diary

Saturday, November 9th, 2013 (Part 2)

Kyle and I cabbed it out to his place in Brooklyn, stopping by his neighborhood bodega for some snacks. For some reason, during the cab ride home, we’d become obsessed with the idea of getting Pringles. (I know, who doesn’t love Pringles? But then again, it’s not exactly the first drunk snack that comes to mind. Usually I go for something like a bacon, egg and cheese all pressed between the buns of a crispy bagel and oozing out or a burrito over-stuffed to bursting with chicken and sour cream and rice.)

Drunk and loopy on tiredness, I’m sure it was a sight seeing us order our Pringles. The bodega itself was closed, but they had a guy in there running things through a little order-out-window. We got just about every variety of Pringle they had…which was really only two — BBQ and Jalapeno. (If you’ve never had Jalapeno, go out and try it immediately! It was the best thing ever on a drunk tongue. It’s flavor scorched right through the boozy coating on my tongue left there after five hours of drinking and about eight whiskey-cokes.)

After getting our two cans of Pringles, we made our way to Kyle’s place. We sat there in his living room for about another hour, chatting comfortably and eating our Pringles. Not a single one was left by the time we made it to his bedroom.

We started hooking up, but then I fell asleep. My tiredness had finally gotten to me.And really, it was probably for the best.

When I woke up this morning, we hooked up and had a nice, casual goodbye. There was no running out of there at the sun’s rise, no pressure to feel like I was overstaying my welcome. It was comfortable. We chatted like usual.

It was nice having someone like that to just sit in bed with on a Saturday morning and shoot the breeze, like we used to do on weekend mornings when we didn’t have plans. There’s a comfort in it, in sharing a morning with someone special, even if you’re only friends. I certainly enjoyed it. It was the perfect kind of morning, bright skies outside, the light streaming through Kyle’s curtains just so, lounging comfortably in bed.

Eventually Kyle had some sort of dip brunch to get to. So I left him and walked towards the train, stopping at Chipotle on my way, getting that over-stuffed burrito that I usually want as a late night, drunken snack.

It was delicious, sitting there in Brooklyn, watching the bright street outside of the Chipotle as I thought back on the night I’d had, knowing, somehow, that things wouldn’t be weird with Kyle afterwards. Not like they were with Mitchell F.

I guess I’m making my way through friends of friends. Probably not the best strategy, but Jeremy doesn’t care. He would encourage it, I think. There’s a sense of security in it. A friend of mine is also your friend…that means he vouches for you; I know that you’re not loony. And maybe that’s exactly what I need for my rebound hook-ups, someone I can trust, someone I can be comfortable with, even if only a little bit.

Wednesday, October 23rd, 2013

Ever since you broke up with me I’ve felt super down about my prospects. At least in the male department. You’re with someone for a year and a half and you think things are going well and you get comfortable with the idea of dating just one person, of being with him for the rest of your life.

This wasn’t how I felt at first. I certainly wasn’t looking for a future husband when I met you. I was only twenty-five at the time. I had come out late and dated two boys seriously. I had only been single and living in New York City for like eight months when we went on our first date. That hadn’t left me with much time to experience all that I wanted to of dating and sex. I was like a kid who loved Baskin-Robbins but had only gotten to try eight of the thirty-one possible flavors. Did I really want to settle for having chocolate chip cookie dough the rest of my life when I still hadn’t gotten a chance to try rum raisin or jamocha or chocolate fudge or pistachio?

I didn’t really start thinking about this until we got to month three or four of us dating. That’s when things started to get serious. That’s around the time you said that you loved me.

Boys always fall fast for me. I don’t know why. Of the two I’ve loved in my life so far, the first said he loved me casually over the phone after we’d been dating for two months, and you said you loved me after about three months of dating.

Or rather, you hinted at it.

You were wasted that night as we crawled into your bed at like four in the morning. We’d been out drinking all night, but I was more sober than you. As we laid in bed, you were mumbling drunkenly to me. You told me that you had something you wanted to tell me, but that you thought it might be too soon. I could read between those words and knew exactly what you wanted to say. But it really was too early in our relationship. At least that’s what I thought. And drunk at 4AM was not the time or state of mind to be in to tell someone you loved them for the first time. So I persuaded you that you shouldn’t say anything just yet. And you listened, thankfully, though it was a struggle to get you to sleep after.

Even though you didn’t actually say the words, I knew that you loved me and it made me start to think about whether I loved you or not. I did.

