A Picture Tells a Thousand Words, Most of Them Wrong

The night following my jaw trauma revelation, I met Chris.

He’d emailed me via the personals, and his photo was very cute. From his vague profile, it looked as though he was in a relationship. When I asked him if this was the case, he said it was, and that he and his girlfriend had an open relationship.

I wrote back to say that if by an open relationship, he meant that his girlfriend was actively OK with him sleeping around, then that was fine with me. Then I recounted my story about Jon, who claimed to be in an open relationship but who, in fact, just slept around while his girlfriend tolerated it. Chris said that, yes, really, it was an open relationship, and his girlfriend saw other men, too. So we agreed to meet.

I don’t know why, but I wasn’t thinking there’d be much spark. And I was right! We were due to meet at a bar on Ninth Avenue, and it was heaving, which always annoys me. When we met I thought, You look nothing like your photo! He must have been at least 30 pounds heavier than he had appeared online! I thought the camera added ten pounds, but not in his case.

All the tables were taken, so we edged up to the bar, where Chris insisted on paying for my mojito, which came with a real stick of sugar cane, yum! He said that he insists on paying, he likes to be polite. Etc. After my discussion with Jeremy, I must say this was a nice respite.

We talked a lot, about our jobs and families and stuff like that. I had a second drink. He kept holding my eyes for a bit longer than necessary, so finally, to ease the tension, I said, “Are you going to kiss me?”

He broke into a grin and started to kiss me. That was a dumb move on my part, cause I’d been thinking that although Chris was perfectly pleasant and smart, I wasn’t interested. But there we were, making out.

There was a couple next to us at the bar, and the woman was pretty drunk. She started kissing the guy, and then I felt her arm snake through mine. She thought my arm was his! Giggling, I pointed this out to her. She was mortified.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

“That’s totally OK,” I insisted. “It’s nice to have someone stroke your arm.” Well, it is.

But she bought us a round of drinks .. gah! I was feeling very drunk.

Eventually Chris and I left, and said we’d get together again. But I wasn’t sure. On one hand, I wasn’t really attracted to him. On the other hand, I had just spent the last hour and a half making out with him, and he had bought all my drinks. That seemed to argue in favor of a second date. Though agreeing to a second date with a guy just because he insisted on paying for my mojitos seemed counter-productive, and if we had a second date I might feel obliged to sleep with him, as a matter of politeness ... But one can't fuck a guy solely to seem well mannered.

Then I reminded myself that my goal here was quantity, and and Chris would be another notch on my bedpost, should I ever happen to have one. And just cause you’re not attracted to someone doesn’t mean the sex can’t be good, right? Until I began Living Somewhat Dangerously last Spring, I’d operated on the principle of never getting it on with someone I wasn't very, very attracted to. Even when I’d been too drunk to exercise judgment, I’d never hooked up with someone I didn’t think I really liked. But kissing guys I've been lukewarm about, like Eddie (prior to this blog), and, come to think of it, Jeremy, who at first didn't hold any great attraction for me -- well, the experience has been extremely enjoyable and enlightening. So maybe getting it on with Chris would be fun. Just how attracted do you have to find a person in order to sleep with him and enjoy it? Of course, if that person is really good in bed, you might start finding them attractive during the act…

The next day Chris emailed me, saying he found me “ridiculously attractive.” Very flattering, and though I couldn’t say the same I wrote back to say that I was going out of town for a bit, and would be in touch soon. That ought to give me some time to mull it over, I figured.

Another First Date That Won't Result in Sex

The other night I met Jon. He emailed me on the Nerve personals. In his profile, he said that he had a girlfriend but that theirs was an open relationship. This made me think of Tim and Amanda. His photo, from what I could see of it, was cute. It would be a new experience for me, so I responded to his wink.

After much back and forth, including his invitation for me to meet him at his apartment (No, no, no) it was agreed that I’d stop by the bar he works in on Tuesday night. I thought this wasn’t a great idea, since I figured it would be crowded, he’d be distracted, and I’d feel surplus to requirements. Nonetheless, what the hell.

