baserinstincts

A Redhead Walks Into A Bar…

Image via Wikipedia

I was in the middle of taking some time off from work. I went there however, to pick up a friend. He owed me some money and I’d come to collect.

After settling up with him, I ran into another friend. She was having man trouble and we proceeded to hit the bar. The place was close by, across the street. It was where we’d go after work sometimes to self-medicate with tequila and such.

And that night was really no different.

We were just about the only ones there. We drank and talked and drank and talked. In the midst of politely nodding to the babble of some psycho chick and my friend making several trips outside after angry phonecalls from her boyfriend, I struck up a conversation with the bartender.

We weren’t really flirting, mind. Just having a friendly conversation. So I was genuinely surprised when, during one of my friend’s trips outside to argue with her man, the bartender asked me out.

At first look, he really wasn’t anything special. Short, shaved head, just a dude really. But he had kind eyes and his accent was pretty sexy (he was, you see, a genuine Irish bartender) so I said yes. We exchanged numbers and within a week, went on our first date.

The plus side to dating a bartender is that he knows all the good spots in the City.

The down side is…all he talks about is bars.

He was a nice enough guy, knew how to show a lady a good time, and the sex was pretty darn good. However, after a short while my tendency toward caprice kicked in and the dates became less frequent until they stopped altogether.

Irish Bartender and I worked in very close proximity to one another, with me frequenting his place of business and him mine. We’d see each other, say hello, smile genuine smiles (there were no hard feelings after all, these things happen) and go on about our business.

One of my best guy friends (one of my only guy friends, if not my only guy friend with whom I have, always have and will always have a truly platonic relationship…and that’s not a complaint by the way) and I decided to go to the local watering hole after a late shift one night. I hadn’t been there in a long time but he offered to buy me a beer. Or did I offer to buy him a beer? I forget.

In any case,  as we walked into the bar I kinda knew Irish Bartender was going to be there because it was the shift he had always worked. I’d been to the bar since we stopped seeing each other, but never with a guy. I didn’t feel weird about it. For one thing, it’s not like anything was going on between me and my BGFF besides beer. Secondly, Irish Bartender and I were still friendly. And furthermore, it had been almost two years since last we fucked.

Irish Bartender smiled and made friendly small talk with me. I introduced him to my BGFF (calling him simply by his name because if I took great pains to explain that G and I were really just friends, then he might get the impression that I was making some attempt to win him back…then again by not explaining that G and I were really just friends, he could easily get the impression that we were dating, therefore concluding that I was making some attempt to win him back by causing him to go into a fit of jealousy) and we ordered our beers.

We didn’t stay long, my friend and I. Irish Bartender, gracious host that he is, insisted that our beers be on the house.

“Wow,” I said to my BGFF once we got outside. “I know fucking the bartender usually entitles you to free drinks but I thought that expired once you stopped fucking him. And certainly that doesn’t extend to any guys you might bring into his bar”

G, a man of few words, just chuckled and smiled, satisfied that he’d gotten a free beer.

I’d forgotten the whole scene almost as it happened.

Until a few days ago, when I saw Irish Bartender strolling around my place of employ.

With a tall, gorgeous, black chick.

He spotted me and said hi. I muttered a quick hello and kept walking.

Now I wasn’t upset per se.

I was more amused. At him and myself.

I was amused at him because of the obvious tit for tat gesture.

I was amused at myself for actually giving it more than half a second’s thought.

Really I have no feelings for this guy.

But what is it about seeing someone you were with, even casually, with someone else that makes people get all weird?

The Way To a Man’s Heart - A Play in One Act

ACT ONE

THE SCENE: I am lying on my bed one sunny Sunday afternoon talking to a guy on the phone. We agreed he was going to come over that night. At present the conversation is lingering on the topic of some cupcakes I’d promised him some weeks ago (one of the things we had in common, a persistent, insatiable sweet tooth). I am trying to beg off making the cupcakes using various excuses i.e. too hot to bake, don’t have the right ingredients etc.

ME: Cupcakes or cookies? You’ll have to pick one.

HIM: Well then, I guess you’ll only get one orgasm.

(Yeah, he was a cocky son of a bitch.  And rightfully so, as I’d find out later.)

ME: Wait the original deal was cupcakes for a rubdown. We’re just substituting cookies for cupcakes. Terms for sex haven’t been named yet.

