Monthly Archives: June 2002

I am in trouble.

I wrote a charming e-mail in response to the planet out ad of a guy named L.R.; shockingly, I found myself able to forgive his not-quite-perfect grammar and spacing because of his favorable reference to TV psychic Miss Cleo and his use of the word “trend-mongering.” He wrote a charming e-mail in response to my charming e-mail mentioning, among other things, that if we met he would regale me with stories of a night of debauchery with the Go-Gos. I responded by saying that, though I had nothing nearly as glamorous as the Go-Gos to share, I could sing “Colors Of The Wind” from Pocahontas in French.

The problem is that he took me seriously and will expect me to do so.

Of course I can sing “Colors Of The Wind” in French; that’s not the issue. The issue is that the French version sucks. I mean, the French itself is fine, but the text-setting is terrible&#151:the rhymes all fall in the wrong places and the stresses are all on the wrong syllables.

So what if he thinks I think it’s good? Then he will believe I’m a loser who doesn’t even know proper French pronunciation. Do I give a disclaimer before I start? Do I just go really fast and hope he doesn’t notice?

I’m at a loss here.

I would greatly appreciate any advice you might be able to give me.

A close call this weekend. Sunday morning I foolishly said to E.S., “Hmm. My [insert body part of your choice] are a little sore.” He looked and said, “Well, you have a little bruise here and another little bruise here. Where’d you get those?”

I panicked. I could hardly say, “Oh, those are left over from when a stranger bit me at the orgy I went to on Thursday.”

Luckily I was able to divert his attention with pie (strawberry-rhubarb again), and by the time we were done eating it, I had managed to get dressed, thereby removing the bruises from sight and mind. Whew.

Mild-mannered neurotic by day, Slut Boy by night. It’s just all too exhausting.

Clearly what’s called for is a Golden Girls marathon.

Tonight I attended my first orgy.

My morals waved to the Whatchamacallit and Hands Across America as they passed them on the way down.

As soon as we started, I realized I had made a terrible, terrible mistake in deciding to attend. I am always miserable at any kind of party, because I am torn between interacting with the uncool people (on the one hand) to make sure they feel included and have a good time and interacting with the cool people (on the other hand) so I can pretend I’m not a huge loser dork. The end result is that my efforts to include the uncool people fail, because my heart really wants to be with the cool people, who ignore me, both because they see me hanging out with the uncool people and because they can tell in any case that I am a huge loser dork.

So imagine me in this situation with a bunch of naked men having sex.

It was just the worst thing ever.

Until the unthinkable happened—somehow I became one of the cool people. I’m not quite sure what I did to make this happen. (Well, actually, I have a pretty good idea what I did, but some veils are better left unlifted.) So I was able to include the uncool people in an actually meaningful way, since it wasn’t a huge loser dork who was trying to include them—this made me feel very virtuous, which was strange, given the circumstances—and yet I still got to luxuriate in the attention I got as one of the cool people. I feel loved. I can’t wait to start snubbing the uncool people because they wear the wrong clothes.

Though of course that wasn’t really an issue in this particular situation.

So after we had tried various things for about an hour and a half, we took a break for munchies. We talked about the following things: real estate, Buffy, and Disney. Gay, gay, gay.

Then we went and had more sex.

Except there was also drama. One of the guests, who arrived late, had gotten himself invited by pretending he wanted to come to the orgy, but when he got there it turned out that he was actually tracking his boyfriend to find out if he was being cheated on (which of course he was). They had a big fight and then made up and went home.

Also I have started knitting a hat, which is much more challenging than a scarf.

Today in McDonald’s I saw the following sign hanging below the menu:

SMILE GUARANTEE
If we do not SMILE before you pay, you get a FREE
Small French Fry or Hash Brown.
PLEASE PLAY! ………….. TRY TO CATCH US!

