Fear and Queering in New Jersey

My most recent ex-girlfriend, we’ll call her Diane, recently announced she is “dating a boy.”  I received this message over text, and the medium seemed perfect.  I had time to confront my initial reaction: betrayal.  I hate this reaction, but we all have our dark sides.  I am el sensitivo.

First, this reaction reflects a colossal hypocrisy on my part.  I had previously avoided telling Diane about my continued involvement with the lovely I call “exception man.”  I’ve written about this sort of reverse closet—the shame of feeling mostly gay and dealing with self-inflicted guilt when a person of the opposite sex, um, makes in-roads.  So who am I to feel betrayed, to revoke her sensible shoes and no men save Justin Timberlake membership card?

Second, my reaction smacks of something else…fear?  Diane has not dated a man in 14 years.  I’m still young enough that such a time span is breathtaking.  I haven’t even been out that long!  How does one really know and live their sexuality?  Why do I care so much about this question?  I admire many friends who just, to borrow from Rilke, live such questions.  Their love and/or sex seem less fraught.  Of course, those same friends likely admire my willingness to share my identity with everyone, a gay 7-11 if you will.

So what exactly am I afraid of?  I know my guilt around exception man reflects a sense that he deserves so much more than the true affection of a lesbian.  Maybe it’s a basic fear of hurting people?  In the case of Diane however, I think it’s something more.  I’ve blogged about the transference of shame when my ex Sylvia would edit me out of her life to her parents.  The loss of solidarity I feel certainly has a note of shame.  The kicker is deeper though.  I’m afraid of being alone.  This is progress.  Say what?  Well, I used to be afraid that I would settle, settle for a poor bloke who couldn’t possibly know the love of which I am capable.  Living in the NE has taught me this: I would rather be alone.  I would rather marry my profession.  I would rather seek the solace of kinship.

As friend Miranda always says, I need more information (before strategizing).  This is the way I operate; I over-analyze to the point of absurdity.  I do this immediately.  So I stopped.  I dropped.  I rolled.  I called Diane.  I no longer feel betrayed.  To say more would betray her confidence, but I am happy for her and happy for the opportunity to examine my own prejudices.  Please feel free to chat with me about this in comments, in-person, or via e-mail.  I would love nothing more than to spur conversations from these posts.

Card Catalog Preferred (Part 2 of The One with the Hot Librarian)

Previously on Chasing Jessica…

The rare book room and the pipe organ made me all glowy.  When we last looked, I was about to speak to the hot librarian taking her break on an Ivy League planter.

Hi!  I also waived because this is what goofy, awkward, yet incredibly bold people do when approaching relative strangers.

She smiled, removed her ear buds, and said hello.

“Do you work here?”

“Yes.”

“I think you helped me last week.”

With that I told her about my work and gushed about the rare book room.  Nerd alert!  I then asked her what she studied.  Turns out she’s starting her MLIS in the fall at, wait for it, wait for it… my university! She also knows a close friend of mine.

But don’t get too excited queer sports fans.  Said friend knows hot librarian to be straight.  My response: “Well, I was straight when I was 24, too.  <cough, cough>”

She probably will not respond to the e-mail I sent her after our little chat in the courtyard.  As I once said in A Bold Commute, the response is not really the point.  I am brimming with confidence these days. This kind of carpe lesbian behavior signals some sort of movement.  Or maybe it’s just summer.  I actually make time to chase, run, and frolic in your general direction.

The One with the Hot Librarian

One of my summer research gigs has brought me to the Princeton University main library two weeks straight.  On the first trip my buddy came along.  We’ll call him Seth because I’m silly.  We hopped on the library elevator when this tall, slender brunette slipped through the closing doors.  She exited a floor before us, and Seth and I exchanged a knowing glance.  We had both checked her out (pardon the library pun).

We hit the microfilm room and had a blast operating the analog machinery, taking turns piloting.  We both watch too much Battlestar.  The last item on my list confounded the helpful librarian in the department; she directed us to the “book finder around the corner.”  As we rounded said corner, I could see the woman from the elevator behind a computer.  My neck snapped around to Seth, “Are we going to fight over her?”  I was only partially kidding.  He graciously gave me the floor.  She told me the item in question was in the rare book room.  I could speak no more.

