I was arguing with my friend P about competition last night. He believes the need to compete overshadows everything in our romantic lives. This need is especially acute in men, because we have traditionally been yoked with the role of pursuer. I don’t care. I don’t want to compete against the field to wind up with someone who’s attractive and successful just to show everyone else that I can.

 

Relationships aren’t prizes. They’re hard work and require a lot of sacrifice. Why would anyone want to compete to get into a bind like that? Why would anyone want to enter into a relationship with someone that they had to convince to join them?

A few weeks ago I went to get an STD/HIV test. The clinic was intended to serve the needs of high-risk gay men. There was only one woman working there. She was short, had curly hair, and walked around with an eager smile and beaming eyes. After listening to her talk to some of the other volunteers I figured out that it was her first day on the job.

An hour later she came out into the lobby with a file in her hand and called my name. As I followed her down the short hallway to the testing room I felt a small thread of nervousness unspooling in my midsection. I was already jumpy about the test, I hadn’t expected to be going through it with someone I was attracted to.

She held the door open for me and I sat in a chair against the far wall. She closed the door behind her and sat down with her overflowing smile. For the next ten minutes we talked about my recent sexual history. Coming clean about all the lewd, kinky, and potentially infectious behavior I’d engaged in over the last half a year is not high on my list of things to do with a women I find attractive.

We got to talk about what kinds of fluids have been in my mouth, my preference for anal play, and I retold the story of my first STD from last year. You’re cute, and also I used to have dick snails.

As I was going over all the unflattering proclivities of my sexual self, she seemed unfazed. She nodded during particularly embarrassing details with normalizing statements, “Yeah, that’s totally common. I know a lot of people who are into that.” As I rambled, her fingers were in constant motion along the hem of her shirt running along the edge of the fabric and skin. She tilted her head to the side when I tilted mine, she laughed out loud at all the obvious puns that I nervously tossed out.

It came time to draw blood. She rolled her chair next to mine and straddled my knee with her legs. She took the inner part of my forearm in both hands and gently ran her thumb up and down over the crook of my elbow to find a vein. I’m lanky and have veiny forearms. It was a hot morning and I’d walked a mile and a half to get to the clinic. My veins were presenting.

She said she was having trouble finding a vein. She asked me to hold out my other arm. She took it and ran her fingers along the skin of my inner arm, leaving a warm tingly trail in their wake. Neither of us said anything. Five seconds went by. Ten seconds. Our heads were a foot away from each other, my knee was inches from her lap. I could smell the soap on her skin, the soft hint of detergent from her clothes. I had started sweating a little on the walk over. There was probably some musky remnant of it mixing with my Apricot deodorant.

She leaned in closer, looking at the veins coming down my forearm. Her breast drifted across my hand as she moved. It happened again when she sat back.

After the test was over we kept talking, our words trying to prolong the last few minutes we would have together with whatever meager excuses we could find. We talked about travel. She told me about a trip to India with “my boyf—someone I was traveling with.” A few minutes later she made the same edit, changing an unformed “b” word into “the person I live with.”

I told her I was moving to New York in a week. She mentioned meeting in New York three different times, though she had no plans to come to the city and didn’t mention any friends there.

I’m not sure what my cues of attraction are, but I was swept away with her. I must have been rambling, my sentences coming out like blushing torrents of self-deprecation. I wanted to ask her out. I knew I wouldn’t because I was leaving in a week and, though my attraction to her was strong, it wasn’t unfamiliar. It was sporting and friendly and fun, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was just a surprise to find someone like that in a place like that.

When you really like someone you don’t need to compete for anything. You don’t need to prove anything, because the simple act of sharing your time and thoughts is entertaining enough. You can convince people to like you with a little thought and social manipulation.

It’s like doing a card trick, you can convince people that they’re seeing something extraordinary when its just sleight of hand. With the right ones you just have to be honest and find a way to stick together for as long as you can. Staying together is always the harder part. Convincing someone to come home with you is easy. It’s a cheap trick and the payoff is a lie.

How you pick up a nurse: go get an STD check.

 

Previous Posts:

Date Machine: Full Disclosure

Sex Machine: The Bare Minimum

Date Machine: The Seductive Art of Dancing

Sex Machine: Becoming A Virgin Again

Sex Machine: Come On My Face

Sex Machine: Because I Can

Love Machine: Am I Romantic Enough?

Sex Machine: Picking Up Women in Gay Bars

Sex Machine: Diary of a Sperm Donor

Date Machine: Long Distance Lovers

Sex Machine: A Revised History of Whores

Date Machine: Moving to New York in Pictures

Date Machine: Old Love Letters, or Things That Got Thrown Away in the Move

Sex Machine: Talking About Sex With Your Parents

Love Machine: Willing to Relocate

Sex Machine: Checking my Oil, or the HIV Test

Date Machine: How To Pick Up a Bartender

Date Machine: Are You My Girlfriend Now?