Typically narcissistic blogging.

Posts tagged “flirting

Whiskeypants, on Dating

I

There’s this woman, with whom I have almost become acquainted. Almost. By that, I mean I have spoken to her, once. Sorta. I don’t actually know how drunk I was when I managed to get those words out, but the fact that enough whiskey had been consumed for me to talk to her suggests…very.

The thing is, I find her so mindbogglingly hot I cannot bring myself to talk to her. I cannot even look her in the eyes. When our eyes do by some accident meet, I feel like I’ve been knocked on my ass, and every last bit of the clever snarkiness you expect from me vanishes. Gone. Poof. So, you know. It totally makes sense that I don’t let myself within five feet of her.tumblr_inline_mzciw327KL1rup8k6

 

II

There’s this woman I’ve known for some time, now. She’s ridiculous; talented; brilliant; strange. I love looking her in the eyes; her eyes are so expressive, they practically have their own vocabulary. I am certain I can never tell her this, or how beautiful I think she is.

cat-loves-dog

III

This is why people get cats.

 


Dear “Nice Guys”: The Friendzone is a Lie

Friendzoning.

It’s all over the internet. On blogs. On Twitter. People bitch about it on Facebook. As you can see on this informative Tumblr, it’s all over OKCupid.

It’s bullshit.

There is this whole idea that, just because a dude is nice to a girl she should want to fuck him. It’s an inherently misogynist perspective on what it means to be friends with a woman you want, but for whatever reason, cannot have. It implies that said woman owes you something for your kindness and friendship. Sorry “nice guys”, she doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing, and the friendzone is something made up by “nice guys” who would rather blame the girls around them for the fact that they are single than take a look at themselves. condewonkazone Why are those other guys getting the girls? It’s not because they are assholes. It’s because they go after what they want. It’s because they make themselves desirable—and I am not just talking about looks and money, I am talking about charm, wit, and a willingness to use them both when the times are right. I’m no looker, guys, and I am broke most of the time (hell, I spent two years way, way underemployed), but I have never had any problem convincing women to spend time with me. And I do this by virtue of 1. Humor and wit; 2. Intelligence and observation; 3. Not being a whiny little bitch who can’t take responsibility for my own shit; 4. The ability to say, “Hey, I totally dig you”; 5. The ability to accept it if the feeling is not returned.

So let me make something clear: You have NOT been friendzoned. You are a FRIEND. So, dude. Stop thinking with your dick and be a good friend. When your crush is telling you all about her relationship problems, don’t make it about you and whether she should be with you. If you must be narcissistic in the moment, then pay attention. You are learning what not to do in other relationships. Don’t decide that being an asshole is the answer. Don’t put that ridiculous bitterness all over the internet. It accomplishes nothing and—big surprise—makes you look like an asshole, and one that no woman is gonna want. Turns out, chicks don’t dig whiners. Weird, right?

If she doesn’t have romantic feelings about you, don’t whine about it. Your options are: 1. Decide you are cool being her friend and let go of the fantasy; 2. Let go of the friendship if you can’t let go of the fantasy (sticking around and pining isn’t going to change her mind about you, but moving on and growing will make you feel better and may help her see you in another light); or 3. Stick around doing the same old thing, pining and listening and wondering why she isn’t fucking you instead of that other dude when you are SOOO much nicer to her.

But dude, if you really think she owes you something because you have provided a willing ear, you are not a nice guy. If you really think she’s obligated to want to be with you just because you give her relationship advice and are always there for her, you are not a nice guy. If you think a girl should be something she isn’t just because you want her to be and you think you deserve it, you are not a nice guy. You are just a dude who needs to grow up and move on.  snape


Hierarchy of Breakup Methods

A handy reference for people who date other people.

 


…My Ridiculous Obsession With Love

I.

Eleven years ago, there was a person who believed in love more than anything else in the world. More than anything. Love mattered more than anything, and this person was willing to do anything to fight for it, earn it, hold it, nurture it and protect it.

