the guy from work

So, after my previous experiences with the scientologist, i decided to play it safe and try to date someone "normal" in just the way that "normal" people supposedly do these things.

i have worked sporadically at a clothing company doing various jobs over the years, and in that time i have developed many acquaintances with the other young ladies who work there. of course, we like to gossip about guys and relationships, and keep each other posted on our latest romance drama. and of course, they knew all about my tragic break-up.

admittedly i was pretty unhappy during that time, and it was noticeable. one girl who sympathized with my plight decided to come to my aid and do what any good girlfriend would do in these circumstances - she tried to cheer me up by distracting me. 'Hey, so there is this guy who we just hired to do the company website, and he's kinda cute. He seems like the kind of guy you might like; he's into music and going to shows...he's nice and older (i.e., 33) and he has a job, it might be good for a date at least. Either way, you guys should meet.'

I perked up and thought, why not? After all, I did need to venture into the world of late-20s dating and get on with my life, right? What better way to do that than a good old-fashioned ground attack on the nearest available target? I figured I'd give it a try.

Here is the scheme we cooked up: He worked from home, and so materials would often have to be shuffled back and forth between his apartment and our studio. We worked it out so that I would be the one to drop off some stuff at his house one day, since it was on my way home. That way I could suss the situation out in the guise of 'official business.' I even called him first and let him know that this was what was going to happen, just so I could hear his voice and assess his general tone.

Our meeting went really well. I managed to ensconce myself in his apartment for about 45 minutes, and chat him up in my characteristic fashion. Oh I suppose it goes without saying that I did think he was cute, and it turned out that he was pretty nice too. We talked about what we did, and music we liked, and bars we frequented, etc. When I left, I was a little bit excited.

If I recall correctly, I went by his place to drop stuff off on one other occasion, and after chatting for a bit, I just went for it. 'You know if you want we should get a drink sometime or something.' Dear jesus, I hate to show my hand like that, but sometimes you just have to risk it. He said sure thing, and a few days later we were meeting for drinks at the Bounty.

We had a nice time, we talked about where we were from and all that good date stuff, and we got a bit drunk. We went back to his house and hung out for a bit longer. I thought maybe I'd get a kiss but, alas, no go. It was a bit disappointing, but I shrugged it off because it had been so long since I'd been with a nice guy that I thought this was how things were supposed to be, and that I was supposed to find this endearing and respectful. Remember, I was trying to act normal and play by the book here.

We had another date shortly after this, and he decided we should go to the movies. I was all geared up about getting to make out in the back of a movie theater and relive some titillating teenage thrill. Apparently that really only happens IN movies if you aren't a teenager, but I didn't know that at the time. He didn't touch me or look at me during the entire film (thank god it was actually a great movie!), and, no, we didn't sit anywhere near the back. Afterwards I was slightly dejected, but I still wasn't about to be thwarted in my efforts, so I took another risk. 'So, what do you wanna do now? Should we go somewhere?' This was his response: "Um, I guess I can walk you to your car..." My heart sank a little, well, a lot, and I conceded defeat. I let him walk me to my car, and after some awkward banter, he gave me what I now refer to as the 'kiss of death.' Its that fish-lipped peck that guys give you when they never want to see you again, the physical equivalent of an 'I'll call you later' when you know they never will, and sadly, it will be making another appearance in a future installment of this little chronicle of mine.

Now I was enraged. It was just after 10pm and I was back at home, all dressed up and pacing around, yelling at my roommate. 'Don't I look cute tonite?...Well then, what the fuck am I doing back here already??' Needless to say, it wasn't pretty.

I went to work and reported the unfortunate news to the girls. It turns out that my friend who had suggested the match had also done a little digging of her own in the meantime, and had found out there was a recent ex-girlfriend, whom we could only assume was still in the picture, since he bought a bunch of clothes from us shortly after all this. For my part, I signalled my extreme disapproval of him by drawing big sad faces on the invoices we sent to him, and by flatly ignoring him whenever he came in. Oh yes, and if his name were ever mentioned, I would respond with what I considered a requisite groan and eye-rolling. It was all sort of an overblown performance that made me feel better, and after awhile it just got funny. I think at some point long afterward we even managed to exchange some polite words.

