I ended my Saturday night/Sunday morning adventures in Crocker's car, listening to him talk about true love as the rain fell. I wanted to kiss him. He knew that, I think. But that's not how he feels about me. So he let me walk to my car, reminded of why I used to really like him.
He'd been to a family funeral, and he was reminded through it of how his family is filled with examples of lasting matrimony.
I saw him out at the bar. He was driving me back to my car when he started talking about it.
In the parking lot, he called himself the marrying kind. He said that, when he's in his 30s, he hopes to meet a guy who, despite his age, has a childlike enthusiasm. Crocker wants a repoire with someone, the ability to talk to them naturally. Like he does with his best friend.
I like Crocker, and I like running into him at the bar. And tonight he introduced me to his best friend, someone he's told me about before.
"We've met," I said when I looked at his friend, Accent Guy. "He pinned me up against a wall once."
Accent Guy confirmed this. A couple months ago, Accent Guy had me against a rail for a couple minutes, feeling me to see if I had an erection. It was amusing, but I didn't let it go anywhere.
So the guy I once had a crush on kept praising endlessly someone he felt a real connection with, a guy who'd pinned me against a wall once who I wiggled myself away from.
There was something sorta frustrating about that.
Equally frustrating was sitting in that car with Crocker, wondering how much good and bad behavior I could actually get away with. The "friend" part of our relationship made me want to stay in the car, listening to him as he talked his way out of the funeral state-of-mind and on to happier aspects of life. The fact that he was being eloquent about love appealed to the "writer" part of me, making me want to hear how he defined true love and what the examples of it in his life were.
And there was part of me that wondered if it was cool to be irresponsible and try to fuck him in the car. Or, at least, persuade him to take me home with him.
And, realizing that was uncool of me to think about, I started to bemoan the fact that I appear attracted to the most conscientious of homosexuals. The talkers, the thinkers, the whiners and the ones who, thanks to therapy, don't make the mistakes they used to make.
I wanted him to kiss me. Just because I wanted to be kissed. And he was there. And I was there. And it was raining. And he's cute, and I'm cute. Dammit. Why can't we do first and think about it later?
There are still people who do that, right? They just don't do it with me, right?
The last part of me knew that I should just get out of the goddamn car because it's fruitless to listen to Crocker talk about love ... because I used to want Crocker to love me. I'm a glutton for punishment and a schmuck, though, so I didn't get out of the car ... or I'm a hopeful romantic open to the possibility of a changed heart and a changed mind so I didn't get out of the car.
I should've gotten out of the car.
*****
I once went home with a guy from a Christmas party a couple years ago. He took me back to his place. We were hot and heavy, making out, taking off each other's clothes. And then he said it.
"I don't want to have sex," he said. "Can you just hold me until I go to sleep?"
Motherfucker.
*****
Actually, there was something weird about this whole day.
I told Ron, when we went out that afternoon for drinks at Cafe Tu Tu Tango, that I was looking for a guy worth cleaning my apartment for, and I was sad to say that he wasn't the guy.
Of course, I didn't mean it like that. I mean, Ron's happily married, thank you very much, and I'm not that kind of girl.
But I was trying to explain why Ron has yet to see the inside of my apartment.
I have no time to clean it because I'm always working at one of the two jobs. And, on the rarest of occasions when I have a day off - as I did on Saturday, I don't feel like cleaning my apartment.
I feel like seeing my friends, like watching a DVD of "Sex and the City" that I purchased. I feel like vegging out, essentially.
But, in the meantime, I'm thinking that I don't take very good care of myself, my stuff or my "hobbies" like writing and reading.
I tend to write at 2 in the morning. I tend to read only when I'm about to go to sleep. I tend to think that I thrive in the middle of chaos, only because I don't choose to live any way that isn't chaotic.
It's my own damn fault, but my argument's reasonable.
I told Ron that I'm the guy who's worth cleaning my apartment for.
And that's an awfully good sentiment and would make for a perfectly happy ending on a schmaltzy piece of writing. But I don't buy it because ... I'm not cleaning. I'm not taking care of myself. I'm not leaving the job I hate. I'm not writing in the daytime. I'm not stretching. I'm not moving. I'm thinking and not doing.
