All-in-one (night)

I am not sure how you managed, but my bed smells more like you after one night than it ever has of me. We didn't even have sex. Still, I can smell your smooth, brown skin, Mr. Dapper.

After sharing breakfast at the most popular scenester diner in the neighbourhood - where I picked at my sausages and found excuses to touch you under the table - we parted ways. I have no idea when I'll see you again. I think perhaps I have finally learned to stop waiting. Upon returning home, the other lover (and I hate that word) - the one actually into me - emailed to ask if he can drop off a gift - an art piece. I had to say no. It just didn't seem appropriate.

Then, I received a long-distance phone call. I thought it was my Argentinean lover. I've been avoiding answering his question. The one he asks by not asking it. By not asking anything anymore. Is there any point in continuing our unlikely, intercontinental love affair? No.

So, I took a deep breath and answered the phone. When I heard the voice, my legs simultaneously melted and combusted. It was my ex-boyfriend - the one of seven years - hoping to make amends. To apologize for his meanness during the break-up, and (because it can never be that easy) to confront me about whether a rumour he'd heard was true.

Was it true that I'd slept with a friend of his when he moved away, as said friend had claimed during the Christmas holidays? No! I mean, sure we were "hanging out" for a week, sometimes with little clothing, but there was no sex. I drew the line. What an asshead to lie about an issue that was so sensitive already. What a slimeball to choose ego over friendship. What a jerk to bring it up as though it was still happening when I'd dropped his hot potato months ago.

From morning to night, they all contacted me, knowing nothing of the others. The sex that never was. The love lost. The love that can't be. The one I want.

I need to sleep off this emotional hangover, but my pillow...ugh...it still smells exactly like you. Not cologne or shampoo. Like warm, clean skin. I love it/I hate it, because you are the one not thinking about me.

Touch me now! No, not you. The other one.

I can't f*cking believe it.

I gave up on Mr. Dapper. I should have known that would be exactly when he'd throw me a crust. And now, I'm in trouble.

Once I started feeling like a experiment (i.e. Exactly how long will a 29-year-old female follow a feral male's trail of crumbs?), I stopped responding to his little touch-base emails and meatless voicemail. I pretended I was too busy for him. I was too busy. Too busy healing my wounded ego.

But he found me. He found me at my favourite Italian cafe. Everyone's favourite cafe. My safe spot. I played it as cool as I could (not very) and filled the air with more stories of things that matter not. Tales of last weekend's party. What so-and-so said that was funny. Anything.

Then, as we prepared to leave and part ways, I busied myself chatting with an aquaintance, and let Mr. Dapper wait. And wait. I intended my behaviour to say, I have more important people to do. But, my body betrayed me by screaming, Touch me! Touch me!

Eventually, he told me he was leaving, and asked what I planned to do later that night. Ohnononononono! I fell for that one before. I didn't assume he was asking me out. Still, he called to tell me he'd be at a going away party for a friend, and that he'd like me to drop by. I played it cool(ish)...again, and told him I'd be busy with other friends, despite the fact that I was desperate to see him. To have him try to win me again.

Good-bye romance. Enter strategy, ego salvaging and self-consciousness.

Then it happened. Finally, he hinted at a real date, and asked what I would be doing Saturday. Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss, I heard echoing in the void where my heart once resided. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit, said my head. I have to go to an art show, I explained. I'll come with you, he reasoned. I would have said yes to anything. After hanging up, my head reprimanded my heart for getting me in a pinch. It didn't matter. My heart was too far gone to listen.

An art show? It's a goddamn vernissage hosted by the other man I am sleeping with. The one who actually likes me; who blows off work to spend time with me. The guy who made me a mixed CD! The guy who looks at me longingly, and long enough that he makes himself uncomfortable, and I blurt, "We're not dating!"

We're not. I care about him, but I'm not instinctively attracted to him. Still, I catch myself sleeping with him, enjoying the sex, and reminding him that we are still not dating. Enter the guilt. Honestly, I would drop him in a second for a real chance with Mr. Dapper. Until then, I'll enjoy his company and pray that he won't hate me before the end of all this. I mean, he's had fair warning, right? Right?

Ouch.

This poor artist is to me what I am to Mr. Dapper. Filler. A friend. Fun. A fuck. I feel sorry for him.

*sigh*

I have to go to the art show. Alone.

Blown to the back-burner by baldy

I forgot how humiliating dating is.

I shaved my legs five mornings in a row, godamnit, and he didn't call. I wore "special reserve" panties every day, only to drop them in the hamper at night - and not lose them in crumpled sheets as intended. Each time I checked my voicemail or email inbox my self confidence diminished. I got fatter. I became less talented and less interesting. I craved red wine more. I am thinking of having some right now.