I went to the bar, which was not at all crowded when I got there just before 8:00. He’d told me he was a bartender, and he’d be the only one there, but when I arrived I thought perhaps someone else was working instead of him. The bartender didn’t really resemble Jon’s picture at all, at least what I’d seen of it. He was short and stocky, with close-clipped dark hair and several silver rings on his fingers. I sat at the bar. “Hi, Lily,” he said.

“Hi Jon,” I said.

“You want a Cosmo?”

I nodded.

He was all right. He had a moderate Philadelphia accent and a huge chip on his shoulder: he’s a not very successful actor, poor man. Within twenty minutes of meeting, he’d managed to let it drop that he’d had three callbacks for this musical, that he was really artistic, and that, while his girlfriend tolerated his non-monogamy, she actually hated it. “But we’ve talked about it a lot,” her said, “And she knows that the only way for me not to feel trapped is to be able to have sex with other women. But she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking, I’m sure his girlfriend can do better. If she doesn’t like him sleeping with other women, why doesn’t she dump him? I don’t think I could be happy knowing that someone I was committed to was regularly bedding other women, or trying to. At this point, there was no way in hell I’d ever want to sleep with him, especially after he made a joke about “seeing if we’re going to bang.” Now that’s class. “I’m just kidding,” he added, anxiously. “You know I’m kidding cause I said ‘bang,’” I nodded, smiling politely. No way, pal, was my thought.

I felt sorry for him. He’s not particularly young, a bit burnt out from constant auditioning, and working as a bartender at a not very nice place. He seemed frustrated. I would be too, if I was a thirtysomething bartender struggling to get a break. Still. I’m not going to bang him, thank you.

Another Confession: I'm Shallow

My date with JAG was a total bust. I was so disappointed. I daresay he was, too; I caught a fleeting and well hidden look of boredom on his face at one point.

I had such a good feeling about this one! He was nice, but I didn’t find him at all attractive. Possibly because he was barely taller than me. In his email he’d said he was 5’6” but I am barely 5’ even, and my heels were 2 and 1/2 or 3 inches, tops. Even so, we were practically eye to eye. Would I have been more attracted to him if he was 6’2"? Probably. I wish that weren’t the case, but it is. God. I’m finding dating so grim, and am having a hard time maintaining any optimism. Thing is, I don’t even want a boyfriend. I just want a sex life with someone I find attractive.

Hmmm. I feel pretty close to tears this morning. I think I’m about to get my period. I mean, I had better be. Otherwise I’m just depressed, with no excuse.

Tonight is my date with Olivier. At least there’ll be alcohol involved, unlike my date with JAG. Who doesn’t drink. Not even coffee. If I ever write a date primer, the first thing I will suggest is that a first date be AT A BAR, unless of course one of the participants is a recovering alcoholic.

On the way home from my date on Saturday evening I kept thinking about Tim and thinking about how no one I’ve been out with of late has measured up to him, or rather, to that really boozy, fun, and hot date. Hotness referring to the fact that he was feeling me up in the bar (was an underwire bra a good idea?) -- I swear nobody noticed-- and, of course, the promise (sadly unfulfilled) of sexual activity in the not too distant future. But of course nothing can live up to Tim -- he’s taken. I don't mean nothing can live up to him because he’s taken, but he’s taken because he’s pretty dreamy, as his (once and current?) girlfriend Amanda put it. I’m reminded of him, or rather I remind myself of him because sometimes I’m afraid that this is all that’s left for me – guys like JAG. Nice guys. Well spoken, intelligent guys with good jobs who I am not attracted to. Is it cause I’ve reached some fatal x/y intersection, where the narrowing pool of options has crashed into to the point in my life where due to extensive therapy and diminished expectations, I no longer have the patience to fall for anyone? Where most men seem like losers?

