There have been a number of incarnations of this post. I can’t seem to organize my thoughts coherently with this one, so ima just jump in.
I met a fellow last Friday,and there are a million offshoot topics I want to touch on, but I’ll narrow it down to three (which I’m sure will have their own lovely tangents as we delve in): 1) HOW I met him, ‘cuz it was BOSS as all hell. 2) Why am I REALLY bummed that he hasn’t contacted me, and 3) Why is it still “inappropriate” for women to have and/or express the same sexual appetites as men.
Holy nuts guys. I feel so freaking cool about this. So last Friday- I did not really want to go out. It was an opening party for a show I had worked on, and while I adored the cast, I did not actually attend opening night, and there’s always some awkwardness in being single and coming to these events. Plus my hair was a little greasy and I didn’t have time to wash it. PLUS my hot rollers weren’t working for some reason, so I had to feebley attempt to use my curling iron, before giving up out of boredom and frustration. Now, when I “go out”, I like to really “go out”. If I am dragging my lazy tush to something, I have to make it worth my (and, really, everyone’s) while. It’s a full on pampering of my own senses. Bath, shave the legs (another thing I did not have time to do), makeup, ya know, general purtifying.
For some reason, even though I know I looked fine (er…great…hot….whatever), I certainly wasn’t feeling it. There was no fierceness to me, no strut. Usually the result of a good dollin’ up is an
who’s gonna walk away from this?
overall feeling of sassy “rocking it” Beyonce-inspired awesomeness. This was a little bit lacking when I headed out. Instead, I felt insecure and ugly (sooooo many stress zits) and hopeless (sooooo many crushes left unspoken and unrealized) and just generally frustrated with myself and the world. BUT- I would BE DAMNED if I didn’t at least try. Worst case scenario, I go, have one drink, am mainly ignored (not maliciously so…just…’meh’-ly so), then head home to the comforting embrace of Netflix and whatever there is to eat in my fridge (all the cheese its are gone).
I arrive at White Owl (already ominous, as that was the location of horrible OKC date 1), and strut in. I am a firm believer of fake it till you are it, and nothing puts pep in my step like knowing that when I walk into a room, people notice. Vain? Sure. But also remember, I am cripplingly insecure about my looks, soo….it balances out, right? right? whatever….I walk in, greasy roots and weird curls flying, dress amplifying my genetic assets (girls got cleavage for daaaaaaays), ready to find my crew, and see where the night takes me. First stop is to stand in “line” for the bar. Really, I’m standing in mass. Luckily, I situate myself next to some actors from the show, so i don’t have to just stand there, forcing an attitude of cool nonchalance. We stand there chit-chatting for a few moments, and peripherally, I notice a bearded dude is standing next to/behind-ish me; again, we are in a mass, so we are actually pretty parallel to eachother. After a few moments, a spot opens up at the bar, directly in front of bearded dude, and just to the left of me. We sort of look at each other, and he does the “after you” gesture, and I do a sort of curtsy, and almost- ALMOST- mime flipping my hair, mutter, “oh thanks” and sidle up to the space. That’s when I get the brilliant idea. I’m gonna buy that bearded fucker a DRINK. Not only that, I’m going to do it without saying one goddamned word to him, and be smooth as all hell. I glance and notice he’s holding a Rainier can, which is perfect, since those mothers are cheap. I order my gin, and the Rainier, turn around, hold out the can to the dude, who takes it, and looks super surprised, and says, “Is this for me?” I nod, say “yeah” and then hit that hot bearded dude with my million dollar smile, then I just WALK THE FUCK AWAY.
I myself cannot even believe how absolutely cool I was in that moment. I was the epitome of cool. Mainly because I was acting out of a true desire to reward a good deed (letting me go in front of him in a crowded ass bar), and because I had absolutely no stakes in the action. It’s not like I was looking to hit on anyone; nor was I seeking special attention (again-remember- greasy hair and 1′ long leg hair); but this was clearly my ONE opportunity to be balling as fuck, so I seized it. Not to mention, I had the wonderful knowledge that I there was a table full of people I knew, to which I was headed anyway. Having a direction, a goal per se, was very helpful.
