Creation and Destruction (LP)

“You know why I can’t fuck you. . . I love you too much and I don’t want to hurt you. I love you too much. “

Everything that is beautiful and horrifying about my relationship with LP is right there.

He loves me too much to be with me, but he thinks about me, my strength and my fragility, the shape of my body, the beautiful face he loves, daily.

He dreams of me, fantasizes about me, but he can’t be with me. And he can’t not be with me.

He woke me inadvertently with a text. Then, he called.

“Me too” (LDF, LP)

Tonight, the two men in my life each responded back adorably to a text message with “me too.”

The LDF responded “Me too!!! ” when I told him toward the end of our text chat: “Wish your trip this week were to [here].”

LP responded “Me too” when I told him “I am great. Miss you. Xoxo.” after he rapid-fire responded with three texts to a message I’d sent 30 minutes before.

Though I am seeing a few people, I really only have only two men in my life, even though neither is really in my life.

I had a moment of clarity tonight when I saw that my Long-Distance Fling (LDF) was on twitter, which he never is. I quickly scanned my feed, just to be sure it was clean.

Darkness and Light (LP)

Last night, I was working from the sofa and LP, my impossible to categorize love, texted me.

I’d sent him a message earlier, with a request I never make: ” I’d like to get on your calendar some time over the next 7 days. When can you fit me me in?”

It took two hours for him to respond, which was more than enough time for me to get my nose out of joint and compose many unsent tweets.

When he finally did, it was a check in that was a little strange about work and the weather and became a discussion about restaurants where I was trying to figure out if he was trying to ask me to dinner or help him pick a restaurant for a dinner:

LP:”What do you think of [$40/entree restaurant] as a restaurant? Any good?”

Inner Beauty

The joke has always been that it was my inner beauty that was so attractive. It’s not.

I joke in my dating profile that the first thing people notice is my personality.

It’s not.

I can be kind of a bitch.

More importantly, I am beautiful.

Those are hard words for me to write.

They were, rather.

They were hard words to think.

Because, despite it all, I haven’t felt I am. I’ve not felt beautiful; I’ve felt lucky.

That makes an enormous difference in how you approach the world.

Confessions

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“This is overt.” (RSG)

On Friday afternoon, the reporter helped me grab my luggage and relocate from his tiny flat in his chic, hilly downtown neighborhood to downtown proper: to the software developer’s fancy condo tower with valet parking.

SD’s building is convenient to everything and I’d be here for three days before moving back to the reporter’s neighborhood for two months in a chic, furnished flat, located conveniently only four short blocks from LP’s home.

My Friday afternoon was tight. I needed to shower and grab drinks with a recently separated guy friend (“RSG”) who needed dating advice and from whom I needed career advice and then hit a costume party at C’s restaurant.

Life Changes

I am — at the moment — on the sofa at the reporter’s flat, still in my nightgown despite the fact it’s 230 in the afternoon on a Friday.

I’ve been working since early morning, preparing to repack my belongings to move to the Software Developer’s condo for three days.

It will be my first time sleeping on a bed in nearly a week, aside from the one in the Pilot’s room.

After that, I will be in a chic flat in this chic neighborhood, living alone for the first time in years.

I will likely get into a bit of trouble.

The Bon Vivant is threatening/promising to show up at a party tonight, which he saw listed on my fb page. It is likely I will sleep with him again at some point — he’s easy, the sex is good, and I am bored. He has been racheting up his attention over the past week or two and asked me to come over last weekend — I was out and busy. It is inevitable — like the fact i will likely sleep with PR again. It’s just one of those things about which I refuse to feel guilty or weird or slutty about.

I am in control of my life now in ways I’ve not been before. I am no longer waiting for these things to happen to me or around me. Now, I am on my own, making my own way, dealing with issues head-on.

My most significant relationship at the moment is still with LP, who after weeks of regular Saturday dates, now has drifted out of the habit — work travel and the flu. We were months away from reconciling fully, but I miss the ease with which we slipped into a routine. I have not yet told him about my move and things. He’s been disconnected with illness and it’s a rather awkward conversation to have.

