aspiciat

a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Archive for the month “April, 2012”

The date with Desperado gives us a “How Not to have a blind date”

  • Don’t start dates by explaining you haven’t had a bowel movement.
  • Don’t persist in describing what you want to do about your constipation as date continues
  • Don’t talk about how much you hate your ex gf
    • Or that she left you because you’re so great in bed
  • Don’t talk about how great you are at your job that you hate
    • And how you’re fucking them over
      • Especially because you know I’m busting ass to find a job
  • Don’t tell me you think fat girls can be pretty, too, really
    • As I’m eating
  • Don’t talk about your mother as though she was approaching beatification
    • I don’t want to think about you thinking about your mother
  • Don’t tell me that lives lost to dehydration or otherwise bad partying at an all-day rave are “collateral” to making money for the city
    • When death equals money to you, I don’t feel sexy.
  • Don’t say that you took social science classes because they “boosted” your GPA at UCLA and then say how you barely graduated
    • As a social science/arts and letters double interdisciplinary major and summa cum laude graduate of said institution, not only can my GPA eat yours alive, bitch, but I can think my way out of a paper bag
      • You, plainly, have no idea what the fuck a single self-generated thought might be
  • Don’t tell me that cute girls with big cans are the reason you play beach volleyball
    • I’m a cool chick and all, but let me, at the very least, pretend you’re not objectifying me from the get go
  • Don’t intimate that you want to have sex with me by smashing your fist into your palm
    • Really?  Really?  That’s supposed to make me slick and want you now now now?
  • Don’t gainsay me when I say, no, thanks, I’m going to go home this other way, and not via the street that takes me past your apartment
    • No means no, you fucking idiot.  And yes, I have pepper spray

Your ass should be able to cash those cheques your mouth is signing

The present installment from the DateChron brings the following lesson:

If you don’t have a ten-inch cock?
Don’t say you do.*

Among the first wave of the meat sniffers, this one seemed pretty groovy cool.   Immediately picked up that I mentioned kink in my profile, astute enough to realize I said I couldn’t live without my glasses though I don’t wear them in my pics, we start to exchange messages.  We quickly move on to instant messaging where we chat about things kinky, dark and sexy.

His talk is tall.  Likes torturing girls he’s got tied.  Sure, yah, he’ll be happy to fuck my shit up.    Also, things like: if you were here now, this is the kind of thing I’d do to you/how I would make you suffer.  This kind of chat makes me hot and slurpy.   We (by which I mean Ipso and Izzo and I) nickname him The Marquis, for obvious reasons.

Oh, you like red wine, I’ll get you some, come on Saturday, we’ll have dinner.  Then I’ll fuck you up and fuck you.  Saturday it is.

Getting to his side of the world is a bit of an event, I’ve never been to the valley.  I take the Red Line to the end and do the recky to find the restaurant at which we’re meeting.  There’s a Starbucks down the way, and I camp out there.

Let me go back a little bit.

I’ve camped at Starbucks (the one by me) nearly all day.  I left G’s before he got up so I could leave him alone on a weekend day.  I fucked up my glasses outside of the pharmacy, they  had slipped out of my bag and I managed to step backwards onto them as I looked for them and bent them.  I twist the frame a back into a shape I can see until I get to an optical shop.

Six hours I burn at Starbucks, eating only a few bits of dried meat and fruit because I can’t afford much today or tomorrow.  I had enough to pay for my entree tonight, and not much more, really.  But something is going way wonky with me.

I’m confused and shaky.  I’m hot and cold.  I drink water, but it’s not right or enough or??  I’m addled.   I leave in time to make it to an optical place on Lankershim before they close,  but that puts me in NoHo like 2 hours before dinner.  Then I sit at Starbucks and sign on, like I do.

And the Marquis is asking how things are, how I am and I don’t lie, I don’t feel well.  And he is weird, not his usual dark and bemused tone.  At one point he responds to something I typed with

“*swats your nose.*”

I suddenly feel  really sick.

