How was your day, Dan?

RULES FOR THE FIRST DATE

I got stood up by someone and was really annoyed so I cranked out this written-in-one-draft column and went on with my life.

 

http://www.queerty.com/10-rules-for-asking-out-a-man-on-the-first-date-in-the-age-of-grindr-20160123

 

To be fair, I didn't use Grindr. I have never used it. The editor of the site added that reference to the title. If you are from Grindr and you are reading this, hello. 

So anyway--the post blew up, zillions of hits, talking about it on the radio somewhere in Minneapolis (??) and so... there it is. I think there are typos but at this point they're going to stay there.

 

 

HISTORY

I'm getting better at this end-of-relationships thing.

The first time I went through it, I was in Chicago, years ago.   I broke up with him, but then he began dating my friend.  I saw them everywhere, together, everywhere.  It was winter; at the time I lived north of downtown, and took the El (subway/train) to work every day.  I would wake up, run across the cold apartment, and get into the shower and cry.  Every morning, for weeks, this happened. Then I would take the train to work, where I would sit and read a book.  I lived towards the beginning of the route, I boarded the train when it was empty enough to find a seat.  I was lucky.  It helped me pull myself together for the rest of the day.  And then one day, I didn't cry in the shower.  Things got better.

The second time wasn't as drawn out.  I was in Los Angeles; again, I broke up with him, and I had already moved out of his house and was on my own for a month or two when he started dating someone else.  And he stopped returning my calls.  I sat on my couch, in the dark, staring at a wall while listening to the pounding in my chest.  I would be out of breath from trying to keep up with my pulse, even though I was just sitting still. Night after night, I sat in the dark, no TV or music, obsessing about how he had moved on—which was ironic, as I was the one who ended it, yet I was literally sitting still and not doing anything to fix things for myself.  That phase only lasted for a few weeks, however.  I started walking my friends' dogs, so I had an excuse to hang out at the dog park in Laurel Canyon.  It was just a reason to go out in the world, see people.

There were other relationships, but they were pleasant ends for the most part.  A few times, I was happy things came to a close.  Other times, I didn't even notice anything was over.  Life goes on.

Now this, the third time: I have clothes overflowing everywhere in my tiny apartment, but I can't hang them in his now-empty closet.  I see the food he bought in the refrigerator and I lose my appetite, not because the food is going bad but I won't throw it away.  The shower is beginning to become a sad place once again, although there aren't any tears yet.  My eyes just sting, perhaps just out of habit from years ago. When the stinging in my eyes hits, I lather exfoliator on my face.  The stinging on my cheeks distracts me from the feeling in my eyes.  I've never had smoother skin.

I walk slower. I look down at the ground when I talk; I'm still saying the things I would normally say, but the way I say them is different. 

And I stay out of my apartment until late at night, when I go home only to go to bed.  When I come in I don't like to turn on the light; if I look around, I'll see how nothing was moved since I left earlier in the day.  No one touches anything, nothing is moved, the bed isn't made because I don't make it.  That was always the greatest part of coming home: the bed was made, every day, because he cared. He liked it that way.  It was nice.

It's not just that I want someone to fill the space; friends come over, friends keep me occupied.  But it's not the same.

Things will get better once again.  I've had practice.

GUYS WHO DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH

Every week I have to write a column for our paper, The Express (I hate typing that name--the first thing I asked when I was hired was if we could change the name). But I spend so much time "editing" things, as the "editor," I never have time to write my own stuff. So I'm just treating it like it's a big blog post from now on. Screw the politics and the news is unnecessary. :)

Here is the latest entry: Dan Renzi

I am terrible with titles, I don't know how to write them very well. So excuse the cheese factor on that one.

THE JAMAICAN

(ring)

Hello?

"Hey it's me."

Why are you calling me at 4 in the morning?

"What are you doing?"

Sleeping.

"Oh sorry."

(pause)

So what's up?

"Do you miss me?"

Not right now, no.

"I'm in Miami Beach."

Okay.

"Do you want me to come over?"

No.

"Why not?"

Because I'm in bed.

"I could get into bed with you."

You could, but then you hog the sheets and I hate that.

"I want to see you."

Not tonight.

"Don't say that."

(pause)

"Will you wait up for me?"

What do you mean?

"If I come over in a little while?"

No, it's 4 in the morning, you woke me up.

"You wouldn't have picked up the phone if you didn't want to see me."

No, I picked up the phone because I have to pick up the phone, I have too many messages in my voicemail, I can't listen to them.

"I'll be there in a little while, I got to do something first."

What else could you possibly do at 4 in the morning?

"I have to go somewhere first."

To your girlfriend's house?

"No, we live together now."

(pause)

What?

"We been living together."

For how long?

"A few months."

So you've been going out with me and then GOING HOME to her.

"Sorta."

When you say 'sorta,' do you mean you sorta go home? Like, you go home, but you don't actually walk in the door? You just stand there on the porch?

