The Bare Essentials

March 21, 2011

“Carving is easy, you just go down to the skin and stop.” -Michelangelo

My self-esteem in shards, I crawl my way through the first two days of the work week feeling extremely insecure — not myself. I decide the only thing that is going to make me feel better is not intimacy, but rather a rough lay…something I haven’t had in quite some time. Due to the tragic and mildly psychotic circumstances surrounding the parting of ways with the last boy I had sex with, I’ve been more or less celibate for about six months. (Perhaps I should have more carefully considered this before diving headfirst into that five-sum, but I digress.) Tuesday night, I text Dan from the Log Cabin Republican fundraiser. (It is my understanding that Dan is not a Log Cabin Republican himself, just friends with some. I’m all about socially responsible fornicating.) I’m upfront with myself in knowing that I think he’s a little creepy, and I have a not-so-sneaking suspicion that I am not and will never be in any way emotionally attracted to him. But that’s exactly what I want, so I ask: “Want to get dinner tomorrow?” “Sure,” he replies just seconds after my message sends. Red flag. Or is it? “Cool,” I respond. “I’ll cook. Come over at eight.”

The following night, I rush home and prepare the same meal I made for my dinner party the prior week. The same meal that I attempted and failed to lure The Writer with. Only this time, I make sure to overcook the chicken. I hear food poisoning kind of ruins sex, meaningless or not. If I weren’t busy cooking while simultaneously trying to make my apartment appear as though it housed a resident more mature than I, I probably would be taking the time to ponder the consequences of using someone strictly for sex. But I’m not. Besides, I would be feeding him first, so there’s that. When Dan arrives, I offer him a drink and he only wants white wine. We delve into a conversation that is so forgettable that I’m not sure I could tell you one thing about Dan, save his physical appearance. After dinner I give him the “grand tour” of my apartment, which comes to an end at the gift shop (a.k.a. my bed). We sit down and he goes on and on in an inane pronoun-fueled blur, and all I’m thinking is, seriously? What the hell are you waiting for? Tear my clothes off. How long can one person talk about absolutely nothing? Dan must see the drowsiness fill my eyes because he finally moves in for a kiss, which is a little too sweet, so I shove him on his back and climb on top. His over-eagerness once more shines through with his creepy sex stare, which he used on me when we first met, although I suppose it is warranted this time. Not that I care much. And that not caring is what makes this sex SO good. I don’t have much regard for what Dan wants to do or even if he thinks I’m good. I’m just enjoying the ride.

It’s one thing to get drunk, pick someone up, and have a one night stand, but inviting Dan into my apartment for the distinct purpose of screwing him isn’t something I’ve actually done prior to this evening. And I feel a little iffy about it. But also wildly empowered. It’s much easier to let your guard down and get wild around someone who I know can’t penetrate me…emotionally. As it turns out, carving is a lot like meaningless sex. Thanks Michelangelo. After a quick shower, we split a red velvet cupcake from Crumbs and chat. I keep the conversation personable but shallow enough to keep him out then send him home.

Welcome to the Gayborhood

March 12, 2011

“You are going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, funniest, brightest men. You’re going to meet so many of them, fall in love with so many of them, you won’t know until the end of your life which ones were your greatest lovers and which were your greatest friends.” -Harvey Milk

So there’s this boy…let’s call him The Writer.

It’s Friday night, and we’ve made tentative plans. Having not heard from The Writer, I accept an invitation from a gay couple I recently met, who are having some people over. As not to be rude, I had previously informed my hosts that I might have to leave to go to a party with The Writer. They’ve been friends with him for years, and the hosts tell me that he’s a fun guy. “You should definitely go,” they say before informing me that I am “totally his type.” When I press for more info, they give me an ominous “you’ll see.” However, the conversation does reveal that The Writer is more like 30 than 25, my original assumption. The other guests arrive, and it’s always a little awkward trying to find my footing in a previously established social group. Now, I’m hoping The Writer will call and sweep me away. I linger for about an hour trying to muster up enthusiasm to answer all of those obligatory questions that you ask someone you don’t know anything about like doctors going down an examination checklist. Finally, The Writer texts me and tells me to meet him at his house. This makes me a little nervous but mostly relieved: I have a good excuse to leave and don’t have to drive (or more importantly park) in some alien neighborhood AND I can potentially drink. But I’m also forfeiting control of my night–to someone I’ve only met once.*

Fastforward about an hour, and I’m riding shotgun in The Writer’s car while his friend, who confusingly shares the same first name, sits in the back seat. We quickly park on a quiet street in West Hollywood and make our way into not a house party as I had supposed, but a fundraising party for a gay city council candidate. Alright, I can do that.

Upon entering the party, I’m immediately separated from The Writer and left to be conversation partners with his very drunk Namesake and a woman, who calls herself Contessa. Now, I have to take a moment to share a little about Contessa because despite all of the intricate moments seeded throughout this night that come back into play later, she is far and away the craziest part of this story. Firstly, Contessa speaks of herself only in the third person and informs us that despite being both of British nobility AND an oil heiress, she has no family and thus, considers the gays her kin. She also tries to recruit Namesake and I to protest at City Hall. For what, you might ask? We did too, not that we got a coherent answer. Looking around, I don’t see The Writer anywhere and while Contessa with her pre-pubescent pink lip gloss and poorly dyed, choppy black bangs is wildly entertaining, I’m growing weary of once again not knowing anyone.

Luckily the host, (let’s call him Dan because when I first see him, he reminds me of a ritzier version of Dan from Gossip Girl…not that I watch,) introduces himself and offers Contessa a drink. She denies the drink because a) she is clearly high as fuck on painkillers and/or benzos and b) has to drive home despite living merely two blocks away. “Dan” proves to be a useful getaway mechanism, and I quickly excuse myself to bathroom.

Upon my return, I make a greater effort to socialize, this time with Dan and a man claiming to be in his early 40s but realistically is pushing 60 (despite some permanent cosmetics.) As this guys rambles on, I notice every time I look at Dan, he’s already looking staring at me. No, not staring. Full on piercing sex gaze. I shutter. Finally, The Writer returns to my side for some support. “You having fun?” I nod unenthusiastically, but the older man carries on, recounting how he and Dan met on an airplane in first class and how Dan’s ex, who coincidentally was in coach on the same flight, tried to come up and talk to them for the duration of the flight. (If I were the ex, I’d probably have just busted the emergency exit window and sucked myself through. Or drank excessively. Either one really.)

At this point, Dan has excused himself from the conversation to tend to Contessa’s shrieking, so The Writer takes the opportunity to inform me: “you’re totally Dan’s type.” WTF and “No shit” are my respective mental and verbal responses. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ever stare at me that intensely,” I say. The older man then starts sharing stories about his position as a Greek life supervisor and alludes to frequent lewd acts with his frat boys. “The things you don’t know about in Greek life. Let’s just say I keep the old Greco traditions alive,” he says. Yeah, emphasis on old. I’m mildly appalled by this, but not nearly as appalled by what comes next; the man unceremoniously announces that he is a Log Cabin Republican. The room slows around me. I look at The Writer as if to very seriously say, “shut the fuck up.” Read the rest of this entry »

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