know. Great note, though, really and truly. It made my night. It's really too bad I'm not into him. I'd be set.
Why can't I just go for the nice ones? When I meet a guy I like who likes me, I inevitaby end up having to chase him, usually with dire results - and I'm really not one of these people who are into the whole chase thing. The ones who fall for me are usually nice but don't interest me in the least. For once, I'd like to achieve satisfactory reciprocation.
That's it. I need a breather from this complicated dating business. I need to get back on to familar ground: a few drinks, a sexy boy and total emotional detachment. A good old-fashioned one night stand.
When in doubt, stick with what you know.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Pass the Grenade, Please
Bloody hell! I cannot wait for this week to be over. I don't know what is going on in the cosmos, but the energy of the past few days has been supremely weird. As if seeing the Ex on Wednesday wasn't enough visit to last me, oh, the next fifty years, I ran into him last night as well. I was civil, and thankfully the encounter was brief.
Earl and I were supposed to go to a movie, but instead decided to meet for a drink and to talk as we haven't laid eyes on each other in nearly three weeks. Yet another stupid idea in a week full of them. Upon arrival at Woody's we were immediately accosted by Mr. Happy, a sometimes entertaining but mostly aggravating acquaintance of mine. I actually don't mind his company, but he can be a bit of a strange duck, so I prefer planned visits rather than being ambushed. Earl calls him my stalker. He has this way of appearing out of nowhere at the very moment I am thinking "I wonder if he's gonna show up yet again." It's like merely contemplating him conjures his presence.
Creepy.
He doesn't seem to understand, simply because you are friends with someone you run into while out for the night, that you can't just join their party uninvited. At least ask "Can I join you?" It's awkward - believe it or not, my first instinct is usually to be nice - but he's done this so many times I no longer care if he thinks I'm rude or not. After enduring a pointless tale about some pointless television show about inventors who waste their entire lives and life savings on pointless inventions, Earl was this close to telling him to scram. I kind of wish he had, but I suppose it's better in the end that he didn't.
Speaking of ambushed, right after Mr. Happy we bump into Bobby. Bobby has a good heart (well, I used to think that, but I have my doubts - he's good at making you think he does, I'll give him that) but he's hands down the most mentally and emotionally fucked up person I've ever met in my life. Off the charts certifiable. We're both from Timmins and he used to be good friends with my roommate and me - there's a lot of history there - but we have been estranged since I broke up with the Ex. Not because he took the Ex's side, but because he is incapable of understanding the concept of "there is no side, there is just me and there is just him." He seemed to think he had to choose one or the other, despite everyone telling him quite clearly that he did not. So he created these two sides in his head, and then picked the Ex and didn't call me for three months. As I've said before, I don't do bullshit, so I decided to cut him out of my life. My roommate decided the same thing, but for her own reasons.
However, Bobby was out to celebrate his 34th birthday, so I felt compelled to wish him a good one. I don't hate him, after all, I just don't want to deal with his complicated, non-sensical, emotionally charged ramblings. He's like the eight-ball fuelled love child of Linda Blair and Dr. Phil.
I should've known better. He went on about my roommate, and how the madness between them needs to stop, and about how me and the Ex were meant to get back together. "How could they not after six years!?" he exclaimed, as if our break-up had torn the very fabric of existence and soon ABBA would be announcing their upcoming world reunion tour while giant unicorns begin running down children in the street.
Then he told some story about the Ex reaching a really low point (I'm respectful enough not to repeat it here - considering the source, it's not worth putting into words as I'm more than sure the real story is quite different. Probably equally as sad, but quite different). Then he asked me if that's why I left him. Repeatedly. "Did he do something like that while you were with him? Is that why you left? Because then I'll understand. I didn't know he did things like that."
"Bobby," I replied, trying to rein in my frustration with this pointless topic, "it doesn't matter. He's not my problem anymore. There's nothing I can do about it."
He wouldn't let it go. He just kept talking and asking and talking and asking. I wanted to scream. I could feel the life energy being sucked from me. Then he went on about forgiveness, and how he forgives me. Earl pointed out that perhaps I was the one who should be doing the forgiving, not Bobby, but in a fit of exasperation I spit out something about forgiving him - no really, I forgive you - in the hopes he would go away.
Eventually he did. Earl and I talked for awhile after, but the pure bullshit of it all (Earl is friends with the Ex and my former group of friends, by the way, and often gets caught in the middle - I sometimes call him Swiss Miss, as in neutral Switzerland, as he is very good at sparing me all the details of their unmissed nonsense) had taken it's toll. We left. Earl walked me close to home and then we went our seperate ways.
All I wanted was a fun, carefree night. Instead I run smack up against all the bullshit I thought I'd left behind. I've had it with the gay village. Same people, same music, same old, same old. Don't get me wrong - I love the community, mostly enjoy hanging out in it, and am grateful for it's existence. But I'm ready for a change of scenery. It's time to throw a grenade in my stale and boring social patterns, put the pieces back together again, and see what new and interesting shapes I can come up with.
If there's anything I hate more than bullshit, it's the prospect of being boring.
Earl and I were supposed to go to a movie, but instead decided to meet for a drink and to talk as we haven't laid eyes on each other in nearly three weeks. Yet another stupid idea in a week full of them. Upon arrival at Woody's we were immediately accosted by Mr. Happy, a sometimes entertaining but mostly aggravating acquaintance of mine. I actually don't mind his company, but he can be a bit of a strange duck, so I prefer planned visits rather than being ambushed. Earl calls him my stalker. He has this way of appearing out of nowhere at the very moment I am thinking "I wonder if he's gonna show up yet again." It's like merely contemplating him conjures his presence.
Creepy.
He doesn't seem to understand, simply because you are friends with someone you run into while out for the night, that you can't just join their party uninvited. At least ask "Can I join you?" It's awkward - believe it or not, my first instinct is usually to be nice - but he's done this so many times I no longer care if he thinks I'm rude or not. After enduring a pointless tale about some pointless television show about inventors who waste their entire lives and life savings on pointless inventions, Earl was this close to telling him to scram. I kind of wish he had, but I suppose it's better in the end that he didn't.
Speaking of ambushed, right after Mr. Happy we bump into Bobby. Bobby has a good heart (well, I used to think that, but I have my doubts - he's good at making you think he does, I'll give him that) but he's hands down the most mentally and emotionally fucked up person I've ever met in my life. Off the charts certifiable. We're both from Timmins and he used to be good friends with my roommate and me - there's a lot of history there - but we have been estranged since I broke up with the Ex. Not because he took the Ex's side, but because he is incapable of understanding the concept of "there is no side, there is just me and there is just him." He seemed to think he had to choose one or the other, despite everyone telling him quite clearly that he did not. So he created these two sides in his head, and then picked the Ex and didn't call me for three months. As I've said before, I don't do bullshit, so I decided to cut him out of my life. My roommate decided the same thing, but for her own reasons.
However, Bobby was out to celebrate his 34th birthday, so I felt compelled to wish him a good one. I don't hate him, after all, I just don't want to deal with his complicated, non-sensical, emotionally charged ramblings. He's like the eight-ball fuelled love child of Linda Blair and Dr. Phil.
I should've known better. He went on about my roommate, and how the madness between them needs to stop, and about how me and the Ex were meant to get back together. "How could they not after six years!?" he exclaimed, as if our break-up had torn the very fabric of existence and soon ABBA would be announcing their upcoming world reunion tour while giant unicorns begin running down children in the street.
Then he told some story about the Ex reaching a really low point (I'm respectful enough not to repeat it here - considering the source, it's not worth putting into words as I'm more than sure the real story is quite different. Probably equally as sad, but quite different). Then he asked me if that's why I left him. Repeatedly. "Did he do something like that while you were with him? Is that why you left? Because then I'll understand. I didn't know he did things like that."
"Bobby," I replied, trying to rein in my frustration with this pointless topic, "it doesn't matter. He's not my problem anymore. There's nothing I can do about it."