Still, we love each other and we have been very open and honest about our feelings for each other.

The other complicating factor is the Long Distance Fling. We are in regular contact, several times each week and he gave me his travel dates and hotel info for his trip here next month. He’s not relationship material for me, but I genuinely like both him and the idea of him and I cannot wait to see him.

I have no idea what will happen, but I would assume any of the following: I will likely reconcile with LP by the summer, I will sleep with the BV before then, and I will continue to have a fling with the Long Distance Fling when he is around.

The Pilot does not really fit into the plan. Which sort of makes him fit into the plan entirely.

I am not pushing myself into any permanent decisions. I am remaining flexible as I heal and figure out what I want.

Choosing to be with the Pilot or with the BV or with LP or PR or whomever works for me because they are choices I am making.

I spent years feeling life was simply happening to me and around me. Now, I feel as though I am making choices and taking responsibility.

I have moved from survival mode into something less than thriving, but I am exerting my power and answering only to me.

This feels good and right.

A Monday (The Pilot)

Monday, I took my ipad and wireless keyboard and had lunch with C at her restaurant and then decided to go grab a glass of wine at the elegant 5 star hotel a couple of blocks away. They have wine for half-price then, with one of the best lists in town, and the idea of a great glass of wine and my resume sounded perfect.

It was perfect. I started with a glass of rosé champagne (for $7) and then moved on to an interesting white.

I was seated at a long table, facing the entrance. Behind me was a handsome man, also facing the entrance. We shared a waiter and, while he was great with wine recommendations, he was fairly terrible with nightlife recommendations for a man in his mid-30s on a Monday night.

There are very few things happening anywhere on a Monday, but blues clubs and jazz clubs were missing the mark.

I turned my chair a little towards him and asked, what is it that you’re trying to do?

He is English . . . a qpilot, an avid cyclist, and he had taken a day to come to this city, ride, see the sights, before his trip back across the ocean the next afternoon.

As we chatted, he invited me to join him and we talked food and wine and sports and music. He bought a glass of wine for me, and I shared the only item he’d not ordered from the menu, which was — by far — the best thing.

I am — of course — a little tipsy as i have been drinking wine and not eating.

We decide to find adventure, which mainly means that we each tab out, leave his car there at valet, after it’s stamped at the restaurant, and head back to C’s restaurant.

C and her new boyfriend are there and the four of us have a great time.

We start drinking. Well, the pilot is drinking. C pours me water when I walk in. She knows.

She also is not surprised that I left to work on my resume and walked back in with a very handsome guy.

The pilot gets a frozen margarita with an extra shot of booze, a couple of times, and I encourage him to get a Paloma, which he hates so I drink it.

We are — the four of us — laughing and talking.

C and her boyfriend, who is a country singer with a blue collar job, are charmed by the pilot. He is charming.

He is English and handsome and interesting and funny.

We wrap up there and decide to find a new place. The closest is a bar C frequents with a huge outdoor patio. It’s a little chilly — but only to me — so I sit closest to the outdoor heater that they turn on for me.

The pilot and I hold hands at the table and there is an easy affection.

C and I have a small tiff at the table. And we we go to the ladies room and talk. I ask her her opinion of the pilot. She laughs that, yes, he’s very attractive and seems great, and that it’s clear to everyone that I am leaving with him.

It’s just a natural thing.

Our chemistry is great and it’s been MONTHS since I’ve even made out with anyone. The random guy immediately after the LDF was the last guy, and I’ve kissed LP, but that’s it. That’s the extent of my sex life.

So we knew that I was likely leaving with him. In fact, that’s essentially what C said.

We wrap up. It’s still early. Maybe 10 something. C and her boy refused to let us pay for the drinks there. We split a pitcher. I had less than half a glass, and I gave most of that to the pilot.

We walk out to the curb and I hail a cab for us. We give the cabbie the address and we are holding hands again and then we are making out in the cab. And it’s great.

Granted, it’s been a while, but he’s hot and the chemistry is excellent.

We stop kissing only when it’s clear with bumpy roads that one of us is going to get hurt.

We get to the hotel and hold hands through the lobby. It’s ridiculous. He’s staying in a hotel north of town because he didn’t know and he had a room in the city in which he landed.

