I'm not sure what the hell happened. My love life seemed to be floating merrily along down a gentle stream. A slightly boring stream, perhaps, but at least it was gentle. Sun-dappled kisses and warm laughter. Now I've gone 'round the bend only to be greeted by rushing rapids and what may or may not be a waterfall misting up the distance. Do I jump out now and swim to shore while I can? Or ride out the bumps and pray that, instead of a sheer, hundred foot drop, the waterfall turns out to be a navigable fall of five feet or so?
Let me ditch the lame metaphor and explain.
The guy I've been dating - for the sake of convenience, I will call him the Writer - finally broached the idea of the two of us talking. We had still not had sex, and I was feeling like, after a strong start, we'd kind of hit a wall. So when he emailed me saying he'd "been thinking about us" and that we should "meet and talk" I was glad - and also terrified. The words "meet and talk" never bode well in my experience. Oddly, I decided I would approach this terror in a new, rather direct way: I replied to his email and told him flat out that what he had said immediately made me think the worst and that while he hadn't really done anything specific to make me think that, I found him very hard to read. I also told him that because he had told me he couldn't deal with pressure from boys, I had been very stand-offish, much more than I normally would, and that I hoped he hadn't mistaken this for non-interest.
I don't know why I thought being straight up about my insecurities and feelings was a good idea. While perhaps admirable in intent, it now seems stupid to me. Insecurity, unsureness - these are not appealing, sexy qualities. Once again I find myself asking "what was I thinking?"
I had finished my email reply with a jokey-but-serious "hey, if I'm freaking out for nothing you should call me as soon as you read this and put my mind at ease so I don't stew all day" comment. The email was sent quite late at night. He called me the next morning. We made a date to talk the following night, and I felt better.
This was on a Wednesday. I had a corporate dj gig that night, where I had a bit of a reunion with an old girlfriend, T. Our friendship had come to a halt when I broke up with the Ex, since she is the Ex's best friend. However, it's been a year and a half since the split, so on Wednesday the two of us reconnected and she told me she thinks it's time we try and rekindle/re-establish our friendship. After the gig finished, we hung out and caught up over a couple of beers at a downtown bar. Having taken full advantage of the open bar at the corporate gig, we were considerably drunk by the time we closed the place and made our way into the street.
Somehow, it's - surprise! - a bit hazy, T struck up a conversation with a nice looking Spanish man in the street outside the bar. Well, I assumed he was Spanish as he and T were prattling away in it, but it turned out he was a Mexican guy named Sergio. T invited him to join us back at her place. I didn't really think too much of it at the time as I was more concerned with how the Ex, who still lives at T's place (she's out of town most of the time for work), was going to react to the rekindling of our friendship.
It could've gone better. There were a few people back at T's hanging out, and everything was fine for a bit. But the Ex was pretty drunk and making nasty remarks. While normally this is his schtick, I detected a note of real hostility in his supposedly "funny" cutting comments and told him so. I wasn't trying to start a big scene or anything - I thought we could just talk it out - but T ended up playing mediator and before I knew it, things escalated and the Ex stormed off to hide out from the both of us in the bedroom. Except that the bedroom door was shut, and he didn't notice.
"Ow!"
He stormed right into the door. There was blood coming out of his forehead. T ran up to assist him. I stayed put (I hadn't actually seen the blood, so I didn't realize at the time he'd dinged himself pretty good.) Everyone had disappeared from the main room except me, a close friend of mine, and Sergio. The three of us were chatting, when Sergio suddenly asks my friend if it's okay if he kisses me. My friend says "sure, go for it."
What's happening???
Suddenly the Mexican is kissing me - very well, I might add. All I can imagine is the Ex returning to the room, which really could happen at any second, and how terrible the ensuing fracas would be. It's time to go home.
And Writer be damned, it's time I got some.
Somehow Sergio and I managed to leave together without anybody realizing (with the exception of my friend who saw us kiss) that we were leaving together. Once back at my place, we had torrid sex for hours. The following morning, hungover and very late for work, we did it again.