He wouldn't let it go. He just kept talking and asking and talking and asking. I wanted to scream. I could feel the life energy being sucked from me. Then he went on about forgiveness, and how he forgives me. Earl pointed out that perhaps I was the one who should be doing the forgiving, not Bobby, but in a fit of exasperation I spit out something about forgiving him - no really, I forgive you - in the hopes he would go away.
Eventually he did. Earl and I talked for awhile after, but the pure bullshit of it all (Earl is friends with the Ex and my former group of friends, by the way, and often gets caught in the middle - I sometimes call him Swiss Miss, as in neutral Switzerland, as he is very good at sparing me all the details of their unmissed nonsense) had taken it's toll. We left. Earl walked me close to home and then we went our seperate ways.
All I wanted was a fun, carefree night. Instead I run smack up against all the bullshit I thought I'd left behind. I've had it with the gay village. Same people, same music, same old, same old. Don't get me wrong - I love the community, mostly enjoy hanging out in it, and am grateful for it's existence. But I'm ready for a change of scenery. It's time to throw a grenade in my stale and boring social patterns, put the pieces back together again, and see what new and interesting shapes I can come up with.
If there's anything I hate more than bullshit, it's the prospect of being boring.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
I Need Hard... Evidence
I think I've scared off the boyfriend. Foolishly, after leaving the Ex last night, I decided to call him. We had talked earlier that day and he'd said he'd call me back, but he didn't.
I was a little drunk. My head was reeling from a pint of beer too many and the dizzying downward descent of my evening with the Ex. I wanted to hear the voice of someone who likes me, who doesn't treat me like I'm inconsequential. I wanted, ridiculously, comforting.
I got his voice mail. I should have hung up. Instead I left a rambling, embarassing message that, when I remembered it this morning, caused me to recoil in horror at my stupidity.
The new guy does not want to hear about the Ex. He certainly does not want to know the Ex has the power to still make you angry-slash-bitter. I sent Steve a text message apologizing for my stupid message and asked him not to judge me too harshly. I told him I missed him. And that I'm a big geek. And that I hoped we could hang out soon.
What am I doing???
If he never calls me again, I have no one to blame but myself. All of my behaviour screams "MESS! DANGER! KEEP AWAY!" Sure, Steve has demonstrated behaviour that also wears that sign, and that obviously hasn't stopped me from calling him, but judging by my behaviour, I can be pretty stupid.
Oh well, what's ever gonna happen is gonna happen. Realistically, he'll call at some point, but I can feel myself losing interest. He doesn't call me back. When he does he just wants to get trashed. He's slept over here but we haven't had sex at all. It seems I really am inconsequential. None of this is what I want. Is it really too much too ask that you call me now and then and have sex with me? I don't think so.
There are many things I like about him, valid and important qualities, but they don't add up to enough on their own to continue with this silly boyfriend facade. At this point, I need to see more than just potential. At what point do I say "fuck it" and give up? I keep hoping for the moment where we hang out and it all casually falls into place: we don't get drunk, we fall into bed together, we have amazing sex, and he tells me clearly he's totally into me and that he wants us to be boyfriends.
It's been a month since we've met. At least some of this should have happened by now. I've latched on to this boy and have projected all my desires on to him without any hard evidence that he's even remotely close to being what I want and need. It's all circumstantial at best. At least when I fell for Shawn last summer there was proof, so I didn't beat myself up too badly for being taken in by his charms. I was fooled.
This time around, I think I'm just fooling myself.
I was a little drunk. My head was reeling from a pint of beer too many and the dizzying downward descent of my evening with the Ex. I wanted to hear the voice of someone who likes me, who doesn't treat me like I'm inconsequential. I wanted, ridiculously, comforting.
I got his voice mail. I should have hung up. Instead I left a rambling, embarassing message that, when I remembered it this morning, caused me to recoil in horror at my stupidity.
The new guy does not want to hear about the Ex. He certainly does not want to know the Ex has the power to still make you angry-slash-bitter. I sent Steve a text message apologizing for my stupid message and asked him not to judge me too harshly. I told him I missed him. And that I'm a big geek. And that I hoped we could hang out soon.
What am I doing???
If he never calls me again, I have no one to blame but myself. All of my behaviour screams "MESS! DANGER! KEEP AWAY!" Sure, Steve has demonstrated behaviour that also wears that sign, and that obviously hasn't stopped me from calling him, but judging by my behaviour, I can be pretty stupid.
Oh well, what's ever gonna happen is gonna happen. Realistically, he'll call at some point, but I can feel myself losing interest. He doesn't call me back. When he does he just wants to get trashed. He's slept over here but we haven't had sex at all. It seems I really am inconsequential. None of this is what I want. Is it really too much too ask that you call me now and then and have sex with me? I don't think so.
There are many things I like about him, valid and important qualities, but they don't add up to enough on their own to continue with this silly boyfriend facade. At this point, I need to see more than just potential. At what point do I say "fuck it" and give up? I keep hoping for the moment where we hang out and it all casually falls into place: we don't get drunk, we fall into bed together, we have amazing sex, and he tells me clearly he's totally into me and that he wants us to be boyfriends.
It's been a month since we've met. At least some of this should have happened by now. I've latched on to this boy and have projected all my desires on to him without any hard evidence that he's even remotely close to being what I want and need. It's all circumstantial at best. At least when I fell for Shawn last summer there was proof, so I didn't beat myself up too badly for being taken in by his charms. I was fooled.
This time around, I think I'm just fooling myself.
The Ex Offensive
I have been duped.
A couple of weeks ago I received, much to my surprise, a funny email from the Ex. Basically it outlined in deadpan detail how I had not lived up to our divorce agreement by failing to provide him with mixed CDs on an ongoing basis and that he would be contacting his lawyer should I continue to withhold music. I say surprised because this was the first time he'd contacted me in a tone that implied some healing had taken place and that maybe he was inching closer to a headspace that would allow us, as we had previously discussed, to be friends again. Or at least something more than merely civil.
We met on a patio yesterday evening, had a few drinks, and caught up. Things were going alright - the chat didn't feel too forced, there weren't any awkward silences, we laughed about stuff, I wasn't glancing at my watch every two seconds. We even talked about our dating lives a bit. I gave him the CDs I had made him as well as a book he had loaned me.
This is where things started to derail. I had also loaned him a book (it was his idea, actually; the thinking was that we would exchange an interesting read every few months or so - perhaps to have a fall back topic when the uncomfortable silences arose? I wonder) and he read it, but he wasn't sure where it was. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "It might be in Portland, or it might be lost altogether. If I find it I'll let you know." Not a huge deal to me - it's just a book - but his completely flip attitude about it's missing-in-action status pissed me off. If you borrow something of someone's, it's generally customary to at least apologize if you lose it.
But this is the Ex we're talking about. I know how he thinks. He's not sorry about it. He actually couldn't give a rat's ass. So why apologize when it would be a lie? Better to be brutally honest.
I didn't make a stink. It's a book, whatever. The conversation improved. He talked about how he was finally about to date someone, and then it got all weird again. He was completely cryptic, talking about how small the community is, and he seemed to be implying that the person he would be dating would be someone I know fairly well. He seemed to be feeling out how I would feel about that.
"It's fine. I'd be happy for you. Date whoever you want, it doesn't matter if I know them, whatever. Of course, now I'm dying to know who you're talking about."
He wouldn't tell though. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. He was very odd about it though - it makes me think I will be surprised when I find out. Or perhaps it's someone I've slept with or something, which kind of grosses me out but doesn't surprise me in the least.
At one point I mentioned how, for the first time, I had actually been looking forward to seeing him. No anxiety, no palpable sense of dread hanging over my head.
"Oh, that's funny," he said. "For me it's completely opposite. This was the first time I didn't really want to see you."
Figures. Me Scorpio. Him Taurus. Opposite.