Eleven years ago a fantastically silly movie arrived in theaters, and it was like it was tailor-made for this person. Because it put love on a pedestal and for 127 minutes the audience got to fall in love with love, and adore love, and worship love, and just fucking love love. Above all things, love.

Eleven years ago, this person—let’s call this person “Whiskeypants” for the sake of brevity and clarity—knew what love was. Whiskeypants knew all the facts about love. And how it worked. And how it was supposed to go. The more impatient among you may be tempted to suggest that Whiskeypants was an idiot, and that would be fair, but the more generous and tolerant may be thinking that maaaaybe this Whiskeypants person just had a lot to learn. A lot. A LOT to learn. Maybe. (Hint: YES. OMFG. A LOT.)

And as time passed, Whiskeypants did, in fact, learn. A lot. Fucked up. A lot. Loved a lot. Lost a lot. Lost more.

But never once lost faith in love. Until.

There’s always an “until” in these stories.

Until.

II.

I watched Moulin Rouge last night for the first time in…I don’t know. I don’t know how long it has been. And I found myself mourning that person with the enduring, unshakable faith in love and all it had to offer. And I don’t mean any kind of gentle, “awww, what the hell happened to my younger idealistic idiot self” mourning. I mean tears-running-down-my-face-wtf-happened-to-that-essential-core-belief-in-love kind of mourning.

In the last few years I let that Whiskeypants slip away, and I never went looking.

Tonight I pinpointed that moment when I let it happen. That moment when love—my faith in it, my belief in it—stopped being a factor. The moment when that part of me just…separated and went its own way.

And I…I just let it happen.

III.

Eleven years ago I stepped out of a movie theater, blinked my eyes against the sunlight and a world that seemed bleached of color. I felt stunned, I felt vindicated. I was pretty sure that getting on my bicycle and riding home was just going to be fucking impossible, so I went into the pub across the street, closed my eyes, nursed a beer, and loved love.

Eleven years ago I had a lot of necessary and painful lessons and experiences ahead of me. But losing that essential part of me, that love of love, should never have been one of them.

I never went looking.

I’m looking, now.


Puppies, Flowers, Happiness, and Light

So, not too long ago, I posted this status on Facebook: “In a weird turn of events, I might be about to start dating somebody who actually likes me.”

While to my delight this post received a surprisingly high number of “likes”, there was also some concern (both on Facebook and off) that if somebody were busy making me happy, this blog would become, as my friend Mike put it, “all fluffy bunnies and hearts.”

Gentle Readers, don’t worry

This fantastic, amazing girl may be making me pretty stupidly happy thus far, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a million things to be angry or frustrated about in the world. Privilege and privilege deniers still abound. Wall Street is still fucked up. The Republicans are still waging war against women, minorities, and the poor. The queer community in general is still comprised of second-class citizens in some way or another. Black kids are being murdered by racist fucks, who seem to be getting away with it. I remain constantly teetering on the edge of being unable to support myself. I still suck at guitar. I still work at two clubs. I still ride public transportation. I am still surrounded by other human beings because the stupid zombie apocalypse is late.

I could go on. But you get the point: This blog will never, ever be all fluffy bunnies and hearts. Or fluffy bunny hearts, because I want to keep the five or six readers I have.

I promise: if I have accidentally found actual romantic happiness, almost nothing will change here. The irritable snark is alive and well at terminallysnarky.com. And while I would find it extremely disappointing, this girl could always decide to dump me in some horrible way that includes kicking me in the shins and laughing while I’m down. It seems unlikely, but for those of you who are still worried about the potential for this blog’s descent into cheerful bliss, you can always hope for the worst.


Caring For Your Introvert

To my delight, this little placard has been making its slow way through Facebook and Twitter:

Designed by Becky of Questionably Late, from text taken from this.