I came back the next week to the rare book room sans Seth.  The experience was a bit of nerd nirvana.  I should say the edifice itself is exactly the way a romanticized library should look in my head.  Gothic. Glorious. When I described it to the guy who dropped me off from the car dealership (my baby was in the shop), I said it looked like a church without the steeple.  And the rituals of a rare book room are indeed church-like.  There’s the expected silence, but the security and protocols are somewhere between reverential and military.  Normally I detest such bureaucracy, but not here.  After jumping through many hoops to prove my identity and legitimacy for entrance, I tucked my backpack into a locker and filled out a call slip because I was not allowed to bring my notebook into the room.  I then had to wash my hands!  I would’ve put on a hazmat suit if they had asked.

The room was small, filled with researchers crouched over manuscripts spaced out among long tables.  The reference desk person made me type my call slip into the computer.  Again, I happily complied.  I quietly waited for someone to fetch the item for ten minutes.  Then, a gray bin appeared on a cart.  The librarians opened the bin, and I suppressed the urge to make an Ark of the Covenant joke.  It might melt your face!  My goofy unspoken banter vanished the moment I saw it: an original newspaper from 1861.  They gingerly placed it on the table, and I held my breath as they unfolded the one sheet.  The best part was that this holy relic had exactly the information my employer required.  Actually, that’s not quite the best part because I hadn’t forgotten about the hot librarian.  My mission accomplished, I contemplated going to the basement to find her.  No, if it’s meant to be, I will find her without searching, I thought.  By the way, this was a cowardly thought disguised in my usual besotted foolery.

I left the library and heard organ music from the chapel immediately across the courtyard.  Naturally, I went into the chapel, Gothic and glorious complete with stained glass windows and steeple, and sat down in a wooden pew.  I had the place to myself.  I was overwhelmed by the pipe organ and the splendor.  After about twenty minutes, I felt sufficiently high off my charmed life.  I emerged into the sunlight.  There she was sitting directly in front of me having a smoke, wearing red sneakers and jeans.  I broke into a huge grin, but then strode right past her.  I had a bandage on my face (another story), and let’s face it, this was awkward enough without a piece of frosted shredded wheat affixed to my cheek.  I rounded the corner, stopped, and had a little conversation with myself.  This sure looks like it was meant to be.  Egg up, woman!  I had to go back.  She was still there when I approached.  (To be continued…)

Cresting

I’m still dating, but I find it difficult to write about these dates primarily out of a fear of hurting someone (or myself) inadvertently. Yet, I still feel compelled to write. I think part of this compulsion (outside of a garden variety writers’ ego) is a sort of working out my disappointment. When I came out ten years ago this month (whoa), I roared out—with an amazing writer and confident gay woman on my arm. I was so proud to be with her, and I thought we could overcome the tremendous obstacles in front of us. I was wrong. Simultaneous to the breakup with Gwen (though only partially related), my life fell apart. Only a select few know this whole story, and to this day, I am unable to write about it, despite a thorough recovery.

Back to the disappointment. While I reassembled myself in Portland I met a woman who would teach me more about grace and simplicity than I have ever known: Sylvia. She was introverted, peaceful; my crazy passions could not resist her. We were together for almost two years. When it ended, I naively thought I’d have another long-term relationship in time for the glorious Portland summer. Seven years later and another cross-country move, I’m still wandering. I have heard tell that Sylvia is engaged (or married?) to a man. This news crushes my soul.

Why does it bother me that her betrothed is a man? This is specifically what hurts the most. It could be that during the course of our entire relationship she would edit me out of conversations with her family. I’d be lying beside her in bed while she shared stories of our adventures, only I was missing. She apologized, and of course I could not force her out of the closet. I thought meeting my father might help, especially since it went swimmingly despite some very real fears on our parts. I told myself she would come out in time, and of course, now she never will. This angers me. One could argue that since she married a man her reticence was for the best. Yet, it is hard not to transfer some of that shame. I was not the one she brought home to Mother. And damn it, moms love me! Seriously, did her shame keep her from loving me fully, or did she love me as best she could and I am just too demanding or not demanding enough. My friends would say the latter.

