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Dating Diet: Till the World Ends

By Anthony Paull

I don't get it. Allen Ginsberg writes poems about assholes and is declared one of America's most influential poets, and when I do the same thing, I get kicked out of newspapers. Is my asshole that appalling? Well, it was appealing in college. And according to some bathroom scrawls, it still is.
But I'm not allowed to brag. At my age, I should know better. I should also know not to wear panties when I run low on boxer briefs. But that hasn't stopped me. I keep doing it. I find it sexy, even if the guys at the gym disagree. I don't know what their problem is. My panties contain the same cotton found in good, old-fashioned boy briefs. What's the big deal if I model them in public?
"Um, it's a BIG deal, because they're not meant to hold penises," my assistant Skip tells me. "How do you keep it from flopping out?"
"Please. It's not that big. I just wear a woman's large instead of a medium."
"You're working too much," Skip surmises. "That's why you're acting like this. You can't bust out in panties at the gym. Most people would consider that a biohazard."
"Well, I'm not most people."
Skip agrees, stating I've become far too removed from the public, that I don't know how to interact with normal people. I'm too busy making films and conducting flashy interviews, chatting with celebrities who are too fabulous to pump their own gas.
"Please. I'm nothing like them," I state. "I can't even afford gas."
"True, but you're always on that computer. You need to get out more. Are you going to the Harvey Milk Festival?" he asks.
I think, yes. Of course! What a great way to support equality, spend time with my boyfriend, and hang with normal people.
Too bad, at the event, I don't quite know how to interact. In the midst of indie rock stars, I find myself talking about the upcoming Rapture, how it would be a great opportunity for a photo op. Those of us left behind, we can star in a glossy magazine spread with A-list locusts and the ghost of Britney Spears. "Do you think God would find that offensive?" I ask the band MeteorEYES. "You know, trying to capitalize on the end of the world? Isn't that what Britney did with her last single?"
In return, I get a few awkward glances in the VIP tent, where the "who's who" drink champagne while snacking from an imported cheese tray that costs more than I make in a week. But hey, I'm just so fabulous. At least, that's what Skip says. I'm so amazing I don't know how to interact with people. Yet somehow, I interacted with enough of them to help him land a gig at the festival. You see, Skip's a musician, and he's really talented. But today, he's also really mad because his band mates forgot to show up. Well, at least in human form. Skip did get a text from one of them.
"You looking?" the text said.
"Looking for what?" Skip replied. "Where are you? We have a gig!"
Apparently, his band mate had forgotten about it even though they scheduled a month ago, practicing weekly. But hey, at least he remembered to cruise Skip right before the performance.
"He's not cruising me," Skip insists.
"And you say I'm the one with communication problems? What do you think he's doing? He's trying to SCREW you."
"But we're friends. We've been in a band for six months," he says. Blink, blink, my eyes go, as I stare at him with a neutral expression. "You're wrong. That's gross!" Skip says. Leaving my side, he gears up to perform alone.
During his set, I listen to Skip strum his guitar, but I'm not thinking of chords. Rather, I'm tuned into my very own discord. Maybe I don't know how to relate to the world. At times, I feel left behind even without the Rapture. I just can't comprehend the actions of others. How is it that we can ask for sex over a phone but we can't ask for a date in person? What's more embarrassing? I have all of these friends who are waiting, wishing someone would ask them to dinner, but it never comes. It's zero to sex. If this guy is interested in Skip, why didn't he make a move after practice? I mean, it's not hard. You linger. You initiate small talk. You introduce alcohol, and voila, you kiss. If you're smart, you might even get laid. You see, there are building blocks to a relationship. Have we all been hiding behind our computers for so long that we can't navigate in the real world of sex on anything less than the rate of hi-speed Internet? Without a pod or a pad attached, I fear we're losing touch.
Still, after the set, Skip assures me there's hope.
"I got another text," he says. "You're right. He spelled out what he wants this time."
"And did you reply?"
"Not in a text," Skip smirks. "If he wants sex, he needs to ask for it in person. Until then, forgetting to reply is the best way to remind him he needs practice."

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