Dirty Little Secret

Part One is here. Part Two is here.

I wasn’t sure what to think of the date. Did not kissing me mean that he wasn’t attracted to me? But why drive two hours to go on a date with someone you don’t find attractive? Or maybe he realized on the date that he didn’t find me attractive? I was so confused that I called my best friend, even though it was late. She was asleep, but her little brother was eager to counsel me. And even though I’d known K. since he was in middle school, AND he was still in high school, I told him the whole saga anyway.

Keith’s interpretation was that John liked me a lot, though if he didn’t kiss me on the next date something odd was going on. I liked that interpretation and hung up happy. John called a few times to talk, then he asked me out again. To his fraternity formal. Which was being held at a ski resort in Vermont. I said yes. After hanging up, though, I realized that I’d just agreed to spend a night in Vermont with a fraternity. And that I only knew one person in the fraternity. That one person being someone I’d gone on exactly one date with. I called my best friend immediately.

She called a friend of hers who went to Dartmouth. I waited anxiously. When she called back, she was so excited. Our old classmate had explained that the fraternity in question was filled with the nicest guys on campus, that my date was a wonderful guy and that she had been to the same formal the year before. She even said that if I felt weird for even a minute to call her and I could sleep at her sorority.

So, fears of gang rape assuaged, all I had to worry about was finding a dress. And making small talk with a bunch of people I didn’t know. And appropriate sleepwear. And whether John would kiss me. No problem.

John and two of his friends drove down to pick me up. The ride to Dartmouth was fun and not half as awkward as I’d feared. I got a brief tour of the campus (can we just say beautiful?) and then it was time to get ready to go to the formal. John went into his bathroom (uh, yeah, turns out he had the best room in the frat house and his own half-bath because he was the president of the fraternity. Which felt a little awkward because I’d spent some time making Greek jokes. Ooops.) and dressed quickly. Then he went out into the hall with his friends while I got ready.

The drive to the resort was actually pretty short. We arrived at our chalet (which we were sharing with six other couples) and I tried not to be TOO impressed. It’s not that I hadn’t stayed in lovely hotels before, but never without my parents. I tried to remain cool. Even when John calmly put our bags into one of the bedrooms. Though I did notice that it had twin beds. I took a deep breath as we all assembled in the living area.

There was a huge dining room table and it was COVERED with booze and mixers. I think there were fifty bottles of liquor on it. And I’d already seen a keg in the kitchen. I counted the people present. Fourteen. I asked John if the rest of the fraternity would be coming over for an afterparty or something. Nope. Everyone had their own set-up in their own chalet.

Now, it’s not like I was any stranger to drinking. I’d been going to booze laden parties since I was 14. But I’d never seen that much liquor for so few people in my entire life. But I let them make me a cocktail anyway (not only did they seem to like lots of booze, they sure knew their cocktails - it was tasty and something I’d never had before. They all seemed to be able to make any cocktails - it was like hanging out with a bunch of bartenders instead of pre-med students).

After the cocktail hour we went up to the resort dining room for dinner and dancing. There were roses for all the girls, as well as commemorative glasses - it was like a prom. But with lots more alcohol.

John and I slow danced for a while. I had still not been kissed and the cocktails emboldened me. I leaned back and looked at him. I tried to convey a “Come, Hither” look but I probably just looked dizzy.

Finally, he leaned in.

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So there I was, finally talking to cute boy. (Part one is here.) After all of his reluctance to approach me, I had been prepared to engineer the conversation. To keep it going. To make sure there were no awkward silences. I was ready to sparkle, dammit.

But I didn’t have to. John and I had a lot to talk about, it seemed. Or maybe we were just exceptionally good at flirting with one another. Anyway, I discovered that he was a senior at Dartmouth and was in Boston for a sailing meet (match? All I know was that it hadn’t been a big regatta). When the lights came on, we strolled out into the street. He asked if he could walk me home. After signaling to Sherry that she and Karen and Bill should keep an eye out for me, I let John walk me the three blocks home (not as dangerous as it sounds, the two streets we had to walk on were literally filled with other students, my friends would be watching while they walked home and my gut said he was harmless).

