Okay, Cupid

“I’ve really gotten into water sports lately.” The handsome man across from me says. A pair of oversized glasses, a shaved head, a nose ring.

“I’m…pee shy.” I say. I start to take another sip of my drink, but think better of it. Subconsciously set the glass as far away from me as I can reach.

That was months ago, and the cute, kinky guy has since moved on to a relationship with his BDSM dom, while my most enduring relationship in the past year has been with a box of Girl Scout cookies. We probably weren’t sexually compatible anyway, but I’d have at least considered trying to please him. I have a fairly laissez faire attitude toward fetishes.

I haven’t seen C in over a year now. He’s still a constant presence, even in his absence. I’m consistently reminded of our time together. The time he nakedly sang his impromptu and mildly obscene “I love hot dogs” song. The time he was acting out the dance from Memoirs of a Geisha while walking down an icy sidewalk in Chicago and fell so gracefully it seemed like he did it on purpose. Weekends of wine bottles and frozen pizza, playing the original Legend of Zelda with our green, clay face masks.

Last week when we talked, he asked if I had a hot date that night.

It was the first time we’d talked about moving on since I left. He’d been seeing guys here and there. And there was a guy who’d moved to Minneapolis that he liked. I didn’t have a date, hot or otherwise, but I thought, after a year, maybe it’s time that I put myself out there. Maybe I’m ready to really start dating again.

The thing is, I don’t really know how to meet people anymore. Technology has changed since the last time I was single, and the organic way that people used to meet one another, in bars or coffee shops, has been replaced by apps that make it easy to dismiss people. I dutifully download the apps and vacillate between wholesome profiles extolling my nerdy persona, and slutty ones celebrating my muscular pecs.

I scroll through men with laundry lists of who they aren’t into. Through the greedy guys who already have boyfriends and are looking to hook up. The headless torsos, and the pics of men who don’t list their ages that are always taken from very, very far away.

Nearly everything is a turn off to me.

Poor grammar.

People that don’t read books.

Anyone who refers to me as “stud” or “bro.”

Unsolicited anus pics. (For the record, unsolicited penis pics are welcome…For science.)

The word, “Looking?”

Twenty-three year olds who say, “Hey daddy!” (I invariably ask for a paternity test, and only one guy was clever enough to tell me where to deposit my DNA sample).

I’m attracted to quiet, bookish types around my age, who are reasonably fit, and who think it’s fun to stay in on a Friday night playing video games and watching terrible movies. Ideally guys who don’t smoke or do drugs, but who love hot, sweaty monkey sex at reasonable hours. However, if I were to draw a Venn diagram of guys I am attracted to vs. guys who are attracted to me, I feel like there would be no overlap.

At brunch, I tell my faggles that I think I’m finally ready to date again.

“I don’t think you’re ready.” Sassy Bear says. “And that’s fine.”

Brian, on the other hand tells me about how he’s made some matches on OkCupid. I’m surprised to learn that OkCupid still exists. I used to have a profile when it first came out, long enough ago that I still had hair when I created it. I cannot remember my old login, and my old profile was certainly expunged after years of disuse. So I download the app on my phone and create a new profile for the modern Lance that I’ve become.

The idea behind the site is that you’ll be more compatible with people with whom you have things in common. It asks you a seemingly never ending series of questions to gauge what kind of person you are, from, Do you believe in god? to Would you sleep with a serial killer? I’m narcissistic enough that I enjoy answering questions about myself more than I do actually looking through profiles of prospective mates.

My matches are filtered based on my ideal date range and relationship type, single guys between the ages of 35-55 who are interested in monogamy. The pickings are decidedly slim. The site quickly runs out of results and advises that I try again later.

A few guys message me with whom I have little in common. Our exchanges are polite, but perfunctory. No one I chat with really excites my interest. Nor, do I suspect, do I excite theirs.Then one guy messages me who I’d chatted with sporadically on other apps over the past year.

He’s an artist who, from his pic, appears to be in good shape. Who is single and in my acceptable age range.

“Are we finally going to meet?” He asks.

I say, “Sure.”

Things start off on the wrong foot. He wants to meet at my place and seems miffed when I suggest we meet at a well lit public place with people nearby who can potentially hear my cries for help.

