Tensions ran high. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the side of my neck as we danced. My body was heating up next to his. Our hips kept the rhythm of the beat with each other, winding and grinding as the music played. Drawing his hands up to my rib cage, he leaned in slightly and whispered in my ear, “Come home with me.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the tingle made its way down my spine. I nodded, and he led me out of the club and into a cab.
I was content to have a night out dancing with my friend. I threw on a tired pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt. Spraying cologne more out of habit than desire, I gingerly left my apartment and moseyed myself downtown. Dancing makes me feel good, but I know better than to go out and expect to meet someone, especially anyone of substance. Most of the night, my friend and I tease each other. “Oh! There goes your man right there,” we joke, clearly pointing out someone immensely undesirable. I felt surprised when a smooth hand slid itself up my side and across my back. Instantly guarded, I tossed the hand away and looked to see who owned it. A layer of stubble, glistening with a light coat of perspiration, covered his brown cheeks. In the dimly lit club, his eyes, meeting mine, pierced the dark. He smiled a toothy Hollywood smile at me, “What’s wrong, papo?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to see who touched me.”
He smirked, “Is it ok if I touch you?” His voice had a rough tone, but his smile softened its sound. I found him smooth, charming, attractive. We exchanged names but then didn’t talk much.
I lost sight of my friend as we danced. He sent me a text after we had been dancing for a while, “He’s hot. I’m at the bar playing with the go-go boys.”
Later, in the cab, the tuning on our conversation dial moved to the intellectual station. He was smart, quick-witted, original. We waxed philosophically on topics that I can’t recall. This type of foreplay—that of the intellectual kind—doesn’t happen with just anyone. It only emerges when I’m with an educated, forward-thinking man of substance. We surprised each other with our cerebral pas de deux, perhaps equally questioning the impending decision to hook up. Although, this could just be me projecting.
The cab rolled up to a Harlem brownstone. “We’re here,” he announced. The sirens in my head sounded; I should turn back now. He’s cute. He’s smart. He’s living in a brownstone. He is not a hook up.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Bo-Bo Doll
When I was little, my cousin had a bo-bo doll—this big blow up clown that had a heavy base. Every time we hit it, the bo-bo doll would fall back and pop back up. At the age of five, this amused us endlessly as we giggled and smiled as the doll came back up for more abuse from our innocent fists. While this kept my attention and provided a great deal of amusement, by present bo-bo doll style of dating has grown frustrating.
Middle school teacher wanted to see me. I thought I knocked him out of my life when he sent me the awkward text message over the summer. Somehow, even in the midst of him dating the guy he thought was “more of what he was looking for,” he came back up from the floor, managing to text me over Thanksgiving. We only texted back and forth, not meeting up. This, however, was not a significant enough blow to keep him out of my life. After a concert, he met me while I was out with some friends of mine. He came to the back of the bar quickly, smiling as he saw me. Walking right up to me, he interlaced his fingers behind the small of my back and whispered, “I miss you.” He lingered on “miss,” emphasizing it, hanging on its meaning, using it to convey a deep longing. The bo-bo doll came up in full force.
I could have taken him home. I could have let him show me how much he missed me. I could have shown him what I knew he longed for. Instead, I asked him if his boyfriend would approve of him missing me and holding me and kissing my neck. He told me that he answers to no one. He’s a big boy and can do what he wants. He didn’t expect confrontation, and I didn’t expect to push him so much. As much as I wanted some male attention at that point, I let him know that I was too smart and had too much self-respect to be some other man.
The bo-bo doll came back from the floor vengefully. I called him to talk about the night. Was he drunk? Was he seriously trying to flirt with me when he had a man? Asking him why he came on to me went no where. In my mind, if you’re happy with the man you’re with, you don’t go around telling other men that you miss them. Something was missing from his life besides me. His man wasn’t giving him something or made him want something else. Without holding back, I let him know this. I honestly let him know that he was being unfair to his boyfriend. Then he told me that he missed me only as a friend. He was totally happy because his boyfriend “got his crazy.” And even though him and I could have made a great couple, there is nothing that his boyfriend doesn’t give him.