When we got to my stoop, I waited for him to try and kiss me. (Believe it or not, my college dating experiences were rather limited. After having the same boyfriend for freshman and sophomore years, I had spent most of my junior year having crushes. And getting hit on by way too aggressive guys at clubs and parties. Mostly I flirted with my friend Lewis and slightly encouraged Monos - who, it turns out, was an actual Greek shipping heir - without ever actually going on a date with him. John was the first boy I’d ever let walk me home that I didn’t already know. And the first one I’d actually wanted to kiss.)

But John was a perfect gentleman. When he didn’t at least ask for my phone number, I was depressed. I assumed that I’d misinterpreted all the signals. I ate ice cream for breakfast the next morning.

I was completely shocked when John called me two days later. Apparently he’d had a friend who went to BU look me up in the directory (ah, those days before the internet). He was such a preppie that asking me for number was too tacky for him. Or something. Whatever - I was totally thrilled.

He asked me out for the weekend after next and I said yes. When I told my roommate about it, she exclaimed, “You mean he’s borrowing a car and driving two hours just take you out?” I hadn’t thought about it that way - I was just thrilled to have a date. I nodded. “That is wicked cool! He must really like you.”

The date was very nice. We went out to dinner and to see the movie The Player (if you’ve never seen it, it was Robert Altman’s best movie, I think). There was some hand-holding. We talked about politics (we were both neo-hippie liberals) and music (grunge - it was 1992). He drove me home.

And still he didn’t even try to kiss me.

For more soapy goodness, please check out brilliant Brillig’s blog.

Welcome to Soap Opera Sunday! Check out more soapy stories from fab founders Brillig and Kate or find even more great stories here. That last link is also where you can link if you’d like to write your own soapy story. Which I totally think you should.

I went to college in Boston, the mecca of college towns. Because the city is so full of college students, bars have extremely high I.D. standards. The only people I knew who got into bars underage were people who had used a sibling’s birth certificate to get an actual driver’s license and members of college hockey teams. Oh, and those of us who had a friend who worked at a bar. I didn’t fall into the last category until my junior year, but I tried to make up for lost time. The bar my friend worked at was about three blocks from my apartment, filled with comfy couches and cute boys from my college and our rival (if you too went to college in Boston, it was Our House and I went to BU). It was perfect.

Not being 21 yet and only able to take the 18 and over clubs one night a week, I went to Our House a lot. One night I saw an exceptionally cute boy there. Now, I believed that boys who were interested would approach me - I never, ever approached a guy. Being 20 and blond (at the time), this approach worked rather well. So when I noticed exceptionally cute boy staring at me, I smiled and waited for him to approach. And waited. And waited. I walked past him, just in case he was the lazy type. He grinned and said nothing.

I had my friend Sherry make sure that he was, in fact, staring at me. Sherry, to her credit, was understanding about my reluctance to just go up and talk to him. We made one more circuit past him and STILL he didn’t say anything. I don’t know why I couldn’t just give up. Or make my own move. I downed my beer and went and got another. I eyed him cautiously. He was dressed like a serious college preppy. He seemed quieter than his friends. Could he possibly be shy?

I decided to make one final attempt. If it didn’t work, I would go join Sherry and the frat boys in the corner. I walked by exceptionally cute boy one more time . . .and stepped on his foot. “Oh, sorry!” I exclaimed. (I don’t think I would recommend this move unless you are completely positive the guy has been smiling at you for the last hour or so).

“Don’t worry about it! What’s your name?” he replied quickly.

Please check out SOS founder Brillig’s blog. Check other SOS founder Kate’s blog for other great soapy stories, too. To catch up on my stories, go here Episode 10 and here for Episode 11.

So I kept dancing and enjoying being watched by a hot guy. But he never approached me. I couldn’t get over that. I could see how attracted he was. I knew we enjoyed talking to one another. Why didn’t he make a move?