Once home from work a few hours later, I felt guilty as fuck. Sure, the Writer and I weren't necessarily exclusive, but it sort of felt implied even if it had never been said out loud. And more importantly, what did this new development mean? I thought I was pretty smitten, but how smitten with the Writer could I really be if I'd so easily go off and get it on with someone else? Was it simply a matter of wanting sex, or was there more to it
Well, I thought, let's see how the talk goes and we'll go from there.
Yeah - bad idea. It wasn't so much a talk as two intelligent but emotionally inarticulate people sitting across from each other for hours.
"I know I suggested this, but I don't really know what I want to talk about," he said.
Okay. Weird. There was some chat but most of it was stilted, unwieldy stuff that left me feeling more unresolved than when I walked in the door. He told me he did think it was odd we hadn't had sex yet, and bore the blame for that. He asked how I would feel if "this turned into a friendship" - which is a pretty obvious red flag, I know, but when I asked him how he'd feel about that, he said he did not want that to happen (I told him it would make me sad.)
Leaving his place that night I tried to make plans with him for Sunday, suggesting maybe we could make a little day of it: some brunch, followed by some Christmas shopping and then maybe a matinee movie.
"Can we just do the matinee?" he asked.
Ouch.
We agreed to touch base Sunday afternoon. This plan, unfortunately, got screwed up because on Saturday night, after hanging out with T and the Ex and some friends for the second time that week, I hooked up with Sergio again. The second time was even better than the first. And he didn't leave until 4pm on Sunday. I heard my cell ring around noon, and ignored it, but of course the call was from the Writer.
Yes, I basically blew off our date to enjoy the multitude of pleasures proferred by my Mexican lover. I'm sure anyone reading this could point out any number of problems with my behaviour and some disturbing patterns as well. I'm personally struck by the fact that my mishandling of the Writer dating situation coincides with me hanging out again with my old clique. It's like the past vs the future. Old Me vs New Me. Failing to Shed the Old Bad Habits vs Achieving Change.
But how rid of the past can one really be? Somehow, some way, it always seems to weasle it's way into the present. And though I've been trying (attempting to quit smoking, staying in more often, etc.) to re-invent myself, have been trying to become a smarter, improved version of myself, how much can one realistically change?
I find myself wondering: was I really smitten with the Writer? Or was I smitten with the things he seems to embody: a quiet, stable existence filled with books, the gym, and a healthy, alcohol-free diet? Maybe I wasn't smitten with him - I want to be him.
I just noticed I wrote "was" not "am" - which would seem to answer my question, wouldn't it?
Not being a total jerk, I called the Writer back as soon I'd seen the Mexican out. I apologized, told him I'd gotten quite drunk the night before with T and that I'd slept until 3pm. He said it was no big deal and that he'd gotten lots of stuff done around his place. We chatted for a bit, and made a date to watch Heroes together on Tuesday.
Actually, I think I am a total jerk, but anyway...
We hung up, I jumped in the shower, and when I got out I saw that he'd tried to call back. I called him right away.
He told me he hadn't been totally open with me when we'd spoken on Thursday, that he had held back, that making a date with me was probably not the best idea, and that he thought we should get together and talk.
"Okay," I said, slightly taken aback. "Where do you want to meet? Your house?" We hang at his place 90% of the time.
We're meeting at Starbucks at 7pm.
Yes, methinks I'm getting dumped. It's okay, though - we're meeting at the Starbucks I used to run, the one from which I was unceremoniously fired. I'm used to receiving shitty news there. I suppose there's a small chance I'm wrong, that maybe he has some secret confession or something, but I highly doubt it. Hell, didn't I write something in here a weeks or so ago about how my life only derails when I ingore my instincts? And didn't my instinct tell me, upon getting the Writers' original "meet and talk" email, that I was about to be sent packing?
Here we go again. I don't really feel upset or bummed out, oddly. But I feel like I've failed somehow.
No, that's not quite it. It's more this: I thought I wanted a boyfriend, that I wanted to settle down and have a quiet life with someone, that I was done with my old ways. And while "boyfriend" was never, as it turns out, on the table, I've realized in dating the Writer that I don't want to settle down that quietly just yet. And yet, I want to be done with the old ways. So I'm not sure where this leaves me...
I guess I'll grip the sides a little tighter, resist the urge to swim to shore, and ride these rapids out. If that waterfall turns out to be a long way down, hopefully the fall will at least be exhilarating.