After getting smacked in the face by a bo-bo doll, you get a little dizzy. No one really expects the bo-bo doll to flip the scripts. So there I was, being lectured about how I just need to find someone that will get my crazy. I shouldn’t worry because I just have to believe and have faith, soon I’d find someone. Shocked and stunted, I sat on my bed, mouth agape, as middle school teacher tried to help me understand about faith in love.
We spoke for a little while longer before I told him I had to go. I walked around my apartment in a stupor. Had I really become cynical and bitter? It took me a few days to come to my senses. Of course I am cynical and bitter! How could I let him punk me into thinking that cynical and bitter is not an acceptable attitude for a single man in New York? I mean everyone knows I’m a hopeless romantic, but there’s a layer of salty cynicism that keeps me from writing hearts and names on the agendas of faculty meetings. More importantly, how did I let him steer me off the topic of his arguable infidelity? This is why adults don’t play with bo-bo dolls—all the back and forth just makes grown-ups nauseous.
Middle school teacher wanted to see me. I thought I knocked him out of my life when he sent me the awkward text message over the summer. Somehow, even in the midst of him dating the guy he thought was “more of what he was looking for,” he came back up from the floor, managing to text me over Thanksgiving. We only texted back and forth, not meeting up. This, however, was not a significant enough blow to keep him out of my life. After a concert, he met me while I was out with some friends of mine. He came to the back of the bar quickly, smiling as he saw me. Walking right up to me, he interlaced his fingers behind the small of my back and whispered, “I miss you.” He lingered on “miss,” emphasizing it, hanging on its meaning, using it to convey a deep longing. The bo-bo doll came up in full force.
I could have taken him home. I could have let him show me how much he missed me. I could have shown him what I knew he longed for. Instead, I asked him if his boyfriend would approve of him missing me and holding me and kissing my neck. He told me that he answers to no one. He’s a big boy and can do what he wants. He didn’t expect confrontation, and I didn’t expect to push him so much. As much as I wanted some male attention at that point, I let him know that I was too smart and had too much self-respect to be some other man.
The bo-bo doll came back from the floor vengefully. I called him to talk about the night. Was he drunk? Was he seriously trying to flirt with me when he had a man? Asking him why he came on to me went no where. In my mind, if you’re happy with the man you’re with, you don’t go around telling other men that you miss them. Something was missing from his life besides me. His man wasn’t giving him something or made him want something else. Without holding back, I let him know this. I honestly let him know that he was being unfair to his boyfriend. Then he told me that he missed me only as a friend. He was totally happy because his boyfriend “got his crazy.” And even though him and I could have made a great couple, there is nothing that his boyfriend doesn’t give him.
After getting smacked in the face by a bo-bo doll, you get a little dizzy. No one really expects the bo-bo doll to flip the scripts. So there I was, being lectured about how I just need to find someone that will get my crazy. I shouldn’t worry because I just have to believe and have faith, soon I’d find someone. Shocked and stunted, I sat on my bed, mouth agape, as middle school teacher tried to help me understand about faith in love.
We spoke for a little while longer before I told him I had to go. I walked around my apartment in a stupor. Had I really become cynical and bitter? It took me a few days to come to my senses. Of course I am cynical and bitter! How could I let him punk me into thinking that cynical and bitter is not an acceptable attitude for a single man in New York? I mean everyone knows I’m a hopeless romantic, but there’s a layer of salty cynicism that keeps me from writing hearts and names on the agendas of faculty meetings. More importantly, how did I let him steer me off the topic of his arguable infidelity? This is why adults don’t play with bo-bo dolls—all the back and forth just makes grown-ups nauseous.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Goldilocks
I guess my nice guy complex caught up with me. I’m not sure why I cried just then, nor do I understand why I sobbed so loudly. I suppose being the strong and stable one leads easily into being the discontented one. The cathartic rush of salty tears sobered me up, but not my friend. I suppose it’s just a good-hearted gesture to take a drunk friend home—this was, perhaps, lost on his roommate.
I was thanked, but still scolded for playing caretaker. I suppose the sharp vulnerability of being so inebriated that you cannot help but become the damsel in distress shocks some people into a more hardened response. This is not to say that I don’t understand such a reaction; not everyone can accept people being nice. And when I say “everyone,” I include myself.
