Hoping for a res-erection

"Did the erectile dysfunction happen before or after you grilled him about Jesus?" my friend asked in all sincerity.

It isn't the sort of issue I expected to face after only a fourth date with a new prospect, especially since I'm not religious.

"It's a problem that preceded Christ," I said, and smirked. Neither of us even tried not to cackle. We were changing at the gym; this was locker-room talk.

The subject of our conversation is a really sweet guy; I picked him up on my birthday. But after an intensive date weekend (three consecutive nights), I've established that he's got a lot going for him and two major strikes against him in terms of compatibility with me (I haven't yet determined whether they're related):

(1) He's a regular church-goer, and
(2) He can't keep an erection.

Performance anxiety is surely the culprit, right? I fear my blog might be aggravating the situation. Or rather, his knowledge of it. And that is what my friend was getting at. You see, once he told me he was a practising Christian, I ran to tell all my friends about this anachronism I was dating. And then I told him about their reactions to hearing that he's religious. It was too early for me to realize that he considers spirituality private, and that I'd inadvertently betrayed his trust.

So, I suppose he thinks I'm running around telling all my girl friends about his sub-standard sexual performance and writing about it on the internet for the whole world to see.

All of a sudden, I feel like a really bad date.

Valentine's Day: Perversions and Prospects

A sad hound with big, brown puppy-dog eyes and flaccid jowls --- that's how he looked after I outed him for masturbating with a vibrator in his pocket next to me on the subway --- except for his mouth, which opened and closed like a live fish ashore.

I considered staying in and missing Valentine's Day entirely, but instead ventured out into the storm. The atmosphere has conspired to muffle the city's love and heartache under a thick layer of snow until further notice. They'll keep. Heartache can outlast Pop Tarts, and love? No matter how bad that goes, you still can't just throw it away.

Even though no romance was scheduled for me this night, I felt inspired by the prospect of a date tomorrow. He's cute, he's a little older and he's a professional. He's totally not my type, but something made me pick him up at a bar on my birthday last week. Maybe it was the whiskey. Still, I was convinced it was kismet when -- after throwing myself at him -- a mutual friend announced that this was the very same guy she'd already tried to arrange for me to meet. I gushed. I fawned.

Happy thoughts in my head, I donned my boots and hopped a bus. I was headed to the west end of the city for a bar-hosted party in honour of the occasion. The band was good and the burlesque girls were adorable; however the venue encouraged alcohol-consumption and my prescription for antibiotics indicates that, until tomorrow at midnight, I run the risk of becoming "violently ill" should I partake of even a sip.

I cozied up in a corner of the venue where I could still be social, but not part of the action. There are always drawbacks to acting the wallflower, but I hadn't anticipated pee to be among them. The men's urinal, I later learned, is exactly on the other side of that wall, and the exit pipes leak. My bag and my scarf had dropped into the puddle and were soaked with pee. Pee. An hour-long subway ride from home, completely sober and single on Valentine's Day, and now I smelled like pee.

I decided it was time to go home.

When the subway arrived, I was already chatting with another twenty-something singleton, and we congratulated each other on our first Single Valentine's Day in seven years. She didn't seem to notice the pee smell, but I was self-conscious and happy to switch trains.

I was content and reading the Walrus until a fidgety man sat next to me. His proximity forced me to re-adjust my parcels (my pee-soaked scarf and bag wrapped in plastic from the bar) to accommodate him. As I did so, I noticed several completely unoccupied benches.

Red is for hearts, red-light districts and blatant warnings of immanent threat. I read on with one eye on the magazine and one monitoring the periphery of my personal space. I wanted to believe that I wouldn't have to deal with this man. Really, who was I kidding?

The city's infrastructure then conspired to confirm my suspicions about him. The train stalled momentarily, just long enough to make audible the buzz of what could be nothing other than a pocket rocket. Annoyed, I moved to a seat behind him and a male passenger took my place. Just as I knew he would, the pocket-diddler turned to see where I'd gone, and this infuriated me.

I stared into his eyes and threw my arms in the air as if to say, "Wanna go at it?" He pouted with real disappointment and turned away. My pulse concentrated in my throat and I was seeing red. He can't just get away with it, I thought. I'll kick myself! I considered dumping the pee-soaked scarf on his bald head. I considered a lot of things, and none, I thought, would leave me with any feeling of security that he wouldn't follow me. The other passengers would likely think I was the crazy one, and only he and I would know the truth of the situation. I wanted nothing private between us. If there was going to be an "us", it would have to include all the passengers.