“You think I’m a knife killer?” He asks.

“I think you could be.” I say.

He finally agrees to meet at a sushi place near my apartment, then later changes his mind and says he’d rather go to a burger place instead. I put on a nice pair of pants and wait outside the appointed restaurant for his arrival. He is late, and I’m briefly relieved that I can potentially go back home and crawl into bed in my underwear and watch Predator II. Again.

But he arrives.

He is my height, which makes for a nice change. He’s handsome, if a little out of shape. Like many men who came of age in the 90s, he seems to have adopted the aesthetic of Ethan Hawke from Reality Bites and never moved on. This is not necessarily a deterrent to my finding one attractive.

“You say…I only hear what I want to…”

In the restaurant he doesn’t sit across from me, like a normal person, but instead sits awkwardly beside me, so I have to turn and face him, and we are uncomfortably close. I pick at a texturally unappealing veggie burger. He asks if he can have some of my grilled mushrooms.

I am at first relieved that he isn’t the pretentious person that I expected. But then dismayed that he is very into astrology, but not at all into sci fi. Our waitress disappears for an hour and we are trapped there making awkward conversation until she returns with the check.

By then it’s already after 10, and because I’m an old Lance, I’m already sleepy and wanting to call it a night. But he seems engaged, and I don’t know how to graciously stop things once they’ve started, so I keep rolling with it. Because he’s driven in from the suburbs, I feel obliged to get the check.

He doesn’t thank me.

I suggest maybe getting dessert somewhere, or coffee, or a drink. He does not want to do any of these things. I don’t really want to do any of those things either. Instead we take a walk to a nearby park, and stand, shivering beneath an orange street lamp.

He smokes a cigarette, and I internally cross him off my list of prospective suitors.

“Do you want to go back to your place?” He asks.

And because I still find it impossible to say no to people, I say, “Sure.”

We sit on my bed and listen to music. I do not believe in astrology, or ESP, or any hidden powers of intuition buried in the bean gray gloppiness of my cerebral cortex, but I can very clearly see how the night is going to progress and feel impotent to stop it from happening.

I see his doughy face coming toward me, and he kisses me. And it’s not the worst thing in the world. He’s not a terrible person, and he’s relatively good looking, and making out is kind of my thing. But I’m just not into him, and I’m frantically trying to think of a polite way to get rid of him, but, short of honesty, can think of nothing. Instead, we kiss for a while, and he shows no sign of stopping or leaving.

Finally it’s after 1 am, and he starts to settle in. He turns off the lamp on the bedside table and takes his sweater off. I do not want to have sex with another person I’m not attracted to. And I don’t want to have sex with anyone that I don’t know well enough to feel comfortable around.

“It’s late.” I say.

He looks confused. “Do you want me to go?”

“I’m just tired,” I say. “And I can’t sleep with someone else here.”

He says nothing.

We kiss a little longer, and he finally puts his sweater back on. Picks up his phone and cigarettes and slips into his shoes.

When I’m standing in my doorway, and he is in the hallway, turning to leave, he turns back to me and says, caustically, “Tease.” Then leaves.

On one hand, I feel bad for making out with him when I didn’t want to.

On the other hand, we never discussed sex, and making out with someone doesn’t mean I’m obligated to put out.

I didn’t mean to lead him on. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a tease. Or maybe I’m just not as ready to date again as I thought. Or maybe he just wasn’t a good match for me. Or possibly a combination of any or all of these things.

As soon as he leaves, I delete OkCupid.

If I do meet a guy again who makes me feel sexy and safe, who makes me laugh, who gives me space, and makes me feel loved…and if I do all of those things for him, then fantastic. But if I never have that kind of relationship again…maybe that’s okay too. Being happy and being single aren’t mutually exclusive, despite what all of those toxic romantic comedies would have one believe.

Despite misgivings, I’ll continue to put myself out there. However tentatively. Even if I’m not entirely sure what I want on any given day. And even though there is nearly always a reason to swipe left…I will still look for reasons to swipe right. Because after years of failed relationships, of one night stands, and missed connections, I’m surprised to discover that I’m still somehow a romantic. Love exists, not in meet-cute romantic comedies, but in the relationships that endure. In my faggles and my friends. My family. And sometimes, during rare moments of clarity, it even seems that love really is all that there is.