I don’t know if you even remember that night. Or if I ever told you about it after. It doesn’t really matter. A few weeks later we exchanged the actual words and that was that. Being in love didn’t mean that we were going to get married. After dating you for three months I wasn’t exactly ready to commit to you for life. But the longer we dated, the more real that possibility became. Eventually love sets in and you forget about all the potential men out there who you haven’t met yet and haven’t gotten a chance to experience…and never will because you’ve decided to settle down with someone. And as much as that idea scares you, there’s also a comfort in it – not having to go back into that terribly flaky world of New York City dating, having someone you care deeply about to spend your free nights and weekends with, no longer having to worry about the awfulness that will be single life at forty.

But then just as you’ve gotten comfortable with the idea of settling down, your dreams of an amazing one-bedroom apartment and beautiful wedding ceremony come crashing down over your head and you’re thrust back into the single world, forced to recalibrate your senses, made to start from scratch. And it only gets harder as you get older.

It’s been a hard couple of months for me. Trying to get over you has not been easy. Moving on and finding someone else to date has seemed like an insurmountable task. Being single is a lot harder than I remember. Going up to strangers at bars and trying to make conversations, having the confidence in your gaydar when you’re not at a particularly gay spot to go up to and hit on someone you find attractive, putting yourself out there every time you go out…it’s exhausting. And so rarely pays off.

This is all to say that I feel hopeful for the first time since you broke up with me. I’m optimistic and excited about a couple of guys. Not that that means very much. Nothing’s happened with either of them. Nor do I have any signs that anything will. It’s just exciting to have guys to be excited about.

First, there’s Andy. He’s the friend of a friend who I hooked up with when I was dating my second boyfriend. Back then he lived in Chicago and was only in town visiting. But since, he’s moved here to the City. I have never seen him out, but on Friday night, there he was at Phoenix Bar. Luckily, I was just drunk enough to have the courage to talk to him. And then to text him later in the night after he’d left the bar. I want to ask him out. We’ll see what he says.

The second boy I’m excited about seeing is David, my friend Amber’s friend who I met when I was at her house for Sukkot. I haven’t spoken to him or seen him in weeks. Since Amber’s party, in fact. But Amber’s hosting a Halloween party this weekend and David is going to be there. It’s my chance to talk to him again. Maybe to make a move. Who knows?

Neither of these guys are concrete things, but it’s the excitement of the potential that’s giving me life this week. It’s the first time I’ve really felt this way since we ended. Hopefully this optimism is here to stay.

Sunday, September 29th, 2013 (Part 2)

Sugarland has this crazy atmosphere of grunge and lights. It’s kind of a mix between bar and club. They have a fun dance floor and that’s where we went after getting our first round of drinks. A drag queen was just finishing up her show, killing it as she sang along to Whitney Houston.

The bar was dark. And foggy. I could hardly see anyone’s face. Which made it hard to find and pick a decent guy to hit on. (You know how picky I am.) You were still the last guy I’d kissed, and I think I went into the night hoping for a nice dance floor make-out. I definitely didn’t have plans on bringing anyone home with me. I had a “no-one-night-stands” resolution.

However, thinking and doing are completely different things.

At one point in the later part of the evening, Mitchell C headed to the bathroom, leaving Mitchell F and I dancing alone. One thing led to another as we closed the distance between us, our bodies touching now, our faces inches apart. I remember feeling in control in that moment, thinking that I had the power to let the night continue at its normal pace or send it careening in an entirely new direction. With whiskey on my breath and coursing through my bloodstream, I hazarded toward the exciting, unknown path and closed the distance between our lips.

It was somewhat sloppy, making out with Mitchell F. I was drunk. He was drunk. We were dancing in a gay bar in Brooklyn at 3AM. Could I really expect more? It wasn’t you I was kissing. Even at our drunkest, we didn’t have sloppy kisses. But Mitchell F was a good substitute. A good first after you kiss.

Then Mitchell C reappeared and swiftly broke us up. I’m not sure why he was so against it. I guess two friends making out can be hard to handle, especially when you’re stranded in Brooklyn and don’t want to be a third wheel.

We ended up staying at Sugarland for another thirty minutes and then decided to head home to Manhattan.

That’s not where the night’s story ends, though.