"Huh?"

Never mind.

"Why can't I come see you?"

Well, there are now several more reasons why you can't.

"Don't say that."

I didn't "say" anything. You said "I live with my girlfriend."

"Are you mad?"

Are you asking if I'm mad at you because you're cheating on your girlfriend, or am I mad because I'm jealous that you live with her?

(pause)

"Both."

Oh please.

"What?"

This just became very easy. No, you can't come over.

"I'm coming over."

I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"I'm coming over and knocking on your door until you answer."

You better not, you'll wake up the old Jewish lady below me and whenever she sees black people in the building she calls the cops.

"Then you better let me in."

No. I'm hanging up.

"Don't."

It is 4 in the morning, and I am going back to bed. And you should go home to your girlfriend.

"I don't want to go home to her, I want to be in bed with you."

No you don't.

"Yes I do."

Well, I don't want you in my bed.

"Why not?

Because you cheat.

(pause)

"So?"

Goodnight.

(click)

I SWEAR I HAD THIS CONVERSATION TODAY

The time: mid-afternoon.
The place: crossing the street by my apartment. I was munching on a delicious sandwich.
The scenario: I am approached by a guy I went out with on two dates; he was nice, but then he abruptly disappeared, never returned my calls, nothing. I didn't give it a second thought.

Him: "Hi."

Me: (pause to recognize him, and then...) Hi! Long time no see.

"Do you remember me?"

Of course. How are you?

"I'm fine. How have you been?"

Great. Where have you been?

"It's a long story."

Oh.

"It was a lot of drama."

You don't have to tell me.

(Pause...and then--)

"I was in jail."

How nice.

"Yeah."

What did you do?

"Possession of drugs."

Well, this is Miami.

"I know, it's bullshit. All the other cops who caught me with drugs never did anything."

Well that's just so unfair.

"I know."

What were you caught with?

"Marijuana, and pills that weren't mine."

Oh. How long were you in?

"Forty-five days. But they have this new thing called 'gay jail,' that's separate from the rest of the inmates. It's not bad, I just watched TV."

I've heard of gay jail, my friend went there. I don't know why everyone doesn't just lie and say they're gay to get the nice jail.

"Actually they didn't believe me when I told them at first, they said I was lying just to get the gay jail."

But you're, like, so gay. How could they not tell?

"I know."

(pause)

"I'm glad you're still talking to me."

Why wouldn't I?

"I didn't mean to disappear on you like that."

(I really didn't care.) Well, jail does get in the way. Where are you going right now, by the way? I have to get home...

"I'm waiting for my friend to give me a ride. My car was re-possessed."

Oh, that sucks. How are you getting to work?

"I got fired."

Oh.

"But y'know, I have a lot more free time now, so...if you want to get together..."

That sounds GREAT.

"I've been kinda lonely."

Yeah, I would think jail is lonely.

"Actually, I always had roommates in jail, they were pretty hot. They kept me company."

Wow, this story just keeps getting better and better.

"Do you want to get together later?"

I don't know, I have to work.

"What about after?"

I have to work really late.

"Well call me when you're done."

That sounds good.

"We can make up for lost time. I learned a few things while I was in the gay jail."

I GOT MY GROOVE

I am soooo Stella. I got my groove back, and it feels good. God bless Jamaica. Angela Bassett and I are kindred spirits. I'm going to get my hair braided and I'm going to wear sarongs.

Don't Taye and I look good together? I think we do.

CALL ME 'STELLA'

Sometimes, when I don't write posts for a few days, and then I blog once in a while with photos of contestants on America's Next Top Model, it's because I have something I want to write about but I don't know how to say it without sounding like I don't know I'm not doing the right thing.

I'm having an affair with a man from Jamaica.

He is in his mid-20's somewhere, beautiful. Beautiful. His skin is dark, almost irridescent, shiny with the reflection of even the faintest light. Street lamps, a light in the next room, it makes a point on his skin and I just stare at it. He looks like Taye Diggs, in How Stella Got Her Groove Back, but with slightly bigger pecs. My God.

I met him walking down the street. This is what happens when you live one block off Lincoln Road--people wander around, they smile, they meet. I thought nothing of it. He followed me at first, before saying hello. Actually, he said "Hey." With a light lilt, not a cartoonish Bob Marley-impersonation most people would think. It was very light, and nice.