She seldom told me she loved me, although she was a generous lover. This was enough for me then. Although I found it odd that a professional poet would be so stingy with words. In contrast, the professional spin-doctor eats words, manipulates them, lives for them, cries by them, but rarely conserves them. As a consequence of her strange ways, I remember every single time she said she loved me, and saved every letter, too. My fondest recollection involved the day I helped her move out of her SE Portland apartment, a place now converted into a tattoo parlor, the one right next to the Nightlight bar by seven corners. She picked up a box (none of the boxes had tops—which I found disturbing) with her tan, toned arms. She was wearing overalls, a tube top and a red kerchief on her head, hiding naturally burnt orange locks. She looked down into the open box and saw that I had covered my toothbrush with several pieces of toilet paper. She threw her head back, exposing that gorgeous neck of hers, and laughed. While still laughing, she put down the box, bent her 5’ 8” frame to embrace me and declared her love. She was not mocking me. She was sweetly appreciating our differences, in particular my paranoia about my toothbrush. I had left hers unwrapped, knowing her unspoken wishes. I was careful. I don’t like dust. I was all about preservation, keeping things as they were.

I am a failed archivist, a mover, a shaker, (definitely not a baker). I am the passionate one who loves everything and everyone, yet no one in particular, right now, as it stands. Here I sit uncovered, far from home… in complete possession of my singular toothbrush.

Nothing Good Will Come of California

I was too short to drive Big’s fucking burnt orange Honda Element. She tried to take the horrendous corkscrew curves on U.S. 1 in Northern California gently, but I was turning the color green that gets stupid names like chartreuse. This was the least of my worries on a most ill-advised road trip. We had planned the journey from Portland to Stanford when we were falling for one another. She would be starting her PhD program and wanted me to help get her settled. I had always bargained for a little bittersweet, but I thought it would be because the move would signal the beginning of the long-distance phase of our relationship. Looking back, we were both so premature and immature.

In my defense, I was never the U-haul lesbian. I have never lived with one of my girlfriends, although I once had a close call. Perhaps tied to this independence (stubbornness?, intuition?), I had also not done much relationship forecasting. I certainly fantasized about marrying Sylvia, but I knew her answer so I never asked. Big was different though, and this is the main reason I call her Big. We had a fucking plan.

She was the one. She would get the pleasure of picking up my socks and feeding me on a regular basis. (Damn, she was a great cook.) So we were going to spend as much time together as possible before the move, and then see each other twice a month. I volunteered to do more of the visiting. I had more money, more time and a mad love for the Bay area (shhh, don’t tell Portland). After a year, we would assess our relationship, and if it was sufficiently fantastic, I would sell my house, find a place with her, and try to transfer to the San Francisco office of my company.

I conveniently forgot about Voldemort, her very recent ex. I am still these years later embarrassed to admit how recent it was, and amazed at my stupidity. Voldemort didn’t know about our plan and had no plans to disappear. I will spare you the gory details. Who am I kidding? I will spare myself the gory details and just say that Voldemort won; Big dumped me and went back to her before the summer was finished. So how did I end up on the road trip with Big then? My capacity for self-delusion is epic.

Big and I tried to be friends. I could not handle the thought of not seeing her during her last weeks in Portland. I was so in love that I basically ignored the face pummeling of the breakup, the half-nelson she had on my heart. I am bigger than this, I thought. I can do it. When I asked her if she still wanted me to go with her to Stanford, she said she would not disinvite me or some lame-ass dribble. But I didn’t hear a no, so hey, I will win her back! If I could get a time machine, before saving people’s lives and other do-gooder shit, I would definitely go back and slap 2008 me in the face repeatedly.

The first night of the trip at dinner in my still favorite Oregon coast town of Bandon, Big would not stop crying about Voldemort. They broke up (again) because wily V. wanted no part of the long distance deal, and had no intention of moving. I mean, here was Big literally weeping into her salad when she knew I loved her beyond reason (is love ever rational?). I wish I had walked out, or at least thrown a dinner roll in her general direction. We slept in separate beds that night, and managed to get in a fight because I had told my ex (whose former ex but now girlfriend again was friends with Voldemort) that I was going on the trip. The convoluted, sloppy seconds, tiny community, gossipy nightmare of being a lesbian is a drag in this way.