“I’m not a puppy.”

I do not mind puppies, but I am not one.  Considering  the week of sizzly chat, he describing his veritably insatiable sadism, me detailing the extents to which I ‘ve gone — I would have set his head on fire with the glare I leveled at the screen of my netbook.

“Aww, come on, don’t you want learn how to fetch and be petted?”

“No.”  I was ready to call off the night, but there were a couple of problems with that. 1. G expected me to be out as late as the trains were going, if not later.  2. I was super hungry and kind of bonky and if I said no now, I’d be kind of a douche, and also I don’t know where I am very well, and I really really needed to eat something and maybe I’m just too fuzzy headed and have come to some assumption about his desire for a puppy altogether too brazenly.  I hope.

It was half an hour before we were going to meet up at an Indian restaurant.  I wanted to kiss my date from last night instead of meeting not-Marquis.  I wanted to walk back to Mid-Wilshire instead of making it through dinner.  I wanted to suck on an orange or something to fix my wonky glucose levels.   I slip into the washroom at the starbucks and put on mascara and lipstick, take off a t-shirt that was over a tank top, freshen up as best I can having been out all day and I step outside to have a cig before I walk over to the restaurant.  He txts me, with a kind of insistent edge, asking where I was.  “Outside starbucks across the street smoking”  He says he got us a table.  I’m impressed that the place is hopping at this hour– it is not yet 4p.m.  Good sign, right?  I make my way towards the place, and when I get there I easily pick him out.  Of the no one else there, he’s pretty easy to spot.  (I saw him first.)  I am struck that he is wearing a shirt buttoned all the way up with a thick cardigan (also buttoned.)  I know it’s January, but it’s 70f outside.  What’s with the bundled up?

I’m still in a tank top and baggy & paper thin pants.   My clothes are starting to sag on me, after three weeks of walking.

The waiter asks if I want a drink.   I want water, so badly.  I ask for a mango lassi with dinner, hoping that sugar will ameliorate how fucked up I feel.  The Marquis chats.  And the more he chats, the more he admits.  I have three bites of chicken and no rice and I drink the lassi and my head is on more securely but the body is pissed at me.

Which ultimately made an easy exit for this date.   Because I know I don’t look well.

So, as he’s confessing, he gives away more and more that he doesn’t really like s&m, he wants to hold hands and do laundry together and pack picnics on saturdays.  This doesn’t make me want to spend much more time with him.  Not because I’m inherently squicked by ‘nillas (which is somewhat, but not always, the case), but because of the faking thing.

We change his name to Milquis.

Because sometime in the course of the evening, you’re going to have to show it off, and, fucker, if it’s not the whole ten inches you said it was, it will be only too fucking obvious that you don’t know how to count, which makes you stupid; you’re a liar, and thus an asshole; or you think I’m stupid whore.

And, despite reports to the contrary, I’m not a stupid whore.

*credit to G for this analogy

About two visits from Sweetbest in February and Fucking with the Future

Sweetbest (who thinks her nickname makes her sound like a pastry, but I don’t) comes to visit a few weeks after I’ve moved in to my place.

She and I walk to the coffee shop a half mile away, and we talk about things and stuff.  I babble on incessantly about the boymen I’ve been seeing.  I show her the pics they send me of their penises, and the text messages we’ve exchanged.  We talk about how she is, what’s she’s doing, her life in Europe, things & stuff (I’ll leave it to her to explicate this); I explain how I’ve discovered I want to go to med school, and I want to enter a post baccalaureate- pre med certificate program to pick up the science courses I didn’t take/need in university, how I love math, how I want to do research, not clinical practice.  I prattle on, like I do, about how reading med lit is like reading a language I didn’t know I already knew.
She says,

“Babe, you’ve got to do this.  You’re lit up like a christmas tree.”
Her words are the kiss of a blessing.