And then I did something that still surprises me to this day. And I wasn’t even drunk. I approached him. Not in my usual, subtle “go-stand-nearby-and-smile-so-he-knows-it’s safe-to-approach-me” way, either. I walked straight up to him, stood closer than is  appropriate for people who are friendly acquaintances and said, “Hi”.

We spent the rest of the evening on the verge of kissing. Then we walked to our cars and made out for a while. And then I went home and had a panic attack.

I didn’t want a boyfriend and even if I did, this guy was not boyfriend material. He was still emotionally extricating himself from his ex-girlfriend. He didn’t have a real job. He was too open. I resolved to ignore the whole episode.

Except that he gave me the nicest shoulder massage at rehearsal a few days later. And he left a rose on my car. We had an after-rehearsal drink the next night. He was so damn kind and sincerely interested in me as a person. It freaked me out.

A few nights later, I told the whole saga to my friend Mimi. We were at Happy Hour, and, knowing that she would be going home early to her fiance, the night loomed ahead of me. After a few drinks (too many), Mimi suggested that I call Hot Guy and invite him over.

I did. And despite the fact that Hot Guy was at his normally sacrosanct “Guys’ Game Night”, he came right over.

And so we began dating.

We got engaged a year later. Two weeks after we got engaged we found out we were pregnant with Ironflower. So Hot Guy is now Hubby, although I think he’d prefer it if I were to continue to call him “Hot Guy”. Maybe I’ll switch.

Please check out the other soapy stories at Brillig’s great blog. To catch up on my stories, go here.

So after giving up on dating and becoming a full-time fag hag, I let the gang talk me doing their next community theater show. I had been quite the actress in high school and did a few things in college, but it had been ten years. I auditioned anyway, though I was completely out of practice and nervous. Though it did help that I’d gotten drunk with most of the people who were casting the show. And so I was in - a few lines, but a lot of scenes as parts of crowds and customers and what have you. In suited me perfectly.

The show itself, not so much. Did you know there is a stage version of A Clockwork Orange? There is. And it’s easier to read the script of the play that to read the novel or to sit through the movie, FYI. The stage version is not quite a musical, more like a play with music. And it’s just as violent as the movie. (The director of. . .let’s call it ME Theater was really into to doing edgy shows)

So as rehearsals started, we did a LOT of trust games and exercises. We also hung out a lot - even the people who hadn’t previously been a part of the ME Theater/Kathy Griffin (not the real one) gay mafia in crowd started hanging out. Naturally, the four of us straight girls in the cast discussed the attributes of the four straight males in the cast (there were about 30 people in the cast and 10 on crew). We agreed that two were too young to contemplate (being 16 and 20), that one was odd (if you know the book/movie/play, he played Alex) and they thought the fourth one was cute. I didn’t - he had too much hair. I hate long hair on guys. Especially when it grows up and out - like Napoleon Dynamite.

Naturally I was paired with Long Hair for one scene. We had to dance together. Well, it was actually that he was supposed to thrown me around a lot and I was supposed to look graceful while remaining uninjured. My friend C., the only other single straight girl in the cast, had hit on Long Hair the night before. She discovered that he lived with his ex-girlfriend (until their lease ran out in two months), that he was 27 and had returned to college to finish his BA in theater and that he was extraordinarily open. Too open for C. As he and I began dancing together, I decided that even though he was weird (sure, I loved history, but he was a Civil War re-enactor!) he was really sweet.

Long Hair was different from most theater guys - especially the straight ones. He was so open and outgoing and relentlessly honest that he freaked people out on occasion. Me included. C. and a few of the crew girls had crushes on him, despite his oddness. Even I liked his blue eyes.

As the opening of the show drew near, there came a night when all the Droogs (the gang of guys that perpetuates much horror throughout the show) had to get their heads shaved. Long Hair was one of those guys.

Without his hair, he was HOT. HOT in a totally bad boy way. I reminded myself that I had sworn off dating. And kissing. And anything else that might happen around a hot guy. All was fine until the night the cast went to the gay bar together (ME Theater was very popular in the gay community and often did showcases at gay bars, trying to entice patrons to attend the actual shows).