Or it’s all hormones and co-dependence.

I vacillate.

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Holidays on the West Coast

stockingsDowntown the Boy Scouts are selling Christmas trees. People walk past in board shorts and sandals. Cars roll by with surf boards strapped to their rooftops. Little Mexican markets sell horchata with cinnamon and breakfast tacos. People are wrapping the palm trees in their yards with strings of Christmas lights.

On my days off I walk to the beach and back in my unfashionable anywhere else carpenter shorts and gray hoodie. I walk to the beach to be alone. I walk because I find the sound of crashing waves to be soothing. Sometimes a hot, shirtless guy will walk out of the water, chest glistening in the pale sun, and sometimes tan guys are playing volleyball, or surfers are climbing into or out of their wetsuits. Usually though, the local beach is only littered with older couples, retirees from the UK, pasty in sun hats. I walk to the beach because there is nothing else to do here besides walking to the beach.

A few weeks after moving I landed the best job I’ve had in a decade. It pays well, and doesn’t involve me interacting with any people, so it easily eclipses the string of entry level positions I’ve had since we first started bouncing from city to city. During the week, we wake up at 6 am, get dressed in the cold garage where our clothes are still in boxes and bags, and C drives me to work. Since we share one car, he drops me off in case he gets called in for a job interview, or wants to go somewhere while I’m at work. I work from 7 to 3:30 in a cubicle where no one speaks to me.

After work, I walk around the corner to the gym and work out for an hour. A little-person with frat boy hair and Iron Maiden tattoos sold me my membership, which I took as a harbinger of good tidings. The locker room is full of unabashed old men who stand naked and sagging as they talk about golf and the upcoming marriages of their adult children.

After the gym I walk down to catch the bus back home. The buses don’t seem to run on any kind of schedule. Sometimes the bus is crowded, and I sit crammed next to an Asian kid in a suit who falls asleep on my shoulder, and sometimes I sit alone and listen to a couple of men argue about politics. I stare out the window as the dark gets darker, and the wind whistling through the windows grows cold.

On our seventh anniversary we drove up the coast and spent the weekend in a cheap hotel in San Luis Obispo. We had sex for the first and only time since we’ve moved, taking advantage of the brief window of space and privacy. Then we wandered the city, spending money we shouldn’t have on clothes from overpriced shops, and browsing through book and record stores. We wandered all over looking for a sushi place, but the first place we went to had an hour wait, and the next place we went to ignored us until we left, so we ended up having an anniversary dinner at a bar and grill where we waited for over an hour for food, only to walk back to our hotel to discover it was right next door to a sushi place where we could have eaten in the first place.

I didn’t want to go back to his parents’ house. Not because they are unkind or unwelcoming, because nothing could be further from the truth. They’ve been nothing but warm and accommodating. I just didn’t want to sit in their cold garage, watching re-runs of cartoons we’ve seen a dozen times which has become the new normal. We’ve looked at some apartments, but until C gets a job,we can’t actually afford to move out of his parents’ house. Even once he gets a job, I don’t know how we’re going to possibly afford an apartment here that isn’t really far away from my work, and/or a total dump. We’ve started talking about maybe buying a home because the mortgage would be lower than the rent, but then we’d be living far out in some small town, even more isolated than we are right now.

Back at his parents’ house, we watch home movies from when C and his little brothers were young. C was a surly, little smart-ass. (Not much has changed). We watched him rollerblading down the sidewalk in 90s clothes with feathered hair. We watched his brother Jesse playing soccer, and his brother Anthony running around as a naked toddler through the sprinklers.

“My weiner is a lot bigger now.” Anthony says.

“Anthony!” His dad yells, and we all laugh.

On Thanksgiving his mother makes a turkey, and I make cornbread dressing like my mother makes back in Texas. It doesn’t come out very well, but everybody says it’s good anyway. I sit at the table eating turkey and green bean casserole, wishing instead that I was back home in Texas, sitting at the kid table and arguing about the recent election with my republican relatives.

Being the odd man out in someone else’s family has left me with with a constant feeling of homesickness.