A couple of weeks ago I received, much to my surprise, a funny email from the Ex. Basically it outlined in deadpan detail how I had not lived up to our divorce agreement by failing to provide him with mixed CDs on an ongoing basis and that he would be contacting his lawyer should I continue to withhold music. I say surprised because this was the first time he'd contacted me in a tone that implied some healing had taken place and that maybe he was inching closer to a headspace that would allow us, as we had previously discussed, to be friends again. Or at least something more than merely civil.
We met on a patio yesterday evening, had a few drinks, and caught up. Things were going alright - the chat didn't feel too forced, there weren't any awkward silences, we laughed about stuff, I wasn't glancing at my watch every two seconds. We even talked about our dating lives a bit. I gave him the CDs I had made him as well as a book he had loaned me.
This is where things started to derail. I had also loaned him a book (it was his idea, actually; the thinking was that we would exchange an interesting read every few months or so - perhaps to have a fall back topic when the uncomfortable silences arose? I wonder) and he read it, but he wasn't sure where it was. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "It might be in Portland, or it might be lost altogether. If I find it I'll let you know." Not a huge deal to me - it's just a book - but his completely flip attitude about it's missing-in-action status pissed me off. If you borrow something of someone's, it's generally customary to at least apologize if you lose it.
But this is the Ex we're talking about. I know how he thinks. He's not sorry about it. He actually couldn't give a rat's ass. So why apologize when it would be a lie? Better to be brutally honest.
I didn't make a stink. It's a book, whatever. The conversation improved. He talked about how he was finally about to date someone, and then it got all weird again. He was completely cryptic, talking about how small the community is, and he seemed to be implying that the person he would be dating would be someone I know fairly well. He seemed to be feeling out how I would feel about that.
"It's fine. I'd be happy for you. Date whoever you want, it doesn't matter if I know them, whatever. Of course, now I'm dying to know who you're talking about."
He wouldn't tell though. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. He was very odd about it though - it makes me think I will be surprised when I find out. Or perhaps it's someone I've slept with or something, which kind of grosses me out but doesn't surprise me in the least.
At one point I mentioned how, for the first time, I had actually been looking forward to seeing him. No anxiety, no palpable sense of dread hanging over my head.
"Oh, that's funny," he said. "For me it's completely opposite. This was the first time I didn't really want to see you."
Figures. Me Scorpio. Him Taurus. Opposite.
"Actually," he added snarkily, "if you had just given the CDs to Earl to give to me and I didn't have to see you at all that would've been just fine by me."
Come again?
"I'm sorry if that sounds harsh or whatever but it just made no difference to me."
I felt like I'd been punched. Yes, I left him, and with good reason. Ten months later and now he decides to get all bitchy queen about it? Had he not finished telling me a mere ten minutes earlier how he was finally over me and was really truly moving on? But we spent six years together and for the most part, by his own admission, they weren't the stuff of nightmares - after sitting and talking warmly for two hours, suddenly I'm completely inconsequential? (With the exception of my CDs, of course). I found the abrupt change in his attitude...well, offensive.
I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw the remainder of my beer in his face and storm off.
"I don't care if you're brutally honest," I replied. "That's good. I'm just insulted. I didn't think getting together now and then was a big deal."
"Well that's just the way I feel. Sorry. We should've been more realistic when we talked about what our future relationship would look like."
"I thought we were realistic, actually." You're the one suddenly changing your mind, you fucking baby.
"Well, you seem to be acting like you want to be best friends or something."
Ha! "I never said that. I certainly don't. It's just that we know each other better than anyone. I don't think just because we don't have that relationship anymore that we can't be friends, that we couldn't hang out now and then with a group of people. It seems stupid to throw it all away."
It went on like this for awhile. He gave me his usual spiel about how he doesn't want to hang out with me in groups of people, he can only do one on one, blah blah blah. He'd rather have his memories and leave it at that. Which is fine - he can do whatever he wants, obviously. I won't deny it's a hundred percent easier to stop all semblance of contact and to simply say hello when we run into each other and leave it at that. But I think that's pretty sad. Aren't we mature enough to maintain a friendship that works for us, to hell with everyone else?
I guess I envisioned something along the lines of Gwen Stefani's "Cool" - take the best of what we had shared in the past and shape it into something new. To still be able to show the affection we still have for each other and not worry that other people will construe that to mean we are somehow weak - which, frankly, is what I believe Wayne thinks. I dumped him - even if he wants to, other people might think less of him for still admitting he cares about me, so it's much better to behave like a wronged child and put on the tough guy act and shut me out altogether. He always did care too much about what other people think.
I feel so duped. I thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally evolved.
I also feel somewhat vindicated, though. I'd sort of forgotten that one of the primary reasons I left him in the first place was because he can be such a smug asshole. And I was fully reminded last night of just to what extent. Well, you know what asshole? You can be a dick to me, or you can have copies of my amazing mixed CDs, but you can't have both.
Go buy your own fucking music.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Pick-Up Politics
I'm very proud of myself. I think I just sidestepped an affair.
Tonight I met Daniel, a good friend of mine that I haven't seen in awhile, for drinks and some catch-up chit-chat. Whilst out, we bumped into Derek, an old friend of his that I spent the night with a couple of months ago (see 'A Moral Gray Area') who ended up joining us. Turns out Derek is some kind of minor Canadian political figure, and actually ran for Liberal MPP in an Ottawa area riding last provincial election. This made me view his pick-up attempts this evening in an entirely different light...
1) Approach subjects potentially perceived by some as "uncomfortable" in a direct fashion ("I hope you don't feel any awkwardness with me because of what happened, I thought we had a hot time")
2) Find a way to use your current environment as an opportunity to give a compliment ("I think you should get up there" - points to male stripper on stage - "No, really. Watching you get dressed the morning after you were so casual, but it was hot. It was like watching a show")
3) Reveal your intentions through metaphor so that only those who know you well will know understand what you are talking about ("Do you want a second piece of gum? One is enough, but sometimes it's nice to have a second piece")
4) Faced with defeat, be a gentleman... ("Don't you live this way?" "Oh it's okay, I'll walk you home, I don't mind")
5) ...but maintain some semblance of dignity ("Well, I should probably head home from here. Good night" Chaste kiss, little hug, walk away, don't look back)
All delivered with equal parts charm and smarm. It was very impressive, actually. I'm surprised I didn't end up going home with him in the end. I was certainly tempted. But as much as I wanted my dick sucked, and as cute as his smug mug is, a second round with him would be opening the door to a potentially never-ending affair. I just couldn't bear to give him the satisfaction. Indeed, if the Liberals are serious about trying to make the political process more transparent, it's a shame he wasn't elected to office.
I could see right through him.
Tonight I met Daniel, a good friend of mine that I haven't seen in awhile, for drinks and some catch-up chit-chat. Whilst out, we bumped into Derek, an old friend of his that I spent the night with a couple of months ago (see 'A Moral Gray Area') who ended up joining us. Turns out Derek is some kind of minor Canadian political figure, and actually ran for Liberal MPP in an Ottawa area riding last provincial election. This made me view his pick-up attempts this evening in an entirely different light...
1) Approach subjects potentially perceived by some as "uncomfortable" in a direct fashion ("I hope you don't feel any awkwardness with me because of what happened, I thought we had a hot time")
2) Find a way to use your current environment as an opportunity to give a compliment ("I think you should get up there" - points to male stripper on stage - "No, really. Watching you get dressed the morning after you were so casual, but it was hot. It was like watching a show")
3) Reveal your intentions through metaphor so that only those who know you well will know understand what you are talking about ("Do you want a second piece of gum? One is enough, but sometimes it's nice to have a second piece")
4) Faced with defeat, be a gentleman... ("Don't you live this way?" "Oh it's okay, I'll walk you home, I don't mind")
5) ...but maintain some semblance of dignity ("Well, I should probably head home from here. Good night" Chaste kiss, little hug, walk away, don't look back)
All delivered with equal parts charm and smarm. It was very impressive, actually. I'm surprised I didn't end up going home with him in the end. I was certainly tempted. But as much as I wanted my dick sucked, and as cute as his smug mug is, a second round with him would be opening the door to a potentially never-ending affair. I just couldn't bear to give him the satisfaction. Indeed, if the Liberals are serious about trying to make the political process more transparent, it's a shame he wasn't elected to office.