By morning we had brokered a truce. I looked forward to doing the dune buggies on the coast. It was the only thing on the trip that I said I wanted to do…the rest was about getting her settled. Just give me the dune buggies, and I’ll be okay, I thought. Well, I’ve still never been in a dune buggy because at the last possible moment, she said she didn’t want to spend the money, but that I could go. Uh, no.

After a couple days like this, we made it to the valley, and to my oldest friend’s house. We’re talking friends since diapers. She had no clue what was going on though, and told me how much she liked Big after chatting with her awhile and watching her excellent manner with her toddler. In my embarrassment, I’d neglected to mention that we’d broken up and I went on the trip anyway. When you can’t tell someone who has known you forever something so basic, you pretty much know you’ve veered into self-delusion land, like a place that serves fried candy bars. Nothing good will come of this.

But something really good did come out of it eventually, and I’m not going to say friendship (although Big is my friend now) or anything to prompt eye rolls. No, this is a little more selfish and unexpected. While we were walking around Stanford, I became genuinely excited for Big. So supercalafragalistic excited that I had to do a gut check. I mean, I was livid with her at this point, but there I was jumping up and down around those terracotta roofed palaces they call classrooms. “I will call you Doctor one day! You get paid to study here!” I realized that I wanted to go back to school. Big finished her MA at NYU in the same school that I would later grace. She gave me the spark and the courage not only to go to school, but to do it in New York. I’d say I owe her, but I think we’re even.

Hills Like White Elephants-2009

I’ve been saving this story until I thought enough time had past so as not to trouble the main character, so to speak. We met in New York through a friend during my first semester of grad school.  Fresh on Broadway via the Pacific Northwest, I welcomed the touch of home from Fiona, a native Portlander ensconced in Harlem. We were to meet for the first time in Chelsea for some gay exhibit. No, it was really gay with a selection of portraits depicting gay couples that hardly seem radical these days (thankfully), but the mocking of convention was much appreciated.

I was 45 minutes late, and extremely angered by my ignorance of weekend subway timetables. Although it shouldn’t have mattered, I was even more upset with myself when I saw her wide blue eyes staring back at me with understanding. My friend neglected to mention how attractive she was.

I convinced her to let me buy her a vegan cupcake as penance. I had never dated a vegan before, and until Fiona, I had thought the practice a deal-breaker of sorts. Vegans are too good for me, I thought. I would love to live so ethically, but I am a slave to my taste buds, a sucker for blue cheese and filet. Yet she was not militant, despite working for an animal rights organization. I felt comfortable around her, and even tried a wheat grass concoction with her urging at Liquiteria in the East Village one day. To my surprise, I liked it, almost as much as I liked her.

After a couple of leafy green gay city adventures, I wasn’t sure how she felt about me, and I was shy about finding out. One night, I worked up the courage to ask her on a real date over the phone. During the ensuing silence, I felt I could’ve done my laundry and come back. Painful. Then, she said it.

“I’ve been thinking about how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out with it… I’m pregnant.” She probably did her dishes while she waited patiently for the news to filter through my heady hamster wheels.  Short of marriage, red flags are hopelessly lost on me. I am optimistic to a fault—sometimes cocky. Hmm, preg-naaaant, I thought. I let the word spin around for a bit, resting long enough to form one question—does this mean no date? (I hope I didn’t say that out loud. Of course it means no date you selfish moron! Her life is soon to be completely transformed.) Then, as if reading my thoughts, she added, “And I’m moving back to Portland.” Thwap!—red flag #2 hit me in the face. Even I could not argue my way around that one.

I honestly do not remember what I said to her in that moment. I must’ve congratulated her because she was excited about it. I dimly recall asking about the father, as I had known her to be mostly gay—a factor adding to my shock. I do remember feeling mildly depressed, thwarted by a fetus. Of course, her daughter is clearly the best thing that ever happened to her—and I am genuinely happy for her and long since over my little crush. And as the New Year unfurls, I wonder what red flags will be on the horizon. What novel warning signs will bruise my brow? Or maybe, just maybe, some lovely will ask me out for a change, and I will say yes. I will lift her baggage, and she mine, but there will be neither hills like white elephants, nor unforgivable bastardizations of Hemingway.