She and I wander down Fairfax to make a long loop back to my place.  We stop in a thrift store which is dusty and crowded and expensive,  and we continue down the street,  she puts her hand at my bent elbow.  She walks with a kind of ease, sun-kissed and bright, we giggle about the memories of baths together.  It’s delightful.  There’s only a couch in my apartment and a few things Tomastio gave me: plates and a pair of tumblers, some spoons (the forks I have are plastic).  I have cans of things, and G’s can opener, and a $3 corkscrew.   In my apartment, she looks at my back room, noting that all the  clothes are in piles, organized by when I might wear them.

 “So you need hangers?”
“I guess, yeah, I’ll get around to it.”

I’m more concerned about finding a job than whether the doorknobs won’t do for my suitcoat.  She has to leave too soon, and it’s hard to say good bye.  I hadn’t seen her since January 10th, we had dinner with Uncle Abduction.  This was two weeks after Valentines day.  Too long.  Would it be another six weeks before I saw her?  Of all the things of which I might be afraid, I worry most that she’ll forget about me.

But it’s not going to happen.  She has memento from our life before.  A pot I made poorly in ceramics in grade 11, scribbles I made on the backs of offering envelopes, a sunflower dish for which I likely saved for a month to get her from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  (Mallorca kind of sunflower plate, I think.)  She has castaways and trash and calls them treasure and reliquaries.

Sweetbest hadn’t forgotten me, at any point.  She took keepsake of mine with her even when she lived in other countries.

She is a bit like a bird, keeping things about her that make up her nest.   The sight of her memoirs is her comfort.  And then she wraps her buffalo exchange-found shawl over her shoulders and draws her arms to encircle herself,  breathing in through her nose to catch a bit of the jasmine on the air.

I am more serpentine: I shed everything now and then.   I get rid of my clothes and my hair, I find myself with nowhere to live.  I grow a bit taller.  I have seemingly no burden.  A backpack and only the clothes that fit in this carpet bag.  I have good shoes that will last a while, and we’ll see what happens.   The jasmine on the air only heightens my awareness of everything else I can sense.

But we are not in and of ourselves bird and snake.  We are more than this.  She says she’ll be back at the weekend.  She comes back, she really does, and she brings a lamp and a card table, a plastic filing/bin thing, silverware, wine glasses, plates with imagery from France , plates she’s had for ten years, coffee mugs that mean things to her, towels, a heated blanket (!) and the most beautiful comforter cover I’ve ever seen, with a thick down quilt to be covered.  She brings me stacks of hangers, she brings me candles galore, a pair of folding chairs.  A table cloth and napkins (and napkin rings).  She brings me groceries.

And she laments I have no pot in which we can make soup.  She tells me three times (maybe more?):

The tupperware is for the soup.

Make the soup in the tupperware.

Use the tupperware, put the soup in that, here’s how I do the soup from these ingredients.

I was so confused by her insistence on the damned tupperware.   I nod when she says it, and I agree with words or something when I realize she’s insisting.  OK. OK.  Tupperware, soup, roger.

She leaves me a book she’s recently read, that she has told me is so beautiful and it seems so parallel to me starting over here.   It is late at night, that same night, when I pick up the book, because I can’t sleep and I don’t feel like anything else.

It’s Patti Smith’s Just Kids.  The memoir she wrote of her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe.  I devour the first hundred pages.

But I at page 42 I cry.  I cry the long distance between Sweetbest and me.  I cry the too many years since I’ve had her in my life.  I cry for not knowing when I get to be near her again.

“I worked long hours at Brentano’s and skipped lunches.  I befriended another employee, named Frances Finley.  She was delightfully eccentric and discreet.  Discerning my plight, she would leave me Tupperware containers of homemade soup on the table of the employee cloakroom.  This small gesture fortified me and sealed a lasting friendship.”

(Smith, Just Kids p.42)

I don’t want to give away the rest of what I know of the story, but it is totally Sweetbest to assign herself a role in the corps de ballet when she’s the Prima Ballerina.

We are to each other, really Mapplethorpe and Smith.

