Can I Get A "That Ain't Right" From the Front Row?
Last Thursday I met a rather nice lad, let's call him Nice Guy Eddie. I will spare you the long introduction as we all know that my dating life tends to be like the battle scenes in the Iliad, you get this big long exposition about some guy and his grandfather and his shield and his childhood only to find out he was stabbed five minutes ago never to written about again. I met Nice Guy on Thursday, we went out for drinks on Saturday, and well, he's a nice guy.
Let me clarify. He bought all drinks unasked for. He is completely attentive to what I want (Do you want to stay and have another drink? Are you tired?-Without any "Do you want to stay and have another because I'm really having a good time (wink, wink).") He walked me home, made sure I got inside alright, and the farthest he went was a kiss on the cheek. The man is paragon of restraint.
I must say I was dubious about nice guy. I went into my date on Saturday thinking "OK an hour is all I have to stay." And ended up staying for about five. He is quite funny. (I've got him hooked on the antler dance-don't ask.) He knows movies. He sensitive. He asked permission to call me in a few days when he left me on saturday night.
Now we all know that if I ever actually could accept the love of a decent man the whole damn planet would go to hell. The delicate equation upon which the function of the universe is based would be thrown out of whack to the detriment of all. So the wellbeing of the universe has a vested interest in keeping me chasing after man like UDR. So you know when I find myself liking a decent man, well, trouble is afoot on little kitty feet.
We went out last night. We were having a good time talking about 80s movies (Breakfast Club, Peggy Sue Got Married, Better Off Dead) and suddenly he says, "I think we need to talk about us."
Now, that sentence NEVER indicates good news. I've never had a guy lead into "Let's get married and move to the Berkshires and raise free range antelope" with "We need to talk about us." But it is REALLY bad news when you hear this on a second date.
So I put on my innocent expression (yes I have one that I keep in the back of the closest for special occassions) and he progressed, "Look when I left San Diego (exposition: he moved to NY from San Diego in August) I left behind a girl I was dating for three years. We didn't really talk about what was going to happen, and she's going to be coming here next month. I could totally see myself dating you. I mean, you're a cool chick. You're smart, your're funny, you're easy to talk to, you're beautiful, but you know, I don't know if I'm allowed, if it's ok. I should have brought this up before, but you know I didn't really know you or if I would even want to go out with you. But I want to be clear. I would love to date you. I would love to take you to dinner and movies, but I guess it's just bad timing. I mean, I'm still going to call you and hang out with you."
Bunni's inner emotional response: Christ, I could be sleeping right now. I have literally hundreds of papers to correct. I'm trying to grad school, and I'm fucking exhausted and I showered and put on make up and tried on three different outfits for this? Shit.
Bunni's verbal response: Look, that's fine.Thank you for telling me.
Nice Guy continues to apologize. Finally the conversation got back onto track we talked about grad school and Paris and for the love of G-d and all things holy Vegas. (Yes, my least favorite place on the planet aside from Florida-which is correctly described in the Simpsons as "The Wang of America.")
Again he walked me home. I stood on my stoop. I could tell he didn't quite want the evening to end, but I had to go to sleep and so did he. And well I knew I wasn't going to stay up half the night kissing him on my front stoop. He said, "You know I think we need to see Team America this weekend. I'll call you." He kissed me on the cheek, waited for me to get inside safe, and went home.
All I can say is shit.
If I didn't believe he was really a nice guy, that this was some sort of line, it would be easier, but I do genuinely believe this guy meant what he said, which means it really is just bad timing. Would it kill the universe to give me just one break?
Just one?

Double Standard
Last night as I was on my way home I was snookered into getting a drink (OK, OK they asked, I accepted) by three male friends. Of course I have always been more comfortable around men and so certain conversations that would normally be avoided around other women were indulged in. Sean (not the Sean from the last post, but a different one) offered a lengthy dissertation on why Irish girls can't give blow jobs. Another friend offered a story about working with an actress who had, ahem, hemorrhoids. And you're probably thinking "bunni what the hell is an intellectual like you doing with a bunch twits guffawing over hemorrhoids?" Well, I spend all day trying to bring enlightenment to others. I don't have a tv. So basically they are my version of mindless entertainment. Not that I don't have genuine affection for them, but they serve a purpose.