I guess what turned out to be the most "normal" aspect of the entire experience was the feeling of disappointment it inspired in me. I didn't understand what possible reason there could be for this guy not wanting to at least hook up with me, even if there was some lingering ex. On a related note, I was also starting to think that trying to date older guys was not as great an idea as I had thought - they all seemed to be damaged goods of one kind or another. In the end though, I was thankful, thankful that I hadn't actually gone down that mundane and sticky road of dating someone 'normal' guy I met at work. It just never would have worked for me.

the scientologist

Well, I've got to begin somewhere, and in some ways this is as good a place to start as any. That's because this was my first encounter with the opposite sex after the earth-shattering mid-twenties break-up I had set in motion in my life four months earlier. Given that disclaimer, I only hope you can sympathize with the less-than-ideal decision-making abilities I display in the following little vignette, and do your best never to imitate them.

After a night of dancing, I ended up at the apartment of some 'friends' of new friends I'd been out with. Actually it was the apartment of two mid-thirties hollywood dudes, and the one who I ended up hooking up with introduced himself mostly by way of making out with my friends in a nonchalant and random spin-the-bottle fashion (read: sober), all the while taking poloroids of each encounter and presenting it to the lucky girl of the moment as an evidentiary momento. I was not so blessed and was actually rather annoyed by his clowning, or so I thought, but as it turned out, in a dysphoric spate of destructive curiosity brought on by my lonliness and my drunkenness, I was compelled to accompany him to the garage to 'fuck around with the pool heating' upon being summoned to do so.

What happened next is easy enough to piece together without my adding that it involved a dress pushed up in a very underemployed elevator. It was over before i knew it, and it felt pretty gross. But it sort of suited the low place I was at during that time, and so I liked it. In fact, I apparently liked it so much that i did it again, on two other occasions.

I've never really been sure what the term 'hate-fucking' refers to, especially when it is used by a guy, and while I'm still not sure about its Webster's definition, I can say that my experience in this particular instance has forever imbued it with its own special meaning in my life. To put it concisely, in my world hate-fucking is an enactment of desire that derives from despair and self-loathing. I know that sounds all scary and psychobable, but let us look at some of the details characterizing this fateful pairing, and it will soon become clear how unsavory it actually was.

First of all, he sucked. He took himself very seriously, and as you can imagine, it seriously sucked. I am not saying this just to be an asshole; it happens simply to be true (and highly convenient). He was a scientologist, a born-and-raised angeleno trust-fund type with a navel piercing, and (of course) a serious and inspired artist who painted, played music and acted with all the mediocrity of an entitled white kid, while working some lame day job. In other words, quite the phenom, or hadn't you already heard? During sex he would give me 'tips' in a dry matter-of-fact tone, such as "You should do this with your mouth when I kiss you" or "When I say 'Do you like that?', you should say 'Oh yeah bay-bee'." It was really creepy and of course, I wouldn't go along anything, just to be antagonistic and retain my sense of self. It also had the effect of making me truly hate him. However, let the record show that I also broke my own cardinal rule by hooking up with him, which is do not do ANYTHING with a guy if you are not really attracted to him, either in looks or personality (Why bother?). And this made me hate myself even more than I hated him. Yet somehow the ironic appropriateness of it all was completely satisfactory in its unsatisfactoriness, at least for a moment. I felt like I was getting just what I deserved and that actually felt good. This interaction had been a pathological panacea for my masochistic tendencies, and in that way it served its purpose, though I must admit I quickly shook him off and moved on. After all, the ego always has to triumph and gross is only hot for so long....

To this day, when I see this guy I pretend I don't know him. Thankfully, most of the time he doesn't recognize me.