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 had high hopes I find someone who could show me how special I was, who wouldn’t hurt me.
I am already with that person.
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.