This is a direct quote (I wrote it down) except that I’m actually not positive about the number of periods in between PLEASE PAY! and TRY TO CATCH US! I kept trying to count them—the woman at the register clearly thought I was a dangerous lunatic—but there was something sinister and mesmerizing about the periods that caused me to lose count every time I got past three.

Now I can never go to McDonald’s again, for fear that an employee subjected to such degradation will have brought a gun to work and will start shooting while I am there.

In perhaps less terrifying news, I have been reviewed! Wendy, thank you, whoever you are. Would that you were a gay man so that I could obsess neurotically about you and fall in love with you and then meet you and be completely disappointed and disillusioned.

This afternoon I went on a date with a guy I met through planet out. He sent me a very funny e-mail that contained no grammatical errors, so I had high hopes. The first several minutes went well—he was cute and smart and possibly funny (I couldn’t quite tell but there were promising glimmers). Then he mispronounced the word “cache”.

I wish I could let it not matter, but it ruined everything.

Then I went with some friends to see Unfaithful, which made me so tense and unhappy that about halfway through I started knitting. Then I dropped a stitch and couldn’t see to pick it up, so I had to stop; having nothing else to pay attention to, I was forced, cringing in discomfort and terror, to watch the movie. If only I had thought to put my eyes out with my knitting needles. And my eardrums.

Tonight I had my first three-way. I predict that my ever-sinking morals will eventually come to rest 20,000 leagues under the sea, where they will be lost forever, along with the Whatchamacallit candy bar and the reason we ever thought Hands Across America was a good idea.

And, to make matters worse, the loss preventionist from the subway called me. Instead of getting his phone number and deceitfully saying I’d call him back, never intending to do so, I deceitfully told him I was on my way out the door and that he should call me tomorrow.

This means that I now can’t pick up my phone for at least a week.

Luckily, though, I’m moving at the end of the month, at which point he can call my phone number all he wants, and it won’t do him any good, because I won’t be there anymore.

On the plus side of things, I am making a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

For those of you who are wondering (I am perhaps being optimistic in thinking that anybody cares) about where the eponymous search for love is in the midst of all this depraved sex, let me assure you that it is still going strong. The sex, like all the pies, is just a way to while away the time. (What I really mean: if you are reading this and thinking that you would date me if I weren’t such a slut, please know that when I’m in a relationship, I am totally monogamous.)

(Forgive me for being unamusing, but in the battle between pride and neurosis, neurosis wins hands down every time.)

The other day I was on the subway, reading The Gay and Lesbian Book of Horror Stories (when I bought it, I hoped it would be things like boys waking up and finding everything in their wardrobe had turned to plaid, but, alas, no such luck—it was stupid stories about double bass-playing lesbians and ghosts of concentration camp survivors) and a guy sitting across from me tried to pick me up. I tried to ignore him, because he was SO not my type (though from reading the entries I’ve written in this blog so far, one could understandably think that my type is “breathing”), but he foiled my attempts by sitting down next to me and forcing me to have a conversation with him. He said he worked at Talbot’s in loss prevention. Unfortunately he seems to have interpreted my speechlessness at the existence of this euphemism as encouragement to continue hitting on me.

I thought I would be able to lose him when I transferred to the 1/9 at 42nd Street, but my hopes were dashed when he got out there too. I stood there in mortal agony, trying to end our conversation. Finally I saw an opportunity to extricate myself, make good my escape, and never see him again.

So, naturally, I gave him my phone number instead.

Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

On Sunday I had sex with a Scottish guy who kept using the word “pussy.” As in, “Show me your pussy, boy.” Or, “I’m gonna fuck that pussy.”

By the time we were done, he had said “pussy” 47 times. I counted.

Do they not teach basic anatomy in Scotland?

Thursday I went on a date with a guy named R.D. He was cute AND smart AND funny. So of course he didn’t like me. I would quote my friendly e-mail to him and his distant response here, but it would just be too boring and depressing.

Maybe I shouldn’t have talked for quite so long about my fantasies of coating my enemies’ paperwork with anthrax.