I would like to have this little placard in card form, so that I might hand it to new friends and new lovers, since asking them to go Google introverts and INTJs is like saying, “Yeah, I’m awesome and everything, but I’m assigning you some homework before we go any further.” However, it has been made abundantly and repeatedly clear to me that such homework is actually necessary.

Three years of my life were spent in love with an extrovert, and if that taught me anything, it’s that extroverts make the social rules by default. They are the point of reference for how such things as social aptitude and behavior are measured. They are the people against whom introverts are measured, which is inherently unfair, but true.

Media enforces this. It’s the rare movie or television show that allows introverts to remain introverts; most paint it as a triumph when an introverted character is brought out of his or her introvert cocoon to become a beautiful extroverted butterfly. Introversion has become something that can and should be “cured,” somehow. It is often conflated with antisocial behavior, which is bullshit, because introverts are often very social beings. Just not within the same parameters as extroverts.

Thus, in order to make their way in the world, introverts must somehow meet the social expectations created by extroverts. If they don’t, they are often misunderstood and shunned. If they do, this means they are constantly functioning outside of their comfort zone, which just isn’t healthy. It’s exhausting, and makes social interaction that much more work. I have managed to learn how to navigate as an introvert in a sea of extroverts, and because of this I have many wonderful friends. I fake it so well, in fact, that people still respond with surprise and horror when I tell them I am an introvert. However, the extroverts among my friends are generally pretty sensitive to the needs of the introverts in their midst. I would not be able to maintain the level of social interaction that I do if this were not true.

So this placard, which offers a dozen very simple, but very essential ways to respect the introverts in our lives, to consider their needs, and to understand that they are not just waiting for somebody to turn them from sad little introverted seed pods into bright and colorful extroverted flowers, is just freakin’ rad.

Thank you, Internet.


Being Single: Breaking Even

So, for the first time in a long time, I was really, really excited about a girl. Excited enough to blog about her and my inability to think straight when she was around, and when she wasn’t around, and so on. It was nice. And despite the poor choices she made in communicating her decision to no longer date me, I don’t regret going for it simply because it reminded me that I could be excited about somebody.

I don’t regret it despite the fact that she broke up with me via text message. I don’t regret it despite the fact that she felt the need to tell me [edited for spelling, punctuation]: “I recently met someone that I really like. Which doesn’t happen very often.” I don’t regret it despite the fact that this text message would appear to mean that, despite the efforts she went to to make me think otherwise, she never really liked me. So, also, I got played.

No, she was not my girlfriend, but still.

I regret the fact that those things happened. But I don’t regret pursuing her.

I haven’t exactly regained my lost faith in love and relationships, but I can conceive of pursuing a woman again, of opening myself to the possibility of love and relationship, and despite the vulnerability and bullshit that obviously come with it, that’s pretty damn cool.

And while I will miss having somebody to be excited about, my heart is no more broken than it was when I asked her out for drinks.

I think I just broke even.

Now, hopefully somebody will inform her: You can’t text message breakup.


“She’s how old?”: A Rant.

I am robbing the cradle.

There is no question about it. No leeway. There is no math that turns it into a socially acceptable age difference (she’s old enough to drink, I swear I am not a pedophile). I have a hard time even saying it out loud, sometimes, but that’s mostly because of the reactions I get.

Turns out it’s annoying as hell to tell people about your dating life only to feel judged and receive completely unnecessary lectures.

Turns out, it’s annoying as hell that people forget that you are a ridiculously intelligent and mature adult the moment you explain that the person you are all twitterpated about is some absurd number of years younger than you are.

And while a handful of my friends are quietly letting me make my own mistakes or even being supportive (thank you, either way), a larger number of people have taken it upon themselves to inform me of all the bad things that come with dating younger people. Within this group there are:

  1. The people who continue lecturing me about it even after I’ve made it clear that I am aware of the potential issues (because apparently the fact that I don’t jump up to dump her when their wisdom has been shared is a sure sign that I am blind to the danger no matter what I say).
  2. The people who are passively suggesting I preemptively dump her.
  3. The people who are actively suggesting that I preemptively dump her.
  4. The people who feel the need to tell me, “she’s going to break your heart.”

