#4 (Belated Posting) As I Lie Here Dying...

there's not much more for me to do than think about everything that has brought me to this miserable point. I have been plagued by this horrible, undiagnosable, everlasting stomach ache for almost two weeks now. I've had to cancel practically every one of my social engagements during that time, including flaking on B2B (something I've been looking forward to for weeks). And now, it seems as though whatever this is is going to ruin my Memorial Day weekend. My doctor is useless and can't tell me what's causing it, but a little soul searching and one self diagnosis later, I think I've found the problem: KARMA!

Karma is a bitch...a big, fat, ugly, inappropriately hairy, poorly dressed bitch. Prior to coming to SF, I lived a fairly chaste lifestyle: minimal boozing (ok, that's kind of a lie), but there were minimal meaningless hookups; I just feel like I was a much kinder, much better person all around. Let me preface this assertion. In the past, I didn't emotionally fuck with guys just for a good lay. When I hook up with a guy now, I feel like I can only really get off when I can solicit a genuine emotional reaction from him. Essentially, I'm an emotional tease. I feign a genuine interest in someone just to get them into bed.

Some would say that this is a legitimate flirting tactic, especially for someone like me who could never get away with playing the smoldering hot, overtly sexual card. Oh c'mon, at this point in our lives, we've come to terms with our looks, and I understand that I'm the cute guy, the sweet guy. I'm not the super hot hottie that's gonna turn heads when I walk into the bar, and I am perfectly comfortable with my role. I've made my peace, and I've moved on. But for that very reason, I have to work it in other ways, so I have to be the cutest and the sweetest.

But what I do goes beyond just being sweet when I flirt. I rope them in, get them to open up about intimate matters, reveal equally intimate details about my own life, essentially have that conversation usually reserved for the third month of dating. It's gotten to the point where I've heard the 'I think I'm falling in love with you' speech one too many times. OMFG! Seriously...seriously? I spent so much time worrying about the physical dangers of being a slut that I totally overlooked the emotional ramifications!

And now, I'm reaping the bitter bitter harvest that I have sown for myself over the past several months. I've finally adjusted my relationship goals, and I've moved beyond hookups (at least for the most part, well, let's just say I no longer go out looking for a one night thing, but if one should offer me a drink, I'm not going to decline). Unfortunately, the world says, "Nope, not for you; we relationship gods have already eaten your piece of the pie and it was delicious." Karmic retribution sucks a big dick, and not in a good way, a dick with herpes on it.

In the past month, since turning this new leaf, the one date that I was actually excited about (because it was in the middle of the day, did not involve alcohol but did involve a super cute opera singer) went really well! I accepted the date with the resolve that I would not take him home with me that night, you know, try to make it a real date for once.

We met for tea right after work, had a great conversation, talked for almost 4 hours and ended the evening with a quick peck before running home in opposite directions. All excited about this potential new love of my life because I've become so desperate and clingy and afraid of ending up alone, I began to imagine what our California Supreme Court backed gay marriage would be like. And yes, I committed the cardinal dating sin, I texted him when I got home to tell him what a good time I had - btw, I can't believe I've become that guy. When he didn't immediately text me back, I took that as a bad sign.

I got "the call" at around, oh I don't know, 3:17 p.m. the next day, in a meeting at work. I let it go to voicemail. I rushed to check it at around, oh I don't know, 4:11 p.m. to hear, the Opera Singer hem haw around for 30 seconds before he finally says he didn't feel "that thing" when we kissed the night before. He says I'm perfect in every other way, I'm cute, I'm smart, I'm so supportive of his singing, blah blah blah - bullshit.

Really? How can a perfectly good date be smashed to hell by a split second kiss as we rushed off for separate cabs? I wasn't even trying; I hadn't even shown him the good stuff yet! Had I known my entire romantic future with this guy was going to be evaluated by what was literally a half second kiss, I would have extended that shit out and made it last. I would have done a little something to spice it up. C'mon!

OK, I get it. Some people can tell right away whether or not they will be compatible with someone, and I guess it is better that it happened this way rather than dragging it out several months before we both realize it's not going anywhere. Because you know, by then there are cats and home furnishings involved. But still, a little dragging would have been nice.

Since the Opera Singer, and to a certain extent before him, I have been taking blow after blow to the face. So, I've come to this realization: I've screwed with one too many guys and tampered with the delicate cosmic balance, and now it's time to pay the ultimate price - harsh, bitter loneliness. Apparently, I am good at exactly two things: fucking and friendships, but never the two shall meet. I am destined to lead a life of friends and fuck buddies, but no committed monogamous relationships...ever. Now, I'm torn. Should I accept my fate, because hey, a life full of friends and fuck buddies isn't so bad, is it? Or, should I keep doing what I've been doing, drop my fuck buddies and try to find something more? And no, I'm not overreacting. This entire entry is not the result of one bad date, it is the result of A LOT of them. Plus my Financial Analyst, who I just found out is actually an investment banker, is moving to Manhattan, permanently. He was someone I could have potentially started something with. Argh. This blows, and again, not in a good way.

Talk later,
Yours Truly