I could see right through him.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The B Word
Everybody hates my new boyfriend.
Okay. I am, somewhat, exaggerating. For starters, I'm not really certain that Steve fits my usual definition of boyfriend, and by everybody I mean one person whose opinion I value a great deal and means the world to me and another who, while they didn't say anything, had sparks of judgment flashing in their eyes.
Let's deal with the first bit. Steve was hanging out in the dj booth while I was working Friday night. This guy I know (we were "bar friends" nearly a decade ago when we both hung out at Buddies every week, and five years ago I was, briefly, his boss, which was problematic) kept coming into the booth to hang out as well, seemingly under the mistaken impression we were the best of friends back in the day and that he had carte blanche to pop into the booth whenever the hell he felt like it. During one of these pop-ins, I found out later, he tried to kiss Steve, who wasn't having any of it. A moment later I was flipping through a cd book trying to decide on the next song when my old "friend" grabs my arm.
"Brad!" he exclaimed. "You didn't tell me Steve was your boyfriend!"
I'm not sure what kind of look passed over my face when the B-word dropped, but I'm sure it's the same one I would make if someone pushed me out of a plane on a skydiving excursion without prior warning.
I immediately feigned a mask of casualness. "Oh, didn't I?"
Thankfully this was good enough and not followed up with a myriad of "so how long have you been together?"-type questions. I went back to work, and a few moments later my co-dj, annoyed with the growing entourage, went postal and threw everyone, including Steve, out of the booth. He later apologised to Steve and let him return, though I'm not convinced he was happy about it.
Other awkward moments of the night included
a) kissing Steve, turning around and seeing the Ex waiting to say hello to me and
b) introducing Steve to someone as "my special friend" and immediately getting a questioning/dirty look from Steve afterward
The Ex seemed fine, though I know the perturbed skydiving look was on my face when I turned around and saw him and he sure as hell didn't miss it. (Dammit! Why's is so hard to play it cool?) As for the "special" comment, I meant well, but of course it was a rather horrible, mixed-message thing to say, the kind of introduction you use for the little retarded kid you voluntarily babysit for once a week, not your... boyfriend.
(My roommate and best friend, the aforementioned person who means the world to me, would likely beg to differ and then go on to add that, actually, the little retarded brother description seems entirely fitting.)
There, I've said it. Boyfriend. I thought I had to be the one to affix the label to him for it to be a reality, or that it would at least involve more of a discussion, but apparently it's possible to stumble into this sort of thing. I suppose I'm hesitant as my definition of boyfriend is decidely not casual, but I've decided to relax and go with it. Steve and I spent some quality time alone together on Saturday night and talked, with a suprising amount of ease, and we're on the same page. Chemistry, clicking, unspoken understanding... whatever word you want to use to describe that intangible feeling of rightness that rarely occurs between two people, we've got it. This boy gets me. I'm not sure why being understood is so important to me - ironically, I've never really examined it - but it's something I value and appreciate when I find it.
I've also decided to grow some balls. I love and respect my friends, and understand and appreciate that they are protective, but I am confident I know what's good for me. I know what I'm getting into, and I'm good with it. I'm not wearing blinders: Steve has some baggage. He's also completely aware of it, which for me is an important distinction. Baggage is not the same as bullshit. I don't mind helping someone with their baggage on occasion, but I won't put up with bullshit. I've a good sense of judgment, and though I occasionally err on the side of informed optimism, I'm confident in my continued ability to tell the difference.
So everybody hates my new boyfriend. So what?
I don't.
Okay. I am, somewhat, exaggerating. For starters, I'm not really certain that Steve fits my usual definition of boyfriend, and by everybody I mean one person whose opinion I value a great deal and means the world to me and another who, while they didn't say anything, had sparks of judgment flashing in their eyes.
Let's deal with the first bit. Steve was hanging out in the dj booth while I was working Friday night. This guy I know (we were "bar friends" nearly a decade ago when we both hung out at Buddies every week, and five years ago I was, briefly, his boss, which was problematic) kept coming into the booth to hang out as well, seemingly under the mistaken impression we were the best of friends back in the day and that he had carte blanche to pop into the booth whenever the hell he felt like it. During one of these pop-ins, I found out later, he tried to kiss Steve, who wasn't having any of it. A moment later I was flipping through a cd book trying to decide on the next song when my old "friend" grabs my arm.
"Brad!" he exclaimed. "You didn't tell me Steve was your boyfriend!"
I'm not sure what kind of look passed over my face when the B-word dropped, but I'm sure it's the same one I would make if someone pushed me out of a plane on a skydiving excursion without prior warning.
I immediately feigned a mask of casualness. "Oh, didn't I?"
Thankfully this was good enough and not followed up with a myriad of "so how long have you been together?"-type questions. I went back to work, and a few moments later my co-dj, annoyed with the growing entourage, went postal and threw everyone, including Steve, out of the booth. He later apologised to Steve and let him return, though I'm not convinced he was happy about it.
Other awkward moments of the night included
a) kissing Steve, turning around and seeing the Ex waiting to say hello to me and
b) introducing Steve to someone as "my special friend" and immediately getting a questioning/dirty look from Steve afterward
The Ex seemed fine, though I know the perturbed skydiving look was on my face when I turned around and saw him and he sure as hell didn't miss it. (Dammit! Why's is so hard to play it cool?) As for the "special" comment, I meant well, but of course it was a rather horrible, mixed-message thing to say, the kind of introduction you use for the little retarded kid you voluntarily babysit for once a week, not your... boyfriend.
(My roommate and best friend, the aforementioned person who means the world to me, would likely beg to differ and then go on to add that, actually, the little retarded brother description seems entirely fitting.)
There, I've said it. Boyfriend. I thought I had to be the one to affix the label to him for it to be a reality, or that it would at least involve more of a discussion, but apparently it's possible to stumble into this sort of thing. I suppose I'm hesitant as my definition of boyfriend is decidely not casual, but I've decided to relax and go with it. Steve and I spent some quality time alone together on Saturday night and talked, with a suprising amount of ease, and we're on the same page. Chemistry, clicking, unspoken understanding... whatever word you want to use to describe that intangible feeling of rightness that rarely occurs between two people, we've got it. This boy gets me. I'm not sure why being understood is so important to me - ironically, I've never really examined it - but it's something I value and appreciate when I find it.
I've also decided to grow some balls. I love and respect my friends, and understand and appreciate that they are protective, but I am confident I know what's good for me. I know what I'm getting into, and I'm good with it. I'm not wearing blinders: Steve has some baggage. He's also completely aware of it, which for me is an important distinction. Baggage is not the same as bullshit. I don't mind helping someone with their baggage on occasion, but I won't put up with bullshit. I've a good sense of judgment, and though I occasionally err on the side of informed optimism, I'm confident in my continued ability to tell the difference.
So everybody hates my new boyfriend. So what?
I don't.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Hanging On the Telephone
Goddamn it, I hate dating. I enjoy being single, but when I meet someone who piques my interest and seems to be interested in return, I become a freak of nature. I don't know if it's because I'm a Scorpio or what - probably, we are pretty intense - but I want undivided attention. I want to be first. I don't want my chosen one to so much as fucking glance at another. If I call and you say you'll call me back when you get home, you'd better call me back. Immediately. Don't even pour a drink or even think about taking a leak or checking your email. If I have chosen you, I want to possess you.
I know this is wrong, and unhealthy, and no good can come of it. Why can't my man of choice be like my roommate's cat, who lately has taken to unceremoniously and without pretense abandoning her - his original owner - whenever I walk into a room? I pretend not to be pleased by this, but secretly it makes me feel special and chosen. It's as if he can truly see the multi-splendoured wonder that is moi and foresakes all, even his first true love, for any spare moment I allot for him to bask in it.