As you can probably guess, the L train was not an option, at least not for three drunk guys at 3:30AM. We weren’t about to wait nineteen minutes for it to take us all of three stops. So we climbed out of the subway station and took a cab instead, deciding to get out at Union Square where we could get trains home. We all lived in different places – Mitchell C on the West Side, Mitchell F in Astoria and me on the East Side. Mitchell C was drunker than I thought and actually threw up out the cab window as we drove. He managed to keep it all outside of the cab, so props to him.

When we got out at Union Square, Mitchell C headed toward the 1 train. Mitchell F said he was going to take the 6 and then transfer at 59th to get a train to Astoria. And this is how I really knew Mitchell C was drunk. The train to Astoria runs through Union Square. While the 6 train was what I needed to take to get home. I knew what was happening, but Mitchell C didn’t seem to have a clue as he said good night and left us to go find his 1 train. Mitchell F followed me down to the 6 train and we confirmed he was coming back to my apartment.

We had six minutes to wait for the next train, six minutes in which we stood there on the subway platform at Union Square and made out like one of those obnoxious PDA couples. Mitchell F kept grabbing my ass and sliding his fingers under my shirt. I think I must have been less drunk than him because I felt uncomfortable with all the PDA, like everyone else on the platform was watching and judging us. Not that there were that many other people on the platform at 4AM. But in the moment, I wanted to have sex with him (I think I thought it would help me with getting over you), so I went along with it. When the train came, we hopped on and made our way up to my apartment. Luckily we got seats, so the PDA was minimized on the ride.

But even when we got off the train and had a ten-minute walk to my apartment, Mitchell F couldn’t keep his hands off me. He kept stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk to push me against whatever building, fence or gate was nearby so he could make-out with me some more. I had to pee like no other, and I kept trying to get him to continue moving. We were already so close.

Finally we did make it to my apartment and I did get to pee. Then, I had sex with my first guy since you.

It wasn’t bad sex. But it wasn’t great sex, either. A nice neutral five or six. I’m not really a fan of drunken sex. Most of the neutrality I think was my fault. I’ve topped you for the last year and a half, so to get back to bottoming was uncomfortable. My legs aren’t limber; I can’t bend them up to my head. My ass was about as tight as tight could be. (Mitchell F didn’t seem to mind this, though.) And my endurance was not so great.

But I managed to remember how to bottom. Though I don’t have any moves to speak of. And I didn’t last very long. I’m sure Mitchell F was disappointed. But that’s life. Especially when I’ve been having sex with you for so long. I know what you like. And there was passion in our sex. Not just lust or carnality or whatever you want to call it. Sex when it’s meaningful is so much better.

We finished up around five and headed to bed. I was super exhausted and couldn’t wait to fall asleep. But I didn’t sleep well at all. I kept waking up throughout the night. Mitchell F had the bad habit of sleeping in the middle of the bed (you know how I like having my own side, how I have trouble falling asleep if someone’s touching me), forcing me to curl up into a cramped third of my full-size mattress. Not comfortable. And it was hot and I kept having to get out of bed to go and pee.

Then when I did finally get to sleep, I dreamed of you. And it made me not want to wake up. I dreamed we were waiting together at a bus stop, one of those dusty, middle of nowhere ones out west. And you were making out with me just like Mitchell F and I had been doing earlier that night. We weren’t getting back together or anything; we made that perfectly clear in our dream dialogue. We were enjoying ourselves, enjoying the loving and familiar touch of each other. We were waiting for the bus to come so we could go back to your place to fuck.

The bus never came, though. We never got on. We never had sex. But we made out at that station for a while, feeling each other’s muscles, probing beneath our shirts and pants. There was a frenzied passion to it and I tried to stay emerged in my dream. I wanted to hold onto you in that sexual moment for as long as I could.

And then I woke up. Missing you while I had another guy still asleep in my bed.

Mitchell F left around ten that morning. It was a fun enough night, but I was happy to see him go. I’ve been kicking myself all day that I didn’t stick to my “no-one-night-stand” resolution. And not because I’m upset that I had sex with Mitchell F or that it wasn’t amazing sex. I’m upset that I can’t keep promises I make to myself. I’ve really got to work on that. And despite physically moving on to someone else, I’m more wrapped up with your memory than before.

I’ve now had sex with nine guys total in my life. That’s penetrative sex. I’m not counting blow jobs or hand jobs or anything in this number. For the longest time I thought I’d be stuck at eight. But now I’m realizing that I am going to get into double digits, after all.