I txt her immediately.

“I got to the page with the soup.  You are the sunset.”

I send this the next day:

 “She has a song that says, ‘I don’t fuck much with the past but I fuck plenty with the future.’  Let’s do it, Babe.  Let’s fuck plenty with the future.”

And I am confident this will be the case.

I fuck plenty with the future.

Not entirely about the exemplar: The Challenge

So, before, I said this:

“….And zomg every fucking guy I chat with/message with/email with?  They all want the SAME THING I DO.  It’s incredible.  How in the ever loving fuck does that happen?”

Well, see, you silly Eighth Letter, it fucking doesn’t.  These people do not exist.

They say they do.

I think they could also sell sand to a nomad.

I keep what we have dubbed “The DateChronicle” (DateChron).  (Which is, rather obviously, a journalish catalogue of the dates on which I’ve gone.)  As is my particular bend, I’ve nicknamed them all.  Not that I expect any of them would read this blog, or if they had, that they would get this far into it.

Which brings me round to what I’ve figured out from all of them:

Don’t expect anything.

Not even insofar as that they can tell the truth about how they’re doing.  Because for some reason that’s a guarded secret.  For whatever the cause, I have yet to go on a date with someone who could be bothered telling the truth.

(Well,  maybe one, but that one doesn’t count yet.  I’m wait and see on that one.  I don’t know where he goes in all of this.)

The Soapmastress says to me time and again that she doesn’t think I should pursue a relationship at this point.  I tell her I’m not doing relationship.  I’m fucking.  She says she doesn’t think I ought to be doing that either.  But while I’m appreciative of her POV, I am not holding audtions for anyone to be the next person to tell me how to live.  Even the Moth got this the afternoon she suggested I clean my apartment in a particular order.

“No, thanks, that’s not how I want to do it, and since I’m the one living here, I’ll probably just do it my way.”

She laughed.  She’s good at that.

“Yes.  You’re right.”

When I had told the Moth that I wasn’t leaving L.A., after a day or two,

she said
she had high hopes I find someone who could show me how special I was, who wouldn’t hurt me.
I said
I am already with that person.
She said
What? Who?
I said
Myself, Moth.  I don’t need anyone else to convince me I’m special.  I’m with the person who is best to me. 

So, right, the members of the DateChron, all of whom came from messages they sent to me on OKC.   The original Chron counts 38 entries.   A few of these I did not meet, but they made the register simply because of the logic-boggling of their overtures.   And all but one has a nickname.  The one who doesn’t is marked “Gets no nick.”  Admittedly, he stood me up on a night I was too tired to go out anyway, but I made my way to a stop, because he was nice enough to ask me out.  (Admittedly (again), I (maybe kind of mostly just highly suggested) sort of dared him.)   The cancellation txt he sent ten minutes before we were to meet tipped me past tired into annoyed and exhausted.   I fully accept that he isn’t an awful person.  I just was tired and he lost and I never wrote him back.

Anyway, and I’m speaking rather broadly, I know this, the Chronicled are only too happy to tell me they’re into honesty and communication, how advanced they are at listening and how deep they are in friends—both men and women, you know – and, goddamn if they don’t all (to a man) tell me I’m crazy sexy and beautiful and oh, god, that kinky thing is so hot and I totally understand what you mean about being friends and friendly with people that you fuck.  I mean, that’s so refreshing, that’s so awesome.

Let us take this example:  this one goes so far to look at me– after I’ve announced how I feel about something to do with something kinkysexy, (whatever it was escapes me now, but it seems like it must have been a pretty unusual POV); his beautiful puffy mouth slightly agape, one hand at his flat belly, near his buckle, and he says, “I’m flummoxed.  Are you for real?”  And he smiles wide and kisses me and bites my lips when he does.  I assure him I have no need to fake anything, (because I don’t), I’m laughing and feeling a bit curly about the biting.