The day after Thanksgiving is C’s birthday. I got him a Kindle and some yoga shorts, and we we go out for breakfast at a small cafe, and then drive to Santa Barbara and walk along a beach that’s overlooked by tree-lined cliffs. We walk past the pale tourists and the leather skinned locals, looking for starfish and seashells. We want to go out for a late lunch, but all the Sushi places that he wants to go to are closed, so we settle for a bar and grill that has an “adults only” section, eating overpriced Mexican food with a view of the ocean.

Back home, his parents barbecue ribs for dinner, and we sit in the back yard around a chimenea. Back in Chicago I’d still be wearing short sleeves in the 50s and 60s, but in California, the cold seems colder. We shiver around the fire with glasses of wine and bottles of beer. C gets very drunk and demands that we watch Sleeping Beauty, so we sit in the living room while he sings along to Once Upon a Dream. I put him to bed in the fold-out couch while I curl up in a blanket on the couch opposite him. At night I listen to him snore as his dad snores down the hall in unison. I doze off for an hour at a time, and wake up feeling lost in still unfamiliar surroundings, wishing more than anything that I still had a big, comfortable bed like the one I had back in Seattle.

After Thanksgiving, C’s mom puts up the Christmas tree and hangs stockings on the fireplace mantle. I see the green and red stocking with the letter L, for Lance, and my eyes well up with tears. It’s touching that I’m included in their holiday, that I’m a part of their family. But it only makes me feel more homesick for my own dysfunctional family who I won’t be able to spend Christmas with this year.

Today it rains, and we sit on the back porch and watch the rain.

“People go crazy when it rains here.” His dad says. “Because it never happens.”

The clouds roiling over the mountains look surreal, like a landscape from a dream. Oranges are ripening on the tree in the corner of the yard. The dog refuses to go outside for a walk. C looks at me and says, “I’m never going to drink again.” I sit in a corner on the couch that at night becomes my bed and play a video game on my phone. When the rain stops, maybe I’ll go for another walk along the beach.

Until then, I sit and listen to the din, the rain, C’s little brother saying something about vaginas and laughing to himself, and C’s dad yelling at his little brother, and the dog barking, and his mom clanging pots and pans in the kitchen.

I wonder if we’ll have an apartment soon, and if not, how long I can handle the lack of space before I collapse into a puddle on the garage floor, or load up the car and drive away to parts unknown? I wonder if we’ll buy a house and settle here, if we’ll become proper Californians, sun tanned and sitting in cafes demanding organic, gluten-free everything. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being homesick, and will actually just be able to feel like I’m finally home.

California Part II.

At 3:00 am, I was jarred awake by the sound of my own heart beating in my chest. I couldn’t breathe and my heart raced and my thoughts raced. Am I having a heart attack? Should I call 911? Should I go wake up my roommate so that he isn’t alarmed when the paramedics arrive? Can I afford an ambulance trip and an ER visit? I this how I die?

Then I realized I was having a panic attack. It had been years since I’d last had one, so I didn’t immediately recognize it for what it was. I was weirdly relieved by the realization. But whatever the cause, if I didn’t lower my heart rate, I was going to have a very real heart attack. I’m 40 now. I’m a person who is of an age where these things can happen.

I breathed in deeply. Counted to five. Exhaled. Repeated until my heartbeat normalized. I drank some water, but I was rattled. Sleep didn’t happen again for the rest of the night. When my alarm went off at 6:45, I was still awake. It was to be my penultimate day of work, but I called in anyway. I was afraid of having another anxiety attack on the train and horrified by the thought of being wheeled off the Red Line in a stretcher.

I spent the day trying to distract myself from the all the things that were making me anxious, but they were unavoidable. All around me are boxes of things I’ve been putting off shipping to C’s mom, and the furniture that I keep meaning to make Craigslist ads for. My clothes are all in suitcases beside the bed. The walls and the closet are empty, stark, and naked.

I try not to think about the fact that this time next week I won’t have a job, or an apartment. I’ll be sleeping on a couch at C’s parents’ house, where we’re staying until we have jobs and a place of our own. I half-heartedly apply for jobs. I look at apartments in San Diego that we can’t afford. I try not to wonder how we’re going to pay our bills when neither of us has an income.