Steve and I did not make it to a movie on Monday night. He is sick and claimed he would fall asleep if we did a movie. Strike one! He's supposed to be going simply for the opportunity to hold my hand, delight in the sound of my laughter as it echoes around the theatre, and to stare lovingly at me as I watch the film. And maybe feed me popcorn, just on the off chance he might feel my lips graze his fingertips. Fall asleep?! I don't think so, mister.
Instead, we met downtown to have dinner. My roommate, who was in the middle of cooking us dinner when we made this date, and only because when she asked me I said I was hungry and would be home for dinner, was understandably unimpressed when I threw on my coat and said I would see her in a couple of hours. First the cat ditches her, and now this? Steve and I ended up at a new Korean place on Yonge and had a delightful time cooking our own meat and marvelling at how the kimchee seemed to instantly clear our congested sinuses (I, too, have been feeling under the weather, but it appears to be subsiding - I blame the cocaine binges, frankly. There's only so much you can get up there before the inevitable backlog.) It was all you can eat, so we gorged like Tracy Gold in a darkened grocery store and washed it all down with some lovely jasmine tea. He made a pencil out of a toothpick he lovingly charred in our table's bbq and wrote "Brad = Gay" on a napkin, which he later made me keep as a souvenir, while I remarked this would be a perfect spot for a scene in a mafia movie, envisioning some poor meatheaded gangster being thanked for his double-cross with a scorching Korean bbq face press.
Afterwards I walked him to the subway and we discussed weekend plans. He invited me to join him and his best friend Paige for a night out this Saturday, which of course I quickly agreed to, not unlike a junkie accepting an offer of smack. We had a nice hug and kiss at the top of the escalator to say good night, and as the moving stairs whisked him away from me he said he would call me tomorrow.
He didn't. Not that a big a deal. People always say they'll call you and then don't. That's what people do. So tonight I called him. He was in the subway and couldn't talk. "Can I give you a call when I get home?" he asked.
"Sure, yeah," I replied. "I'll be around."
And here I sit, a couple hours later, next to my silent cell phone. Strike two. It rang at one point, but it was my sister Beth. She called to tell me that she had called my parents earlier tonight to wish them a happy anniversary only to end up hanging up on my father. Apparently my parents were rather boozy and Dad called her "stupid" and a fucking idiot." And what's news to me is that, according to Beth, they've called her this throughout her whole life! "It's a sore spot wiith me," she told me, "and I'm not taking it anymore." She then burst into tears, threw her cell phone across the room in a fit of rage, and then left for work. I find her reaction both reasonable and a tad disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as what she might take out her rage on at work tonight, her being, you know, a cop and all. Oh, and it's a full moon tonight, just to add another splash of madness to the cocktail.
I did try to call my folks and get their side of things, but the line was busy. Either Dad's passed out and Mom's online, or they're celebrating their 31 years together the way I sure as hell hope I would be were someone to put up with my well-intentioned-yet-insane-possessiveness for three bloody decades.
Do you think after that long you stop worrying about whether or not you come first? Does it simply become a given after a certain amount of time? Or is it forever tenuous, always requiring the effort to make sure you're communicating to your partner of choice their blue ribbon champion status in your heart? I imagine it's both, really: you know that you are without question the one, and trust in it, but you love your chosen one so much that you always want to remind them of it. Hopefully without, you know, smothering them to death.
On that romantic note, my phone is ringing: Mom and Dad calling. This should be nice and draining.
Yup, no question, it's definitely a full moon. I think it's safer to just call it a night and call Steve tomorrow. Who knows?
He might even call me first.
I know this is wrong, and unhealthy, and no good can come of it. Why can't my man of choice be like my roommate's cat, who lately has taken to unceremoniously and without pretense abandoning her - his original owner - whenever I walk into a room? I pretend not to be pleased by this, but secretly it makes me feel special and chosen. It's as if he can truly see the multi-splendoured wonder that is moi and foresakes all, even his first true love, for any spare moment I allot for him to bask in it.
Steve and I did not make it to a movie on Monday night. He is sick and claimed he would fall asleep if we did a movie. Strike one! He's supposed to be going simply for the opportunity to hold my hand, delight in the sound of my laughter as it echoes around the theatre, and to stare lovingly at me as I watch the film. And maybe feed me popcorn, just on the off chance he might feel my lips graze his fingertips. Fall asleep?! I don't think so, mister.
Instead, we met downtown to have dinner. My roommate, who was in the middle of cooking us dinner when we made this date, and only because when she asked me I said I was hungry and would be home for dinner, was understandably unimpressed when I threw on my coat and said I would see her in a couple of hours. First the cat ditches her, and now this? Steve and I ended up at a new Korean place on Yonge and had a delightful time cooking our own meat and marvelling at how the kimchee seemed to instantly clear our congested sinuses (I, too, have been feeling under the weather, but it appears to be subsiding - I blame the cocaine binges, frankly. There's only so much you can get up there before the inevitable backlog.) It was all you can eat, so we gorged like Tracy Gold in a darkened grocery store and washed it all down with some lovely jasmine tea. He made a pencil out of a toothpick he lovingly charred in our table's bbq and wrote "Brad = Gay" on a napkin, which he later made me keep as a souvenir, while I remarked this would be a perfect spot for a scene in a mafia movie, envisioning some poor meatheaded gangster being thanked for his double-cross with a scorching Korean bbq face press.
Afterwards I walked him to the subway and we discussed weekend plans. He invited me to join him and his best friend Paige for a night out this Saturday, which of course I quickly agreed to, not unlike a junkie accepting an offer of smack. We had a nice hug and kiss at the top of the escalator to say good night, and as the moving stairs whisked him away from me he said he would call me tomorrow.
He didn't. Not that a big a deal. People always say they'll call you and then don't. That's what people do. So tonight I called him. He was in the subway and couldn't talk. "Can I give you a call when I get home?" he asked.
"Sure, yeah," I replied. "I'll be around."
And here I sit, a couple hours later, next to my silent cell phone. Strike two. It rang at one point, but it was my sister Beth. She called to tell me that she had called my parents earlier tonight to wish them a happy anniversary only to end up hanging up on my father. Apparently my parents were rather boozy and Dad called her "stupid" and a fucking idiot." And what's news to me is that, according to Beth, they've called her this throughout her whole life! "It's a sore spot wiith me," she told me, "and I'm not taking it anymore." She then burst into tears, threw her cell phone across the room in a fit of rage, and then left for work. I find her reaction both reasonable and a tad disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as what she might take out her rage on at work tonight, her being, you know, a cop and all. Oh, and it's a full moon tonight, just to add another splash of madness to the cocktail.
I did try to call my folks and get their side of things, but the line was busy. Either Dad's passed out and Mom's online, or they're celebrating their 31 years together the way I sure as hell hope I would be were someone to put up with my well-intentioned-yet-insane-possessiveness for three bloody decades.
Do you think after that long you stop worrying about whether or not you come first? Does it simply become a given after a certain amount of time? Or is it forever tenuous, always requiring the effort to make sure you're communicating to your partner of choice their blue ribbon champion status in your heart? I imagine it's both, really: you know that you are without question the one, and trust in it, but you love your chosen one so much that you always want to remind them of it. Hopefully without, you know, smothering them to death.
On that romantic note, my phone is ringing: Mom and Dad calling. This should be nice and draining.
Yup, no question, it's definitely a full moon. I think it's safer to just call it a night and call Steve tomorrow. Who knows?
He might even call me first.
God's Gift
I forget sometimes how accustomed I've become to city life. After not hearing from a friend tonight about plans we had made to see a movie, and feeling some pressure to get out of the house as my roommate had a friend/sort-of crush over for a visit, I decided to accompany my friend Brent to the small town of Milton. About a 45 minute or so drive out of Toronto, Milton is home to Brent's older brother Jeff and his longtime girlfriend - well actually, as of today, she's his fiancee, which is why Brent was visiting them on a Tuesday night to begin with. Brent wasn't sure he wanted me to come at first, as Jeff isn't all that comfortable with the whole "gay" thing (not only is Brent gay, but so is his other brother Ryan), but I have met his brother before, so he decided it wasn't a big deal. I got out of the house, and Brent had company for the drive.