By then, the subway car was nearly full, mostly with men, and I had only one stop to go.

I rose, and with a calculated calmness, stood over the man and said, "Excuse me."

He looked up at me with those big, round eyes full of feigned innocence. I grunted, exasperated, because I have seen this look so many times before.

"Are you going to continue masturbating with the vibrator in your pocket AND follow me all the way home? Or is this going to stop here?" I announced, more than asked.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Heads turned in our direction. I left with mine held high.

As though on cue, the city's infrastructure conspired to stop the train, slide open its doors for my gallant exit and close him in with tens of disgusted single men, on Valentine's Day.

I am not into you. I am lying.

Ow.

My birthay dinner concluded with me telling the art-man that I am "just not into him", immediately after I used the argument of not wanting casual sex, as an excuse.

I hadn't expected him to like me more than that. Or to tell me.

It hurts to refuse someone on the same basis on which I am being denied. I am just not into you that way, I imagine him saying, just as I did. And even now, after my 29th birthday party, I'm crying about how he wasn't there. Nor did he try to be. He had a "rock star photo shoot" said his email; tongue-in-cheek I suppose. It wasn't even a phone message. I can only assume he was not interested in coming afterward. A shoot never lasts more than five hours. Ow. Ow. Ow.

I can't believe I am crying over a boy. The right man would be here.

Please, give me the strength to not only walk away, but to move on, even if I am not going anywhere. It's been along time since I've felt so sad or so scared. I don't quite know what to do with these dark feelings. At the same time, I'm so glad they're unfamiliar.

Emotional Hangovers and Hang-ups

Right on schedule. I'm feeling better again.

Mr. Dapper walked out my door Saturday afternoon, I had and overwhelming bout of loneliness Saturday night (see below), nursed a cold on Sunday and studied for an exam, attended a dull class on Monday, and arrived at home to messages from a few good friends, including one from Mr. Dapper.

He never lets more than two days pass without trying to contact me. I shudder to think it's his "technique". He called again today while I worked out my frustration at the gym. Again he left a casual "hello" message -- nothing about making plans.

Choosing to study instead of call back, I felt good about my decision to feed my brain first. I emailed him later, of course.

My expectations are more in check than before. My priorities battle with my instincts and hormones. My hopes? Not entirely squashed. My skin is getting thicker.

I say that even as I check my email one last time before bed to see if he's responded.

Emotional Charity

The phone number written on my palm is that of a best-friend. Although it's a well-meant joke, I can't call it in the morning as it suggests. Her new boyfriend is there tonight and he'll be still be there in the morning. Mine? I left him so long ago, there is nothing but idealized tidbit memories of comfortable, easy Sunday mornings and hour-long back rubs left.

Until I was the last singleton of my girlfriends, I'd never noticed that couples retire earlier. The night was on, and so was the party. But, I know that they'd all stayed longer for me already; the one who goes home alone. Emotional charity.

I didn't think I'd feel like this and I'm hoping it will pass, but it's times like these that I really wish I had a boyfriend. Or, at least someone to pet me. Someone with smooth brown skin familiar to me. I can't even begin to think about the morning.

The Morning After Chill

Mr. Dapper left this afternoon, the same way he always does. Late. Looking good.

I didn't get any of my homework done. Instead, he did me on top of my homework. He broke my bed, nearly broke a leaf from my dining room table, and almost broke a rung of my antique chair. If I'm careful, he won't break my heart.

I'll have to start being more careful than I've been.

Four strikes and one score

One down:

My mom's questioning earlier this evening was telling. "So whatever happened with that art show?" she asked.

"What art show?" I inquired.

"The one where you had to turn that guy down as your date. You know, the guy who had no time for you!" she said, incredulous that my frivolity allows me to forget such things. She was talking about Mr. Dapper. "Oh. I just didn't go."

I realized then just how much faith my mother had in me in terms of dating and self-respect. She knew in her heart that I would never put up with someone who was careless with mine; making it harder to admit to herself that actually, I am.