Two of male friends left leaving me with Charlie. Charlie is one of the few successful writer actors I know. He is quite short ( sound familiar) which has prompted some of my friends to call us "potentially the cutest little couple" emphasis of course on the little. ( I love how other people assume that I should be with a guy based on height specifications.) To be sure Charlie has large intense blue eyes and freckles. (The blue eyes always get me. Oh sure large brown eyes are sympathetic, but if you have those intoxicating blue eyes you just hit all those little Portnoy's Complaint can't be an aryan so let me molest them buttons in me.) Charlie also pulls off the urban hipster well dressed enough to be sexy, messy enough to show he doesn't put in effort, and just off kilter enough to know that he's straight look very well with just a touch of pimp daddy. ( Incidentally Charlie has been to this blog, so lord knows what will happen to me when he reads this description.)
So Charlie turns those large blue eyes on me and says, "Did I see you making out with some guy on your front stoop last weekend?"
Oh. The. Shame.
OK so I met a guy while I was playing pool who walked me home, and I kissed him good-night. And then discovering what a good kisser he was decided to continue kissing him on my front stoop. I'm sorry, I like kissing. And there are very few true masters of kissing. Even UDR could have used some improvement. But this guy had talent-perhaps he was a prodigy, who can say? And so I stood there, freezing my little ass off, kissing him until, I kid you not, the sun began to rise. I tend went inside crawled under my blankets and fell asleep.
Now considering some admissions I've made about my private life, sending a guy home after an hour of kissing is my version of being a puritan. But I did. I resisted temptation and sent the poor scoundrel home. (Incidentally he called me sunday night, and we set up a date for this friday which hopefully I will avoid fucking up.) But really kissing on a front doorstep, hardly incredibly slutty. Maybe not the best manners, but not slutty. If I lived in the country, I would have done it in a car, but I well it's NYC.
Anyway, I copped to it. Really not all that embarrassing until Charlie said, "Well at least you are getting some." Right, right because I would be freezing my ass off on my front stoop at 5 am if I was going to roll around in my bed with this guy. Charlie would not be dissuaded from believing that I had taken this guy to bed. Now having read my Paris posts Charlie should know that if I take a guy to bed, I admit it. Mistakes, I've made a few, but I admit to them.
So you tell me how kissing on a front doorstep de facto leads to "she's fucking him"? It would seem to me that if you are kissing on the front doorstep it indicates that you aren't getting some. I mean, christ, apparently I could have kissed him inside, been warmer, and avoided observation.
Damn it. This is what I get from the company of men.

(Please note this is creative non fiction. Some liberties have been taken with names and dialogue. Some events have been conflated, but basically most of this is true.)
Sean always called me trouble. He met me shortly before I started dating Eric, and he started dating Jenny. He was part of the whole afternoon hang out crowd: Patrick, Drew, Mark, Good Eammon, Bad Eammon, and Mike. I met Sean first of all them. He looked like he was about fourteen years old. One of those Irish American boys from Brooklyn who managed to somehow discover the key to youth. He had the typical Irish looks, pale skin, freckles, red hair and large brown eyes. He was short, no way around it, but it only enhanced his youthful appearance. I suspected him of suffering from what I called Mighty Mouse syndrome. Although short, I could tell when I hugged him, he spent more time in the gym in a week than I had collectively in my entire life. But he had the man's man act down. He would show up in a wife beater with a flannel thrown over it and jeans with boots and talk about sports or sometimes politics. He would tell dirty jokes and occasionally rough house. He would talk about the military, since he was in the reserves, with Drew, who had served.
But out of all the guys, he was the only one who treated me like "a gentleman" . Drew often tried to get me drunk and talk me into bed. ( He never succeeded in getting me even near his bed even when he did succeed in getting me drunk.) Patrick and Mark both put around rumors that I was "into them" or dating them, which was patently untrue. Patrick had just lost his wife, and I had broken up with a boyfriend and thought we might relieve the mutual boredom with the occasional movie. Mark was my karoake friend. Never even kissed either one of them. Bad Eammon, well, deserved his name and Good Eammon really had no personality to speak of and was generally just a foil for Bad Eammon. Mike the Cop was older, married, and somewhat distant although he often reminded me of cops from Roman Noirs.
Sean though always offered me a chair and bought me drinks and walked me to the door without anything racier than a completely chaste hug. He barely cursed in front of me, and if he did, immediately he apologized. But he did call me trouble. He would introduce me to new friends, "This is Drew, and this is Mike, and this is Trouble." At first, I thought it was because he didn't know who I was. After about a year, I thought perhaps he had heard rumors about me. I don't think he realized it hurt me when he called me this. Why was I trouble? What had I done to deserve being called trouble? I asked him a couple of times and his response was always "Look at you. You are trouble." After three years, one night he told me, when none of the "pack" was around, "You know it's because I've always been of the opinion that beautiful women are trouble."