I had never been to Milton before tonight. Having grown up in Timmins, though, I am pretty familiar with the typical small-town landscape and knew what to expect. Sure enough, I spied two women stomping along the non-existent sidewalk by the highway down the road from a plaza as we entered the town: one in low cut jeans with a studded belt, a white short-cropped tank and a leather jacket, the other in unfortunately form-fitting jeans and a navy blue Goodwrench hoodie. Yikes. Just like being home again. In the city, they'd be easily mistaken for c-list lesbians, but in a place like this they were either bored teenagers on a late night stroll or new mothers enjoying a short reprieve from child-rearing duties with a trip to the gas station for a bag of Sun Chips and a smoke.
Jeff's street was quiet and harmless looking. Row after row of similar looking houses, and not a single tree older than ten years old. I swear I could still hear the roar of the clear-cutting bulldozers lurking just beyond the hum of the nearby highway in the distance. A dog barked next door as we got out of the car and walked up the brick driveway. Idyllic and restful to many I'm sure, but I find the whole suburban thing creepy as fuck. I realize that in a world where Desperate Housewives is a top-rated show this isn't a particularly earth-shattering revelation, but sweet lord! How can anyone stand to live in such a bland cookie-cutter place?
The visit was nice enough. We congratulated the happy couple, met their next door neighbours and another couple who had stopped by to wish them well, drank a few beers, and later ordered pizza. Now I know I only just met these people, and I wasn't expecting deep emotional connections, but the conversation centred around the weather, traffic, where we should order the pizza from, and pets. I managed to make some inroads a little later with Ian and Christina, the nieghbours, when we discussed the difficulties of learning to live with someone with whom you're in a relationship. Ian then told an amusing anecdote about the time he had Christina help him put together a bbq by having her use a wrench to hold the head of a bolt in place while he tightened it from the other side. Apparently she wasn't really holding it in place at all and the bolt kept turning without tightening.
"I mean, jeez!" he exclaimed, giving me a bit of a nudge, as if to say "oh, I love women, but boy are they stupid sometimes."
I laughed, and then so did they, but unlike them I was laughing at the idea that, based on this nudge, he might think I was even remotely straight.
I know I sound like a judgmental bitch right now. I don't begrudge these people their happiness, really, I don't. I even kind of find it endearing. I wish, sometimes, that such simplicity would be enough to make me happy and fulfilled and engaged, instead of needing, indeed, loving the constant bombardment of diverse stimulation that living in the city provides. It certainly looks like things would be easier that way.
Of course it's all an illusion. I'm sure their lives aren't simple. Everybody's is messy and complicated and confusing... isn't it? I wonder.
This little excursion out of my little gay bubble reminded me of a couple important things. I don't want my life to be easy. Less stressful, perhaps, but not easy. I don't think I would ever learn anything if things became too straightforward. And the other reminder? Given the choice, I'd take my crazy, hedonistic, ridiculous, rollercoaster gay-bubble existence over a straight life in suburbia every time. Since a suburban dream appeared to not be an option for me as I grew up and came out, as I would never fit in anyway, I felt like I was given carte blanche to invent my own idea of happiness. My own idea of family. To build the fabric of my life based on no one's standards but my own. I'm not sure I would have realized this was possible were I not queer (in which case, sadly, I probably wouldn't know what I was missing anyway). What an amazing gift.
So this weekend, while people around the world rejoice in Christ's dying for all of our sins only to shove a boulder out of his way and rise again three days later, I'm going to lift my face to the sky, throw my hands in the air, and say "Thank god I'm gay!"
Amen.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Loose and Lucid
Wow. What a weekend. I should have house guests more often. I actually stayed at home on both Friday and Saturday nights. The last time that happened, unless I'm forgetting something, was when I had my wisdom teeth out back in January. Mind you, I got fairly drunk on Friday night, but getting drunk at home with your oldest friends in the world, the ones who know you better than anyone and love you no matter what, is quite a different beast than careening from gay bar to gay bar - though the Saturday morning hangover most certainly was not. One of the drawbacks of drinking at home is that there is no such thing as last call. Normally I might consider this a perk, but truth be told, I have avoided many a needless drink simply because the bar was closed, and my liver is thankful.
So of course after finishing work today I was chomping at the bit to go out. The sun was shining, I had nowhere to be tomorrow, and I hadn't stepped on a dancefloor in over a week... must! do! something! Must! see! boys! Must! get! dirty! And then it hit me - I'm not dying to go out at all. I'm horny. I'm dying to have sex. Somehow (as if I don't know) the two activities have become inextricably linked in my mind.
The idea that I've come to equate drunkeness with sex, though I'm sure fairly common, strikes me as kind of sad. And a little scary. Despite my best intentions, I probably don't make the best decisions while drunk. I'm glad I've had this little epiphany before doing something really stupid (group sex on a first date, anyone?). It's time to start weaning my sex life off the drink. I think I'm fine with, say, a couple glasses of wine to take the nervous edge off and loosen me up a little, but anything beyond that is dangerous ground. I don't mind being loose, but I'd like to be fully aware of it.
I want to get drunk on sex, not have drunk sex. Besides, most of the time drunk sex kind of blows. You think you're doing brilliantly until you realize it's the room spinning and not, in fact, your tongue landing a particularly inspired gymnastic-esque triple axel on your partner. And don't even get me started about the disco dust. Thank god I've decided to lay off that shit for a good long while. I've heard tell that some can perform just fine, but I'm not buying it. Rather like the wine, in my experience a couple lines can provide some enhancement, but finish the bag and you end up sitting there talking profoundly about how amazing sex is while your cock looks like you've just spent six hours swimming with the Inuit.
The other concern I have with drunk sex is being able to tell if you were good or not. I could give the whole "well, I've never had any complaints" spiel, but really, most people aren't going to be so rude as to tell me to my face, now are they? Frankly, I think I'm pretty good, but when the last thing I remember is the act, rather than at what moment, exactly, I passed out, I start to question my judgement.
I'm not too worried about this, though (being good at sex, I mean, not passing out in the middle of it). I clearly remember the group sex of two weeks ago (no, really, I do, though I still think it was stupid) and I was fucking good times. Even drunk, I think I'm good - but there is a line. It can't be an"oh, I'd rather just pass out now" running through your mind. It's gotta be more the "I wouldn't normally be this forward, but, ahhh, fuck it, what the hell, let's go..." kind of vibe.
This is why finding a fuck buddy has been one of the items on my to do list. I like sex, and I'd like to have it on a regular basis, but I'd kind of like to be having sex with the same person. I'm tired of one night stands. In the past nine months or so, I've had amazing ones, bad ones, and some that weren't necessarily what I would define as great sex but we're so interesting that that more than made up for it. Mostly they've been alright. As in, just okay. I'd say, overall, that one out of five have been amazing. So I'm either picking up the wrong guys, or, and I think this is more likely, sometimes you need a few goes with the same person to really get things going. Generally you get to know someone a little better each time you hang out with them, which serves to deepen your relationship with them as it goes along: you know what foods they like, or you know what kind of movies you can invite them to and which you can't, you learn what drama may be going on in their family.
Now apply this to a purely sex-based relationship. At first, you're just getting to know each other. There may be a few awkward moments as you're discovering what is and what isn't common ground. But eventually you get to know each other well and can just get straight to the good stuff.
I wish this fuck buddy business had occurred to me last summer. I could have been screening candidates this whole time. That's not to say, upon reflection, there aren't any, but all the aforementioned amazing one-night stands are either not in my phone book, have not shared my interest in repeat recreation, or, in one case, lives clear across the country and isn't rich enough to incur the level of travel expenses my libido would require.