Many of these people haven’t even met her, yet. Many of these people forget that my last girlfriend was nearly twice her age (and had half the maturity and discipline of the woman I am dating now, no joke). All of these people have forgotten that the odds of my getting hurt or fucked over by somebody closer to my own age aren’t lower. As it happens, people will fuck you over at any age.

So friends (Romans, country…folk)? I get that you are trying to be loving and protective, but seriously: Stop it. Just. Fucking. Stop it.

If you can’t be happy or supportive about the fact that I’ve found somebody I get to be excited about, even if it ends tomorrow (which it won’t, because I promised her BBQ on Sunday), then at the very least, keep this negative bullshit to yourselves. She may very well break my heart. So could anybody I decide to date. I don’t fucking need you to tell me it could happen when I am trying to share something good with you. Something I am guardedly happy about. Something I am enjoying. I was well aware of the danger when I asked her out, and I didn’t stop being aware when I realized I was more serious about her than initially intended.

But I also know that if I don’t give it a try, I’ll never know what might have been. I know that everything I have seen of her thus far is worth the risk. I’ve never been about playing it safe when it comes to relationships, and I am not going to start, now. And if I get hurt, y’all can say “I told you, so,” but hopefully you will be more concerned with the fact that I am hurt than with the fact that you were right. I guess we will see.

Here endeth the rant.


Pitching Prickly Woo

Some girls get roses.

Others get cactuses, and cactosaurs that have been, after extensive thought and consideration, named “Francois.” (Francois was just barely chosen over a sturdy, loyal-looking buffalo who was obviously named Ted, but it turns out buffalo don’t like to frolic among cactuses like cactosaurs do.)

I’ve been informed that they are both quite comfortable in her new apartment.


Taking Compliments: A Flowchart

For the record, I know how this flowchart ought to look.

Click Image. Then click it again. Just because you love to click.
You love to click so much.


You Look Like You Lost Weight!

“You look like you lost weight!” I don’t know why people think this (or any variation on this) is an acceptable compliment. I really, really don’t.

I had a girlfriend once who had me in the gym between 3 and 5 days a week, eating flavorless shit and being generally worried about everything I put in my body. I looked good, but to be honest, I was pretty miserable.

“Don’t worry,” she’d say, “I’ll want you no matter how you look.” But she only really praised the way I looked when I was at my thinnest, and would make comments specific to the weight I had lost. Relatedly, the number of times I have expressed interest in a woman and heard, “Oh, she’s looking for somebody…um…athletic,” or something to that effect, which is just like saying, “You’re too pudgy for this one, move on,” is officially too many.

Perhaps most scarring, the only compliment my mother has ever given me on my appearance, since childhood, has been about my weight (or, when I’ve just gotten it cut, my hair). Growing up, my entire understanding of my physical attractiveness was based on my weight, and my perspective is not unique.

Now, I know that we live in a world where “thin” is somehow synonymous with “attractive,” and that fat is considered unattractive, gross, unhealthy, etc. There are lots of blog posts and articles about that, and lots of people much more willing to have the argument about how fat doesn’t automatically mean unhealthy, unattractive, or gross, so I don’t really intend to delve into that discussion. Rather, I am going to discuss this so-called compliment.

“You look like you lost weight!” and “Have you lost weight? You look great!” and “Are you on a diet? Because you look fantastic!” are all, despite whatever encouragement and good feeling are behind them, backhanded compliments.

1. It unnecessarily enforces the “thinner is better” idea.
2. It suggests that the person was insufficiently attractive before the weight was lost.
3. It suggests that the person is only attractive because the weight was lost.
4. If no weight was actually lost, it suggests that the person only looks good to you at the moment because they happen to look a little thinner.