HIM: We’re not negotiating sex, we’re negotiating multiple orgasms.

(And he was a smart ass. I was getting more and more turned on.)

ME: Touche. Glad you made the distinction. Ok so how about we substitute breakfast for cupcakes.

HIM: I could do that.

ME: Standard egg breakfast good for you?

HIM: Yes. I like my eggs dry and well browned.

ME: Two eggs scrambled and dry. Got it. Meat?

HIM: Three eggs. Not really a fan of bacon and sausage. Toast ?

ME: What kind of toast?

HIM: Wheat?

ME: Sprouted grain.

HIM: OK.

ME: One slice or two?

HIM: Two

ME: Jam or butter?

HIM: Jam or peanut butter is good if you have some.

ME: I have. One slice jam and one peanut butter. Any particular flavor jam?

HIM: Do you have blackberry?

ME: No. Strawberry, Raspberry, Wild Maine Blueberry, Apricot, Champagne Rose, and Fig.

(He was a fussy eater. A pet peeve of mine but I could forgive that. It had been more that half a year and if somone didn’t fuck me soon, I was convinced I would perish.)

HIM: I’ll bring some.

ME: Fine by me. Coffee or juice?

HIM: I like juice. Orange or pineapple would be nice.

ME: I like orange. Butter or oil in the skillet?

(I was making fun of him at this point but he didn’t notice.)

HIM: Do you have PAM?

ME: Don’t use PAM but I have canola oil spray. Milk or cheese in your eggs?

HIM: No diary but salt and pepper. Maybe even some onions or garlic…

(I cut him off, inches away from annoyance)
ME: We’ll see.

HIM: Okay so call me when you get out of the movies.

ME: Sure.

I hung up and shook my head.

ME (to self): This had better be some damn good…

A Room of One’s Own - Addendum

A week or two ago, I was talking about my experiences shacking up.

It seems that in addition to not being able to hold onto a man, I can’t even keep my pets.

A little over a week ago, Ramses, my cat, jumped out of the window.

Right now you probably don’t see the relevance but stay with me here because this is very telling.

When I brought Ramses home, I had gone almost a year without a cat. For as long as I can remember I’ve had cats, up to five at once at one point.

Snookums, my baby, is residing with my mother currently. When I moved out I had every intention of bringing her with me, and I did. However after about a year in this apartment, which is quite small, I could tell that Snookums was bored and missed the space of my mother’s big house and the yard and the other pets.

When the ex and I went on vacation last summer, I brought her to my mom’s for safekeeping and feeding. When I returned, I decided it was best to leave her there. I felt like a mother who’d just given her child up for adoption, but it was what was best for Snookums.

And as you know, a few months later, the ex was gone too.

I was truly alone.

About a month ago I get a call from my mom saying that yet another cat has appeared on her doorstep and refused to leave (see the cats on the neighborhood talk to one another, they say “go to 622, they always take in strays”). She said she didn’t think the house could survive another cat (Ramses would have made the sixth, in addition to three dogs and a gerbil) and begged me to come pick him up.

I agreed but by the time I got there, my sister had already fallen in love with him and said I couldn’t have him (younger siblings, they’re such brats).

The next day my sister sends me a text message saying that Snookums and Mustache, hitherto mortal enemies, have united against the newcomer and that in order to save his life she has decided to let me have him.

I went to get him the next day. He was gorgeous. Sleek, black and sporting a pair of the biggest balls I’d ever seen on a cat (and no I wasn’t looking but they were hard to miss). He had a huge appetite and would soon have eaten me out of house and home.

In the second part of my post I likened my romantic nature to that of a cat’s saying:

I am at heart the cat. The loving yet fiercely independent cat that will rub against your feet, let you feed me and stroke me, make you think I adore you.

And then dash out as soon as you open the door to roam around the block.

I may return, and then again I may not.

And then a couple of days later the cat was gone.

It was if I had written it into existence.

My sister was pissed.

I had opened the window to get some fresh air in the apartment. Ten minutes later I couldn’t find Ramses.

My sister and I walked around the block looking for him but you won’t ever find a cat if he doesn’t want you to.

I hoped wherever he was he wasn’t hurt and was getting fed but I wasn’t as upset as I expected myself to be.

It was hard getting used to having another being in the place albeit a non-human one.

Suddenly, I had to worry about whether he was getting enough food, if his litter box was clean, getting him neutered, him pissing on my couch etc.

