Allow me to preface my second-ever blog post by saying that I’m already a little addicted. The more I read about the lives of strangers, the more I’m overcome with the kind of concern and fascination I usually reserve for myself and the Kardashians. This could be dangerous. I can see myself a year from now wearing the same pajamas for days at a time, laying in bed — MacBook on lap — and rapidly gaining weight while living only vicariously through the blogosphere as I guzzle half-melted Ben & Jerry’s pints and eventually have to be removed from my bedroom via crane.
Then I remember that blogging is two-sided and if I want people to read about my life, it would help to have one. Which brings us to this past weekend.
- Note: all names mentioned herein have been changed to protect privacy.
In my inaugural post, I half-seriously mentioned something about “exhausting Nashville’s two gay bars.” I half-ended up at one of said bars at about 10:00 pm on Friday night.
The last time I went to this establishment, I was approached by and spent two hours in conversation with Brian — an attractive and charismatic black thirtysomething contractor in town for 24 hours on business. Eventually we were making out in a dark hallway in the back of the bar when he tried to get me to go back to his hotel room.
Enter my puritanical inhibitions. While promiscuity is as natural for most gay men as, say, listening to Madonna or breathing, I am cursed with what I refer to out loud as “self-respect.” Really I’m just too insecure, prone to developing feelings, and — most of all — deathly afraid of any and all STD’s. I blame my Connecticut education and Google Images.
I tried to drunkenly convey my concerns to Brian. He assured me he was clean and equipped with protection. Still, I was apprehensive. To my surprise, he was super understanding and offered a completely-on-my-own-terms hookup, saying we can do as much as I’m comfortable with and nothing more. In the heat of the moment, I said no — opting instead to go home and eat a Fiber One bar while watching Chelsea Lately interviews on Youtube and Googling ex-boyfriends.
I’m so used to saying no in these situations that he probably could have offered to Saran-wrap his entire body before it came into any contact whatsoever with mine — and I still would’ve declined just out of comfort.
Back to Friday.
This time around, I decided that I needed to be more open-minded. Along comes Martin — a forty-year-old UPS driver who lives here in Nashville. I had previously sworn off much older men after a debacle in 2008 involving a ridiculous ex named Jose, but Martin had it goin’ on. Masculine, tan, in better physical shape at 40 than I am at 23… generally tall, dark, and handsome.
- Sidenote: Martin’s real-life first name is actually the same as my dad’s. God’s sense of humor disturbs me.
Our conversation was filled with just the right amount of intellect and inappropriateness. After sharing that he donates to charity and plays in a rugby league on the weekends, I was pretty much ready to introduce him to my entire extended family. And/or bear his children.
We made out a little, manhandled each other, and exchanged numbers. Despite the intense physical chemistry, there was no one-night-stand pressure. It was wonderful. Now, three days later, a big part of me really wants to see him again… if only I could find a way to reconcile my coital needs with my previously-mentioned neuroses.
I texted my best friend Felicity to get her advice:
ME: I made out with a hot older man the other night. I think I may give him my flower if we ever meet again.
FELICITY: Keep calling it your flower and no one is ever gonna take it.
Not helpful, but this is why we’re friends. Major props to anyone who gets the 90’s sitcom reference!
In any case, the sad truth is that it may be ultimately impossible for me to sleep with Martin in a way that I could ever be completely comfortable with. I’m the kind of square whose prerequisites for rolling around naked in bed with someone include things like being in a committed relationship. And I’m fully aware that I could never have that with someone who:
- Lives 900 miles away
- Is almost 20 years older than me
- Responds to my texts of “What are you up to tonight?” with “supposed to go to a bday party.. unless u want sex.”
Yes, please! If only.