Before you accuse me of being oversensitive, consider just how stigmatized even a little extra weight is. Look at television, magazines, the requirement that men be perfectly cut bodies, the transition of Angelina Jolie from gorgeous curvy vixen to bony, underfed Hollywood victim. Look at fashion—not just the models, but the way that clothes are designed for the thin. Look at how fat people are portrayed in movies and television, as either evil or comic relief.

Now think about this supposed compliment. Why couldn’t you just say, “You look amazing/beautiful/gorgeous!” or, “How handsome are you, is that a new shirt?” or, “Hot damn!” Why would you mitigate a compliment with the suggestion that an individual looks that way because of his or her weight? Even if it’s true. Regardless of whether you think that fat is ugly, and regardless of whether you actually think that this person only looks good because he or she has lost weight, why not just compliment him or her? Why not remember that part of what makes this peson attractive is personality, smile, eyes, hair, dimples, and so on, and so forth? Why not forget which size jeans this person wears for the seconds it takes to compliment him or her?

You don’t need to put your assumptions about beauty and health on your friend’s plate—believe it or not, we overweight types don’t want to eat everything that is put in front of us. Reconsider your choice of words. Compliment the person, not the size.


Deaf, Blind, and Definitely DUMB

So, I have this problem: I have no fucking idea when a woman is interested in me. None whatsoever. All the signs in the world might be present, but if those signs are not written in Sharpie on card stock and if they are not extremely explicit (like, “HI WHISKEYPANTS I WANT YOU OMG SO BAD LIKE WHOA COME TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF I AM THE 99%”) and if I am not beaten over the head with those signs…? Turns out, I’m clueless.

Turns out, I miss a lot of opportunities.

Turns out—fail.

This is plainly an issue of self-esteem. I always assume that the gorgeous, delightful, impossibly sexy woman with whom I am speaking (or with whom I am flirting, if I get up the nerve) has much better and hotter prospects and thus is not at all interested in me. Sometimes I am right. Sometimes I discover I am very wrong. Sometimes, after an encounter, I discuss with my friends and they say things like, “So then, you kissed her, right?” And then I say things like, “No. Was I supposed to?” And then they smack me upside the head and/or mock me, and I am left to wonder: Should I have kissed her?

Now, I know that I am actually a pretty decent catch for both short- and long-term relationships. I’m smart, funny, kind, and my looks frighten away neither small children nor animals. But knowing that doesn’t help me to know whether somebody is thinking, “Hey, I dig that Whiskeypants person.” And I don’t think I am ever going to be cocky enough to assume.

But you know, this post isn’t about the fact that I’m an idiot with regard to the beautiful women who surround me. Ultimately, that’s just fact: I am an idiot with regard to beautiful women.

This post is just to say:

Women—

If you are at all into me, if you think you might want to hang out, or make out, or get drinks, or let me carry you to my bed—IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, UNHOLY, OR JOSS WHEDON PLEASE TELL ME.

I don’t care how you tell me. Note, e-mail, text message, smoke signals, semaphore signals, sign language, messages coded into the TARDIS—it doesn’t matter. So long as you LET ME KNOW.

This information will make things much more fun for the both of us. Please, take pity on me.

Please.


Fallibility

The past year has looked like this:

Nice! Simple, uncomplicated, not in the least bit stressful. But that never lasts, does it?
However, lately things are looking like this:

Damn it.


Lovable

At some point in the last several years, I figured out that I was lovable.

It was one of the best light bulbs to light up over my head, ever. Bright, colorful, and flattering.
[Please note, this is not a Whitney Houston-boosting-greatest-love-of-all post. This isn't about loving yourself. That's a whole other post that I will likely never write for a whole host of reasons. This is also not about ,,loving,, yourself. That's for other blogs. And video.]

You may recall, from the post I wrote about being shy, that I have mentioned the rather arduous process of building self-esteem and how it helped me learn how to be social and make friends. However, knowing I was worth keeping as a friend did not translate to understanding that I was worth keeping as a lover or partner.