Tooky

I once sat in my NYU advisor’s office and read aloud a passage from De Certeau. I cried in the process. I was embarrassed, but she hugged me with words, saying the world needed more people like me, people deeply connected with their emotions. She called it a rare gift.

I don’t know about that. In any case, I blame my mother. She cries at Hallmark commercials. We invented a word for such behavior: tooky (pronounced: 2key). I think the word choice may have been influenced by a radio station contest at the time on the Tampa Q105 Morning Zoo. A bird voice would screech, “aa-aa-ee-ee-tooky-tooky”—the cue to call. It was just stupid enough to be brilliant and to stick in my head decades later. (Nancy, did you write it?) So tooky we remain.

Tooky really gets in the way of my dating life. Although Big always said I was beautiful when I cried. Sad thing is, I was usually crying about her. I frankly have never dated anyone like me in this regard. Perhaps that’s for the best. I will say, there is something beautiful about tears from those who seldom cry.

I am thinking of Scarlet. I know I haven’t talked about her in years– she of my first maybe-date in New York. We never did find romance together, but she became one of my best friends, the kind of person you call at 3 a.m. Actually, I call her at 3 a.m. when I think I’m going to die (this happens way more than it should). She’s a doctor. But this is not why I love her. She is goofy and completely easy to be around—I can “took” it up with abandon around her.

We spent a lot of time together back West this summer-a bright spot in an otherwise trying time. She had unexpectedly lost a close family member, and I was the closest thing to family in her vicinity. She asked if she could come over. There in the sunlight, filtered through the white rails of my front porch, she sat and quietly wept. I perched across from her, crying and watching. There was something so achingly beautiful about her release. Her blonde hair, mottled on her red face, soaked up her tears welling from haunting blue eyes, all glistening in the sun. We sat in silence, until she was ready to speak a handful of words. Then, back to quiet.

I asked if I could make her dinner, even though I am a terrible cook. For some bizarre reason I had some arugula and crusty bread on hand. I toasted pine nuts, shaved some parmesan, and made a mustard and olive oil dressing—a trick I’d learned from a Italian friend whilst living lean in Paris. The meal was delicious because it needed to be. We ate, mostly in silence.

This memory is clearly not about dating. I offer it here because you might need to cry more or less. This is about feeling. This is about connection. This is about the people you cry around, the impetus, the inspiration, the healing, the trust, the quiet, the tooky and the reserved.

The Tyranny of the Binary-Or How I Learned to Love My Sexuality

I recently went on a date with a man. <needle skipping across record> In the context of this blog, of my efforts to be a kind of lesbian Carrie Bradshaw, this may come as a shock. And no, I’m not turning into Jessica Stein. I’m still mostly gay. In fact, I’ve always been mostly gay. Yet, I hesitate to write about any attractions to men. This is partially due to my team player mentality. Friends of Dorothy must stick together. Rainbow solidarity aside though, I actually do not believe that my sexuality works in a binary way.

So why not identify as bi? Well, this word comes with enough baggage to sink an Olivia cruise. For one, it implies a 50/50 split—not true in my case. And to many, bisexual signals a type of promiscuity that betrays my sense of morality. (To be fair, the character of Carrie Bradshaw conflicts with this, too.) I am not judging bi, promiscuous or polyamorous peeps. First, I know a bunch of monogamous lovelies who identify as bi. Second, I’m a no harm, no foul gal. More slut power to you and what not. I have even read an interesting book called The Ethical Slut to try to understand the polyamory so prevalent in my circles around Portland, Oregon. The concept of polyamory was really foreign to my upbringing, and I wanted some insight into the beliefs of certain friends. That said, I choose a different path.

As I kick my ethical queer into gear, I am surprised at my continued reluctance to acknowledge the fluidity, however viscous, of my sexuality. I have started identifying as queer (as opposed to lesbian) this year, and as 98% gay to help round out any confusion. However, I am experiencing a reverse closet effect. I refuse to deliver any hint of this news to many people in my life, including my father. He’s an old-school Catholic. I had my dear mother come out to him on my behalf years ago. He’s a poet of a man–a strong, yet gentle soul. I never feared outright rejection from him, only disappointment. His arc of acceptance is remarkable, a wonderful story for another day, but suffice it to say I do not want to confuse him with my double closet. Or more to the point, I do not want to give him false hope that I will end up with a man, nor undo years of progress.

