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.
“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.