When I caught myself hiding in a corner at the Indigo bookstore reading, "He's Just Not That Into You", I knew it was bad.

The first few months of my single life seemed designed to feed my ego. Every day was a bloody adventure, full with dating prospects. And, I oozed confidence. Oozed it. Monogamy? Forget it. I've proven more than once that it's not part of my skill set. My main concern was how to run last night's date out of my house before noon and get on with my day.

I had a tall, handsome long-distance Latin American boyfriend on reserve. I had a courter visiting from my past, to lavish me with attention and affection. And, I had this chivalrous, snappy dressing musician batting his thick lashes at me in cafes. All three, at the same time. I was on top.

What was it about Mr. Dapper that made him irresistable to me? His looks. His confidence. The laughter. That, and his great, unconvential date ideas. We'd spend afternoons drinking Turkish coffee in cafes I'd never previously noticed. We'd go to the library to look at travel books and compare notes. He focussed on me when we were together, but never offered me any sense of security. I became addicted to winning him, to having him win me. Eventually, I forgot that he's balding under those goddamn dapper hats.

The first time we had sex - right before I was set for a month-long absence - he made me feel like an amateur. I'm too unfamiliar with the Kama Sutra to say whether we covered all its positions, but clearly, he'd been studying. The next morning, I called my girlfriends and raved that I'd been properly rogered. By a bald man. It felt like a coming-of-age. They wanted details. I could hardly find the words.

When I returned, there was little left of the romance I'd by now idealized. It took him two days to call me. When he finally did, he made no certain effort to see me. In fact, I wasn't sure why he'd bothered to contact me at all. My heart sank a little deeper every day. By the time he called to arrange a breakfast date, my heart had sunken so low that my head could no longer communicate with it.

Uncomfortable when he arrived to pick me up, and uncomfortable as we seated ourselves at the diner, I consoled myself that my twitchiness was part of my charm. Reassure me, my brain was hissing. Tell me you like me, or let me go drown my sorrows, I wanted to say. Instead, I talked about everything that didn't matter. Afterward, we strolled through the park, and before we said good-bye, he kissed me. And, he said he would call.

He did call. He called when he was at work, or already busy. I know he really is busy. His band was recently signed. He has a million and forty projects on the go. He is a scenester. A Kung Fu master. A sportsman. He is not, however, my date.

Hopefully, my heart will reinitiate contact and my head can tell it what to do next. Until then, I'll wait for his call and hate myself for it. I'll pretend I don't care, until it's true. I'll continue to date the others. And, I'll mutter under my breath, "Blown off by a bald man." It's all I've got on him.

First, there is something you should(n't) know

I didn't foresee how much of my single life I'd spend naked - figuratively or literally .

Actually, I hadn't foreseen how much of my life overall I'd spend naked. Who would have? I was a bookish, shy, small-town girl from a loving, supportive family. I didn't consider myself beautiful, wore no make-up, and barely needed a bra. I still don't need a bra.

Perhaps you'll blame my decisions on early exposure to adult magazines, or blue movies on cable TV. Maybe illicit internet exploration in my hometown library throughout junior high is the culprit. Personally, I credit the all-too-common pressure of a $40,000 federal student loan. That, and natural curiousity.

No matter the reason, at 21, I hosted my first online videochat session and my secret life began. Initially, a friend introduced the concept to me. At the time, I still preferred sex with the lights out, earned straight As in all my university-level Women's Studies courses and didn't know enough about computers to install a printer. Still, in a short skirt and tight t-shirt I planted my 110 lbs in front of the web cam, my face just barely out of view.

As I prepared to log on to the website, I knew that whatever happened next would have lasting effects. Who would see me? Would they be kind? Am I pretty enough? Am I safe enough? What the hell am I doing?

Years, two university degrees, numerous day jobs, and more than 1000 online visitors later, I've come of age, gained a strange insight into the male psyche, and nurtured a scandalous past (by conventional standards). My boyfriend throughout tried to be understanding, though you can imagine how complicated this was for us. I won't pretend that this did not affect my relationship with him, or others. Even now, only a select few of my closest friends know my details. Keeping secrets is often easier than justifying my decisions.

I manage two lives and continue to balance both, with a distinct vernacular for each. I have separate wardrobes, including task-specific make-up, and a closet assigned to hide my equipment. Friday night tends to be most profitable, so I rarely go out on weekends. An excuse for this, without sounding like a bore, is hard to come by. It complicates dating and that's why I mention it here.

This journal won't be a chathost confessional, an erotic diary or an apology. I don't define myself by my online identity, but she can't be ignored either. She's pretty, charming and gutsy and she's better at dating than I will ever be.