And I don't stop it.
*****
Why don't I just write a damn book? I say I want to. I know it won't completely suck if I do it.
Because it's easier, at this point, to be unfulfilled potential.
And I'm scared. And my mom would get mad at me. And I'd fail. Maybe over and over. And I might not like it. And I might.
The whole thing's scary. Failure's scary. Success is scary.
But what am I doing by waiting? It's still painful and annoying sometimes.
Would it be better pain or less annoying annoyance to actually fail at doing what I say I want to do?
*****
Ron and I left Cafe Tu Tu Tango and walked around Piedmont Park for a couple hours, enjoying the site during its 100th anniversary celebration.
I like the park. I like creating "Woody Allen movie" moments there, where you have the overly brainy, analytical talks amongst scenic landmarks.
I told Ron about the latest happenings with Poli Sci Guy at work.
I was about to actually ask Poli Sci Guy - hands down - if he was gay, politics be damned. Poli Sci Guy, sensing the direction of my question, made up an excuse and - get this - RAN AWAY from me before I asked him.
Which means he's not gay. Or he is and he's not ready to deal with it. Or he's just not mature.
Which means that my crush, regardless of Poli Sci Guy's sexuality, is over. Because I don't have means or time to deal with any of those possibilities.
Hearing this, Ron told me that you don't find love when you're looking for it.
"I'm not looking for it," I told him. "I ... just ... want ... a ... date. I feel like I haven't been on a really good date in ages."
The last date I went on actually spoke to me about skinning people alive and the upsides of genocide. What is it about me and date-chat that leads people to speak of human skinning?
(As an aside, I actually think the last good date I went on was with Crocker in goddamn 2000. We went to Zocalo, and he shared my soup. But that didn't turn into anything. I didn't make this realization, of course, before seeing Crocker at random in the bar that night. Which was probably part of the reason why I didn't get out of the car when Crocker was talking.)
Ron and I walked into the park until our buzzes were gone and we'd seen all the cute shirtless boys.
It was a hot, kinda magnificent day for me.
But it's getting harder to hear dating advice.
*****
I saw "Saved!" by myself on Saturday night before heading out to the bar.
It was funny and occasionally smart, and it had a gay vibe to it.
When I left it, wandering through the crowd filled with cute guys, I had this weird urge. I wanted to kiss someone. Not someone specific.
I just wanted one of those Hollywood kiss moments, the moment where I'm the protagonist and, for some reason, other friends of mine and spectators are invested momentarily in whether I get kissed, whether I make good, whether I fall in love.
I want to be the one with the boyfriend people actually know about and don't mock me over. I want to be one-half of a "Look at how happy they are ..." moment.
I want to feel what that's like. To be in love and to share it, not just with one person - but with all of your friends in a way that's congratulatory.
It's self-indulgent. But it's true.
Look at him. Look at them. Look at how happy he is. He deserves it. He's worked for it. Really.
Because I feared it might be wrong to feel that way, actually, I ended up at the bar. Not to meet a guy.
I wanted a talking-to from Michael the Bartender about how it's all right to be alone.
*****
Michael the Bartender was there, of course, but he was too busy to give me a decent talking-to.
"I need you to lecture me," I said.
"Why?" he asked me.
"Because I was feeling lonely," I explained.
"Huh?" he said. "Why were you feeling lonely?"
Then, I said it, understanding what was bugging me was a phase, "Eh. You know, it just happens sometimes."
Even people in relationships get lonely, after all. You cope. No big deal.
So Michael the Bartender didn't give me a talking-to.
And I was sitting there at the bar, finishing my bottled water.
And Accent Guy walked past my barstool, and I stopped him.
"Hey," I said to Accent Guy. "Do you have an accent?"
"Yes," he said, stopping and smiling at me.
"I thought that was you," I said. "You pinned me against a wall a couple weeks ago."
"Really?" he asked. "I don't remember that. But your face looks familiar."
"I'd have been offended if it didn't," I said to him. "Or are you not usually facing the men you pin against a wall?"
He laughed and touched me on the knee. And I did my bitchy flirt thing.
He called me cute and thanked me for stopping him before walking back to his friends.