Through a friend of a friend, I acquainted myself with a guy who seemed to have his shit together. I of course had to check all references because a problem-free man is such an anomaly that I couldn’t assume that an apparent lack of problems actually proves results. Despite my prying, I couldn’t find a thing to complain or gripe about. He had a good job, interesting things to say, a sense of humor—all the necessary things.
We went on two great dates. Deep conversations mingled into witty banter and then back to intellectual foreplay. Yet, after each both dates, I went home without letting my mind linger on how great the night went. I didn’t fantasize about him; I didn’t indulge the teenager girl in her notebook drawing. I stopped myself in thinking about what I missed from the “total-package” he seemed to offer.
I liked our late night phone class best. We talked a good while about our days and let our discussion meander. The eagerness in his voice came clearly through my phone. In planning our next date, a pause came. He cleared his throat and continued, “. . . and then after the movie, I though, maybe, you’d like to come and spend the night with me if you want and think you’d like to . . .” He rambled on and a bulldozer slammed what was missing in my face: swagger. He talked and my realization of just how corny he was snowballed until I envisioned Ned Flanders on the other side of the phone.
Feeling like Goldilocks, I reflected on my newly found insight. How can I complain that all the men I meet have too many problems when I only turn around and say the man I meet without problems is boring? Not wanting to be a hypocrite, I went on the date, intending to enjoy his company. We had a good time at the movie and even held hands—my ultimate desire in a movie. Things would be just fine after all.
Back at his apartment, the cuteness of our movie watching ebbed as we flowed into a break in our sexual tension. Clothes came off; hearts began to race. I bit him lightly on his neck, maneuvering his arms to the wall. I turned him around and kissed his neck from behind. Looking down, the glimmer of light from the street illuminated a great horror. My jaw and libido simultaneously hit the floor—he had an ashy back. This was the breaking point. Corny I can handle, but a silver back is just unforgivable. Feigning drowsiness, I rolled over and called it quits.
I was thanked, but still scolded for playing caretaker. I suppose the sharp vulnerability of being so inebriated that you cannot help but become the damsel in distress shocks some people into a more hardened response. This is not to say that I don’t understand such a reaction; not everyone can accept people being nice. And when I say “everyone,” I include myself.
Through a friend of a friend, I acquainted myself with a guy who seemed to have his shit together. I of course had to check all references because a problem-free man is such an anomaly that I couldn’t assume that an apparent lack of problems actually proves results. Despite my prying, I couldn’t find a thing to complain or gripe about. He had a good job, interesting things to say, a sense of humor—all the necessary things.
We went on two great dates. Deep conversations mingled into witty banter and then back to intellectual foreplay. Yet, after each both dates, I went home without letting my mind linger on how great the night went. I didn’t fantasize about him; I didn’t indulge the teenager girl in her notebook drawing. I stopped myself in thinking about what I missed from the “total-package” he seemed to offer.
I liked our late night phone class best. We talked a good while about our days and let our discussion meander. The eagerness in his voice came clearly through my phone. In planning our next date, a pause came. He cleared his throat and continued, “. . . and then after the movie, I though, maybe, you’d like to come and spend the night with me if you want and think you’d like to . . .” He rambled on and a bulldozer slammed what was missing in my face: swagger. He talked and my realization of just how corny he was snowballed until I envisioned Ned Flanders on the other side of the phone.
Feeling like Goldilocks, I reflected on my newly found insight. How can I complain that all the men I meet have too many problems when I only turn around and say the man I meet without problems is boring? Not wanting to be a hypocrite, I went on the date, intending to enjoy his company. We had a good time at the movie and even held hands—my ultimate desire in a movie. Things would be just fine after all.
Back at his apartment, the cuteness of our movie watching ebbed as we flowed into a break in our sexual tension. Clothes came off; hearts began to race. I bit him lightly on his neck, maneuvering his arms to the wall. I turned him around and kissed his neck from behind. Looking down, the glimmer of light from the street illuminated a great horror. My jaw and libido simultaneously hit the floor—he had an ashy back. This was the breaking point. Corny I can handle, but a silver back is just unforgivable. Feigning drowsiness, I rolled over and called it quits.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Are You His Boyfriend?
