Which was exactly what my friends had been seeking that whole time, reading He's Just Not That Into You and sending covert text messages to decipher their dates' behavior. When a friend successfully navigated the first few dates — the point when sex and weird tics were discussed — I'd feel a small tug of betrayal. I signed up for a bunch of dating sites and begrudgingly promised myself I wouldn't fuck on a first date. I tried to think positively about going out with the guys whose responses flooded my inbox: it was a reason to dress up, an excuse to live outside my $15-an-hour, post-collegiate budget, something to talk about the next day. Still, I hated how a guy would insist on walking me back to my apartment, when I knew I could always get there, by myself, at any time of the night. I hated when they called the next day and I would feel obligated to call them back, and I would feel anxious whenever I saw one of their e-mails. Unlike hooking up, dating — and actively seeking a long-term connection — made me feel trapped.
It was only when I'd dissect the evening with friends that I would again feel empowered and fun instead of lonely, awkward and panicked. I gave each date a nickname — a guy with questionable hygiene became Furry-Teeth Guy, the pseudo-musician was Mr. Glam Folk Rocker, the hippie activist who lived with six roommates in a loft with bedrooms separated by office dividers became the I Heart Brooklyn Boy. Naming my dates, then excoriating them, made me feel a sense of control. Yes, I hadn't found anyone, but there was something so wrong with everyone.
One night, I invited a few friends to stop at a bar where I was on a first date. I wanted them to see the live version of what I would always recap, and I had no qualms about using him as a prop. The guy was an aspiring actor and bartender in his mid-twenties. When I flirtatiously asked him what his favorite drink was, he said Sex on the Beach and asked if I'd heard of it.
The next day, my friends laid into me. "At one point, you were making out with him, then you would turn to me,
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Unlike hooking up, seeking a long-term connection made me feel trapped.
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tell me how lame he was and roll your eyes," Melissa said, exasperated. "I don't know what to do with you."
At that point, I didn't know what to do with me, either. Presented with an unattractive date, I could chalk the evening up to disappointment, or I could turn it into an experience. Of course, I chose the latter. Making out wasn't fucking, but at least it made me feel something. It turned me back into the imperious single girl, the one was above dating and didn't need to impress a man.
Ultimately, I am terrified. I really shouldn't responsibly be allowed to have an online-dating profile. I know it's time to grow up, stop being hypercritical and just enter the dating pool, with all its clichés and absolute disappointments. And I'm trying. But it's hard to know where to begin. Pop culture has made wacky, convoluted attempts to meet men seem like a staple of the twentysomething single girl's life — so much that my therapist once recommended I borrow my parents' dog from New Jersey for a day and bring it in the park for use as a conversation starter. While I haven't resorted to crossing state lines with my parent's sixty-pound labradoodle, I have agreed to tag along with Melissa to one of her speed-dating events. I initiate conversations with guys at my triathlon-training sessions. Sometimes, I even return phone calls.
Or at least that's what I'll admit to my friends. Last week, I went out with a guy from a networking event for impromptu drinks after work. In true romantic-comedy fashion, the heel of my shoe got stuck in the pavement, and I had to lean down to pull it out just as he walked in. We went to the bar, where he followed my lead and ordered a bright pink, prickly-pear margarita. Right then, it was as if the laugh track in my mind was cued, except no one was there to watch. It didn't seem to be a cute story; it just depressed the hell out of me. We were in the middle of a conversation about his childhood pets when I cut the date short.
Instead of going home, I called my former fuck buddy, holding my breath until he answered. Hey. Just so you know, I'm just calling you because I'm in your neighborhood. So . . . wanna hang out? I let the pause linger, so he knew exactly what I meant. In the silence, I realized my mind wasn't working overtime to generate some monologue or overarching meaning to my actions. I wasn't trying to create a story, salvage a scene or use him as an understudy to my failed date. Instead, it was simple: all I wanted was no-rules, no-meaning sex.
He told me to come over. I hailed a cab and ran into the ladies' room of the Starbucks on his corner, slipping off my thong under my skirt and stuffing it in my purse. I felt the same way I did in high school, when I always wanted to smoke a cigarette after being forced to sit through a dinner party with my parents and their friends. I wanted to be bad and wild, not worried about doing things correctly. When he let me in, he said "Hi" as he took my top off, and at that moment, it was as if I'd stepped out of my self-imposed girl-about-town dramedy and could just be the fucked-up, neurotic, confused chick that just needs space in between all the contrived romantic encounters to find some sort of connection. n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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J.L. Scott is the pseudonym of a writer/editor in New York City. |
©2007 JL Scott and hooksexup.com
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