April 18, 2007

Ring the Alarm

I set four alarm clocks every night, because I live in mortal fear of oversleeping and missing something major I was expected to accomplish the next day. So I love Sundays. A lot. It’s the only morning that I’m slowly lulled out of sleep by sunlight filling the bedroom, and it always feels like a minor victory.
Last Sunday, I rolled over in bed to find Preppy still asleep. It was the morning after our fourth date, or fifth if you count an afternoon that we grabbed a few hours together before seeing each other again that night. Preppy had joined George and me on an outing to our bar, and I’d introduced him to several of my friends. To my great relief, everyone seemed to connect really well (the last few men in my life have not quite met with my friends’ approval, a fact they made painfully obvious). At one point, my friend Nick pulled me aside.
“Topher, we like him. Really,” said Nick. “Would you please try not to fuck this up?”
“I always try not to,” I said.
“Okay, well, whatever it is you normally do, DON’T DO THAT.”
Which, when you think about it, was pretty sound advice.
So Sunday morning, I went to the sink and did that thing where you brush your teeth and wash your face before crawling back into bed, so that when he wakes up he thinks you always look amazing. And then I laid there, watching him sleep, amazed by my own good fortune.
I think this boy’s sensational. I’ve never experienced the whole can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other business, getting all goofy when he’s around, developing an instant rapport. It’s kinda tremendous. He even gets along with my friends. I mean, my God, my roommate George likes him. And George doesn’t like ANYBODY. And what’s more, when he says he thinks I’m amazing, I actually believe him.
And as I laid there, considering all this, I felt a wave of new and unexpected emotion rising inside of me.

It was a feeling I was completely unprepared to face.
And that feeling was cold panic.
It was like a fire alarm going off in my head. I realized with horror that I wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever. Eventually, there’ll be a morning that he wakes up before I do, and he sees me all bleary-eyed and icky. Or I’m gonna have one of my patented neurotic fits (like the one I was having at the moment), and Preppy will realize I’m not nearly as sweet or together or amazing as I managed to make him believe in those first few weeks or months. And what then? Would he run screaming? Plenty of others had. Should I be bracing myself for that eventuality?
Some little voice in my head spoke up.
“Why not, darling?” Little Voice said. “It’s what you always do.”
Little Voice sounded like George. Little Voice was a bitch.
But Little Voice had a point. When it ended with The Ex two years ago, it hurt. A lot. And I didn't bounce back very fast. And in the time that's passed since, I’ve always been hopeful about finding someone new, but there was a certain part of me that held back, steeling myself for the ending. And when the ending came, I took it really well… because deep down, I’d been expecting it all along. I knew that the one time I really worked on a relationship with someone, that’s all it ended up being: work. And I was devastated by the failure. I couldn't imagine willingly placing myself in a position to go through that all over again. But I had to accept that the reason things ended that way was because I was with the wrong person.
Maybe Preppy would turn out to be the right guy, or maybe he wouldn’t. But the hard truth of it was, I’d never be able to really love someone again if I was too busy shielding myself from potential pain.
So that morning, I gave myself permission to relinquish a little control. I decided to take a chance, and see what happens. If I end up getting hurt, I know I can take it. I’ve survived worse.
And I think he might be worth the risk.
Then I rolled over and went back to sleep, because it was Sunday. There were no alarms going off, and there wasn’t a thing in the world to do except curl up with the boy in my bed.

April 11, 2007

Road Hazards

As a taxpaying, hardworking citizen of Atlanta, I would like to lodge a public complaint.
YOU BITCHES GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROAD BAND-AIDS.
I have no idea what the hell they’re doing that requires them to put thirty of ‘em down in a row and leave them untouched for a week, but it is preposterous. Now, I don’t personally drive a car, so I’m not at great risk of property damage, but when road band-aids start affecting my sex life, this has just gone too fucking far.
This requires a little backstory.
Friday night at the bar. I didn’t even spot the preppy boy with pretty eyes until my roommate George was standing at the exit jangling his car keys. Time was not on my side.
“Five minutes,” I begged. “A guy just made eyes at me.”
“Absolutely not,” said George. “This bar is dead to me. There will be other men with eyes at our next stop.”
“One minute!”
“I will leave you, Topher!”
So I grabbed his keys and ran directly to Preppy, who was standing with a pretty girl. I had an instant of pause, thinking he might be a straight guy out with his girlfriend (have y’all noticed there’s a lot more of those lately? What’s goin’ on there?), but this was no time to finesse or hesitate. I knew George would be back to tackle me for his keys at any moment. And he’d get ‘em back, too. George may be a skinny thing, but he fights dirty.
“Hey,” I said to Preppy. “I swear I would normally spend the next hour flirting with you, but my ride is ready to try his luck elsewhere so I gotta go. But you’re really cute and I’d like your number. Assuming you might be interested. And that she’s not your girlfriend.”
“That’s really sweet,” he said. And then he kissed me, which is a really great way to let someone know you’re interested. Then I got his number, and his NAME, which usually comes before the kiss, but who says there’s rules to these things?
George tapped me on the shoulder.
“Give me my damn keys, you trollop,” said George. “We’ll stay. But you owe me.”
I spent the night fawning over Preppy, right up until the lights came up at closing, which is always so disorienting and leaves everyone scrambling like blinded lab rats. I said goodnight, and found George outside, already sitting in the car with the engine running. He opened the window.
“I assumed you wouldn’t be home tonight,” he said.
“He offered, but I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow and stuff. I told him to call me. Now unlock the door.”
“Darling, really, you should go home with him. You’re so much easier to live with when you’ve gotten laid.”
I wavered.
“Well, it’s too late now. I already said goodnight.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” said George, who then threw the car in drive and peeled off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.
I ran back around to the front of the bar, where I found Preppy getting in his car. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and smiled.
“Change your mind?”
“My roommate ditched me because I turned you down.”
“Wow. I like your roommate. Come on, I’ll take you to your house.”
“No,” I said. “Your house is fine.”
George was right. This would be great. A good time to be had by all. Preppy was gainfully employed, funny, had his own place… this was very, very good.
Or, it would have been. A road band-aid was lying askew over the gaping maw that was once Monroe Drive. Preppy’s car managed to hit it just wrong, causing the tire to rip to shreds on impact. I’m pretty handy in these scenarios (pedestrians should always know simple auto repair or nobody will ever offer you a ride), so I broke out the spare and changed his tire.
But by the time everything was said and done, we were filthy, pissed, and exhausted. The moment just didn’t scream romance anymore. Fuck you, road band-aid.
So someone, I’m not sure exactly who, but I’m gonna Google it, should be held responsible. Mayor Shirley Franklin? The Pothole Posse? I’ll find out. And when I do, I expect some assistance. Because y’all made me miss out on potentially good sex here, and George will tell you: I’m gonna be impossible to live with until that changes.

