By Anthony Paull
Big things happen to those who wait! Yes! That's what my friends tell me when they call, and I inform them that I haven't met or talked to anyone on a romantic level in six months. Others, like my dad, think I'm lying, that I'm a closet whore who has slumber parties with indie rockers when I get done shooting and interviewing them for the paper. Yes, I'm such a legend, except my penis isn't speaking to me out of spite – and last night, my asshole declared a holy war. Basically, from what I can tell, the hole is threatening to, ahem, close up.
Funny, I never knew my butt was religious, but I think it's learned helplessness in the last few days, and now, it's threatening to open a mosque near Ground Zero. Yeah, I know; my ass is famous. That was my butt in the news, stealing all the press when I'm in the midst of a depression. And I know, I know, "But we're in a recession, and everyone is depressed."
Yeah…try telling that to my butt. The selfish thing – it just wants attention.
Therefore, to silence it, I have been going out, kind of. There's this sexy bar with a great foreign beer selection and a fire pit in the middle of the star-canopied backyard, and when I'm frisky I slice up a shirt and stick on a really, really tight pair of skinny jeans, and, voila, I'm a slut!
Well, not really. I mean, my dad would love that, because he thinks gay men just go gay to be sluts, but I'm more of a prude. Well, I guess I'd be more of a tease if I were actually teasing anyone. But for the most part, everyone is (snore, snore, snore) straight, and I just can't compete with pussy. It always wins. Well, except when the wrong guy is in the right kind of mood due to the beer in his belly.
Tonight, he comes in the too heavenly form of a tall, wiry hipster who finds Pabst Blue Ribbon hip because he thinks it's the cheapest way to get me drunk.
Like I need to be drunk to be a slut. Hello, college is over! I've evolved.
Besides, I'm a lightweight. I can get drunk on Sprite if it's been lying out too long. "Awesome, then you'll be a cheap date," Mr. Hipster jokes, scratching his black mustache. "Not that I've ever dated a guy. But for you, I'd think about it. Seriously, I don't know what the fuck I am."
"Well, buy me an expensive beer, and I'll help you figure it out," I inform him.
Yes, I'm so brave, for a second, and then I flee, run-walking to the other side of the unlit fire pit, where a group of college kids compare tattoos. Avoiding Mr. Hipster, I snap pictures of a skinny music trio, wearing superhero capes and football pads on a wood plank of a stage. The leader, wrapped in Christmas lights, sings a torch song about someone teaching him how to die. I think of giving him instructions, seeing as lately, I feel like a pro.
That's the thing about ending a long-term relationship – every breath is a tiny death unless you're ready to seal the coffin. Unfortunately, I like to think there's life left with my ex; even if we're just friends, how do we make it through to the other side alive? How do I handle seeing him with someone else? How will he see me? How do I pretend not to care?
"You ask too many questions," Mr. Hipster tells me. Later, drunk and brazen, he surprises me with the beer I requested, plopping down beside me on a picnic bench, where he toys with my camera.
"Wrong, I asked you one question," I correct him. "And I'll ask again: Why do you keep following me?"
"Because you think I'm cute," he slurs, being ever so clever. And true, he is cute, but I'm not willing to admit that because he's not willing to admit he likes guys. When I grill him about it, he just laughs and then gets really serious. "Look, don't judge me, man. I don't know what I like, but I like talking to you, OK?" He makes it so simple.
Still, I find no rhyme, no reason to this encounter, other than the words of advice I recently received from a friend. "Quit thinking every guy you meet has to be Mr. Right. You attract the kind of man your soul needs. Right now, your soul has a hole, so repair it before you meet the right one. You had Mr. Right. You might need Mr. Right Now or Mr. Wrong. He might be what your soul is calling…."
Hence, I'm writing this in a brave attempt to be all right with feeling all wrong all the time. In fact, I'm naming it Fantasy Football, so it will get in the wrong search engine so the wrong people will read it, because I'm that punk rock, and I'm that fucked up.
The truth is, I've been playing it safe too long, so worried what my friends, my ex and my family will think that I haven't been thinking for myself. I'm sick of shape-shifting, afraid of the stigma attached to being single. True, I'm lost, but I'm determined to love it, because I'm not ready to love anyone else. But I can like someone.
"So wait, uh…dude, will you give you me your digits?" Mr. Hipster nervously asks, chasing me down in the parking lot after last call.
And yes, it feels wrong, totally wrong, YES!
But I guess that's why I give him the right number.
