Wednesday, July 12th, 2006
A: French-speaking guy
B: Short, bald guy
C: Sports nut guy
D: Graphic designer guy
E: Guy with girlfriend
F: Thai-speaking guy
(new for this chapter)
G: Italian guy
H: European jailbait
I: E.?s girlfriend?s ex-boyfriend
I’m trying to take it a little easy this week, not only because my party left me a little tired, but also because my patience with guys I really don’t have chemistry with is wearing thin. G. kind of gave me a wake-up call.
I met G. online about three years ago when I first moved to the city. He had just arrived, too, from D.C, but you’d swear he was FOB from Italy. How can a guy who has lived in D.C. for eight years still have such a strong accent? But at the time, my type was Eurogeeks. Things fizzled out, but we remained friends. We met at a great wine bar, and he is looking much better than in the past—seems someone had a long talk with him about dressing for success or somesuch because I distinctly remember an Ernie-looking red and blue striped rugby shirt that made me cringe three years ago. I asked him for his opinion on why C. isn’t making any moves. His theory? C. feels like with online dating, someone better is just a click away. H. makes me realize why do I care anyway? Is he worth it? I have to say no. Then he says, “There are guys who you want a relationship with and others you just want to fuck because you’re horny” (which came out as “Faack because you’re ornie,” with his accent). It made me happy that our ill-fated romance has become a friendship. Of course, I’m hoping that he sees what he missed out on and asks me out. Though I might just ask him out myself.
Managed to avoid most of my invites for Friday because, as I mentioned, I am losing my patience with certain candidates. D. acted like such a dork at my party that even though I want to do my own version of What Not to Wear on him, I don’t want to see him anymore. Dodged his invitation to attend a friend’s art opening by saying I had plans. Even though I decided I wasn’t going to waste any more time with C., I asked him if he wanted to come over and watch a movie, but he has a friend in town this weekend. I am convinced it is an ex-girlfriend who he still has feelings for. No, I’m not paranoid.
The opera date with A. was fantastic—now this is a date! He wore a suit, picked me up, and ordered the wine. He even got me a rose—VERY hokey, I know, but he is trying. We had polite dinner conversation until I realized he is quite senior at his office for such a young guy, and I am intrigued. Asked him more about how he handles all of the responsibility, and he came off as a truly capable and confident person. At least he has that going for him. Seems, though, that he has an underdeveloped sense of fear. Not only was his driving erratic again, but he proceeded to tell me about how he stops crimes on the street (having grown up in the city, you know someone can have a gun at any moment—what nut would get involved?) I told him I saw two guys grabbing an old woman’s purse once, and he asked, So what did you do? Um—NOTHING! I am not crazy. I was watching from a bus and, besides, she was fine and the muggers were stopped a block away by the police. While we got along fine, during the opera, I looked over at him, saw his pudgy little fingers and decided once and for all I don’t want them anywhere near me.
Today I took H. around the gallery—another tour. He was the one visiting from Europe I had eye sex with at my party. Two years ago, I would never have tried getting to know someone geographically unavailable. When I invited him, he said how could he resist a tour with such a good-looking private guide? Yum! I had hoped he would kiss me in one of the darker rooms. Until the actual tour. He was younger than I remembered. I felt like Mrs. Robinson. He was a little disappointed that my interest fell flat, but I’m sorry, giving a European guy his one experience with an older American woman is not my gig.
OK, I HAVE BEEN WRONGED. Well, not wronged exactly but certainly trifled with. C. was supposed to call this weekend, but since he said he had a friend in town, I let it slide and e-mailed him yesterday to confirm our plans for hanging out tonight. Even though I said I wrote him off, I’m a glutton for punishment. He e-mailed back and said he’d like to hang out, but his weeknights were booked with all of his new sports leagues. How much sports can someone play? Well, I’m not waiting around—it’s obvious that he is not that interested in me. Guys are taking me to the opera and buying me flowers, and what is he doing? Nothing. This time I am really writing him off.
A friend advised that I clear the air with him by gently coaxing him to say why he hasn’t kissed me yet, but I guess I’ll never get the chance. Why can’t he just tell me he’s not interested? That’s what I do with guys I know I’m not into. I would appreciate the same courtesy. But I have to admit that instead of getting obsessed and waiting for his calls, I continued to date heavily and meet new people. So I didn’t waste any time on him, which was a first for me. (Waste of time = holding off on dating other people because you put too much faith in one person too soon.) If I can ever get A. on the phone then I’m going to tell him I’m not interested in anything romantic right now, and then officially I will be dating no one.
C. still hasn?t called—after six dates it’s bad manners to just fade out, so I will tell him so over e-mail. I never just fade away no matter how brief my contact with someone. I don’t expect men to follow this same code of conduct, but six dates does mean he has to provide some explanation, right? Not very smooth, but at least I get my thoughts out and continue my crusade of having people respect one another on this small planet we share.
F., Thai-speaking guy, has resurfaced on a social networking site. I noticed that he had viewed my profile. I viewed his, and boy, his pic does not do him justice (if the ladies out there in cyberspace only knew. Will write to him and see if I get a response. If not, will have friends who work in his department at the university stalk him at the photocopier.
Now—and I seem to sink lower every week—I am going to an NBA Finals party that E.’s girlfriend invited me to saying there would be plenty of cute guys there but one in particular, I. Again, European with a delicious accent—and her ex-boyfriend.
I hate sports.
Up Next: Sexy politicians and one bad kisser.