Going Down, Down For The Second Time

I just got in.

Today was the single worst realization-heavy day of my life. What the hell was I thinking??? Let me know, because clearly that inner-voice is starting to sound good right now.

So let me break it down quicktime because I am so tired.

Basically, my day started out none adventurous. Of course, I kept getting those stupid "can't wait" txts from Ricky, and well, Matt was really silent on the matter. You know how 'bi' guys do.

First up to bat: Ricky. 5'9'', not fat, NOT thin, blond (uhhh...), white German

Basically, I give him props because he found my apartment with no trouble, and actually managed to be facing my window when he looked up and saw me break my blinds as I was ruffling them to get his attention. So I get all cute: white graphic shirt, cardigan, skinny jeans, my all-stars...nothing too crazy. Well, can I tell you how Queen St. was introduced to A.E.

He was cute, but, right off the bat, I knew it wouldn't work. I was a defeatist. We grabbed Starbucks around the corner and basically just chilled out. Of course, I became detached and whatever about the whole situation, but I was trying to be cute nonetheless. We chilled and just did whatever. No big deal. After I had finished my HORRID Vanilla Bean Latte, I suggested we head over to the local dump-of-a-mall I hung out at when I was in high school. Nothing changed. Not in the mall, and not in our date or chemistry.

It went from hot to cold, good to bad. It was just blah.

So we cut it short and promised we'd chilled. I ended up getting home just in time for Tyra, and I had a turkey sandwich because my next date wasn't until 8.30PM.

I wasn't bummed about it, but I wasn't jumping for joy or sad it didn't work. I think he was a bottom anyway. Tant pis pour moi.

7.30PM rolls around and I'm naked on my bed doing some paper on the linguistic study of communication. Not even excited. I sort of knew what lay ahead, looking back. I get a txt:

"Let's make it 8.20...deal?"

Basically, I had no choice. He has pushed it back. Yay. Now maybe I could actually put some effort into this affair?

Next up to bat: Matt, 6'3'', nice manly thick body, black hair (yay dark features...), racial mut. Now we're talking...

So I walk up the stairs of the Royal Bank at Yonge and Bloor, and as I turn around from the ATM, there he is. I did something so crazy that I had never done with a guy. I hugged him. It was just an experiment, one that resulted in his iPod getting tangled on the buttons of my car coat. Thank God none of my fucking buttons fell off, or I would have been pissed.

After a sexy, but LOUD dinner at 7West, which was crazy expensive for some shit plate I could not afford, we headed over to some Irish pub, which gave me memories of Scottish guy (another story, for another time...). He didn't pay for my meal, FYI, and he begged me to get a $9 martini. Had I known the fucker was not gonna front me any cash...THE HELL.

Up to this point, nothing exciting happened. Either I was being boring, or he was being boring. But the most excitement we had (well, he had, I was scared) was a car crash at Wellsley and Yonge. It happened right before our very own eyes. Weird. Metaphor perhaps for the crash site this date had become?

At the pub, I got a txt-message from BiGuy: Come see me, where are you? Let's hang... He was clearly drunk. So I excused myself to the washroom and chatted with him for a bit in the stall. It was a strange sort of comfort in a way, my only solace from bad date number two.

But as I got back to the table, and sat down, I realized one thing. Looking off into the distance, it hit me. I was not looking for anyone...or anything. I was not having fun because I wasn't into it. Was I the one not into it? Or was it just the bad guys? But I realized I have no time to date losers like this who don't give me butterflies. As they say, and I believe, I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies. It was time to go home. I was sick of this horseshit and too excited to pretend anymore.

After we finished at the pub, we walked over to Bloor together. I was brushing against his shoulder. Smiling. The works. got nothing. I think the worst part up to this point was that I wasn't even buzzed.

As we said our goodbyes, we committed the cardinal sin and uttered the words of a failed date: It was fun, we should do this again, I'm sure I'll be seeing you.... I mean, does anyone ever really mean it when they say that.

As I pressed my body against his, and he hugged me tightly at Bloor Station, I knew I would never talk to him again.

And he smelled like Heineken...