But then I don’t hear from him at all.  At fucking all.  Despite him making plans to come over the following Friday so I can prove to him I can cook.  Despite his toothy grins and telling me how much I rocked.  Despite all of that, it was just bullshit.   And goddammit, I liked him past the biting, his mouth, the lovely voice.  I wanted to listen to him talk about shit and things, (he had some appreciation of the 16th and 17th Centuries, even.  Bonus.) He was at least as smart as I am, and I don’t really give many people that kind of merit.   But after a few days it becomes abundantly clear that he wasn’t at all honest about friendliness and seeing me again.  He’s made it only obvious that he wanted to fuck, and as we had no venue, (I was still at G’s, he had housemates), he was off the map.  I changed his nick.

[there’s a tbc on that story, but I’m saving it for down the road aways.]

The issue isn’t that he just wanted a fuck.  (By which I mean more than him. I mean all of them.)  I don’t care about that.  The issue is the pretense of even bothering to say he’d see me again.  If you aren’t, fucking just say.   I’d rather that, really, than thinking I’ve invested a ton of time in giving a shit about anything.   When I ask someone about seeing me/he again, I’m not holding out hope that we’ll live together one day.

I don’t want you to move in with me.  I don’t want to move in with you.   This is my place.

However, I’m openly curious if I should bother keeping space on the calendar at some point.

Because I’m honest.  Uselessly.

Fresh Meat

For a few reasons, one of which may be best described as “whiskeybrain,” I join OKCupid.  Yeah, the dating site.  Some of this has to do with having to get the fuck out of G’s and Mastio’s places.  I’m staying with one or the other of them for the two weeks until my apartment is move-in-able.  I also sign up for Meetup things in which I may or may not be interested, but I surf and peek and shit like that.

So, OKCupid (heretofore OKC).

I am kind of an idiot about things.  Maybe it’s some naivete, maybe.  But I write my profile figuring that it will likely get as much traffic as one I had made in ATX. Which is to say “none”.    I am mistaken.

Quite.

I have not entirely undertaken research on how to write a profile on a dating site.  On OKC, there’s a bunch of prompts and you’re supposed to write essays (ish) and the website sort of kicks at you to write more words, like more is better or something.  I don’t care about the words thing.  I presume the whiskey has something to do with this, as I’ve decided what I say is entirely enough and all that shit.  And besides, I’m all kinds of fuck it these days, and I rather blurt-type my answers to these prompts, which aren’t that challenging.   I don’t bother to answer the whole shebang to do with favorite shows movies  music and food.   I don’t really watch movies  or TV, and I figure my tastes in music are reforming.  And food is weird with me at the end of January.

I’ve seen profiles that start with something like:  “I never know what to say in these things.” or “I hate filling these out.  Just ask me.”  See, you have every opportunity to figure out what to say before you press “submit”.  And someone did ask you, the fucking website asked you, on my behalf.   So suck it up and quit complaining.  And by the way, I don’t want to date you now.  Ya whingey bastard.

However,  I’m repeatedly told my profile is a bit unusual.  Or very unusual.  Or something like that.  I admit, I haven’t really investigated the hell out of this one, I don’t look at other women’s profiles right now.  Why do the people who message me have to tell me that I (or my profile) is so different, or refreshing, or intriguing, or or or something that someone’s already said by the 2nd day of my entree to this whole thing.  (“I like the cut of your   jib!” becomes a crowd favorite.  Yes, really, someone said it before you did.)  And I can’t tell you how many people (by which I mean men) think that I don’t know I’m sexy.  But at first, this is heady.  You mean someone else thinks I’m sexy?  You mean he wants to fuck me?  Wait, this one wants to buy me drinks and kiss me?

I think I joined on a Friday or Saturday.  By Sunday, I think, I had dates for nearly every night in the coming week.

Including that night.  Except that he backed out.  Like, I had already walked towards the bus for almost a mile when he txtd to say that it was getting  late for him (it was 7.30p) and he had an early morning.

Which I think is a right fucked thing to do to someone.

