The Law of Anti-Attraction

There is a cardinal rule that I have learned about dating: if you have too many dates scheduled for one night—you will go home alone.  It seems contrary to logic—like if you buy more lottery tickets, you have a greater chance of winning—but in the realm of dating, the more people you try to hook up with in one night, the lower your chances are of getting laid.

I often fall victim to this law of anti-attraction.

Tonight was one of those nights.

My favorite band in the world was playing at the Bottom of the Hill tonight.  The Bass Player was my quasi-boyfriend for awhile—meaning that we went on tour together and made out in the back of venues and bought each other souvenirs at gas stations in Kansas—so I was super excited to see him. 

I had also invited Girl of my Dreams, and Kinky Jewish Boy (who I had had a ridiculously awesome fuckfest with just a few nights ago. I’m still bearing the bruises from our time together).  The Photographer—who has begun to make his affections for me more and more obvious—would also be attending. In short, I had far too much on my plate

When I got off work and took a taxi from the wretched Marina to the beloved Valencia street, I arrived at Cha Ya (vegetarian amazing sushi) to have a meal with the Photographer. I drank too much sake and started giggling uncontrollably, which I’m sure was charming at first, but probably not for long.

Upon arrival at the venue, I searched the high and low for The Bass Player.  We eventually saw each other across the sea of crowded hipsters. He had grown a 70’s rocker mustache since the last time I saw him, but still our faces lit up uncontrollably as we embraced like brothers.  

He took my hand and let me up to the dressing room where we exchanged stories of the road. We compared the awesome belt buckles we had both acquired since the last visit (mine was far superior, having two roosters on it with the words “Cock fighting” emblazoned across the front).

And then, things got a little weird…

I suddenly felt like I couldn’t stop looking at my shoes and twiddling my thumbs.  I've never been to summer camp, but I have a feeling that if I had been to summer camp and had a boyfriend and then seen him the following summer…I might feel just like I was feeling in that moment.

Girl of My Dreams showed up.  She was tired and not drinking, which didn’t really mesh well with my overly enthusiastic “I love everybody!” mood fueled by sake and IPA.  All I wanted to do was kiss the corners of her mouth and dance all night.

I did a lot of just that.

Kinky Jewish Boy flaked, thank god.

Eventually Girl of My Dreams left for the night, and I was in the middle of the venue with The Bass Player.  We were standing in a sea of yet to be loaded out band equipment. I kissed him on the cheek and said…

I love you.

Fuck.

This is why one shouldn’t drink too much on nights with more than one date.

He was sweet and gave me lots of hugs with promises to keep in touch better, but as I sat in the Photographer’s car as he drove me home that night, my forehead pressed against the freezing glass window…I just felt really stupid.

I’m on my way to go see The Bass Player’s band again tonight in Santa Cruz.  I also might take some MDMA…why don’t I ever learn?