He wanted lots of attention. I wanted to write.

I slept at night, he didn’t.

And he did this annoying thing where he’d run around the place like a maniac and knock shit over.

He chewed on my plants.

As adorable as he was, his sudden presence in my life was quite trying at times.

Maybe he picked up on that. Or maybe he wanted to run away before I had his balls cut and he’s just fucking his way around the neighborhood. Whatever the reason, he saw his chance and dashed out the way I’d done many times before and will do again.

I can’t even be mad at him.

Maybe he’ll come back.

Or not.

A Room of One’s Own - Conclusion

R&B artist John Legend had a song on his album Get Lifted called Ordinary People. The words of this song really struck a chord with me.

We are all only humans, just ordinary people. While we are capable of, and often experience spiritually transcendent moments, we tend to also fall into a perpetual trap of expecting too much from ourselves and our partners.

We all fuck up. We all fall short. And this is no less true in relationships.

There is no one person out there that is going to “complete you”. You will not get all you need, in one person (and if you do, please contact the government agencies that are heading up the cloning project).

Things change. They change suddenly and they change pretty frequently. How can one be sure of what one wants two weeks from now much less fifty years from now?

People however, don’t change. Yes, they make tweaks and adjustments here and there but this is all very superficial. The essence of a person, I believe, does not change. What many people refer to as internal change is really only a change in environment.

A friend of mine said to me once that her parents told her that in order for a marriage to work, one person must always bend to the other’s will. I don’t know if this is true but if it is, I don’t see that person being me and I would not respect a man who allowed himself to be constantly bent.

The reasons people shack up are varied and many times, these reasons have absolutely nothing to do with love. Convenience is a huge factor. Economics is another big one (especially in cities like New York where the cost of living gets more ridiculous every year).

Loneliness is another reason.

And then there’s fear. Nothing good ever comes in acting through fear unless you’re taking actions to save your life in a dangerous situation and even then that could be deadly.

In my case it was a combination of insecurity and wanting to get out from under my mother the first time around. The second time, it was the ol’ one two punch of economics and convenience. All pretty shitty reasons.

The point is to know your motivation. Don’t kid yourself. Your reasons will dictate the results.

The important thing to remember is that expectations differ and so you need to talk about them and get them all on the table way ahead of time. You need to know that you and your partner have similar values and goals in life and that you want to make a life together, not just try to fit each other into your already separate lives. Financial compatibility is key (money will be the subject of most fights). And you need to know that it’s not going to be a walk in the park on most days.

I’m not saying don’t do it.

I’m saying know thyself.

I know me.

And I won’t be cohabiting, be it with friend, family, or fuck, anytime soon.

A Room of One’s Own - Part 2

And just to be sure I really learned my lesson, I decided to give shacking up the old college try once more.

This time things were quite different. I was already in my own place and I had a boyfriend who seemingly adored me and wanted to move in with me.

I should have said no.

I know I should have said no but I said yes (and trust me, over a year later I’m still kicking myself for it).

I said yes because he gave me this sob story about how he hates his apartment and he hates his roommate and he’s living in poverty etc., etc.

I felt for him.

And the prospect of having my rent cut in half was an extremely attractive one.

Here I had the opposite problem. Before, it was always me trying to make it work, hanging on in a fog of insecurity and idealist perceptions of love. And it was he who realized way before I did that we’d made a mistake and wanted to be free.

This time it was he who was insecure and clinging and I who’d realized the mistake and wanted to be free.

There were several other reasons this one was doomed from the start.

One was that the apartment was too small. Well not exactly. It was the perfect size for me (and my cat). Add another person into the mix and you’re headed for trouble.

Second…a writer and a musician (drummer) living together? Bad news.

Thirdly, if shack up one must, it is better for both parties to leave their current residences and get a new place together. A place that will feel like it belongs to the both of you. When one person just moves in with the other, everything is cute as first but inevitably it starts to feel as though one is in the other’s space. Not once, in the entire year living with “number 2″, did I ever stop thinking about the apartment as mine versus thinking of it as ours.

Another valuable thing I learned about myself is that I am an introvert.
I’d never considered myself an introvert because I was always friendly and got along with people. Then my ex (an unbelievable and shameless extrovert), showed me an article and it was spot on.

We broke up sometime later.