After about fifteen, twenty minutes of standing around, feeling ever so slightly excluded (which is just to say that I was not in the mood to be outwardly gregarious, and really, I just wanted someone else to really want to start a conversation with me), I chatted a bit with our stage manager, telling her my awesome story about inside. I lingered awkwardly for a moment; just enough time to make myself feel really pointless, before deciding to head back in for a second (and last) drink. I walk in, and who should be standing at the water station, which you have to pass in order to get to the bar? Yes- it was indeed hot bearded dude to whom I suavely handed off a beer. He looks right at me, and I give him a small, acknowledging smile, and start to walk past him, when he stops me by saying, “Hey!” So I stop, half in line, half near him. “That was really awesome, you giving me that beer.” I smile again, and shrug, and say “Well, you let me in front of you. Tit for tat, right?” I immediately kicked myself for being the type of person who peppers modern conversation with antiquated sayings. He didn’t seem too phased by it, because he actually struck up a conversation. He asked me what I was doing there, and I said the play I had costume designed had just opened, so we were having a do. I noticed he was wearing a backpack, so I asked if he was going somewhere, and he said, “Oh yeah, I’m headed home.” I thought to myself Bummer. I finally get to have an honest to god interaction with a member of the opposite sex I find attractive, and dude is headed out. But I wasn’t giving it too much thought. Instead, I said, “Ok, well, I’m gonna get in line for a drink…” and then I drew a parallel to the situation of saying goodbye to someone, only to find that you are both walking the same way for like, another five blocks. It absolutely NEVER occurred to me that this viable specimen was perhaps trying to strike up a conversation with me. Until, that is, I noticed that the dude wasn’t leaving. He was, in fact, seeking out more ways of having a conversation with me. He introduced himself, and we shook hands, and he stayed next to me, having a full blown conversation in which we both were delightful and charming. Then, as I got my drink, he said, “Come on. We are going to have a four minute conversation.” And he headed outside to a picnic table on the patio. “Four minutes? What, do you have to catch the bus or something?” “Will you just go with it?” I shrug, and decide, yeah- cute guy, fun conversation, Friday night? Hell yeah, I’ll go with it.
Four minutes swiftly and easily turns into an hour and a half. We touch on everything from literature, to travel, to the Trailblazers. A couple of times, some people (girls…YES I NOTICED AND DID MY DAMNEDEST NOT TO CARE) from the birthday party of a co-worker he had been attending came up and, without looking at me, let him know they were all headed to Dig a Pony (ew. Sorry! but ew) and was he coming. He looked at me, then said, “Nah, I think I’m gonna stay here.” BLUSH. I actually really like this conversation, and am enjoying spending time with this guy. Finally, our conversation dwindles down, and I say what we’re both thinking, “See, here’s the awkward part of the conversation, where we can’t think of anything else to say, because we both wish we were making out with each other.” This is half bravado, half truth, so imagine my astonishment when he says, in all seriousness, “exactly.” SOOOOOO we make out in my car and then go back to my place, where he spent the night.
This is such an obvious euphemism, I debated even using it, but I figured I needed to give any readers (ahem- MOM), the chance to ease into the idea that I, a healthy red-blooded woman nearing 29, would maybe actually desire to have sex now and again. Being one who is traditionally single, and apparently destined to be so for quite some time, I have very few options open to me with regards to obtaining sex:
A. Blatant promiscuity; to which I say, no thank you. I have a discerning palette when it comes to people I am willing to spend time with, little own let see me naked. I am not the type to just pick any
way better looking than ACTUAL promiscuity
rando off the street with a penis. No. No, thank you. Not to mention, health class in high school pretty much did me in with fear of STD’s and babies and the like for me to be bangin’ strangers every weekend. But above and beyond all that, it is simply not in my nature to be super promiscuous. I am a Taurus, after all. So, if I’m not being promiscuous, how else could I get the physical attention most if not all humans crave and deserve?
B. Be in a steady, committed, loving relationship. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…..see THIS ENTIRE FUCKING BLOG. The universe has, apparently, deemed me not ready to find my person yet. So this option is out.
C. Pay for it. That’s right. Find me a gigalo. But economically speaking- I simply couldn’t afford it. I can barely afford groceries.
I typed in ‘male prostitution’ and this came up and I can’t stop laughing
This leaves our final option:
D. Carefully weigh my options in a given circumstance and choose to do (haha) something moderately reckless; knowing that, fundamentally, I will be safer than most.