Queer theory talks about the paradox of the closet, how coming out of one actually creates it (Fuss, 1991). No one usually knows you are in a box unless you declare it. One is assumed straight until self-disclosed otherwise–the nested closet in the house of the binary. The closet is a poor metaphor for people who live on a continuum. Although I reside in the “Very Gay” space today, I hate to think my anthro-sexuality, my person based sense of romance is something to hide. Yes, in terms of probability, my future partner will likely be a woman, but I’ve never had much use for math outside of paying bills. Love is not a card game.

So about the date with the guy…wait, I’m actually not going to write about it, at the risk of pissing you off. Because when I mentioned it to a friend back home, she freaked out in a comical way, faux screaming about how I don’t like dick. (I am paraphrasing.) At first I was a little annoyed, but then I thought about how I would respond if she came over to my house and tried to make out with me. I would laugh my ass off. She doesn’t dig chicks. (I am paraphrasing myself.) In other words, I am just as certain about her as she thought she was about me and men.

I could plow forward, and tell you anyway, shielded somewhat by the screen, the two-way blogging mirror. But you might be watching. I suspect I might turn the date recap into a proving game—let me use the right adjectives about him to convince you I’m not self-deluded. Parts of my sexuality engender more self-surveillance. However, I feel no such pressure as a lesbian raconteur. A bigger closet would be nice though.

A Bold Commute

I did something patently absurd this morning.  Incredibly romantic.  Before I tell you, let me assure you that I am working on an explanation for my whereabouts the last 6 months.  It is a Valentine of sorts to the people I hold most dear in New York.  Now, on with the besotted foolery.

I noticed her red canvas shoes first, as I boarded the G train going the wrong way.  Most of us have to go the wrong way until May, while the MTA does construction.  To get to Manhattan from my stop, you must first go deeper into Brooklyn.  I had planned to rid myself of my New York Times to some deserving stranger.  She became the obvious choice.  She was reading Revolutionary Road.  I sat down next to her, and made the offer.

No, thank you.

I can’t give it away!

If you leave it on the seat, I’m sure someone will take it.

Good idea.

That’s it.  This was the sum total of our conversation, yet I began to feel a little dizzy.  With her slender frame and hipster librarian attire, she looked remarkably like my Sylvia, the person I was with for almost two years, tied for my longest relationship, and certainly my best.  Her voice even sounded vaguely like hers, calm and a bit dreamy like a poet sitting in the middle of an Illinois wheat field–seemingly in the middle of nowhere, especially to my urban sensibilities, yet fantastically somewhere very specific, some exotic locale to which I was not yet privy.  Yet.

Naturally, I couldn’t speak further.  We got off to make the transfer, and I slowed my pace to see where she stopped.  I leaned casually against a column, trying to channel James Dean, but looking more like Bart Simpson with my baseball cap and backpack.  Yesterday, I had worn a skirt.  Why couldn’t she have seen me yesterday?  Maybe she likes Barts.

I did not walk to the end of the platform, per my usual practice, to find the optimum time-saving spot for my walk to campus.  I hovered near her, feeling rather creepy about it the whole time.  We boarded the F train to Manhattan, on opposite sides of the same car.  Will she get off at my stop?  I wondered.  If she does, it is a sign that I should talk to her more.  By 7th Ave. I decided to write on the back of my business card (business being a loose term, as I am a full-time student).  I like having cards, one of the few trappings of corporate life I miss, so I kept the practice.  I digress.  Here’s what I wrote:

I’ve never given my card to a stranger before, but you have a beautiful speaking voice.  Drink sometime?

I finished the card by Carroll Street, and began to contemplate my journey to the other side of the car.  I didn’t want to bring my bag, but leaving it with strangers seemed foolish, even to this fool.  Then, a woman got on with coffee spilling out of her cup.  She tried to manage it, as I looked down, making sure it wasn’t spilling on my pant leg as it hit the train floor.  I stole a glance at red shoe girl.  She was still reading.  Would she get off at Jay Street?  If so, I was running out of time.  My heart began to box like Pacquiao.  Surely she would be heading to the city.

