Bad Investments
I met the German while there was still snow on the ground. Like all great artists, my highly creative dating life is sorted into different thematic periods. This was in my aviation period. I wasn’t dating jet-setters, pilots or Hermes, I had the unfortunate habit of meeting flight attendants everywhere I went. So when the German, manager of a major airline in the Midwest, finally appeared it was a welcome break from the 15 days a month romance I was accustomed to. The German had all the charm and wit of a working gay man in his forties, he drove a nice car and had a beautiful sweet dog named Libby. His apartment was on north Marine drive in the quiet tree-lined Buena Park. He had the looks the location and the love handles that I had grown to appreciate in older men. For some reason it was easy enough to ignore the alarming fact that he was twenty five years older because he had that one trait that was more important than any other in a man: he called me handsome.
I was dating the German off and on for a few months. He never seemed to be around enough for things to escalate. The cycle went a bit like this: we saw each other once early in the week had amazing sex as many as three times before falling asleep and then we woke up early together and had coffee. Then I’d see him later in the week and his libido would be gone and if I went in for a kiss it was a closed-mouth one. Even though the German was located in Chicago his schedule kept him busy most days so I only saw him in those monthly couplets. Sonnets were written in couplets and those were always romantic, maybe the distance was romantic liberty.
This caused an unusual spike in text messages and peak hour phone calls. Our connection was possible because of the telecommunications era, a time in which all gods were dead all wars were fought and all calls were dropped. Internet dating was at an all time high, black out zones were around every corner and through every subway, accessibility was through the roof and etiquette was six feet under. I knew the German was keeping his distance, but in a cellular-driven romance how can you tell if you’re getting mixed signals or just bad reception?
I finally confronted him on the distance. I needed to know if this thing was going anywhere, were we just going through a black out zone or was the connection going to stay bad? Either way the bars were low and I was ready to drop this call. I asked the question that men hate it when you ask, “Is this going anywhere? Because I have to be honest, I can’t really tell what your intentions are.” Then, like most men when confronted with the idea of commitment he rolled over and tried to go to sleep. When I tried to kiss him he simply said,
“We’re not going to have sex tonight.” There was no static in that statement. I heard him loud and clear and I knew that this was over. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and finally got up and put my clothes back on. “Where are you going” he asked. And I had to tell him that I’ve done this before. I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve been the boy on the side, the boy of the other side, the boy on top and the boy on bottom. I was ready to be the boy front and center. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of introducing myself over and over and over again, repeating the same scripted first date dialogue. I’ve passed the sexually liberated years of promiscuous anonymous one night stands, and I’ve done the dating game to death. I wanted a boyfriend. I remembered what love was with the teacher, how comfortable it felt. That would have been nice.
And I remembered how the lumberjack made me feel. I remembered that when I saw Woodchuck’s face I got excited and his face was the only face I thought about and when I saw that face it made me so happy because I could kiss it and nobody else could kiss it and when I was around that face all I wanted to do was kiss it. All I had to do was look over and the sight of him excited me. Love is one thing, and excitement is something entirely different. Woodchuck filled me with energy and I haven’t felt that energy since I was with him. What I needed was a recharge, and the German was nothing more than a dead battery.
The German simply rolled over in bed and said, “I’m not looking for a relationship right now. And besides, you’re too young for me anyway.” Too young? This was something new to me. Too young for what? I wasn’t too young for him to take on dates. I wasn’t too young for him to kiss. I certainly wasn’t too young for him to have sex with. But I was too young to have feelings for? I was too young to be his boyfriend? Is there an age limit on that? It used to be that for men in their twenties a relationship was a novelty and for the men in their thirties and forties it was an investment. But now, men are investing younger and the older men are cashing in and starting over. It couldn’t be that I was too young, I was just making bad investments. I was gambling my feeling away on men that were already bankrupt for love. The younger men are all taken and the older men just want to stay single. It was a catch twenty-to-forty.
I’ve never been eco-friendly, but I do wholeheartedly believe in sustainability. Call it yahtzee, bingo, jackpot, black jack, or craps, I was ready for something to last.
I was dating the German off and on for a few months. He never seemed to be around enough for things to escalate. The cycle went a bit like this: we saw each other once early in the week had amazing sex as many as three times before falling asleep and then we woke up early together and had coffee. Then I’d see him later in the week and his libido would be gone and if I went in for a kiss it was a closed-mouth one. Even though the German was located in Chicago his schedule kept him busy most days so I only saw him in those monthly couplets. Sonnets were written in couplets and those were always romantic, maybe the distance was romantic liberty.
This caused an unusual spike in text messages and peak hour phone calls. Our connection was possible because of the telecommunications era, a time in which all gods were dead all wars were fought and all calls were dropped. Internet dating was at an all time high, black out zones were around every corner and through every subway, accessibility was through the roof and etiquette was six feet under. I knew the German was keeping his distance, but in a cellular-driven romance how can you tell if you’re getting mixed signals or just bad reception?
I finally confronted him on the distance. I needed to know if this thing was going anywhere, were we just going through a black out zone or was the connection going to stay bad? Either way the bars were low and I was ready to drop this call. I asked the question that men hate it when you ask, “Is this going anywhere? Because I have to be honest, I can’t really tell what your intentions are.” Then, like most men when confronted with the idea of commitment he rolled over and tried to go to sleep. When I tried to kiss him he simply said,
“We’re not going to have sex tonight.” There was no static in that statement. I heard him loud and clear and I knew that this was over. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and finally got up and put my clothes back on. “Where are you going” he asked. And I had to tell him that I’ve done this before. I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve been the boy on the side, the boy of the other side, the boy on top and the boy on bottom. I was ready to be the boy front and center. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of introducing myself over and over and over again, repeating the same scripted first date dialogue. I’ve passed the sexually liberated years of promiscuous anonymous one night stands, and I’ve done the dating game to death. I wanted a boyfriend. I remembered what love was with the teacher, how comfortable it felt. That would have been nice.
And I remembered how the lumberjack made me feel. I remembered that when I saw Woodchuck’s face I got excited and his face was the only face I thought about and when I saw that face it made me so happy because I could kiss it and nobody else could kiss it and when I was around that face all I wanted to do was kiss it. All I had to do was look over and the sight of him excited me. Love is one thing, and excitement is something entirely different. Woodchuck filled me with energy and I haven’t felt that energy since I was with him. What I needed was a recharge, and the German was nothing more than a dead battery.
The German simply rolled over in bed and said, “I’m not looking for a relationship right now. And besides, you’re too young for me anyway.” Too young? This was something new to me. Too young for what? I wasn’t too young for him to take on dates. I wasn’t too young for him to kiss. I certainly wasn’t too young for him to have sex with. But I was too young to have feelings for? I was too young to be his boyfriend? Is there an age limit on that? It used to be that for men in their twenties a relationship was a novelty and for the men in their thirties and forties it was an investment. But now, men are investing younger and the older men are cashing in and starting over. It couldn’t be that I was too young, I was just making bad investments. I was gambling my feeling away on men that were already bankrupt for love. The younger men are all taken and the older men just want to stay single. It was a catch twenty-to-forty.
I’ve never been eco-friendly, but I do wholeheartedly believe in sustainability. Call it yahtzee, bingo, jackpot, black jack, or craps, I was ready for something to last.