When I talk to him later in the day, C tells me not to worry. “It’ll all work out.” He assures me. He’s sitting on a patio with a glass of wine. They’ve just gotten back from a farmer’s market. I can hear the sunshine in his voice.

“Everybody keeps asking when you’re going to get here.”

Despite his reassurances, I continue to worry. Irresponsibly quitting a job and moving across the country is cute when you’re in your twenties, but much less so when you’re in your forties.

The first time I moved to California, I was 27. I was living with my ex-boyfriend in Austin, and when he got accepted into grad school at UCLA, I ended up tagging along. I didn’t want to live in Texas my whole life. And although L.A. had never been on my personal radar of places I’d like to live, it was at least some place different. It wasn’t Texas, and that was enough for me.

Our apartment was across the street from the Veteran cemetery. I thought that meant the neighborhood would be quiet. What we didn’t realize was that a block away there was a fire station, so firetrucks were constantly speeding down our street at all hours of the night. Coyotes howled in the rolling hills on the far end of the cemetery and some Sunday mornings we were awakened by 21 gun salutes.

I got a terrible job at a brokerage firm where the only saving grace was the view of the Pacific Ocean. Once I was sitting at my desk and suddenly felt dizzy. I thought I was sick until I looked up and saw my co-worker bracing herself in the doorway of her cubicle. Then I realized we were having an earthquake. I saw the palm trees and the ocean swaying outside the window and thought “I can’t die in this building with these people,” and made my way down 11 flights of stairs in less than 4 seconds.

I rebelled against the mundane job by wearing studded belts and dying my hair purple.

Everyone I met in L.A. told me that I didn’t belong there. L.A. was a surreal and shallow place. The weekly coupons in the mail were all for teeth whitening, plastic surgery, and botox. Everyone kept asking me what kind of car I drove. I felt like I didn’t belong, and L.A. agreed.

And my Daewoo impressed no one.

I dated a guy in PR named Strip Checkers. Well, not so much dated. I’m sure he has an actual name, but he’s gone down in the annals of my personal history as Strip Checkers for obvious reasons. We’d drive down Wilshire in his red convertible to his studio apartment in Korea Town. We’d play checkers on his floor, losing an item of clothing each time one of our pieces got jumped, until we were both naked.

Then there was the nice, Jewish doctor who was going to take me to Paris and then ended up getting back with his ex-boyfriend. The musician who’d call me and say, “You. Me. Sex. Now,” and would be knocking on my door five minutes later. He convinced me to strip with him in a burlesque show, and when I left L.A. all I had to remember him by was his little, black butt plug.

There were always movies being filmed in our neighborhood, and once a week there’d be a movie premier, a red carpet and paparazzi blocking my route home from the gym. We’d go to some vegan restaurant, and an over enthused waitress would tell us in an excited whisper, “Jodie Foster is here!”

Once, walking to my car after work, a pasty guy with long hair said, “Do you model?” And handed me his card.

I stared back at him blankly before stammering, “I’m a writer.”

Like everyone in L.A. I was toiling away on a screenplay. I sent off spec scripts for imaginary episodes of Will and Grace. It seemed like everyone I met was “in the industry.” But nothing ever came of any of it. I mostly sat at Starbucks with my second hand laptop and dreamed of being someone. Someone shiny and pretty with perfect teeth, a tan, and a red sports car.

But instead I was pale, purple haired, and skinny. I kissed a guy at some club, and he asked if my  parents were professors because I had more than a monosyllabic vocabulary. I didn’t like him, but I kissed him anyway, while some horrible pop song played, and tan, toothpaste commercials danced with one another beneath the pulsing lights of some bar in West Hollywood.

I irresponsibly quit my job at the brokerage firm. I left my badge on my boss’s desk on a Wednesday afternoon. I walked down to the beach, took off my shoes and my tie, and sat staring at the ocean, wondering what to do.

I was lost, and I felt rejected by the city.

At least once a month I got a parking ticket.

I was constantly getting lost. The first time I saw the Hollywood sign was by accident. I was trying to get home from a job interview downtown and stopped at a gas station in East L.A. to buy an actual map because there weren’t smart phones back then. After a number of wrong turns, the big white letters (only ever so slightly obscured by smog) were there in front of me.