When the conversation comes, we realize that neither of us is prepared. So we kiss and get naked and do everything we can that does not involve actual penetration.

And it’s great.

We go to sleep and then awaken around 2 am when my allergy meds wear off. We start kissing again and we end up again doing everything we can. And it’s even better.

It’s easy and it’s amazing to be in this man’s arms as we kiss.

In the back of my mind, I am fully aware of the fact that he is a handsome pilot who travels internationally as a job. Like my long distance fling, simply by the nature of his job, he is exceptionally unsafe as a sexual partner.

So. Many. Women.

So. Many. Women. From all over the world.

It’s ridiculous.

He doesn’t know that I am safe or clean. He just knows that we each limit our exposure without question or discussion or argument.

We don’t discuss it. We are not prepared so we don’t go there.

It’s refreshing.

Every time we awaken, we kiss, passionately. And curl up.

He is a foot taller than I am and significantly taller than anyone I’ve dated in a while. Curling up with him means tucking myself into his ridiculously long torso. I feel — even with a stranger — safe and protected.

He had intended to awaken early and get a ride in, but we sleep until 730. We decide to cab back to the hotel, and then he will drive me home from there, despite the fact it is out of his way. I was a little concerned about the logistics, but he made it easy.

The five star hotel made it easy, too. The valet took forever because they’d already pulled the car from the garage before we had arrived. We stood awkwardly and made small talk about whether or not he’d return for the huge entertainment thing happening here in a few weeks.

[The thing during which the LDF and I are planning to see each other.]

Of course I encouraged him to come back. Despite the fact I am likely otherwise engaged with the LDF.

When the car arrived, his pilot’s jacket with name and rank was on the passenger seat, confirming everything he’d already said.

We drove the few blocks from the hotel to the place where I am staying with the reporter. He kissed me in the car and I gave him my number and email. I have no idea why, it just seemed like a good idea. He’d left his phone in London before his trip.

I have no idea if I will ever see or hear from him again, but that was not really the point of this adventure.

I am glad we skipped intercourse, though I am curious about how the mechanics would have worked as he is enormous, because we had a far more intimate, far more focused evening.

Every time he climbed back into bed, we kissed and he held on to my hip. It was romantic and tender and wonderful.

I do not often take those kinds of risks, but when I do, I am always rewarded with a wonderful evening.

I do not often put myself out. I am very targeted when I choose to let someone into my world — and into my bed.

What was less surprising to C — or our friends who heard about it subsequently — is not that I picked a man up at a bar, it is that I picked that man at that bar . . . the only one who was perfect for me. C’s boyfriend said with admiration when the pilot was away from the table “nice pull!” Because picking up an English pilot, who resembles Benedict Cumberbatch, was actually an impressive feat. He could have wandered into anywhere and had his pick of anyone who was out.

It was clear — given our later bedroom romp — that randomly hooking up with a woman was not his intention that evening. He was unprepared for it in every way from the lack of condoms to the ironing board still out to papers and computers covering the bed.

I — hadn’t even shaved my legs in like a week. (I’ve been moving and living in jeans and yoga clothes.) I was also not looking to meet anyone. I was looking for a great glass of wine and a quiet room.

What I found was exactly what I actually needed — a handsome, interesting man, a great story, pleasure, and random fun.

As I am dealing with everything else — poverty, homelessness, unending stress — those small moments of adventure and levity make all the difference.

It is also a nice reminder that I am still attractive to the men I find attractive. He was in his mid-30s given the timeline of employment, a striking presence, and the only man there I would have wanted to speak with.

I am considered a very attractive woman — and I am usually mistaken for someone 5-7 years younger than my age. [The next night, two bartenders from a nearby steakhouse were sitting at my table with C and they were both amazed by my age: “you’re really hot for someone in her early 30s” and did not believe I am actually 10 years older.

I have had an interesting career, I am well-educated and worldly. For whatever reason, I don’t encounter normal people. I encounter exactly the right people.

It’s the thing about which my friends tease me mercilessly: it’s never just a guy — it’s the rock star or the athlete or the best in his field or the charming man-about-town.