After that, my friend called. "What were all those emails about?" he marvelled. "What do you need?" I'd emailed him probably five times earlier that day. I'd been invited to see a band - the guy I've been sleeping with. The one who isn't into me. And, I was on the guest list (plus one). I needed a partner in crime. A partner to hold my hand when the inevitable happened.

I explained to him my request. "I wouldn't have helped you with that anyway," he answered. "You only like this guy because he thinks he's a rockstar and he's all rockstar-asshole to you."

"No, it's better now," I heard myself say. "I just have to keep my expectations in check." I would lecture my friends if I ever heard them speak like this.

"Oh, brother," was his answer. He may have said something more enlightening, but I wasn't listening.

It was the same thing I said to my mother an hour earlier. She'd sighed as though she'd heard it too many times already - which, really makes sense considering that I have two older sisters. She has heard it all before - just never from me. What I meant was that I know he doesn't have as much time for me as I'd like; nor does he reassure me that I am anything special to him. Yet, the sex is great. When we do hang out, I feel incredible. I pretend he's a trusted companion; right up to the point where he disappears out my apartment door. I lock the door behind him and begin wondering if I will ever see him again in a context anything similar to this.

My consolation is in that I'm not sure I would date him given a fair opportunity. But, at least 40 per cent of me knows that's not true.

He said he'd call me when he finished packing away his gear. I desperately wanted him to, but wasn't sure he would. I tried to feel indifferent.

Two down:

Mr. Dapper's so-called rockstar demeanor makes me feel the need to look busy (and popular) in his presence. Just tonight, I invited an old friend to join me at the show. As he already knew the band, and the people in it, he was a prime and enthusiastic partner in crime. He is, in fact, one of the cursed. You know what I mean. He's the guy who's friends with everyone, but never anyone's boyfriend. An untouchable man-about-town. Always a bridesmaid. Never gets laid.

Ultimately, it was his behaviour that made me realize just how much Mr. Dapper ignored me. After an entire evening of band-watching, two after-show beer, a mid-show mention by the leading man (and even a brief kiss good-bye), he still thought I was available. That means everyone thought Mr. Dapper was still available, too.

After buying bagels at the all-night bakery during the walk home, he said, "All I ask is that you share my bed tonight."

"No," I said, crushed. "But, take some bagels. You'll want them in the morning." He conceded that I was right, and we swept up our pride, dusted off the snow and walked our own directions home. His ego was hurt because of how easy it was for me to say no, and mine was damaged by the ease with which he asked.

Two to go:

I checked my email when I got home. I'd written a note to an acquaintance about my concerns that he might be thinking I was interested in sex with him. He'd invited me on a company-comped vacation for my birthday weekend. It had occurred to me that his intentions might not be so innocent when he said we should rather go alone than with another couple as originally planned. Clearing the air about any sexual expectations would squash awkwardness, I thought.

Wrong. WRONG. Wrong. By contemporary standards and email trends, his response was violent: caps, red text and copied-and-pasted quotes from my original email. According to him, I had suggested he was capable of "rape", that he was desperate for both friends and "pussy", and that I was just using him for a "free vacation" - which, to be fair would have cost me $200.

This is why my friends didn't want me to go. He's an asshead.

Last man standing:

The email made me angry and I was steeping in it when Mr. Dapper called.

"Hi," he said, with a smile in his voice.

"Hey," I said, and the anger swam to the background. "You want to know if you are still invited to come over? You are."

"Okay, I just ordered a cheeseburger but I'll be over as soon as I get it."

I come second to a cheeseburger, I reasoned, irrationally. I can live with that. The man is hungry. As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again.

"Hey," said another familiar male voice. It was the art-man checking in on me. "You didn't come to the show."

Earlier he'd called to see what I'd be doing that night, forcing me to be vague and avoid telling him about the plans to see Mr. Dapper rock out at another gig. He'd gone to another diversionary gig I strategically mentioned, and missed me. Now, at 2:15 a.m. he was making a booty-call. Opting for the "oblivious out" we hung up politely with breakfast plans in the imminent future. He called back minutes later to make it clear he wanted to come over. Mr. Dapper was already on his way. "I don't think so," I said. The disappointment in his voice was clear and I was reasonably sure he wouldn't be calling again for sex. Still, when the doorbell rang I wasn't sure who'd it be.

I knew who I wanted it to be, and how I wanted him to be, but it's never really that easy. Is it?