Hot Guy kept STARING at me. And I started STARING back. I was on the dance floor and he was on the sidelines but it felt like we were dancing together, you know?

I’m so excited that SOS is back on. You can read the other soapy stories at founder Brillig’s blog (also check out other founder Kate’s blog). There are lots of great stories and most of them are not LONG sagas like mine. To catch up quickly, go here:

Episode 9

To learn everything possible about the poor woman’s Bridget Jones. . er. .me, go these places:

Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 4
Episode 5
Episode 6
Episode 7
Episode 8

By the time Martin came over, I was done crying. But I couldn’t even have explained if I was crying over the break up or my own stupidity. Martin listened patiently while I ranted and raved about MG’s perfidy (how could he keep changing his mind like that? HOW?) and my own stupidity (I knew better, didn’t I). He rubbed my back. He gave me a hug. I started to wonder.. . . .

I mean, things were so easy with Martin. I was so calm and comfortable around him.

And he was awfully sweet for an ex-boyfriend.

I felt so safe when he hugged me.

But I didn’t feel anything else.

Martin left soon after and I never saw him again. We still talked on the phone, but that was it.

Foster had disappeared into a relationship with a crazy nurse. He would resurface and ask me out while I was pregnant with Ironflower.

MG and I dated and broke up two more times. The only way I can explain it is to say that we kept falling in love with each other, but we never learned to love each other - or even be good friends. I was the one who finally broke it off for good. We’re actually MySpace friends now.

After the final MG break up, I half-heartedly tried speed dating. I met a few decent guys while out and about. I seriously contemplated dating P., an attractive guy I knew with the personality of a wet noodle. We had mutual friends, all of whom were married. By dating P., my life would be easy and predictable. . . .

And then I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “What the FUCK are you thinking?”

I didn’t even like P. Was I so desperate that I would date anybody? The idea made me nauseous. I decided to take a few months off from the dating world. It had gone from a fun post-divorce activity to a search for a relationship and I didn’t want to be so attached to having a relationship that I would contemplate guys like P.

I began spending a lot more time at my friend Kathy Griffin’s house. (Not the real Kathy Griffin. But a friend of mine who pretty much stole her personality from KG and was the queen of the local gay prom, if you know what I mean). There was always a party filled with hot, young gay boys, funny gay men, sweet lesbians and bitterly funny breeders. I fit right in.

You could say that the Kansas City gay scene became my new boyfriend. I got compliments and massages and hugs and companionship. I got to go dancing and to the theater. The first flaw in the relationship came on New Year’s Eve, when my midnight kissing options included an angry and recently dumped drag queen, a straight girlfriend or an eccentric alcoholic who already had an erection. I kissed my straight friend, which was just like kissing anyone else you’re not remotely attracted to.

The second flaw came when they talked me into doing community theater.

Yay! It’s Soap Opera Sunday! You can find more soapy stories at Kimberley’s blog. Many thanks to Brillig and Kate for starting this great tradition. To catch up on my previous episodes, check out the following links:

Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 4
Episode 5
Episode 6

Martin and I sat down on his couch to talk. He began by saying that he though we’d always be one of those couples that was okay. I had no idea what he meant.

“I mean, we’ll always be content. We’d never make each other extremely happy or extremely unhappy,” he explained.

“Um, I guess, ” I said cautiously, not sure where he was going with this.

“But that’s not what I want. I want the extremes. I think we should break up and just be friends. I think you’re a terrific person but I want a grand passion.. . ” he tried to explain.

But I was not in the mood to hear about his feelings. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Stop talking to me about this now. I’m too upset. You just dumped me, for God’s sake!!!!!!” I had almost stormed out the door when I remembered that my laundry was in his laundry room (yes, I did my laundry at his house because I didn’t have a washer or dryer). So instead of a grand exit, I had to walk out with an armload of laundry and Martin following me, picking up my trail of stray socks.

That night I wrote him a nasty email. The next day I wrote him a persuasive email. I had a big long cry. And two days later I was better.