Potentially, of course, there is Steve (and yes, I know I said last time I wouldn't talk about him, but this is merely an incidental mention, so y'all can shut up) but whether or not we will have a great sex life remains, at this juncture, an open-ended question. We didn't have sex with each other during the group sex incident, and the one night he did spend in my bed was definitely a spooning-only affair (see "finish the bag" paragraph four). It would certainly be convenient... well, that sounds rather dry - it would be pretty fucking fantastic, actually, if Steve and I turn out to have a powerhouse bedroom relationship, but I'm not getting my hopes up. Sometimes you have chemistry every way with someone except for in the bedroom and there's nothing you can do about it. Going on what I know so far, there is some potential of this occurring. But unless the first time is totally over-the-top bloody awful, I will certainly give Steve many, many opportunities to engage in good, old-fashioned, clean and sober dirty sex with me before I declare a mission abort. Because while finding a fuck buddy would be great, I have to admit that accidentally stumbling upon a great boyfriend would be even better.
In the end, I decided to forego the dancefloor tonight and stayed in. I put some of that cooped-up spring energy to good use and cleaned the house. Then Steve called. We talked for awhile and made a date for the movies tomorrow night. Now all I wanna do is get him in here and dirty the place up again.
So of course after finishing work today I was chomping at the bit to go out. The sun was shining, I had nowhere to be tomorrow, and I hadn't stepped on a dancefloor in over a week... must! do! something! Must! see! boys! Must! get! dirty! And then it hit me - I'm not dying to go out at all. I'm horny. I'm dying to have sex. Somehow (as if I don't know) the two activities have become inextricably linked in my mind.
The idea that I've come to equate drunkeness with sex, though I'm sure fairly common, strikes me as kind of sad. And a little scary. Despite my best intentions, I probably don't make the best decisions while drunk. I'm glad I've had this little epiphany before doing something really stupid (group sex on a first date, anyone?). It's time to start weaning my sex life off the drink. I think I'm fine with, say, a couple glasses of wine to take the nervous edge off and loosen me up a little, but anything beyond that is dangerous ground. I don't mind being loose, but I'd like to be fully aware of it.
I want to get drunk on sex, not have drunk sex. Besides, most of the time drunk sex kind of blows. You think you're doing brilliantly until you realize it's the room spinning and not, in fact, your tongue landing a particularly inspired gymnastic-esque triple axel on your partner. And don't even get me started about the disco dust. Thank god I've decided to lay off that shit for a good long while. I've heard tell that some can perform just fine, but I'm not buying it. Rather like the wine, in my experience a couple lines can provide some enhancement, but finish the bag and you end up sitting there talking profoundly about how amazing sex is while your cock looks like you've just spent six hours swimming with the Inuit.
The other concern I have with drunk sex is being able to tell if you were good or not. I could give the whole "well, I've never had any complaints" spiel, but really, most people aren't going to be so rude as to tell me to my face, now are they? Frankly, I think I'm pretty good, but when the last thing I remember is the act, rather than at what moment, exactly, I passed out, I start to question my judgement.
I'm not too worried about this, though (being good at sex, I mean, not passing out in the middle of it). I clearly remember the group sex of two weeks ago (no, really, I do, though I still think it was stupid) and I was fucking good times. Even drunk, I think I'm good - but there is a line. It can't be an"oh, I'd rather just pass out now" running through your mind. It's gotta be more the "I wouldn't normally be this forward, but, ahhh, fuck it, what the hell, let's go..." kind of vibe.
This is why finding a fuck buddy has been one of the items on my to do list. I like sex, and I'd like to have it on a regular basis, but I'd kind of like to be having sex with the same person. I'm tired of one night stands. In the past nine months or so, I've had amazing ones, bad ones, and some that weren't necessarily what I would define as great sex but we're so interesting that that more than made up for it. Mostly they've been alright. As in, just okay. I'd say, overall, that one out of five have been amazing. So I'm either picking up the wrong guys, or, and I think this is more likely, sometimes you need a few goes with the same person to really get things going. Generally you get to know someone a little better each time you hang out with them, which serves to deepen your relationship with them as it goes along: you know what foods they like, or you know what kind of movies you can invite them to and which you can't, you learn what drama may be going on in their family.
Now apply this to a purely sex-based relationship. At first, you're just getting to know each other. There may be a few awkward moments as you're discovering what is and what isn't common ground. But eventually you get to know each other well and can just get straight to the good stuff.
I wish this fuck buddy business had occurred to me last summer. I could have been screening candidates this whole time. That's not to say, upon reflection, there aren't any, but all the aforementioned amazing one-night stands are either not in my phone book, have not shared my interest in repeat recreation, or, in one case, lives clear across the country and isn't rich enough to incur the level of travel expenses my libido would require.
Potentially, of course, there is Steve (and yes, I know I said last time I wouldn't talk about him, but this is merely an incidental mention, so y'all can shut up) but whether or not we will have a great sex life remains, at this juncture, an open-ended question. We didn't have sex with each other during the group sex incident, and the one night he did spend in my bed was definitely a spooning-only affair (see "finish the bag" paragraph four). It would certainly be convenient... well, that sounds rather dry - it would be pretty fucking fantastic, actually, if Steve and I turn out to have a powerhouse bedroom relationship, but I'm not getting my hopes up. Sometimes you have chemistry every way with someone except for in the bedroom and there's nothing you can do about it. Going on what I know so far, there is some potential of this occurring. But unless the first time is totally over-the-top bloody awful, I will certainly give Steve many, many opportunities to engage in good, old-fashioned, clean and sober dirty sex with me before I declare a mission abort. Because while finding a fuck buddy would be great, I have to admit that accidentally stumbling upon a great boyfriend would be even better.
In the end, I decided to forego the dancefloor tonight and stayed in. I put some of that cooped-up spring energy to good use and cleaned the house. Then Steve called. We talked for awhile and made a date for the movies tomorrow night. Now all I wanna do is get him in here and dirty the place up again.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Back to Happy
I'm happy to report that I am... well, happy. I've decided to stop being such a freak and to stop over thinking this Steve thing. We talked a few times this week, and I saw him for a bit last night, and he was perfectly normal. He's actually pretty embarassed about the state he was in this past Sunday and is making an effort to calm down his excesses. I can certainly identify with that.
Everyone comes with a past - it would be stupid of me to throw away a potentially rewarding relationship out of some irrational fear of it, especially as he's trying to move forward. It helps that he calls me all the time and is visibly happy to see me when I walk into a room - it strengthens my fragile ego and instantly soothes my insecurities. He likes me, he really likes me!
So today he's meeting some of my friends - we're going to the restaurant he works at, where he will serve us food and drink and I will gush when he's out of earshot. It's always interesting to get a friend's take on someone you're into...
Anyway, said friends are visiting from out of town, so I really shouldn't be sitting in front of a computer ignoring them.
I promise I'll talk about something other than Steve next entry - my fixation is alarming even to me.
Everyone comes with a past - it would be stupid of me to throw away a potentially rewarding relationship out of some irrational fear of it, especially as he's trying to move forward. It helps that he calls me all the time and is visibly happy to see me when I walk into a room - it strengthens my fragile ego and instantly soothes my insecurities. He likes me, he really likes me!
So today he's meeting some of my friends - we're going to the restaurant he works at, where he will serve us food and drink and I will gush when he's out of earshot. It's always interesting to get a friend's take on someone you're into...
Anyway, said friends are visiting from out of town, so I really shouldn't be sitting in front of a computer ignoring them.
I promise I'll talk about something other than Steve next entry - my fixation is alarming even to me.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
That Teenage Feeling
Spring really needs to kick in. I need some sun to help raise my spirits. Crushes gone awry, cocaine running rampant, group sex... if this were July, I'd be laughing my ass off at the ridiculousness of it all. Instead I feel downtrodden, tired and lonely.
I hate when I get like this. I wake up feeling like shit, hit snooze too many times, and then get angry at myself for having to rush to work. Work usually proves a hectic and welcome reprieve from my constantly turning mind, but then at workday's end I find myself on the bus home with my iPod tuned to the Smiths. For chrissake. It's like I'm fifteen again, moping around all sullen and moody, bemoaning the tragic state of affairs called my life. I'm supposed to be making change happen, not sitting around whining. I'm old enough to know better.