I don’t consider myself a crier. I’m not one of those people who sits down and has a good cry. Not to say that I’m a stone—I get a little teary-eyed while watching sad movies, Grey’s Anatomy, and sometimes CNN. As far as my dating life goes, I choose not to let rivers run down my cheeks from the (in)actions men in my life do. While frustration may make my eyes glassy, a drop will not pass my lash. Almost uncontrollably, I sorely disappointed myself last week by breaking this cardinal rule.
Adorable mixed sports-lover and I have started to become friends. He’s so extra all the time, but I truly enjoy his company and find his heart to be as big as his tongue is sharp. Truly becoming friends with him will be a challenge because I have to tame the inner rage of the jealous Latin man that can toss all the reason either the cynical man in his rocking chair or the love-struck teenage girl writing hearts in her notebook can provide. The effects of jealous Latin man on a friendship with adorable mixed sports-lover remain to be seen. I have seen his compassion very clearly. He came over for drinks and told me some valuable information. I didn’t like what I had to hear, but what I heard more was his challenge in telling me. He saw the disappointment in my face. He didn’t see the trust that I built in my heart for him. Yes, he would be a good—and necessary—friend.
Since we were both off the week between Christmas and New Year’s, adorable mixed sports-lover and I went out almost every night. I knew that he had no use for the nuances of subtlety, but knowing this could not prepare me from experiencing it. We met on the first car of the 1 train at my stop. The fact that I made the same train as him sent him into overjoyed rapture. His nearly empty bottle of Svedka-charged seltzer explained his excitement; he passed drunk when the train pulled away from the station.
I spent most of the train ride and walk to the club warning strangers not to make eye contact. Adorable mixed sports-lover was ripe and ready to engage some unsuspecting New Yorker in some raunchy conversation. His sense of direction found company with his soberness, causing us to walk around the block of the club despite my clarity of where to go. Obviously, we could not get into the club. He could hardly stand, let alone get his driver’s license out at the door. In an attempt to sober up, I tried walking him to the diner. “I have to piss!” he shouted to a stranger walking down 6th Avenue.
Urging him to wait until we got to the diner did not stop him; his id had already conquered all actions. Perhaps watching him whip his manhood out on a Jeep Wrangler would have sent some people running, head hanging in shame. Not me! He needed help buttoning his very tight pants up. I honestly need to learn to check my bleeding heart with my coat when I go out. He acknowledged that I did not need to help him the morning after, but I would have been guilt-ridden, wondering if he was laying dead in an alley when the sun rose.
With his pants back on, my ward ran down 6th Avenue, eager to harass a stranger. Luckily, he was not belligerent. So when I slammed him against a wall and told him he was going in a cab, he woozily threw his arms around my neck, bobbled his head, and slurred, “Will you take me home?” My heart sunk.
I hailed a cab that he could not climb into, held him while he drooled and snored in the backseat, caught him before he ate a rod-iron fence, opened his door, and carried him up three flights of stairs to his apartment. I couldn’t find his key to open his apartment door. Growing frustrated at having to open the door and babysit him as he wobbled at the top of the stairs, I banged on the door and his roommate thankfully opened the door. My friend bum rushed the floor of his apartment, his jacket in my hands from a failed attempt at catching him. His roommate greeted me with “Wow! He’s drunk!” and, before asking my name, wondered aloud, “Are you his boyfriend?” I responded with a clear and prompt “No!” and perfunctorily cried.
Adorable mixed sports-lover and I have started to become friends. He’s so extra all the time, but I truly enjoy his company and find his heart to be as big as his tongue is sharp. Truly becoming friends with him will be a challenge because I have to tame the inner rage of the jealous Latin man that can toss all the reason either the cynical man in his rocking chair or the love-struck teenage girl writing hearts in her notebook can provide. The effects of jealous Latin man on a friendship with adorable mixed sports-lover remain to be seen. I have seen his compassion very clearly. He came over for drinks and told me some valuable information. I didn’t like what I had to hear, but what I heard more was his challenge in telling me. He saw the disappointment in my face. He didn’t see the trust that I built in my heart for him. Yes, he would be a good—and necessary—friend.