This is partly to do with the fact that I’m a slow learner (I’m still surprised when people call me “popular,” and I still want to look around to see who else they might be talking to). It’s partly to do with the messages I have gotten from various ex-girlfriends—one of whom told me one night, “You aren’t easy to love,” which I took to heart until it occurred to me to put that statement into context with all of the other emotionally abusive crap she pulled on me. And it’s partly to do with just the default way in which I have approached women—unsure of myself, unsure of my attractiveness: the underlying assumption was always that I’d be the one getting lucky if they were to see any value in hanging out with me.

All that changed as I began to look at myself and consider all of the qualities that I had to bring to a relationship, qualities I choose not to list here because I’d rather not turn this post into a personals ad. [Single brownish Whiskeypants ISO an utter lack of bullshit and drama...] And everything changed. The way I approach women, the way I approach singlehood, the way I approach relationships has changed into something stronger, more confident, more solid.

I have noticed that being single is a lot less onerous when you don’t need anybody else to convince you that you are lovable. I would argue, in fact, that knowing that you are lovable in the absence of somebody to love you is far less empty than being in a relationship and not knowing. The day you stop needing somebody to tell you that, you have won the game.

Admission: knowing you are lovable plays wicked havoc with your standards. When, “I so don’t need to deal with your bullshit” replaces “I can weather this because she loves me,” you have won the game.

When you realize you are lovable, you have won the game. (The prize: MOAR GAME. And, arbitrarily, an espresso.)


Crush Part III: The Separation of Church and State

For Science: The first part of the post was written after margaritas, a pint of Jameson and ginger, and some number of old fashioned—what the hell is the plural for “old fashioned”? “Old Fashioneds”? I mean, when you are sober. When you are drunk, the plural is something like, “Ol’fashenz”. 

Okay, Whiskeypants, let’s reel it back in. For science:

Almost nothing in the title is relevant to this post. But that’s the title I came up with on my midnight walk home from BART, and I’m stickin’ to it. Mostly because I have had too much whiskey not to.

Wait, that’s not true. The crush part is relevant. And the separation part. And the Part III part. But not the church and state thing, ‘cept maybe metaphorically. And the crush bit is not 100% relevant, since this post is mostly about desire—but crushes apply, too.

On the plus side, I just found a glass of cranberry juice I left here Monday morning. It tastes fine. So here’s to hydration.

One of the social skills I have repeatedly refined over the years is the ability to be 100% cool with being friends with women I desire. It’s a more or less invisible social skill that, in my drunker moments, I think is totally underappreciated. I think it is a skill more people ought to develop, honestly. It brings perspective in to the relationships I cultivate because I want, allowing me to realize that I can cultivate them much better because what I want is merely a facet of somebody much more interesting and complex.

That does not, of course, make it easier to deal with actively and determinedly being friends with women I’d like to throw against the wall and kiss until one or both of us just can’t breathe anymore (especially if I already have and can remember what it feels like to do so). It just makes it possible and, in most cases, preferable. When you take a look at the hotness of the women around me [From here on, writing sober:] (and it’s really rather remarkable), the need to separate desire from friendship and to box that desire up becomes apparent. So does the difficulty of doing so. But I don’t think I could be friends with these women if I couldn’t do it. Not and be a real friend.

Which is, I suppose, the long way ’round of saying: I don’t think it’s possible to be a true friend to somebody you also happen to want to fuck if you lead with your dick (real or metaphorical) and not your head and your heart.

So then it becomes a matter of priorities—are you hanging around because you hope he or she will eventually open up to you, or are you sticking around because you hope he or she will eventually ,,open up,, to you? And how honest are you being with yourself about that? And how honest with her or him?

And now the real question:


A Good Stare

Have you ever stood in front of some unbelievably gorgeous and compelling work of art and wanted to just stare at it, try to take it in, try to absorb it? To try to make your brain comprehend what you are seeing and what you are feeling when you see it?