It never occurred to me that he could have been attracted to me. He never gave the slightest hint. Until that night he indirectly called me beautiful, he never made a reference to how I looked one way or the other. When we first met, we were both unattached. If he made himself available then I missed it.
And then, of course, Eric left, and I became this weeping hole of ego stroking need.
It was election day. I was watching the returns at F's. By that point I needed liquor just to get through the average day, often mixing vodka into my orange juice in the mornings. But for the election, no matter who won, I knew I would need a variety of alcohol. I started with corona. About one a.m., I started doing shots of jamesons. I wasn't drinking that quickly, although by that point it didn't matter. Even completely drunk it was almost impossible for me to sleep. It was even difficult if I topped off the liquor with a sleeping pill. But I was pacing myself. The election, however, was also pacing itself.
Sean came in about two. By that time I was well lubricated and he apparently had been so before he came in. I hadn't seen him in six months or so. There were wrinkles around his mouth. At thirty three, he was finally beginning to show his age. He came in and sat next to me. "We are going to get drunk", he proclaimed. "We are?" "Yes, we are." And he ordered us two shots and two beers. I drank mine slowly so I could continue to follow election returns. Around three the bartender, Kevin, decided to close the bar and head over to Trinity where Mike, Drew, and some others were waiting. Sean offered to walk me home and join them. He picked up my bag of ungraded student papers without being asked.
I didn't even question inviting him in. He put down the bag and we sat on the couch. He tried to talk me into coming with him to Trinity. I got up to on lipstick and hauled me into the bathroom. "Look at yourself. You're beautiful.Look." He wouldn't let me go until I looked. I looked. I saw the same girl I always saw. The girl who got left. The girl who wasn't beautiful enough. Besides I had no make up, my hair was ruffled, my lips chapped. He pulled me onto the couch. He held my face in his hands, "Listen, you don't believe me? When I first saw you I thought you were the most amazing thing I had ever seen. There was one day I was walking down the street and I was with a friend and you smiled at me. He was so jealous. I told him you were the girl who was always talked about, the girl I thought was beyond hot." "But if that's true why didn't you do anything?" "Because you were with Patrick and he was a friend." "With Patrick? What do you mean? His wife just died. Who the hell told you that?" "He did."
I was beginning to truly discover the scope of male treachery. Left by "the love of my life", lied about by my friends. The jamesons, the uncertainty of the presidency, the proximity of Sean. The gravely low of his voice. His hands, not much larger than mine, on both sides of my face.
"I should go," he said.
He pressed his face against mine, "Tell me to stop. Tell me to go away. Tell me to leave." But I couldn't. I had wanted him for three years. I felt about as attractive as a rag mop and now the guy I had always wanted apparently wanted me. Tell him to stop? And even if I had found the words, they didn't have time to be uttered. He kissed me.
He kissed me and carried me to the bed. How clothes got removed, in what order, I can not tell. It was simply a flurry. I do know my panties were ripped off. White satin and lace, completely torn. And as for his body, my suspicion of Mighty Mouse-edness was confirmed. He had achieved near Spartan perfection. Both biceps were ringed with celtic tattoos, and his left shoulder sported a large dragon. ( kiss of the dragon anyone?) His skin had that smooth softness of muscle. He smelled lightly of oranges. After, when I lay naked next to him he held my face again. "You know you are mine now," he said, "You can love or date or fuck whoever you want, but you'll always be mine."
I smiled then. Even then I knew he was wrong. I belonged to only one man, the one who left. But later it would become clear that it was he who belonged to me. Certain animals, once they get a taste of human blood, can tolerate no other sustenance. Sean, for all of his good intentions, could not take the touch of his girlfriend without thinking of me, without wishing for me.
In the morning he was overwhelmed with guilt. He had ruined his relationship with Jenny, ruined our friendship, ruined his own character. "I always thought I was better than men who cheated. And now I've fucked up everything." "Sean, you don't have that much power. You had a moment of weakness. I was vulnerable. We were liquored up. The fate of the fucking nation is insecure. So you had a moment. Alright, so it was wrong. So we don't do it again.It's hardly war and fucking peace." I was hurt that he regretted taking his pleasure with me. He slowly got dressed. The dragon covered. In his hurry, he left a jagermeister t-shirt behind. "Are we ok?" "Sean, why wouldn't we?" He couldn't come up with a reason, but he couldn't let go of his fear either. Finally, he decided to go home. He wasn't going to tell Jenny, I was going to tell anyone and it would end here.
He left after kissing me on the forehead. I went back to the couch and curled up under his jagermeister t-shirt. It retained his scent: oranges, parliaments, and sweat.
Strangely, he never called me trouble again. I had simply become it.

    This page is powered by 
Blogger. Isn't yours?