Since we were both off the week between Christmas and New Year’s, adorable mixed sports-lover and I went out almost every night. I knew that he had no use for the nuances of subtlety, but knowing this could not prepare me from experiencing it. We met on the first car of the 1 train at my stop. The fact that I made the same train as him sent him into overjoyed rapture. His nearly empty bottle of Svedka-charged seltzer explained his excitement; he passed drunk when the train pulled away from the station.
I spent most of the train ride and walk to the club warning strangers not to make eye contact. Adorable mixed sports-lover was ripe and ready to engage some unsuspecting New Yorker in some raunchy conversation. His sense of direction found company with his soberness, causing us to walk around the block of the club despite my clarity of where to go. Obviously, we could not get into the club. He could hardly stand, let alone get his driver’s license out at the door. In an attempt to sober up, I tried walking him to the diner. “I have to piss!” he shouted to a stranger walking down 6th Avenue.
Urging him to wait until we got to the diner did not stop him; his id had already conquered all actions. Perhaps watching him whip his manhood out on a Jeep Wrangler would have sent some people running, head hanging in shame. Not me! He needed help buttoning his very tight pants up. I honestly need to learn to check my bleeding heart with my coat when I go out. He acknowledged that I did not need to help him the morning after, but I would have been guilt-ridden, wondering if he was laying dead in an alley when the sun rose.
With his pants back on, my ward ran down 6th Avenue, eager to harass a stranger. Luckily, he was not belligerent. So when I slammed him against a wall and told him he was going in a cab, he woozily threw his arms around my neck, bobbled his head, and slurred, “Will you take me home?” My heart sunk.
I hailed a cab that he could not climb into, held him while he drooled and snored in the backseat, caught him before he ate a rod-iron fence, opened his door, and carried him up three flights of stairs to his apartment. I couldn’t find his key to open his apartment door. Growing frustrated at having to open the door and babysit him as he wobbled at the top of the stairs, I banged on the door and his roommate thankfully opened the door. My friend bum rushed the floor of his apartment, his jacket in my hands from a failed attempt at catching him. His roommate greeted me with “Wow! He’s drunk!” and, before asking my name, wondered aloud, “Are you his boyfriend?” I responded with a clear and prompt “No!” and perfunctorily cried.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Let Nature Run Its Course
Two weeks, three hook ups, and four family parties after birthday boy left me stranded on my hooky day, he made a repeat offense. This time, I can’t tell if his actions are more or less egregious. Truth: we had no real commitment. Truth: I knew he wouldn’t come see me. Lie: I stopped caring. He was off all day. I was off all day. I texted him twice. He didn’t responded once.
Through all his sob stories, I couldn’t help but find a way to be on his side. Perhaps this is my nature. If I believe that teaching is a personality type, then wouldn’t my demeanor at work bleed into my personal life as well? I teach because I feel like I can help people who aren’t quite sure which move to make to better themselves. The words of a renowned innovator in urban education float through my mind as I write this, “You don’t teach children to offer blessings, you teach to receive them.” Then I realize that there is a give and take with my students. I give them guidance and they give me blessings. They make me laugh, they make me wonder, they challenge me. My students teach me how I can be a better person. My relationship with my students are like any other relationship, be it platonic, familial, or romantic. People seek the give and take between each other. When the give and take ceases to occur, that’s when a relationship—even an underdeveloped one—dies.
Luckily, I had a date with my two best friends from high school to take me away from the impending death of the faux-relationship with birthday boy. We laughed and joked, occupied ourselves with each other, with our lives, mostly independent of romance. When we sat down for a well-deserved fancy lunch, I thought of bringing up birthday boy. I decided that stories about him were not worth our collective time together. One of them lives out in Reno and I wouldn’t want to bore her with the same problems she talked me through two weeks ago. My other best friend lives here in New York and happily took me out for some comforting food and words when birthday boy didn’t show last time.
The choice not to speak about birthday boy came from a frustration with having nothing new to say. I could no longer pretend that we still had a give and take. I gave and he took. A cheapness comes from being used for sex; an emptiness comes from being used for emotional support. I, willingly, acted as his emotional crutch when he told me about his poor luck. The teacher in me lent my time to help, the desperation in me let him lead me on.