So, I chose option D. because at that point in time, in that situation, the stars had aligned for me. It was consensual, I wasn’t even tipsy, and after two hours in conversation, I felt I had a solid enough handle on this person’s character to rule out him being a sociopath (although let’s be honest….one never knows…). I figured this was my chance to pull a Beyonce, to go after something I wanted. And I did. Successfully! He spent the night, and seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. So much so that he asked me, the next morning, if I would want to get together and talk books again some time.
OF COURSE I WOULD WANT THAT. I wish I could say I smiled seductively and coyly said, “I would really enjoy that.” but it’s me and I didn’t do that. Instead, I furrowed my brow, looked him square in the eye, and said, “I mean, I made it pretty clear that I am awkward at flirting, but I would very much like to see you again. You have your own opinions on that subject, though, so I’ll leave it up to you.” Because I SUCK AT ALL THE THINGS. Luckily, he sort of laughs, and asks for my number despite my awkwardness.
That was Saturday morning. It is now, as of this writing, Wednesday afternoon, and I have heard no word. There has been no tell-tale vibration, or exhilarating ding to notify me of a possible suitor. And I will not lie. That has been a HUGE bummer. Mainly because I actually quite liked this fellow and the conversation we had was promising (I mean we discussed books and travel for fuck’s sake….), so its a bit of a bummer to think that I won’t hear from him again. This silence has also stirred up some
this is actually me…no…it’s not. I lied. sorry
really deep seated and painful emotions in me; the same ones that happen with each and every new possible beau. I am not joking when I say that my reaction to men is pretty much always the same. I meet someone. They seem interested. They get my number. But they DO NOT OPERATE ON THE SAME TIME FRAME and instead of just shrugging it off, I look at it like it’s some personal insult. My ego starts to over-react BIG time, and before I know it, I have silently set myself up to sabotage any glimmer of a chance which may occur down the road. So this time around- I am determined to not follow my usual pattern of absolute self-deprecation and wallowing. Instead, I am doing my damnedest to reiterate the mantra that if I don’t hear from him, it has absolutely nothing to do with me, and that who knows what his life is like. I’m trying to be zen about it, but it is hard as fuck, guys. It’s hard not to accuse the universe of dangling a carrot. It’s hard not to call myself “idiot” or “fool” because I thought for once, a man would be interested enough to take a stab at getting to know me. It’s hard to learn to accept such uncomfortable emotions as frustration. I want him to want me. Do I need it? No. Here, the universe has provided me with a valuable learning opportunity. They gave me something I really wanted. Then, it went away, and now, the universe is challenging me to learn how to cope with the loss of something I wanted. Normally, I’d pitch a fit like a sugar crashing two year old. And since I am now very AWARE that I behave thus, I did my best not to pitch that fit. Am doing my best. It’s tough. I’d still really like to hear from him; I want it, but I suppose the silence is the universe telling me I don’t need him (or what he would symbolize); not yet. Which is totes true, btw. My life is pretty fucking rad right now. Awesome, secure job, fabulous friends and fam, another costume design gig, AND I just got accepted into the Graduate program I wanted? Yeah- I’d say bearded dude was just the hairy chested icing on this awesomesuace cake.
Now, some of you may feel uncomfortable reading this, much like I felt uncomfortable writing it for a hot second. Then I sat myself down, and asked why, WHY was I so uncomfortable about it? I was worried about the kind of judgement which may happen. People thinking that I was being in some way inappropriate….but then I realized I really didn’t care. If I actually cared, i wouldn’t have had sex. I have nothing to be ashamed off. My body had a natural desire, one that women have been forced to hide for far too long. And honestly, the fact that anyone would look askance at me (or any fellow woman) for having sex on the “first date” actually pisses me right off. I have no idea how this moral superiority can still exist in this day and age, but it does, and it’s infuriating. If you, yourself, do not want to or believe in having sex on the first date/before marriage/ever, that is certainly YOUR prerogative. But to start condemning those who behave differently, especially those who are simply following natural, normal impulses, and still managing to be responsible? UGH I SAY. And while the thought did cross my mind that perhaps dude isn’t going to call me because we slept together, well, if that is truly the case (and I honestly don’t think it is, but if so) he can go suck a duck, because I have no time for judgey mcjudgersons in my life. So if you read this, and felt uncomfortable or judgemental, and you AREN’T my mother, then it may behoove you, like it did me, to sit down and reflect on why.
So, long post short: Bummer bearded dude didn’t try to see me again, Hooray for all the self-reflection and realization, and don’t be a sexist dickbag.
I love you all