I am plain about not having wheels on my profile.   If you want me to get to you, give me some leeway.  I can do it, but I won’t probably be there in 8 minutes.

Anyway.  I try to answer everyone who sends a message.  I figure the least I can do is busy myself until I have my apartment, getting out of G’s or the Mastio’s places in the evenings after work.  (The apartments aren’t big.)  So I stack up the names on my dance card, not really expecting sweet fuck anything would come of any of it, really, not even the first date.  But there it was, Monday, and I had at least two maybe three dates that I could have made.

I don’t know what they teach men about dating, or where.  I’ve been in 3 long term relationships with men, but I don’t really count the first one, which was over before I was 22, really.   So I don’t want the pressure of “relationshippiness” (That’s an Izzo word.)  I want something like I have/had with CakeLady.  Goddamn.  We get along, we can talk, we can drink, and we have unbelievably good sex.  That’s what I want.  The friends who fuck.  The people who are happy for each other.

And zomg every fucking guy I chat with/message with/email with?  They all want the SAME THING I DO.  It’s incredible.  How in the ever loving fuck does that happen?

To be continued…

Posterity: UCLA (speaking with my heart)

One thing that propelled my staying in LA at the time I decided to do so was the availabilty of an apartment. I stayed a few nights with the Mastio, who lives in the same building I did when I was here before. The landlord is the same, and the landlord is an awesome guy, in my estimation. He hadn’t forgotten me in the intervening years, and invited me to his apartment for a cocktail one of those nights. He asked me if I was happy. I didn’t dissemble. I couldn’t. There was no reason to pretend.

“I’m not happy, Mr David.”
“I didn’t think you were, baby.”

We talked a bit more. And then, this:

“I’m not trying to promote anything, here, and it’s all up to you. But I have a vacancy coming up.”

I didn’t say yes right away. But my heart flipped.
The day before on a bus, I was txting with the CakeLady.

“I kind of want to stay here.”
“I kind of think you should.”

We exchange more messages and conversations of similar sentiment in the next five days. I came around to an idea of going to Austin and then getting my shit together, maybe getting a contract and then and returning to L.A., after a while. But the more I thought of that, the harder it was to picture a place for myself here. How would I find an apartment, a job, would he let me have the car I drove? Thinking about it, the plans spiralled. So much to plan. I drew process flow charts, trying to figure out what made the most sense. The most efficient thing would be to stay and make it work.

I love efficiency.

But I would have to decide to stay. And that I would probably mean I forfeited everything I might think of as mine. But nothing I had compares to how this City touches me

I said yesterday to Ipso: Boys are good, girls are good but oh my fuck this City truly loves me

So on 12 January, I stood in the sculpture gardens on North Campus at UCLA. I looked around at million people who didn’t know anything about what was going on with me. I didn’t get going toward the shuttle stop when I was supposed to get going. I didn’t leave. I called Mr David and said I’d take the place.

I sent an email from my phone to a friend with whom I has spent the weekend. I just wrote,

“I’m not taking the return flight.”

He wrote back, quickly.

“Brave.”

Another, different word and I might have reconsidered entirely.  A different sentiment and I might have fucked off and gone back to wearing clothes I did not like on a body I didn’t understand or recognize.

Might have. Not necessarily so.

But that word? That was an amazing thing to read from someone I appreciate so much.

I called CakeLady and told her, she immediately launched into plans to send me some things. (Laptop, clothes, shoes.)  I called the Moth.  She was steadfastly behind me.  She avered that Bro supported me, as well, and would do what he could to help.

When I called [him] to say I was not getting on the plane, his reply summed up far too well exactly how I’d figured he felt about me.

It wasn’t angry. I didn’t suspect it would be. But neither was it in any way impassioned.

“Alright.”

He sounded rather unmoved.  Unsurprised.

I said something, something.  But I didn’t apologize. He said,

“We’ll work out your things later.”

That was about it.

I don’t think he could have changed my heart either.

I smelled the ocean, and it was welcome.

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