Without having anything to contribute, I have to let nature run its course. The length of phone conversations dwindled down to voice messages, hours stretched between texts, checks of Facebook statuses ended. I make no expectations of any possible forthcoming excursions with him, but I do realize that trying to find the difference between a man who is in the shit and a man who is shit is pointless. No matter which he happens to be, you’re still stuck with shit.
Through all his sob stories, I couldn’t help but find a way to be on his side. Perhaps this is my nature. If I believe that teaching is a personality type, then wouldn’t my demeanor at work bleed into my personal life as well? I teach because I feel like I can help people who aren’t quite sure which move to make to better themselves. The words of a renowned innovator in urban education float through my mind as I write this, “You don’t teach children to offer blessings, you teach to receive them.” Then I realize that there is a give and take with my students. I give them guidance and they give me blessings. They make me laugh, they make me wonder, they challenge me. My students teach me how I can be a better person. My relationship with my students are like any other relationship, be it platonic, familial, or romantic. People seek the give and take between each other. When the give and take ceases to occur, that’s when a relationship—even an underdeveloped one—dies.
Luckily, I had a date with my two best friends from high school to take me away from the impending death of the faux-relationship with birthday boy. We laughed and joked, occupied ourselves with each other, with our lives, mostly independent of romance. When we sat down for a well-deserved fancy lunch, I thought of bringing up birthday boy. I decided that stories about him were not worth our collective time together. One of them lives out in Reno and I wouldn’t want to bore her with the same problems she talked me through two weeks ago. My other best friend lives here in New York and happily took me out for some comforting food and words when birthday boy didn’t show last time.
The choice not to speak about birthday boy came from a frustration with having nothing new to say. I could no longer pretend that we still had a give and take. I gave and he took. A cheapness comes from being used for sex; an emptiness comes from being used for emotional support. I, willingly, acted as his emotional crutch when he told me about his poor luck. The teacher in me lent my time to help, the desperation in me let him lead me on.
Without having anything to contribute, I have to let nature run its course. The length of phone conversations dwindled down to voice messages, hours stretched between texts, checks of Facebook statuses ended. I make no expectations of any possible forthcoming excursions with him, but I do realize that trying to find the difference between a man who is in the shit and a man who is shit is pointless. No matter which he happens to be, you’re still stuck with shit.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Profusely Emphatic "I'm Sorry"
Sometimes it’s foolish to let yourself feel all the things your heart tells you to feel. But there are those rare occasions where it’s even more foolish not to. The trouble lies in the ability to distinguish between when you are supposed to let your heart tell you how it feels and when you need to stop being foolish. No meter exists. A light won’t flash, an alarm won’t sound, a whistle won’t blow. The proverbial angel and devil battling for your decision only appears in cartoons; in my mind, the teenage girl and the old cynic take their place on opposite sides of my collarbone.
The most recent battle came in a potential visit from birthday boy. He’s in the shit. No one would deny that. When I last saw him—-three weeks ago-—we had spent most of our time talking about his friend’s suicide. I happily expended my emotional energy on listening to him and holding him. It didn’t make sense to have sex; he was too grief-stricken. I understood that and was glad I could help. But, after five weeks of not having sex, I felt a little . . . ripe. I planned a day of hooky that coincided with one of his days off. As time ticked away and I waited for him to let me know when he would arrive, the teenage girl sank into her notebook to draw hearts and write bad poetry as the cynic rocked proudly in his chair, content in his appropriate assessment: he would not be coming. Apologies and promises to meet for brunch the next day followed, but the next day followed only with a profusely emphatic “I’m sorry.”
Any reaction on my part seems flawed. We can’t break up because we’re not together. I can’t just stop talking to him because then I feel like I just added to his emotional mess. My inability to decide which move to make next comes from the inability to tell the difference between a man who is in the shit and a man who is shit.
The most recent battle came in a potential visit from birthday boy. He’s in the shit. No one would deny that. When I last saw him—-three weeks ago-—we had spent most of our time talking about his friend’s suicide. I happily expended my emotional energy on listening to him and holding him. It didn’t make sense to have sex; he was too grief-stricken. I understood that and was glad I could help. But, after five weeks of not having sex, I felt a little . . . ripe. I planned a day of hooky that coincided with one of his days off. As time ticked away and I waited for him to let me know when he would arrive, the teenage girl sank into her notebook to draw hearts and write bad poetry as the cynic rocked proudly in his chair, content in his appropriate assessment: he would not be coming. Apologies and promises to meet for brunch the next day followed, but the next day followed only with a profusely emphatic “I’m sorry.”
