2008 Dates

The men I meet are very rarely just.... dudes. They're all dudes, obviously but rarely is it that a normal guy is interested in me. Having gone on about 812 dates by now, and having dated for the last 17 years, I can confidently say that I am not accessible to average Joes.

And at this point, I'm going to just accept it that a dude who goes to a normal office, who plays golf on weekends, and who floats along with a normal life of sitting around with his dog and going to play pool with his buddies is never, ever going to fall for me.

Let's look at 2008's Paramours, shall we? Officially, I have been involved this year with a morning show FM jock (obsessed with work and not with me. Burn. Still love him but maybe not like.... that), a closeted older man (I would say gentleman but he was a first class prick), a younger guy who thought he was bipolar (he's not mentally ill but the kids these days... they all need something to be wrong with them. It's weird), my always and forever involvement with a guy Ive been knowing for ELEVEN years. I was wrong. It's fucking eleven. Past the ten, over the decade, eleven.

Most recently, I'm being pursued by the retired King of Tucson Swing.

Read into that what you want because it's true.

The guy who has hosted a hundred sex parties, who gave it up because it became unfulfilling and more of a hassle than it was worth, is enamored this morning with yours truly.

It's surreal, made more so by the fact that he's from Belleville, IL and I can totally picture that had he not left Southern Illinois than he would be like, driving a Trams Am, rocking a scum-stache, and fucking Pawnee girls. And getting cheesy, unironic Wal-mart portraits taken with his chubby permed wife and their Yorkie.

Why, oh why do I not attract John Q. Public?

Am I THAT weird?

Is it all for a book, to be written later when I have formally given up on the idea of a more traditional love story and have decided to sell out and make a lot of money off of the people I met when I was just hanging out and being myself?

Seriously, given a chance, I might be happy with like, a trendy hipster guy. It might be nice to have an affair with a guy who looks like he should be dating me, who likes the same trendy restaurant spots, and who is for all intents and purposes a yuppie like me.
Sadly, the only trendy hipster guys I've met were a 35 year old virgin and a 31 year old recovering meth addict who lived at home. I met them around the same time, which is also kind of notable, I guess.

They read all the same books as me and rocked trendy hipster music on their iPods but were way more fucked up than the King of Swing. The King definitely is introspective and understands reality, understands why a person would seek what he sought and why he is no longer in pursuit of it while the other two were just these uncomfortable jobs with no ability to open up and no ability to be honest with themselves in any way that might cause some growth. These guys just didn't get so many things.

Le sigh.

Technically, the older guys was also a "hipster". He had an iPhone, rode a mortorcycle, and had a display of vintage Barbies in his bathroom. He also asked me if I thought I was fat even though he was built like a barrel perched wobbly on too-short legs. He hiked for exercise and eschewed the gym as worthless when you could be out doing stuff like constantly trying to drown your homoerotic fantasies with alcohol and putting down other, happier people.
I don't think I am too fat, but thanks for allowing me to see how I handle myself when a double-barrel loaded with my ancient insecurities is leveled at my face with the trigger cocked.

He also assumed incorrectly that I wanted to sleep with him and took the time out of an expensive dinner one night to explain to me, like I was a horny 19 year old, that he has really high testosterone (and a full head of hair) which causes him to fall in love with any woman he has sex with. He looked at me over his John Lennon glasses and raised his brows and very seriously intoned to me that he was NOT ready to fall in love with me.
I sat there and froze so that I would neither pull away lest he think it bothered me that he didn't want to sleep with me nor laugh, lest I embarrass him with too-blunt honesty.
Let him think I wanted to do him. The depths of the layers of his delusions were nothing I wanted to plumb. It's rare that I walk away and not try to shed some reality on a situation but on this one?
Leaving the lights off and acting like nobody's home was 100% worth it.
He was danger.
He still is but that's a different story for a different day and suffice it to say that finally, my formerly defected troops are coming back to their formerly temporarily deposed leader, remembering that I am the one, after all, holding the keys to the kingdom.
Hes a maggoty puke and I just knew it first.

I got some fake hair.

Im hoping that wearing it doesnt mess with my chances for a Craigs List Missed Connection. Ive never gotten one but watch, now that I messed dramatically with my appearance, I will:
"Bodacious Brunette with the long pony-tail! We locked eyes at Trader Joes at the dairy case. I asked you about the chicken in your basket we talked about dogs! You mentioned your dog loves a stuffed chicken! I mentioned my dog chases something unique! Email me and tell me what it is and maybe we can discuss more over coffee?

Long pony tail!
And then, because hes John Q. Public, he would either expect wardrobe fun forever and ever and be disappointed to find out that mostly I wear the same jeans and one of about three derby tee-shirts every day; OR, he would go off on me inappropriately about mis-representing my appearance and how lame it is that all women are always all fake all the time, like totally not understanding that having fun with your appearance is just that having fun.

Le sigh.

Show me the way to the next Whiskey Bar.
What in gods name will 2009 bring me in the men department?

Maybe a chick.
Which, actually now that I look at it all laid out like this, may not be such a bad thing.

arizonasarah at 11:24 a.m.

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