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?

Modern Love

“You’re quite the modern girl” he said as I arched my bare back a little more to more fully accentuate the curvature of the mermaid tail I was wearing. 

Click.

He snapped a few more photographs.

Here I was in a lush East Bay Apartment, posing half naked for a man more than twice my age.  The terrible thing was, this wasn’t the first time I’d been in this situation—but that’s another story and another body of water.

Since moving to San Francisco, I HAVE become quite the modern girl.  As I ran my finger along the lip of my glass of red wine it made that ringing sound that sound like whales crying and I told him about my date the night before:

She had riot girl red Shirley Temple curls. On our first date she had worn blue plastic squid earrings and an electric blue prom dress. 

She is potentially the girl of my dreams.

But tonight (date#5) she was more subdued as we were on our way to Queer Contra Dancing in Oakland.  It was far too wholesome to be abided for more than an hour, but she and I enjoyed being spun around by giant gay men in tie dye skirts until we felt like we would explode and then escaping to the parking lot to indulge in less wholesome activities.

Later in the night, back on the other side of the Bay, she got a text message from her boyfriend, who was on a date with his other girlfriend and his girlfriend’s other boyfriend.

WHOA.

Rewind. Let’s just do a little chart real quick

Me-àGirl of my DreamsàGirl of my Dreams’ boyfriend who looked like Mr. Clean-àMr. Clean’s girlfriend who had Aeon Flux hairàAeon Flux’s boyfriend who was wearing a skirt.

All one happy family having drinks at a the Dirty Thieves in the Mission.  Awkward does not even begin to describe my feelings.  

It did not help that I was wearing a ridiculous outfit of teal gingham and red crinoline, as I am wont to do, and everyone else seemed to have borrowed all their clothing from the cast of the Matrix. They looked at me like I had food spilled all over myself or something.  Like they were embarrassed for me.  When Aeon Flux asked me what Girl of my Dreams and I had just done for our date, I did my best to explain the wholesome summer camp vibe of Queer Contra dancing.  She stared at me with a deadpan glare and said,

“Weird.”

I drank my IPA as fast as possible and Girl of my Dreams and I made our way to meet my friends at the Lexington.

“I think he liked you. “ she assured me.

I told you she was the girl of my dreams.

Somehow the overly wholesome appetizer of Queer Contra Dancing made the harsh brooding hipster dyke scene of the Lexington feel less intimidating than usual.  We smoked cigarettes outside for a while with some friends of mine, and met some overly adorable girls from Australia…one of which started making out with Girl of My Dreams almost immediately.

My cigarette smoking friends pointed and gawked, expecting me to beat somebody up, since the last time something like this happened (Q Bar during Castro Street Fair,) police had been involved.  I won’t lie and say my stomach didn’t do a little drop, and I didn’t start to sweat a little bit when I saw them.  But when Girl of my Dreams was finished with the potentially underage Australian Sheila, she bought me a gin and tonic, grabbed my ass and kissed me in that way that said “Drink fast, I’ve got a white harness and a giant black silicone cock in my bag and I can’t wait to get you alone.”

So yes, I told my photographer, as I readjusted the ukulele chastely draped across my breasts, I’ve become quite modern.

He tried to hide his intrigue with more clicks of the camera.

When we were finished and I had become a two-legged creature again, he casually invited me to join him in the hot tub before I made my journey back across the bridge. I politely declined.

 For, despite my modern sensibilities, I am still a lady.