It was the weirdest thing. All of a sudden I was just over it. Martin and I became friends. He still came over and hooked up my DVR. We didn’t hang out, but we talked on the phone and emailed. And I was fine. Half of my friends thought this meant we’d get back together, the other half thought that Martin had done the right thing.

And when I met MG the following winter, I was sure that Martin had done the right thing.

Yay! It’s Soap Opera Sunday! You can find more soapy stories here at Brillig’s fab blog. To catch up on my previous episodes, check out the following links:

Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 4
Episode 5

While Martin and I had been talking, my friends had taken a vote. They all thought that Martin should join us. Not one of them was especially fond of Tony, plus they were all concerned that this nice guy might be freaked out by our bar behavior. They thought it better to know if Martin was easily embarrassed as soon as possible. (We had a habit of dancing at this bar, even though there was no dance floor. Regulars just got out of our way. We also sang very loudly along with the jukebox, which we usually commandeered upon our arrival. We may also have played spin the bottle. I’m sure we were supremely annoying but we had a lot of fun.)

So Martin arrived and immediately bought everyone shots (in retrospect, I’m not sure that this was a good idea, but it sure charmed all of my friends). Our antics made him laugh. No matter how much attention we inadvertently drew to ourselves, he remained calm and laughing. I was starting to find him more attractive by the minute. Things were going so well that we were holding hands. . .when gorgeous Tony walked in.

He arrived at the table and said “Hey” to everybody. His eyes flicked to my hand and Martin’s, entwined on the table. He grinned at me and nodded. When Martin went to the bathroom, I waited for Tony to say something. When I went to the bar, I waited for Tony to follow me. I waited for a look when we all walked to our cars. I waited for a phone call after I got home.

I got nothing from Tony, except that grin and nod.

I concluded that he probably had a cell phone of women on speed dial and thus focused my romantic attentions on Martin. We spent a lot of time together and I liked him more and more. We never disagreed or argued. There was no new relationship angst. Our friends got along. Meetings with parents went okay. We fell into a routine fairly quickly. At the beginning of May, Martin started talking about summer plans. Our summer plans. I took this as a good sign.

I was very content. It was so different from life with my ex-husband, or life trying to date a bunch of crazy people. So when he said he wanted to talk, I was merely curious.

(I know, I know. I didn’t post yesterday and failed at NaBloPoMo. But I did post twice on Friday, so I don’t feel bad. Well, not that bad.)

This week Soap Opera Sunday is being hosted by the fantastic women at Anonymous Soapiness, also known as Brillig and Kate. Check out their posts, as well as all the other exciting soap opera stories. You can find my previous soaps (which are sequential, by the way), here,
here,
here
and here.

So in between avoiding phone calls from Kenny the milk man and 21 year old, I began checking out the men of match.com. It didn’t take me long to learn to weed out the married guys, the guys just looking for sex (often, but not always, the same thing) and the truly weird (no dude, I don’t think farms are a turn on). By January, I was corresponding with Martin and Foster (those are very thinly veiled pseudonyms). Neither was married, both wanted to get to know me and neither one had ever mentioned farms, sheep or hay. I was psyched.

Foster was working in California at the time, even though he lived in KC. But I was perfectly content to have a flirtatious email friendship with him, he was funny and smart and I thought he had POTENTIAL.

Martin and I met for drinks. He was funny, smart and very sweet but I didn’t feel very attracted to him. He was somewhat nerdy, and even though I am a total nerd I didn’t know if I could date one. Also, I had recently met Tony, who was HOT (and not that bright or funny but did I mention HOT?). My friend Mimi urged me to give Martin a chance, so I went on another date with him. We had a really good time. I was torn.

Not that I was getting an offers of exclusivity, but the whole situation felt weird to me. I even told Foster all about it, but he was kind of cagey. Though he did mention that he was seeing someone at the California office. I shrugged that off, I had enough problems with guys who were local.

One night I was out drinking with my girlfriends. Tony was supposed to join us, but he hadn’t show up yet. Then Martin called me. He had been out with his friends. Could he join us?