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?

Manic Monday Nights.

Disclaimer: It’s almost five in the morning now, I’m not sure if I can even write coherently.  Why does 5am arrive so quickly these days?

  Tonight was full of heartache and nostalgia.  After a long and boring day of selling stupid people things they don’t need on Union Street, I somehow made my way home with just enough time to check my email for pictures from my photo shoot the night before and to have an overly intense Gchat conversation with Girl of my Dreams about how she doesn’t think she can be intimate with me because of her past sexual trauma.

Fuck.

Now, I could go into a big fucking sob story about being sick of dating people who are unfuckable, but that would be insensitive, and I think there’s already a wealth of bad slam poetry written on that subject.  Instead, I cried a little (probably more to do with not having eaten in six hours than from heartache) and accepted these terms.  I informed her that as much as I respected and admired her choice to do the right thing for herself, I could not for MY own well being, be pursuing a relationship with someone who I was not having sex with. That’s just how I roll. Does this make me an asshole? In this amorphous world of polymorphous love affairs… I don’t really even know anymore.

After a good cry and a good energetic goodbye via gchat to the supposed “girl of my dreams”, I put on a pencil skirt they shade of a yellow school bus and made my way down the street to grab a burrito before heading out for the night.

I was on my way to see my high school friend, who I had not seen for 5+ years.  She was in a rockstar band these days, playing piano. She had recently married the super epic and hopelessly dorky drummer. They played at Kimo’s on Polk Street to a small but enthusiastic crowd, especially for a Monday night. I hungrily drank dirty martinis, drooling over the way her back would arch and dance while she played the piano, while I fielded texts from the photographer from the night before. “Come to the Make Out Room” he pleaded via text.

“I can’t” I replied. “I’m overwhelmed by nostalgia.”

He was persistent however, and promised that he was hanging out with a sea of single cute lesbians….I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, but I managed to stay put and committed to where I was.  No small task for me, since I seem to have social ADD.

After the show was over, the gear loaded out, and the merch purchased, we made our way to a bar down the street. It still had it’s Christmas tree up, and had paper Mache icecicles hanging from the ceiling. I ordered a drink that was so girly and sweet I dubbed it “The Walking Vagina” (recipe: peach flavored Absolut Vodka, sprite, a splash of OJ, and a cherry. Fuck yeah.)

I quickly developed a crush on the bass player, as I am wont to do. He could match me tit for tat in Beatles trivia and had cute glasses and an appropriately hairy chest. We exchanged hugs that lasted too long, but not phone numbers, which was dumb.

I was driven home by my budding Gay BFF.  He is the BFF of my most recent ex-girlfriend, so our relationship is complex. But by the end of the night we were cuddled in my bed weeping to each other.

“Who knew?” he said.  “I never would have guessed back in high school that someday you and I would be this close, and this gay.”

“I did.” I replied.

All in all, this is just the way I like to spend my Monday nights.