Do you know what's amazingly fantastic and stupendously demented about life?
The world is really fucking small.
I went out with some friends the other night and it was greatly needed because the only way to get out of your own manic mind is to work all day and then drink with your co workers until it is officially the next day. And then in your inebriated state you can ask yourself, Oh yeah, who was that asshole I was obsessing over again? Cajun tots and jello shots I think I almost forgot!!
One of the wonderful characters at my table was a beautiful man who happens to know another beautiful man in my life. I love beautiful men. I think we all need more beautiful men in our life. And yes there is a difference between a guy who is pretty and a guy whose just a douchefuck. More on that in a minute.
The beautiful man sitting across from me took immediate action when I promptly urged him with the task of finding me a distracting rebound.
Letting go is so much more plausible when you're busy holding the flexed pecks of another.
He scrolled through his phone and came up with a picture of bachelor number one.
What about HIM? he asked confidently as he shoved the picture in my face.
Oh my God! I fired back. Is that Mac? I know that guy! I WORKED with him! He always seemed like a total douche.
He is, my matchmaker admitted. But he just texted me that he's back in Portland and looking to get laid.
I shook my head with amused disgust and threw a lime at his head.
See this is why Portland is too small.
There are so few men that I've actually dated most of them and my only options are men I already know.
I can't believe you know that guy! I muttered almost to myself.
What about him? he asked holding up a picture of bachelor number two.
I'd make out with him, I replied. But he looks like a douchebag too. And he looks young. How old is he?
My matchmaker assured me he was actually sweet and old enough and that every tattoo on his sleeve had a special meaning.
Like he got doves in honor of his mom, he announced proudly.
Jesus! I laughed. No more men with bird tattoos. Or sleeves. Was he in the army too? They're all the same. Maybe I need to stop dating the sensitive ones. I just need a MAN! to which we raised our glasses in cheers.
I pondered. Does there happen to be a brightly colored sparrow on his arm? I've made it a rule to avoid men with birds on their appendages. Literally not figuratively. I've found it's meant to serve as a warning: this one intensely emotionally stubbornly double minded; irksome, tiresome, incapable of any sound consistency. So I'm avoiding men with this tattoo. Also men whose names start with the 10th or 14th letters of the alphabet.
My pretty boy puzzled a moment trying to count in his head.
Never mind, I interrupted. No recently divorced men. No working at Starbucks men. No 'I've only slept with one other woman' men. No married men. No army men. No I hate my mother and am a latent homosexual men.
By this point my matchmaker was nearly choking on his beer he was overcome with the giggles.
I'm serious, I tried to convince in a most nonserious tone.
Oh just find me some hottie whose as ripped as you. But not some guy who KNOWS he's that hot. They are not good in bed because they've never had to be.
He smiled and I chugged the rest of my cocktail.
Do you have a Facebook? I asked my new nonsexual lover. I'm a total Facebook whore and we need to be friends. I found him and clicked to add him. We have three friends in common I wonder who they are! I scrolled through the names. Oh you know J of hearts! I said. I love that guy! We totally bonded one night over talking about our exes and dancing all night. How do you know him?
With that question he artfully raised one eyebrow and his newfound silence spoke more than we had the past hour.
Oh, I understood.
We dated for like two years, he said.
Wait, I started putting the puzzle together. You're an ex...? When did you break up?
Close to a year ago, he answered slowly.
And you two have had a hard time staying friends? I asked quite certain now.
Yeeeah, he answered reluctantly.
Oh my God! You're THE ex! You're HIM! He told me all about you!
With that my poor matchmakers face dropped several feet. I reached my hand and placed it on his.
They were all very loving words, I reassured.
But knowing I knew such a chapter of who he was left him stripped and unnerved. I hastily changed the subject but the change was evident. And a heaviness weighed on his face.
It's rough when people know chapters of your story you've tried to overcome.
It makes you feel raw and exposed.
You're still Facebook friends, I jarringly tried to encourage.
Huh? He didn't follow.
You and J of hearts. You're still Facebook friends. I never stay Facebook friends with exes. I never stay much of anything with exes. They only remain in existence if I write about them.
See this is one of the many things I love about gay culture. When two gay guys break up they can still be linked to each others lives unlike the sensitive sissies I fall for who have to delete and/or block me because they can't handle seeing my daily life.
How is it the straight men in my life are bigger drama queens than the QUEENS in my life?
Riddle me that.
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