I miss being taken care of. I've been on my own since I was seventeen. I'm tired. I want a break. I want someone else to take the reins for awhile. I want someone to tell me exactly what I'd be brilliant at, and then tell me what to do to make it make me rich and fulfilled. Or even reasonably well off. I want to be swept off my feet. I want someone to hold me, and tell me I'm a good person. I want to feel safe. I want someone who isn't my cat to cherish my affection on a daily basis.
I could go on and on. I'm not gonna win myself any new readers today, that's for sure, unless they've googled "self-indulgent bullshit." I'm simply going to end this with some random lyric quotes that for one reason or another resonate with me lately.
When I grow up, I'll be stable.
Happy People don't give in to that sinking feeling.
Til now I always got by on my own - I never really cared until I met you.
I know it's over, and it never really began, but in my heart it was so real.
I don't care if forever never comes,
'cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Weighing the Damage
Dammit all to hell. I decide to give into the crush, and lo and behold, crushing disappointment.
I have discovered Steve is damaged. I mean, sure, to an extent we are all damaged in some way, but he's damaged in ways I'm probably not prepared to deal with. I'm not opposed to taking care of someone - that's what you do in a relationship, you take care of each other - but I'm not seeing much evidence that I'm ever gonna be looked after by this guy. The fact that he is nearly five years younger than me could be a factor, I suppose. Even though both our lives are in places that would seem to fit with each other, I'm way more grounded than he is. (Actually, most of the time I feel more grounded than most people I know - does this mean I'm destined for repeated disappointment?)
Why do I attract these guys? And what is wrong with me that I'm attracted to these guys?
Let's assess the damage. While Steve is intelligent, fun, sexy, and affectionate, he has some substance abuse issues. To his credit, he seems reasonably self-aware about it - Friday night he agreed with me a break from partying was a great idea and we rented a movie, ate take out, and drank a bottle of red wine. It was a perfect coupley night in. And Saturday night he stayed in at home and watched television. Then again, I've done coke with him four times now - all but one at his insistence - and witnessed him doing GHB on one occasion. But he goes to the gym five times a week, eats well, doesn't smoke cigarettes... hell, he doesn't even drink coffee. He's 24, so I can't blame him for wanting to have some fun, god knows I've had, but there's a difference between fun and so off your head blotto that you keep repeating yourself, can't follow a conversation, and don't recall anything of it the following morning.
Yeah, we hung out last night and this was the state I found him in. Complete obliteration. I had to tell him this morning what had transpired the night before. I was nice enough to tell him that he'd run into an ex and had a minor but pretty civil confrontation and was visibly upset by it at the time. I left out the part where he confessed to me he used to be addicted to oxycontin and had at one point shot up (how much or what it was has yet to be determined).
It was like being on a date with the Guy Pearce character in Memento. Every few minutes, he'd forget what had happened and ask the same questions and say the same things again. It wasn't fun, it made me sad. I don't need that in my life.
Yet it's weird. When we got back to my place last night we had some great conversation, he gave me a massage, and we made out a lot. And then we cuddled and went to bed. No sex, though; we weren't in any shape for it - a potential problem yet again.
You could say I'm over reacting. I only met this guy two weeks ago. Though I am ready for a boyfriend again, the only kind of relationship I want right now is something light and fun and affectionate, with good sex, with maybe some potential for a deep, lasting bond somewhere down the road. Looked at in this light, Steve could fit the bill.
Or is that really what I want? Re-reading that last paragraph, I think there's a chance I'm lying to myself. Let's try this again: what I really want is to meet a fun, caring, sexy, grounded guy with no major hang-ups and who is as into me as I'm into them. Thing is, I'm not sure this is realistic. Does such a person exist?
I like Steve. We click and are immediatlely comfortable together. He oozes good boyfriend potential a lot of the time, and other times I think he's completely toxic and that I should run away as fast as I can. What's the tipping point? Nobody's perfect, it's a given. So how do we decide what amount of imperfection is acceptable? And do certain types of damage carry more weight than others? I don't think Steve is a lost cause - but I'm not foolish enough to think I could be the one to fix him, either.
For now, I will wait and see. I will give it more time, and not hang out with him when he's blotto. And I'll tell him, without laying down ultimatums, that there's some stuff I can deal with, and some stuff I can't, and see what he thinks. I will try to maintain my own sense of balance, one of open-mindedness and healthy realism, and let the evidence tip the scale, wherever that may be.
I have discovered Steve is damaged. I mean, sure, to an extent we are all damaged in some way, but he's damaged in ways I'm probably not prepared to deal with. I'm not opposed to taking care of someone - that's what you do in a relationship, you take care of each other - but I'm not seeing much evidence that I'm ever gonna be looked after by this guy. The fact that he is nearly five years younger than me could be a factor, I suppose. Even though both our lives are in places that would seem to fit with each other, I'm way more grounded than he is. (Actually, most of the time I feel more grounded than most people I know - does this mean I'm destined for repeated disappointment?)
Why do I attract these guys? And what is wrong with me that I'm attracted to these guys?
Let's assess the damage. While Steve is intelligent, fun, sexy, and affectionate, he has some substance abuse issues. To his credit, he seems reasonably self-aware about it - Friday night he agreed with me a break from partying was a great idea and we rented a movie, ate take out, and drank a bottle of red wine. It was a perfect coupley night in. And Saturday night he stayed in at home and watched television. Then again, I've done coke with him four times now - all but one at his insistence - and witnessed him doing GHB on one occasion. But he goes to the gym five times a week, eats well, doesn't smoke cigarettes... hell, he doesn't even drink coffee. He's 24, so I can't blame him for wanting to have some fun, god knows I've had, but there's a difference between fun and so off your head blotto that you keep repeating yourself, can't follow a conversation, and don't recall anything of it the following morning.
Yeah, we hung out last night and this was the state I found him in. Complete obliteration. I had to tell him this morning what had transpired the night before. I was nice enough to tell him that he'd run into an ex and had a minor but pretty civil confrontation and was visibly upset by it at the time. I left out the part where he confessed to me he used to be addicted to oxycontin and had at one point shot up (how much or what it was has yet to be determined).
It was like being on a date with the Guy Pearce character in Memento. Every few minutes, he'd forget what had happened and ask the same questions and say the same things again. It wasn't fun, it made me sad. I don't need that in my life.
Yet it's weird. When we got back to my place last night we had some great conversation, he gave me a massage, and we made out a lot. And then we cuddled and went to bed. No sex, though; we weren't in any shape for it - a potential problem yet again.
You could say I'm over reacting. I only met this guy two weeks ago. Though I am ready for a boyfriend again, the only kind of relationship I want right now is something light and fun and affectionate, with good sex, with maybe some potential for a deep, lasting bond somewhere down the road. Looked at in this light, Steve could fit the bill.
Or is that really what I want? Re-reading that last paragraph, I think there's a chance I'm lying to myself. Let's try this again: what I really want is to meet a fun, caring, sexy, grounded guy with no major hang-ups and who is as into me as I'm into them. Thing is, I'm not sure this is realistic. Does such a person exist?
I like Steve. We click and are immediatlely comfortable together. He oozes good boyfriend potential a lot of the time, and other times I think he's completely toxic and that I should run away as fast as I can. What's the tipping point? Nobody's perfect, it's a given. So how do we decide what amount of imperfection is acceptable? And do certain types of damage carry more weight than others? I don't think Steve is a lost cause - but I'm not foolish enough to think I could be the one to fix him, either.
For now, I will wait and see. I will give it more time, and not hang out with him when he's blotto. And I'll tell him, without laying down ultimatums, that there's some stuff I can deal with, and some stuff I can't, and see what he thinks. I will try to maintain my own sense of balance, one of open-mindedness and healthy realism, and let the evidence tip the scale, wherever that may be.
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