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.