I will do that in museums, when I am struck by the vision and talent of an artist, when I feel that there is nothing I can do but just appreciate the hell out of a piece of art. Sometimes, I do the same thing with women.

I don’t know about you, but I love a good stare.

Say you think some individual is totally hot. Like, devastatingly hot. The kind of hot where your eyes want to follow him or her everywhere. The kind of hot where, even if he or she is no longer in the room, if you picture him or her, you still have to brace yourself against something until your blood pressure returns to something resembling normal. And, given the absence of ability to touch him or her (which may be total or may be temporary), you wanna look at that person—as much and as often as possible. You want to take in every detail, every angle, appreciate everything you can. Because regardless of what flaws that individual may or may not have, he or she is fucking stunning.

And if you do get to (and he or she doesn’t call the cops on you for being a creepy stalker, and good luck with that), it’s a bit like being a kid in a candy store. Or even an adult in a candy store. You ever been to Powell’s Sweet Shoppe? You don’t have to be a kid to appreciate it. But that’s beside the point. I think. Mmmmm. Candy.

Sugar is good for you, right?

Anyway, lately I find myself staring. Like, chin resting on my palm, all thoughts gone from my head, eyes like malfunctioning tractor beams, staring. And yes, for those of you keeping track at home, I am talking about the hotness ninja. I’ve been staring, trying to avoid loud, wistful sighs, and enjoying the hell out of the view.

It’s a simple pleasure, and one of which we should all take advantage whenever possible. Gentle reader, if the hottie(s) in your life are receptive, and you aren’t a creepy stalker (<–IMPORTANT) don’t forget to take some time and just stare at them. Watch them move, watch them work, watch them cook or do dishes or reorganize their bookshelves. Appreciate every angle, every movement. Every moment where they are thinking of something, singing, reading, or dancing.

It’s an entirely worthwhile way to pass the time.


Mistakes I Make With Women: Caring

I find myself in a difficult spot these days. I need a break from dating, from emotional attachments. But I don’t need—or want—a break from sex. So theoretically, I need to find somebody (or somebodies) I can sleep with without the emotional attachment.

Now here, I run into a problem. While I can sleep with somebody without falling for her, I cannot do it without caring. And when I care, I really care. My friends can tell you that if they need anything, I will do everything I can to make sure they get it—and if it is out of my power, I will check in until I know that somebody else provided for them.

My friends will also tell you that I check in with them regularly, that I want to make sure they know I love them, that I like them, that I care—and that I think they are awesome. I think about my friends on a daily basis—some of them, admittedly, more than others. And while I might do this less with somebody with whom I am merely having sex, I still do it. Because frankly, just because it’s just sex, it doesn’t mean that person is any less human or any less on my radar (in some ways, more—when I want somebody badly enough, she is always on my mind).

(And that, gentle reader, is before I even start making an effort. If I am actually dating a woman she gets treated very, very well. I don’t mess around, there.)

I have been told that I can’t do this if I am just sleeping with somebody, that it will be confusing to the woman or women with whom I am sleeping, that they won’t be able to take what I am offering at face value—regardless of the fact that I offer everything at face value, and I offer what I offer as a matter of course. And I offer what I offer because I can’t not. If it’s obvious to me that somebody should have something, or experience something, then not offering is like having an itch between my shoulders.

I have been told that they won’t appreciate it, that they will run from it. And I know that this is right. Every experience I have had bears this out.

So what do I do if I can’t not care and I don’t know how to not give? Does every gift I give, every text I send have to come with a disclaimer, now?

This gift/text comes carries no obligation or investment, emotional or otherwise, on the part of either conferrer or recipient. Conferrer accepts all responsibility for any choices made from conception of gift/text idea to delivery; recipient is not required to accept gift/text or use it respectfully or wisely. Unless otherwise and explicitly stated, conferrer does not expect recipient to take her clothes off upon or within six (6) months of receipt. However, conferrer would probably appreciate it, because recipient is wicked hot.