I looked over at them now and then for a couple minutes, and then I recognized the back of Crocker's head.
I went over, said hello to Crocker and got reintroduced to Accent Guy, who it turns out is the guy Crocker used to mention to me all the time.
"We've met," I said when introduced.
Accent Guy smiled.
*****
Depending upon who had to go get more drinks or who had to go to the bathroom, I learned more than I wanted to know about the dynamics of my crush Crocker's relationship with Accent Guy.
When Accent Guy went to the bathroom, Crocker actually asked me if I, as a casual observer, had ever seen him behave so naturally around anyone else in my life.
"I mean, you saw me," Crocker said to me. "I never converse like that with anyone. Usually, I have to think about everything I say."
"Well, um ...," I said, going someplace I shouldn't have gone. "I ... always thought you were able to talk to me."
"Well, no," Crocker said, opening a wound I thought had healed long ago and probably should have. "It's different with you."
When Accent Guy came back, I excused myself for a moment and went back to Michael the Bartender.
Accent Guy and Crocker, after a bit, told me to join them upstairs when I finished my chat with Michael, who was also talking to his former co-worker Danny and another bloke at the bar.
Danny, who's cute, a little queeny and also used to bartend there, told me I looked familiar. He mentioned that we'd met at the bar before. And he started to mention names of people that I've supposedly met but didn't remember.
When Accent Guy and Crocker were safely away, I shook off all my hang-ups about them, pounded my fists on the bar a couple times and proceeded to audibly bitch for about a minute about how weird the whole damn thing was.
My old crush, as I've said, is keen on someone I, for the most part, rejected when he had me against a wall. And my old crush is confiding in me about it.
Seeing my fit, Michael laughed. Danny told me that he felt where I was coming from and high-fived me.
Then I vented some more to Danny, Michael and the other guy.
And Danny looked at me in just a certain way. And his look sent a pang of memory from the back of my brain.
"I've kissed you ... ," I said to Danny, remembering.
"Yeah," Danny said.
"It was a couple years ago at the bar," I said. "I was here with friends of mine, and you talked to me. And I kissed you."
"I remembered you when you walked up," Danny said to me.
"You didn't have the goatee then," I said to him.
"Yeah, and I probably had blond hair," he said.
I smiled, remembering the night that I felt the bartender only kissed me to make me feel better.
"My friends told me that night, after I considered waiting on you, that you probably did that a lot," I said.
I was asking myself internally, Was it them that said it or me being glass-is-half-empty?, while Danny looked at me offended.
"You tell your FRIENDS, the next time you see them, that I did NOT do that with everyone," Danny said to me. "I'm NOT like that."
"Yeah, I can tell," I said. "You remembered me, after all."
"Of course I remembered you," Danny said to me.
Before Danny had gone home for the night, he'd hugged me again, advised me again, made me feel better about myself again ... and, yes, he kissed me again. In a friend way.
And he told me he'd be at the bar on Wednesday, when I think I'm working.
Looking back on it, I think I ended up in the wrong guy's car.
*****
Crocker was upstairs hitting on a guy in atrocious shoes and a bad hat when I got upstairs, and Accent Guy was trying to use French to talk him out of it.
"Ne jolie pas," I attempted to add in. "Un mauvais chien."
Accent Guy, thankfully, knows better French than that. So does Crocker.
Breaking Crocker away from the guy in bad shoes, Accent Guy pulled him and me into a huddle. Then, he proceeded to badmouth the guy.
And I, for some reason, used the huddle - which had pushed me up against a wall, mind you - to grind subtly into Accent Guy. Which he noticed. And Crocker didn't.
For some reason, it felt like a bitchy, Aaron Spelling-type advantage I had. It was completely shallow, of course. And I wanted to keep it.
Eventually, I left them, heading back downstairs to Michael, and let them have a deep conversation.
But, at last call, I walked out with Crocker and Accent Guy.
It was raining hard.
After Accent Guy jumped into his car, saying goodnight to us, I walked with Crocker.
"I parked over the bridge," I let him know.
"Would you like a ride to your car?," he asked me.
"Yeah, thanks," I said.
And he proceeded to talk to me about the funeral he'd attended. And what it taught him about true love.
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