We talked, we didn't say much; I kept walking. And I had to force myself to not look back to see if he watched me as I walked away.

~~~

A few days later, there he was again. Different place, a chance meeting; but he was there nonetheless.

"Are you following me?" I said.

"No." He smiled.

"Oh."

"Do you want me to be followin' you?" he said.

"No."

"'Cause I will."

"Follow me where?"

"Where do you want to go?"

There was no following me. I left, alone. But I did give him my number, when he asked for it. And then I went home and paced around my apartment for 20 minutes with a very flushed face.

The first time he came over, he told me right away: "I have a girlfriend. I can't stay too late." And then wham, we were on the bed. It lasted for two hours. When he reached The Big Moment, he threw his head back and yelled "DAMN, _ _ _ _ _!" with that expletive being a racially-derogatory slang word that starts with "N." It made me laugh. Luckily he didn't hear me. Then he passed out a few short minutes later, asleep.

I laid there and watched TV, the volume low. Then his eyes popped open and he saw the time, and said he had to leave. He asked to take a shower, so I went and turned on the shower for him. And when he got in, I left. But then I came back in. And I just stood there, and watched. I can't even say I was standing in a sexy way, leaning against the door or something; I just stood there. Gaping, I think gaping is the best word. I was staring, totally gaping at him, just there in my shower like he was real.

"You see somethin' you like?" he asked. And that grin, with those shiny teeth, flashing at me...I smiled and nodded, yes I do. And he kept the shower curtain open.

Then he got out, and we jumped back on the bed again.

That time, he didn't drop any N-bombs, it was all just normal; but he fell asleep again. He passed out diagonally on my bed, so I tried to move him over to make room for me, but he was too heavy. I was literally--LITERALLY--standing on the floor, pulling on his leg, and he didn't move. Nor did he wake up. So I rolled up next to him arm, and just laid there, breathing and looking out at the wall for a while. We slept all night. I slept like a rock, deep sleep, didn't move, curled up in that little ball.

~~~

It's the most fulfilling relationship I've had in eons, ironic because it's obviously going absolutely nowhere, and I am 100% aware of that. And it's terrible, listening to him outside my apartment lying to his girlfriend about where he is. But I don't feel anything, I just listen. I don't feel bad about it.

And that's where the hesitation about writing about it comes in. I don't feel bad about him lying, but I know it is bad. There's a difference in there somewhere. Should I feel differently? I don't know. I guess I'm having my fun now while I can, as I know he'll go away someday. If he can lie to her, someday he will lie to me.

But I don't care about that either. Again, I'm not sure if I should. But I don't think so.

I'll write more later. This has been going on for a while. There's more to the story.

MEN.

I would just like to say something.

Men are crazy.

I know, men can easily reverse that claim and say women are crazy, citing long sordid tales of passive-aggressive fights filled with "If you don't know I'm not going to tell you" or "Does this make me look fat?" or other mind-bending jabs. Women lay traps, they're very crafty. But their craziness is visible. You know women are going to say stuff like that. It's all right there, in their neuroses, visible for everyone to see. Men, they seem like they're calm, they act like they're not crazy, they complain about women. But they are insane. It's much more insidious.

I am so proud of the fact that I am a big nelly flaming gay sometimes. I used to get sick to my stomach when people insulted me for being "effeminite." But now, I embrace my girliness with pride. I think I've taken on the good parts of the female species. I feel stronger, able to flip-flop between the point of view of a man, and then a woman. Usually, the woman's point of view wins, honestly.

Why?

Because men are crazy.

Seriously.

They seem simple.

But still waters run deep, you know. When you see the waves, it's all right there; but when the water is calm...you don't know what's going on down below. There's usually something lurking.

I hate that.

And the biggest difference? Most women accept the fact that they can be, occasionally, somewhat crazy. I don't know any women who believe they are always handle situations with rational thought. They all know they slip off the deep end from time to time. It happens. But men? They really don't get it. They really think they are never wrong, what they want is what's best. Why wouldn't it be? It's what they want. Why shouldn't they have things their way? And it's there that lies the problem: men are inherently crazy because they don't think they're crazy at all. It's the definition of insanity, really.

I would love to have a round table discussion with a bunch of bisexuals, and find out who really is easier to deal with. 'Cause I say it's women.

Worst Pick-Up Line Ever

...man sitting at the bar, says to me:

Him: "You're very tall, aren't you?"

Me: "I am pretty tall, yes."

Him: "How tall are you?"

Me: "I don't know, 6'3", I think? I'm not sure."

Him: "Wow. Big boy."

Me: "Mmm-hmm."

Him: (He stands up.) "But I'm taller than you are."

Me: "Maybe a little." (I look at his boots.) "And it's not fair, you're wearing heels."

Him: "Then what do you say I take off all my clothes and you can see how big I really am?"

The Things We Do For Love

So I have a funny story.

Several days ago I visited a special someone on his birthday. He requested that no one give presents; instead, we should make donations to his favorite charity. But of course close friends are still going to buy something, little knick-knacks of thoughtfulness filled with inside jokes. So the night of his birthday party his house was filled with ridiculour dollar-store finds, piled on his couch, his kitchen table, everywhere.

As he showed me all his new toys, he reached behind a table, and pulled out a thick cardboard tube. On the side it said Do-It-Yourself Stripper Pole Kit. And he handed it to me. "This is for you." And he smiled.