Or do I have to find that unicorn of a lover who understands that the sex doesn’t have to be meaningful, and the relationship doesn’t have to be meaningful, but I am still going to be caring, and kind, and appreciative?

Neither option seems feasible, or likely.

So maybe I’m S.O.L. Maybe I’m not gettin’ some any time soon. But that’s cool. As much trouble as it has been to me in the past, and as much trouble as it is now, I like the fact that I care.


Being Single

One of the things I swore to myself upon coming out of an awful relationship (that capped almost a decade of serial dating/relationship experiences) was that I would remain single until at least the end of the year.

This is one of those things you swear, like when you decide you are gonna cut down on sugar, fatty foods, and whiskey, like when you decide you are gonna exercise more. Like when you decide to do anything you know you should do but are not 100% convinced you really want to do.

The pluses:

  • Being unemployed doesn’t matter. Not being able to pay for dates or take a woman places doesn’t matter when you don’t have a woman to take out.
  • I never have to clean my room.
  • I have the opportunity to get my life together outside of the dating dynamic.
  • I am not working my ass off to prove myself to somebody who doesn’t appreciate me anyway.

Wait, was that emotional baggage? Oops. Right, this isn’t about the women I have already been with.

The minuses:

  • No girl to crawl into bed with. I am not just talking about sex. I am talking about that feeling when I walk into a room and know a woman I adore is in the bed I am about to fall into. I miss that feeling of wrapping myself around a sleepy girl, of enjoying the way she feels, the way she smells before I drift off to sleep.
  • No sex. Just because it wasn’t necessarily an element of the above doesn’t mean it’s not an element. My mouth and my hands miss skin. My ears miss sounds. I am not going to tell you what my tongue misses, but you can guess.
  • No license to stare. I don’t know about you, but I love looking at the women I am with. If I could I would just rest my chin on my hand and look. They put up with that better if they are sleeping with me.
  • No license to tell her how hot I think she is. Generally, I don’t get to tell the devastatingly hot women around me how lovely I think they are (apart from those friends who think —tragically—that I am harmless). When I am dating I get to do that. Regularly.
  • I miss having somebody I can wrap myself around, or grab by her belt loop and pull toward me. I miss finding dark corners for smooches and looking across the room to see that she is just as distracted as I am at the idea of those smooches. I miss that level of intimacy.

But where was I? Oh yeah, remaining single until the end of the year.

How am I supposed to do that when I find myself so totally enchanted? Some rules were made to be broken. Those rules include reducing: sugar, butter, bacon, whiskey, and women.


Flirting

This morning I disappointed a dear friend in her (admittedly very gratifying) assumption that I am always charming and witty. I will admit that while my wit rarely fails me in the majority of situations, there is one situation in which it always fails: flirting.

Well, wait. I can flirt, so let’s be more specific: when a woman flirts with me. When a woman, especially one I find very attractive, flirts with me, it usually results in one (or more) of the following scenarios:

I. I am clueless:

  • Woman: *flirts*
  • Whiskeypants: I have no idea what you are talking about. *turns back to friend/book/computer*

II. I am paralyzed:

  • Woman: *flirts*
  • Whiskeypants: *freezes*
  • Woman: *waits*
  • Whiskeypants: *tries to find something witty to say*
  • Woman: *smiles sympathetically and wanders away*
  • Whiskeypants: *comes up with ten witty things to say*

III. I am a buffoon:

  • Woman: *flirts*
  • Whiskeypants: *walks into wall/trips over foot/spills food or drink*
  • Woman: *smiles sympathetically and wanders away*

IV. I may or may not have drooled on myself:

  • Woman: *flirts*
  • Whiskeypants: *turns bright red, forgets the English language, and has potentially drooled*
  • Woman: *Buys me a drink and follows me home.Sidles away cautiously*

Yep. They really love number IV, lemme tell ya. 60% of the time, it works every time.


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