“Welcome to the age of un-innocence. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead, we have breakfast at 7AM, and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.” -Carrie Bradshaw
Right. So, I’m leaning against the dishwasher with a glass of water in my hand thinking, Well fuck. I’m definitely drunk, but not drunk enough to make up my mind about what’s going on here, especially having received all of the attention I had from the night. “You’re really, really cute,” he says, still transfixed. “Thanks. So are you,” I tell him uncertainly. After about 10 seconds I realize that I have to be a big boy and make up my mind. But actually I don’t because The Writer lunges at me, pulls my leg up and starts kissing me ferociously against the clanking dishwasher door. This is fun for a minute, but the clanking door is really starting to irritate me, and as fun as it would be to recount having such a ferocious make out session that I destroyed a set of dishes, I thought better of it and shoved him to the counter on the other side. After another minute, I stopped and said, “Wait…I can’t have sex with you.” Why, oh why, did I say this? Well a few reasons. For one, I really didn’t want to have sex with him that night. Also, I’m just kind of a prude, so I tell him the undies are staying on. “That’s OK,” he replies reassuringly. Now, there are several clever responses around the undies that I probably would have caved to, (like I did the last time I slept with someone in New York,) but he only made direct attempts to de-clothe me. Besides, every time I’ve porked on a first date or first date-alternative, it’s gone horribly wrong. (One guy became a coke dealer and then told me he was going to defriend me on Facebook if I didn’t hook up with him again. Boy, do I know how to pick ’em!) Also, I’m new in town, and I don’t want to be branded as an easy piece of tail.
So what happens next? We moved to his bedroom, lights off, a little humping, grinding, and some surprisingly clean albeit aggressive kissing. I generally hate sloppy kissers, you know, the ones whose tongues are so unwieldy that they end up in your nostrils, and your face is completely dripping with slobber. But The Writer kissed in the complete opposite fashion–sparing tongue and almost no biting. Although he did ask me to bite him. Which made me laugh a little, but then I did. Now comes the embarrassing part, so I’ll remind you once more that I was drunk and also no lights had been turned on in house since we returned. “Want to know a secret?” I offered. “What?” he asked. “I’m wearing pink underwear.” God, I’m SO lame. Because it was super late we spooned each other to sleep, occasionally waking up here and there to get a little rowdy until the next morning when our phones start going off around 9. Who is it on my side, but Dan from the night before. “Where’d you go last night?” “It was so nice to meet you.” “You’re super adorable.” Gag! “Your friend is very persistent,” I tell The Writer of Dan. He laughs it off. The Writer and I spend literally the whole day in bed. I don’t check my phone again until 3:45 thinking, Holy shit. I’d missed several calls, I’m having a friend over for dinner in less than an hour, and I still have to go to the grocery store. Plus, I’m in serious need of a shower and a teeth-brushing. So with a quick embrace, I tell The Writer I have to go, then he rolls over and goes back to sleep. After my first grocery walk of shame followed by a successful dinner, I text him to say I had a great time. “Likewise.” He responds.
I spend the following afternoon alone watching the Grammys, marveled by Lady Gaga’s performance of her new record when I receive a message from The Writer. “Want to see a movie?” “Only if it’s Justin Bieber’s movie. Nothing turns me on like pre-pubescent pop stars,” I joke. “It’s a little late to go out to a movie. Why don’t you come over after the Grammys?” And we all know what that means…so I fully prepare myself in all the ways a gay can for sex then pick out an outfit that says cute but also slightly dark and sexy. But none of this seems to matter when I arrive at The Writer’s house. We end up watching TV instead of a movie and after four episodes, he still hasn’t so much as laid a finger on me. What gives, I’m thinking? Then he turns on Thank You Mr. President, a short documentary on HBO about Helen Thomas. Usually, I’d find this interesting, but held against the backdrop of what’s going on here, it’s like nails on a chalkboard. FINALLY, after 30 minutes more of total non-comprehension, The Writer starts stroking my arm. I roll over, and we spoon until Helen Thomas says her goodbyes, and then The Writer asks me if I’m going to spend the night. It’s 1:30AM on a Sunday, and you asked me to come over “to watch a movie.” Yes, I’m sleeping over. I want to tell him but don’t. Well, not the first part. So then we talk. We talk for two hours about writing, his writing, my writing, what I want to do, what he wants to do, what inspires us, and I think nice, he’s interested; we’re connecting. As 3:30 rolls around, we decide to go to sleep. We spoon again, but after only a minute he rolls over and says, “I can only sleep on my back.” Confused by this, I try and manage to fall asleep despite the room being a little chilly, The Writer’s abruptness making it that much colder.
The Writer wakes me around 9 the next morning. “I better get up,” he tells me as if to say to ‘get out.’ I sit up disoriented for a moment or two, even more perplexed than when I fell asleep. It’s February 14th. He doesn’t call again.