April 04, 2007

The Domino Effect


My bank statement came in the mail the other day, so I sat down for the sobering ritual of re-living the last month through my impulse purchases. When my roommate got home, I had thoughts to share.
“George,” I said. “I don’t think I’m spending wisely.”
“Certainly not on your wardrobe,” George replied.

“For real. I think I’m putting at least three bartenders through night school. If I’d saved up all the money I’ve wasted buying cocktails for people who never talked to me again, I could have bought myself one hell of a male escort by now. At least he’d be a sure thing, and probably teach me some new stuff.”
“This is true.”
While I haven’t quite reached the point of engaging the services of a professional, I felt like I was getting a glimpse of what eventually leads people to make such decisions. You know the drill. You get all dressed up in your graphic tee and your nice-ass pants, carefully craft properly tousled hair, and head out to your bar of choice feelin’ all cute. You’ve got hopes. Not HIGH hopes, because you’re no fool. Just hopes. And you talk to the same people, or nobody at all, and you sip your drink while scanning the room looking a little too alert, like a wary Chihuahua. And as much as you claim you’re there because you like the music, or you just came for the show, YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE THERE. At some point you realize tonight won’t be your magic night, you go home, take off your cute little outfit, and go to bed convincing yourself that eventually something different will happen.
But then you have that same night a few dozen times, or maybe a few hundred, and you ask yourself, “What if something different isn’t going to happen? What if, for now, this is all I’ve got to work with?”
A few nights later, George came in from the gym and found me in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. He gave me a quizzical look.
“Slutty Mandy’s coming over,” I announced. “We’re gonna play dominoes and drink Chablis. You in?”
“But it’s Tuesday, darling. You haven’t missed a Tuesday at the bar in… well, ever.”
“Precisely,” I said. “I need something different to happen. Anything. Plus, I’m broke. So you wanna play or not?”
“You should know,” said George. “I’m frighteningly good at dominoes.”
Within a few hours, George proved this was true by handing Mandy and me our respective asses. We took our losses very well, most likely thanks to the Chablis.
“So,” said Mandy as we set up again. “Whatever happened to that boy you climbed a mountain with?”
“Abducted by aliens. Kidnapped and dumped in a desert. Something like that.”
“Is that why we’re hiding out tonight?” she asked. “Some guy stopped calling and you needed to lick your wounds?”
“No. It’s all of it. The perpetual cycle I’m on lately. It’s not just this one boy. I mean, they ALL pull the same shit. They ALL just stop calling. It’s only a matter of when.”
Sudddenly, I was mortified.
“Oh my God. Do I sound bitter?”
“Not bitter, darling, just experienced,” George explained. “You’re right. Things go along just fine, you think it’s safe to get a little interested, and then, POOF, they’re gone.”
“And if you run into them in public,” I continued. “It’s like y’all never went out in the first place. He’ll do that pleasant-but-chilly thing that bank tellers do. It’s Gay Dating Amnesia, it is a rampant crisis, and sweet Jesus, someone needs to find a cure.”
“There should be public service announcements,” said Mandy. “Neil Patrick Harris could do them. ‘Talk to your doctor about Gay Dating Amnesia. Together we can find a cure.’
“So what do we do?” I asked. “How do we change the outcome?”
“What else can you do, babe?” said Mandy, gesturing to the dominoes. “You take a break, get back in the game, and if luck’s on your side, you’re bound to win eventually. That’s how you’ll get a boyfriend, and how I’m about to kick George’s pansy ass at dominoes.”
Slutty Mandy said this with such authority, I couldn’t help but believe her.