First Contact with New Boys: Urgh

I just got a call from Rick. As soon as I heard his voice I thought, Hmm, bet he’s an actor and, No. NO. No. Also, almost as soon as I said "Hi," he launched into this anecdote about the guy at his Laundromat sniffing his clothes. (Very strange: just noticed that Spell Check capitalizes Laundromat. I never knew it was a proper noun.) To be fair, the story was pretty funny, but I don’t know. I must have a weird hypersensitivity that makes me say, No. NO. No. Sort of like having allergies. I’m sure Rick’s not bad at all, and, after my first few moments of panic I calmed down, and I think he sounds OK. It occurs to me that on every first phone call with a guy I automatically think No. NO. No. I think that might be based more on the fact that I hate talking on the phone with men I’ve never met; I find it nerve-wracking in the extreme. So it’s probably more of a reflection on me than him. Anyway, we have tentative plans for tonight, though I told him that I do go to bed muy early, and we may end up rescheduling since he has lots to do before going out of town on Friday. He (or at least his voice) reminds me a bit of Eddie. Bad things about Eddie: a)totally flaky actor b)didn’t even get to break up with him since he disappeared on me. Good things about Eddie: a)kind of liberating to be involved with someone with whom I neither had nor wanted a future b)the sex.

OK, so if Rick is reasonably attractive, maybe I can parlay this into a casual kind of sitch?

And speaking of the future, I have a date with JAG (whom for the purpose of this diary I will term Ben) on Saturday afternoon. I much, much prefer first dates to be in a bar, where my nerves can be blunted with the judicious application of alcohol to the gullet. But he suggested Saturday afternoon, and The Rules say you’re supposed to let the man do the suggesting. I mean, I’m being facetious; The Rules are 1950s-era moral tenets disguised as dating etiquette, and I thoroughly disapprove of the book(s) and the(ir) authors, one of whom is named Sherry. I mean, really: Sherry. (That was really quite snotty of me, but as no one's reading this, I'll let it pass).

But I do prefer the guy to make the suggestion. For two reasons: a)takes the pressure off me and b)I like the idea that he’s given it some thought. Or maybe it’s just cause I am a CLOSET SEXIST. Ah, whatever.