All I know is that I’m calculating my value. Like a Victorian, trying to weigh my looks and qualities against my odds on the dating market in order to come up with a reasonable formula for determining how much happiness I can expect in terms of really shallow attributes like looks, money, and ability to laugh at my jokes. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder what kind of a man I am worth. It is so awful to put it in those terms, but that’s how I think. I look at S., who works in this office, and I think, am I his physical equivalent? S. is about 5’4” and balding, and has unfortunately tried to counteract his receding hairline with some Miami Vice-era stubble, which is ill advised since he is kind of swarthy and it makes him look unkempt. No doubt he is a nice man, intelligent, kind, and reasonably rich. Am I the girl S (lacking the money, of course)? What I mean is, am I kidding myself by having crushes on these fey, waiflike boys with their skinny, arty bodies and esoteric music collections? I look at myself and wonder what my attributes add up to. I think, "Hmmm, I'm thin, that’s a plus." Then of course I have to modify my judgment and admit, “Well, not fat, anyway. I have a decent body for a 33 year old.” I go through all my features:

1. I look younger than my years (plus)
2. Very short (negative)
3. Bad skin (also negative)
4. But much improved in the last few months
5. Personality (a plus, if I am successful in hiding the deadly combination of self pity and arrogance.)
6. I’m intelligent. Or at least confident of my intelligence (a plus)
7. My career. Or the lack thereof (a negative)
8. Looks (a wash. I’m cute, but not pretty. I’m not being modest.)
9. Flirty. Or at least friendly, and good at putting others at ease. (plus)
10. But apparently physically not very warm (negative)
11. My body
Good points: curvy in a not blowsy way; nice ankles, small waist, sort of hourglass figure. Ish.
Bad points: Large thighs, upper arms and ugly nose. Oh, and lacrosse player calves.

NB: The latter bad points are sort of generic complaints, I suppose. Most everyone (women, I mean) I know complains about muscular calves and massive thighs. I can tolerate the calves and upper arms, but the thighs break my heart.

I haven't actually applied numerical values to these qualities, nor have I added them up, mostly because I am afraid I will end up heavily in the negative column. I try to be objective about this because … well ... I don’t want to keep waiting/trying for for My Type if he’s out of my league. I think I’d rather be alone than be with someone I wasn’t attracted to. Not that I couldn’t be attracted to someone that isn’t my type. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was a single mother at 40, would it? I might be ashamed of the cliché-ness of it, but it probably wouldn’t be so bad.

Lunch Hour of the Damned

Just had my lunch date with Anthony. Urgh. Going to meet him, my stomach was in knots. How I hate meeting a potential boyfriend/whatever for the first time, especially when there’s no liquor involved.

Good parts: 1) he bought me lunch. 2) Is a decent conversationalist 3) Not stupid or hideous. Bad parts: 1) No chemistry 2) Looks like they guy who played Dharma’s father on Dharma and Greg, and sort of sounded like him, too 3) Clearly thinks we have potential, as evidenced from the fact that he put his arm around my waist after lunch while we were sitting on a bench in City Hall Park.

I was totally thrown by the latter. First he had his arm around the back of the bench, in time-honored high school movie-date fashion. I thought this was bold, but not a big deal. Then his arm snaked around to my side. I think my discomfort was pretty obvious, I mean, I wasn’t relaxing against him or anything, and I started to avoid his eyes. When he said, “So I think we have some chemistry… I think we would get along…” my brain was screaming, Should I tell him there’s no chemistry now or take the coward's way out and do it via email? I can’t sleep with him! How do I do this?

I think he got the impression that his arm around my waist wasn’t that welcome cause he eventually backed off a bit and explained, “I just feel so comfortable with you… you’re so friendly.”