It was beyond difficult and for awhile he simply refused to leave.

When he finally did leave, moving clear across the country to get away from me, it was as if I’d held my breath for a year and was now able to breathe again.

Next lesson: take it slow.

The reason we didn’t work was no big secret. We had rushed things and that was the simple fact of it all. We took a step that was way too big for two people who knew so little of each other. And months later, when they honeymoon was over and those true colors started to shine on through, we discovered simply that we just didn’t like each other.

I knew better. I can’t even blame him.

Also when you get too used to living alone (and liking it, no loving it), it is in most cases too late.

Which brings me to a final valuable lesson: this shackin’ up shit just ain’t for me.

I am at heart the cat. The loving yet fiercely independent cat that will rub against your feet, let you feed me and stroke me, make you think I adore you.

And then dash out as soon as you open the door to roam around the block.

I may return, and then again I may not.

A Room of One’s Own - Part 1

I said this before, after my fluke of an engagement.

I took it back once and now I’ll say it again.

I’m not into the shacking up thing.

I’m serious.

Even if some miracle occurred and I did get married (Rhett Butler said it best in Gone With the Wind when he quipped “I’m not the marrying kind.”), I’d seriously make a case for my husband and I to have two separate apartments.

Cohabitation disaster number one- I wasn’t even 20 the first time I left the house. My childhood sweetheart and I convinced ourselves that we were ready for a commitment larger than we could even fully comprehend at the time (what’s that they say about hindsight?).

Combine that with the fact that my mother and I had convinced ourselves that we hated one another (ditto him and his mom) and you get two well meaning but unbelievably naive kids who left home too early and had absolutely no business moving in together.

The honeymoon was over quickly and soon we were arguing and he was cheating and I was foolishly and desperately trying to keep things from falling apart.

And just how do you keep things from falling apart when:

A. Several different women are calling your home (some of them at all kinds of ungodly hours) and they sound surprised to hear a female voice on the other end. Or you come home one night from school and see another woman leaving your apartment. Or your sweetie’s little brother is helping him do his dirt by erasing numbers off of the caller ID.

B. When it’s time to pay the rent you hear “Just put in my half baby and I’ll pay you back” month after month.

C. Your sweetheart is prone to fits of rage. The kind that have you cowering in a corner so you can stay out of his way until it’s over.

I was working full time and going to school full time. I needed peace at home and all I was getting was more stress.

The way I saw it, there were only two choices. It was either suck it up and try to make it work or admit defeat and go back home to Mommy. For a long time, I didn’t consider the latter an option. No matter how bad the relationship got (and it got really bad), it couldn’t be worse than the prospect of a lifetime of “I told you so’s ” from mother. And Grandma too.

I think that was when I learned one of the biggest relationship lessons of my life: one person can’t be the only one working on a relationship. One day I accepted that the shit just wasn’t going to work because I was the only one working, both literally and figuratively.

We broke up briefly and then got back together briefly, just long enough for me to see that he was up to his old tricks and then we broke up again for good. I went home but only for about a month until I got my own apartment.

I eventually got over my ex (funny how we think we never will but somehow we always do), and I continued to live alone. And let me tell you it was the best time of my life. I could do what I wanted to do and didn’t constantly have to consider another person. Most importantly, I learned to enjoy my own company.

It was then, during all the time I had to reflect, that I realized it wasn’t that I didn’t like my ex, it was that I didn’t like who I was when I was with him.

The one that got away…

Everyone has one, don’t they?

You meet a guy or a girl or whatever and you develop a crush.

Or you hit it off and things are going really well and you’re on cloud fucking nine.

Right?

You’ve been there.

I can probably name a couple who fall into that category for me.

No on second thought it’s really only one.

We’ll call him Mr. Red.

We met last year at (guess where?) work. I was in a relationship at the time (what else is new?)

But things were coming to a close (I just hadn’t told him yet).

Anyway, I’d seen him quite a few times before actually really noticing him if you know what I mean. He was tall, about 6′3″, on the lanky side, light of hair, eye and complexion. Not the kind of guy I’d generally look too hard at but he had a great face.

It was a happy, kind face. Complete with two huge dimples, a personal weakness of mine.

So the hellos quickly turned into hugs, which turned into big bear hugs, which turned into him making stops by my department to say hello.

Now I maintain that I did not leave my boyfriend for him but our fledgling flirtations gave me the extra push I needed to finally get out of a situation that was no longer making me happy.