I sat in Jewish deli’s pretending to write, and danced at 80s clubs in Hollywood. I went to bars in Los Feliz and Silverlake.  I met some genuinely wonderful people too, but by then I was already on my way out of the city and planning my move to  Seattle.

I never thought I’d move back to California. I’d felt like such an outsider the first time around, an encore hardly seemed warranted. But in less than a week, I’ll be in Southern California again. This time around I’m armed with experience, which feels like a double edged sword, and I just don’t know what to think, or how to feel.

The biggest difference is that this time C will be with me.

“My mom bought you a bag of Muddy Buddies.” C texts me, as I was typing this.  “We’re recording American Horror Story for you.”

I text him that I love him.

He texts me that he loves me too.

This time around we have a support network. I know that they won’t let us starve or be homeless. So, despite my fears, which are numerous, I’m trying to be optimistic that this time around will be a different experience, because he’ll be with me.

So when my heart begins to race, I breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Think of him, and know that everything is going to work out.

Alien

“We’re all just made of stardust!”  My friend Betsy proclaims over brunch, like she’s the first person to have ever reached this conclusion.  She sits back from her seasonal fruit and granola plate, smiling with smug triumph beneath the yellow umbrella of the cafe outside.

So I stab her in the face with a fork.

I can do this because I just made Betsy up so that I could have someone say a line in my blog about stardust.  Because I don’t have any girlfriends a la Sex and the City that I have brunch with.

In the city I hardly ever see any stars anyway.  In the city, the bright lights of jagged toothed skyscrapers, of cars and street lamps change the sky to an empty, dull purple sheet at night.  Hazed over by clouds, pollution, and car exhaust.  Skimmed by airplanes and occasionally a helicopter search light, scanning the streets for some fugitive.

I always find myself looking up.  Searching.

I had my first existential crisis at the age of 6.  My mom took me to get a haircut, and for the first time, the hairdresser asked me how I wanted it cut.  Prior to this point she’d always just asked my mother.  Without missing a beat, I told her, “I want half of it shaved and the other half dyed black.”  The elderly hairdresser turned to my mom and said, “Is he joking?”  My mom said, “Yes.  Just give him the usual.”  So I got the same bowl cut, and we drove home in silence, until my mom finally asked, as we turned into our driveway, “Where did you come from?”

I didn’t know, but had often wondered this same thing.  Surrounded by the cowboy boots, the county fairs and 4-H meetings,  the blue ribbon show pigs, and chicken fried everything of my youth, I couldn’t help but wonder how these people could spawn me.  I looked to the heavens and prayed for an alien abduction.  Every time I saw the night sky I half expected the mother ship to beam me up and reunite me with my true people.

I’d like to say that adulthood has given me this greater sense of connection to my fellow man.  As a grown up living in Los Angeles, where the stars were all on movie screens, walking down red carpets, eating in restaurants and shopping at my local grocery,  where everyone had year round tans and there were plastic surgery coupons in the weekly paper.  I still found myself wondering where I’d come from and how I’d gotten there.

I was on a date with an entertainment lawyer in West Hollywood.  We were standing outside beneath the Dr. Seuss palm trees that lined the boulevard.  I asked him what the last book was that he read, and he looked back and said, “You don’t belong in L.A.”

Then we made out in an alley behind some bar and I never heard from him again.

Last night in Portland Carlos and I were waiting for the late night bus to take us back to his apartment.  A toothless woman wearing tie dye and polka dots came up to me and asked if she could use my phone.  I say, “No.”  Because I value my phone more than I value not seeming like a dick, and she walks away and borrows a phone from some rotund teenager who is twirling two wrenches tied to the ends of shoelaces.  They get on the bus with us.  The bus where everyone smells like cheese and has loud, public conversations with their parole officers.

Carlos turns to me and says, “Who are these people?”

I turn to him and say, “I know, right?”  The bus is the mothership that takes us home.  I can’t speak for the rest of the world.  The senselessness of racism, wars, poverty and inequality.  The absurdity of life.  But sometimes when I look into his eyes I see it.  Stardust.