I don’t date “normal” guys. They do not like me or find me attractive. I can be a princess, I can throw tantrums, and I am annoyed by certain things. A strong man also prone to bad behavior can manage through a brief what-the-fuck-why-did-you-take-me-to-a-restaurant-where-they-don’t-clear-my-plates-in-a-timely-fashion meltdown.

I have — on more than one dating occasion — muttered: I hate this why are we here. At very elegant places where people would love to be ignored for 10 minutes while waiting for water.

So, if you want to date me, you have to be used to certain things about me, my lifestyle, my friends, my occasional bouts of attitude. But there is a lot of upside, too. I am dedicated to making sure everyone has the best time always. I am funny and smart and relentlessly positive.

And occasionally a complete diva.

I really don’t know why I attract who I do. I just know that –out of all of the elegant wine bars in this city — I ended up talking to and picking up the only man I would have wanted to speak to on that evening.

I date within a very narrow range because it is where I am comfortable. Those are my people. I am their type, too. The hot bartender will never look in my direction. The handsome venture capitalist: he will pursue me hard, no matter who else is in the room.

I have never figured out what the signal is, how we know to find each other. We just do.

It could be location-based: if I am in the land of $20 glasses of wine in a 5 star hotel where Oprah stays when she is visiting, then I am likely to meet people who have similar taste and interests. I am likely to find people who find me attractive.

Big Update — Homeless Edition

So much has been happening that I have done a terrible job of recording it. I am doing a much better job of living it.

I have endured the roughest of rough times and the loveliest evenings, often on the same day.

At the moment, I am . . .

technically homeless

dating LP

dating the Long-Distance Fling

unemployed

camped out in the tiny apartment belonging to the Reporter (my gay boyfriend, who may or may not actually be gay)

getting hit on by the Bon Vivant

getting my life together

picking up a random, handsome stranger at a hotel bar

remaining celebate

No, seriously. All of it.

My technical homelessness is actual homelessness in that I have moved out of my condo so we can sell it and I have not yet moved into a new place.

Before you think I am being melodramatic, I had exactly $2.14 in my account today AND I had to pawn my jewelry to pay my movers.

Let’s just consider that for a minute.

Last Saturday morning, the Reporter picked me up before 9 am, drove me to a pawn shop, where they took two of my rings, handed me $375 and two claim tickets, and then drove me back to where the movers were underway.

It was a harrowing emotional week in which I could be entirely honest with no one. I was in over my head and incapable of asking for help.

I have learned a lot about myself as a result. A lot.

My brother — from whom I have been estranged — showed up to essentially evict me and had to help me pack as I had woefully underestimated my ability to do this on my own.

It took days.

It allowed us to bond.

It was not the worst thing in the world.

I tend to ask for help not when the iceberg has been spotted, not when near-collision is inevitable, not when collision has occurred, and not when we are starting to sink. I ask for help plucking people from the water.

That . . . is bad.

I am working on it.

My friends pitched in to help me pack, and then to move the last remaining things left behind by the movers. It was not terrible and not that burdensome for anyone but the Reporter, with whom I am now staying.

I have not told LP nor the Bon Vivant nor really anyone outside my tightest circle of friends. It was a long time in coming, but then it happened so quickly that I just kept my mouth shut. I have only begun telling people now that my feet are on more solid ground. Where it looks like there has been a plan the whole time.

There has not.

I have been surviving.

Now, however, there is a plan.

A pretty damned fine plan, as a matter of fact.

This tested the mettle of me and everyone around me and some failed miserably. Most importantly, my business partner BP has been such a disaster through all of this that I have decided forever to leave behind everything we have done and get a job.

He promised money, an apartment, movers, direction. He delivered nothing. I was completely on my own.

I will never forget it.

Let’s see, what else . . .

Ah, I am moving into a new place, three blocks from LP. It’s a chic neighborhood, close to everything and it will make my life significantly easier. I will be there for two months, which will give me enough time to figure out my next moves.

I want to stay in this neighborhood if I can. Likely living with my girlfriend C. I need a job to be able to do that.

I am working on that.