The woman next to me continued to struggle with her coffee to the point where I snapped out of my amorous punching.

Would you like a napkin?  I think I have one.

Oh, thank you!  That would be great.

With my new caffeinated friend secured, I decided I could safely leave my bag for a minute.  Clearly, napkin buddies would not steal.  I asked her to watch it, and marched up the train, praying I wouldn’t smash into a pole, or worse, onto her.  When I arrived at her seat she had her eyes closed!  Hmmm, this is problematic, I thought.  So I gently nudged her red shoe with my hiking boot and said, “Pardon me.”  She opened her heavy lids revealing deep brown eyes, framed by short, stylishly shaggy hair.  “Oh dear God, what am I doing?”  (said the cartoon thought bubble over my head)

“I want to give you my card.” (slight pause)

“Uh, okay.” (in sleepy disbelief)

“And since I know this is incredibly awkward, I’m going to go back there now.”

With that, I turned and left.  I don’t know at which stop she exited.  I could not look back.  I also could not stop smiling.

Havana Nights?

Twenty minutes into the second date she looks at me and deadpans, “What’s wrong with you?  You were so bouncy and fun last time.  Now, you’re all serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize your less than 24 hours of knowing me qualified you to speak to me in that tone, and with such authority.”

I didn’t really say that.  Naturally, I apologized to her in an effort to avoid conflict.  I should’ve avoided a bad evening and asked for the check.  At this point, the more astute among you may be wondering how I found myself on a second date with this woman.  The first date ended with us making out on the dance floor at The Ritz in Midtown.  The Cuban bottle blonde had moves.  Caliente.  However, sans the beats of Gaga our chemistry was somewhere between cardboard and a mosquito bite.

I called an audible and suggested we go see Inception thinking at least my evening wouldn’t be entirely wasted.  While walking to the theater, she continued to badger me about what was wrong, repeatedly saying, “as long as it’s not me.”  “No, really, what’s wrong?  I’m a Scorpio; I can sense these things.”  Dating foul #2: Never mention your astrological sign in any meaningful sense unless you’ve already signed a pre-nuptial.

I made up some excuse about over-thinking a conversation I’d just had with my mother.  It should be noted that the conversation in question had absolutely nothing to do with any dispute between my mother and me.  This is why I was flabbergasted, and I don’t use that word lightly, when her solution was to not speak to my mother again.  I protested that I didn’t think this was the appropriate response, in a non-Norman Bates sort of way.  She swore that not speaking to her mom on any kind of a regular basis was the smartest behavior change she’d ever made.  Yes, well, good luck with that.

Inception was sold out so we saw Cyrus instead.  She was super handsy—even did the yawn, arm over my shoulder bit. I bit my straw.

We had planned to go dancing, but my arthritis was flaring up.  I asked what she would rather do instead. You might be wondering why I just didn’t beg off and go home.  I get worse.  I have issues with disappointing people, even people I don’t like.  Oh, like you’re so perfect.  I digress.

She says, “My honest answer?  [no, give me your Buck Rogers in the 21^st Century answer] I want to make out in a park with you.”

“Uh, okay, um.  [looks down at feet] Which park?”

“How about this one?”  [motions to Union Square]

We walk into Union Square searching for a spot when a genuine realization hits me.

“I’m not a city dater!  I feel awkward about this.  It’s not the gay thing; it’s the PDA thing.  There are too many people here.”

“Oh, no one is looking.  Besides, it’s my dream to make out in a park with you.”

I really wish this was fiction, folks.

We take a lap around and I’m secretly praying for no open benches, when she settles on one sufficiently far from a sleeping homeless person.  We sit and I grimace uncomfortably as scads of people walk past.  I feel a thousand eyes and two CCTV cameras boring holes into me.  Even the corgis are in on the debacle.

“I really can’t do this.  I’m just not comfortable,” I mutter after a salty, unpleasant smooch.

Undeterred she repeatedly tried to put her hand up my shirt calling me a “classic, voluptuous beauty.”  Flattering.  Painful.  We Pisceans have different dreams than getting mauled by bisexuals in Union Square.

“You travel so much that we just don’t have time to take it slow.”

We parted company soon thereafter.  I was extremely polite.