One night I was leaving work and I saw him standing outside smoking a cigarette.

Turning my flirt game on and into high gear, I walk up to him reach up (because as I mentioned he’s quite tall) and gently pull the cigarette out of his mouth, take a drag and then replace it. It worked because he smiled his sexy dimpled smile and said “Bad girl”.

He asked about the book I was reading (Robert Jordan, Knife of Dreams) and then we went our seperate ways but not before he swept me into a bear hug, humming a soft “Umm” into my ear.

It was maybe a few days after that that I told my boyfriend it was over. It happened right before I had to leave for work and although it was what I wanted to do and knew in my heart it was the right thing I was still sad (hey…breaking up is hard to do).

I wasn’t expecting to see Mr. Red at work. I could’ve sworn he told me Sundays were his day off. But a few hours into my shift I hear a familiar voice behind me advising me that “crack kills” (2006 was officially the year of the butt crack). I turn around, instantly out of my funk, to see my tall, lanky albino-looking crush. I jump up to hug him. He asks me to lunch. And so it begins.

It was a whirlwind romance. Lunch turned into walking to the train together after work, which turned into more lunch which, eventually turned into an exchange of numbers and a drink after work.

I wasn’t expecting the kiss, he seemed the cautious, take-it-slow type. But I sure did enjoy it.

Kiss led to more kisses which led promptly to feel-and-grope. We were hanging out practically every night and having a blast at that. I hadn’t been so attracted to someone in a long time.

I hadn’t had this type of we- really- enjoy- each- others’- company- so- fuck- the- bullshit- and- the- drama fun in an even longer time.

I was smitten, and at the same time trying desperately to hold onto my panties for a respectable amount of time. See I kind of had this four week rule thing. I’m an adult woman, very comfortable with myself and my sexuality, but let’s be real. We all know you don’t give it up too soon if you want him to stick around for awhile (although there are exceptions, I gave it up to my current boyfriend pretty quickly and I can’t seem to get rid of him for the life of me).

It wasn’t easy. My coochie throbbed and practically screamed at me when he walked by, wept when he smiled. And boy I tell you, when my girl down there wants something, she makes it very difficult to ignore her.

I didn’t make it to four weeks. To his credit he was patient. But in the end, my fingers just weren’t doing it. So we fucked. It was tricky. I was living at my mom’s at the time (incidentally this experience made me realize I’d gotten too comfortable and stayed home too long, much longer than I’d planned and I got my own place soon thereafter). It was late at night. We had to be quiet. I felt like a fucking teenager. He was huge. It felt great. It was over too quickly (out of necessity). I was falling.

It’s a couple of weeks later and we were still having lunch together almost everyday. Whenever the opportunity arose, we had fabulous sex. He didn’t seem like he was trying to hide me at work. He’d even slipped up once and said the “L” word in half joking manner (which puzzled me for days and so I finally just asked him if he was joking… he said he wasn’t).

And then things changed.

I had purposely played cool and avoided the whole where-is-this-going line of questioning; partly because I was on the rebound, partly because more often than not that question is a jinx and mostly because I was just enjoying him and us too much and didn’t want to talk the relationship to death. But I realized that by asking him what he meant about the “L” word, I’d showed my hand too early (ah the games we play).

He had cause to be slightly unsure of me before that but after he knew he had me right where we wanted me. And then he began to flake. The visits became less frequent, the lunches rarely happened, phonecalles went unanswered and unreturned, smiles and hugs were strictly rationed.

I was sad.

I really liked this kid and I thought we really had something. I tried not to get too bummed about it but it just seemed to be coming to an end all too quickly. And I let it. I’m not one to put up a fight if someone is drifting from me.

Futile.

The time’s better spent finding out who’s waiting in the wings. But I still think of him fondly and wish he’d call sometime.

Not long after the “break up” he’d gotten fired (karma?) for excessive lateness. People have told me since that he’s been to visit several time and that he’s asked for me. It seems I’m never there though.

Today when I was leaving work, I caught glimpse of a tall, lanky, lightly colored man. My heart sped and I walked toward him to get a better look.

It wasn’t him.

And then not even a block away, I see another tall, lanky Mr. Red look alike.

Look alike though, not Mr. Red.

I smiled though, remebering the good times.

Maybe missing him gave me deja vu.