Any reaction on my part seems flawed. We can’t break up because we’re not together. I can’t just stop talking to him because then I feel like I just added to his emotional mess. My inability to decide which move to make next comes from the inability to tell the difference between a man who is in the shit and a man who is shit.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Momentary Distraction
In my attempt at momentary distraction, I find exactly what I’m looking for: hot gym manager. This past May, I “met” hot gym manager on my “dating” website. We spoke for a while and he invited me to the small gym that he manages for an early morning workout. One of my not-so-secret fantasies is having sex at the gym. Something about a sweaty man with a polite post-workout funk gets a certain muscle ready for some exercise. This fantasy excludes the nasty sex that happens in the showers, stalls, and saunas of the most popular gym in New York. No, I want something after hours, where we would be free to use the equipment creatively and without voyeurs feasting their eyes on our newly acquired playground.
Every part of me was up early that Saturday morning I went to go work out with hot gym manager. The gym, not quite as empty as I had hoped, had the sharp smell of freshly cleaned pool. He led me through a total body workout, unabashedly bending in front of me to show me the right pose and eagerly supporting my arms, back, and thighs in various lifting positions. After I spent all my energy on air bicycles, he popped off the mat and urged me to come into the hot tub. I soaked my sore body in the warm jacuzzi and we chatted and played footsie under the bubbles. Again, he popped up, “Let’s go to the sauna.” From hot water to hotter coals, sweat came for a number of reasons as he spread out and relaxed in the wooden jungle. After my body poured out all its toxins, he took me to the shower. The marbled glass of the stalls could not hide my excitement as I watched him shower in the stall next to me. We made eye contact through the glass. He smiled, then turned off the water, and walked back to the locker room. I slowly made the connections in my mind: he wanted to be friends. I walked home slowly, carefully trying not to exacerbate the sudden blueness I felt.
The attention hot gym manager gives me is innocent in spite of my desires, which made him the perfect distraction from birthday boy. I knew nothing was going to happen. “Come, let’s go get some food,” he texted me on a Sunday that had me suffering from a lack of birthday boy attention the night before. Of course, I would go visit him at work; he was safe. He bought me a sandwich and we watched a movie at his desk while the elderly Upper West Siders got their heart rate up for the day. Thoughts of birthday boy fluttered in the margins of my mind as the slightness of sexual tension—never to be fulfilled—stood before me in nylon breakaway pants.
Every part of me was up early that Saturday morning I went to go work out with hot gym manager. The gym, not quite as empty as I had hoped, had the sharp smell of freshly cleaned pool. He led me through a total body workout, unabashedly bending in front of me to show me the right pose and eagerly supporting my arms, back, and thighs in various lifting positions. After I spent all my energy on air bicycles, he popped off the mat and urged me to come into the hot tub. I soaked my sore body in the warm jacuzzi and we chatted and played footsie under the bubbles. Again, he popped up, “Let’s go to the sauna.” From hot water to hotter coals, sweat came for a number of reasons as he spread out and relaxed in the wooden jungle. After my body poured out all its toxins, he took me to the shower. The marbled glass of the stalls could not hide my excitement as I watched him shower in the stall next to me. We made eye contact through the glass. He smiled, then turned off the water, and walked back to the locker room. I slowly made the connections in my mind: he wanted to be friends. I walked home slowly, carefully trying not to exacerbate the sudden blueness I felt.
The attention hot gym manager gives me is innocent in spite of my desires, which made him the perfect distraction from birthday boy. I knew nothing was going to happen. “Come, let’s go get some food,” he texted me on a Sunday that had me suffering from a lack of birthday boy attention the night before. Of course, I would go visit him at work; he was safe. He bought me a sandwich and we watched a movie at his desk while the elderly Upper West Siders got their heart rate up for the day. Thoughts of birthday boy fluttered in the margins of my mind as the slightness of sexual tension—never to be fulfilled—stood before me in nylon breakaway pants.
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