“I am friendly,” I said. Subtext being: Polite and friendly. I’m not giving you any more-than-friendly signals. Then, struggling, I said, “I’m not really used to that,” which was sort of an understatement. I don’t know if it’s a New Yorkerish regard for personal space or just general standoffishness that made me cringe, but I was seriously disturbed by him putting an arm around me. If we’d been drunk, OK. If I’d relaxed into him when he put his arm across the back of the bench, maybe. If I’d made eye contact with him, maybe. If I’d thought he was cute, yes. I think of all the times I’ve clumsily tried to signal to a guy I was interested… gah! Smiling, making eye contact, taking baby steps towards wanton behavior such as arm-touching and wineglass stroking (guaranteed by body language expert Tracey Cox to signal sexual interest). It’s like banging my head against the wall, as I expect it is for most people: being attracted to people who aren’t attracted to you, and fending off the advances of people you wouldn’t sleep with in a million years.

SIDEBAR, or big long parenthesis: Perhaps this is why I generally go for younger men. They’re so much less threatening, so much more obviously vulnerable. Even though they’re supposed to be less able to read women, I just feel much … safer. And that’s odd, considering my submissiveness, which to me holds a kind of danger and threat. I mean, a danger and threat I find acceptable, not one that might harm me. Although according to some people (mostly bizarre and explicit posters on Craig’s List) submission is about safety and trust. I mean – well, you have to trust someone to feel safe with them when they’re dominating you, yes, but for me I don’t think the sexual excitement would come from feeling safe. I mean, safety is sort of the opposite of excitement, isn’t it? Maybe. Anyway, when I think about being submissive, I think I like the idea of it being sort of transgressive and sexy in that it seems to subvert my ideas about women’s equality. Ah…. !@#$ forget it! SIDEBAR or big long parenthesis ENDS

Finally I said, “I’m not really looking for a serious relationship right now.” Which is absolutely true and, as I have always understood it, a polite fiction meaning I'm not interested, pal. But I’m just not attracted to this fellow, and I wouldn’t want a frivolous relationship with him, either. I want nothing from him. I can’t imagine stroking his hairy arms or melting at his nasal voice. OK, that was mean. But I was really thrown by the arm maneuver. The thing is, it wasn’t such an outrage for him to have his arm around me, I mean, it’s hardly sexual assault. But I was really uncomfortable, and I resented him for it.

“Yeah, I’m just taking things as they come,” he said, which missed my point. “Seeing how things go.”

I tried again: “So I got a lot of responses to my ad, so this week I’m kind of busy…” Also, I asked him how old he was and he admitted to being older than his ad suggested. "I mean, of course I lied cause I was looking for someone much younger," he explained. You know that makes me think? Not flattering things. I said I would get in touch at the end of the week or early next week and with some relief I left him at the train station. On the way back to the office I thought longingly of Tim, that lovely, lovely boy I met a few weeks ago.

YET ANOTHER SIDEBAR This was crazy: his girlfriend posted an ad on Craig’s List saying, in effect, Sleep With My Boyfriend! I thought, well, that’s certainly grist for the mill, so I answered her ad. She sent me a photo of him, as well as one of herself in her underwear, which gave me pause for thought. But he looked cute. Anyway, she set the whole thing up, he emailed me -- a very good emailer, and enthusiastic and sort of awkward, which made me feel more comfortable – and then we met for a drink. We got along great, he had even read, and liked, Laurie Colwin, which I took as a sign from God or something. And I loved the idea that his girlfriend was setting the whole thing up, which made it a kinky feminist endeavor instead of just kinky. We drank and made out and when he said he was “on the dominant side,” I was overjoyed. And then I said I was looking forward to going down on him, and pleasing him. (!) I must have been very, very drunk to say that, even though it was perfectly true. So we had plans to meet that Sunday, but I didn’t hear from him. Eventually his girlfriend emailed me to say he’d gone home as his father was ill. Then Tim emailed me to say that his father’s illness had put a dampener on his libido, and that he and the girlfriend had broken up. Gah!!! So disappointing. So I wrote back to say not to worry about it, hope his dad was better, keep in touch. I can’t imagine that I’ll hear from him, so I view this as a missed opportunity of the first order. Damn his father and his dicky heart! YET ANOTHER SIDEBAR ENDS.

Anyway, at last I’ve stopped feeling quite so disturbed by my lunch hour. But still. Finding someone who returns your level of interest is like digging for a needle in a haystack.