Mr. GoE and I had a good plan for our third date...in theory. We'd meet on my bench after work (in Carpenter's Hall Park- it's my favorite), collect all of the free weekly papers, and because it was a weekend, we would find something cool to do and have a thoughtful, interesting date (as opposed to the prior arbitrary bar stops that ended in raunchy make-outs).
While I was at work, I remembered that one of my coworkers, over a very drunken lunch with the printer earlier that week, had told me about a place in Old City that serves "Winter Warmers" like hard hot cider and mulled wine, two of my all time favorite things. And the weather was perfect for them: the October chill finally arrived, and there's nothing better than a drink that cuddles your insides. Especially when there's a tall man with you to cuddle everything else. I got the details, and thought this could be the perfect spot to begin our evening.
I waited on my bench, beginning to flip through the weeklies when I saw Mr. GoE coming toward me. With cut hair. I hate when guys get hair cuts, and this one was particularly bad. The thing about him is that he's not one of those guys that's cute as an overall package; Mr. GoE has very specific good-looking qualities about him. His height, his beard, his floppy hair, his eyes: if any of these things were to diminish, so would his attractiveness. And let me assure you, it did. Floppy hair was one of Mr. GoE's best features. I should say, I find this to be true about myself as well: my curly hair is a signature (a professor once told me that all of my power is in my hair), and when I straighten it, I'm much more homely looking. Previously, his hair was all Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, and now, it was that of a wannabe young republican. And on top of it, he trimmed his beard-- Mantoberfest was ending, as was his look that turned tall-and-goofy into handsome.
All the same, we kissed hello, and began walking toward South. After we walked a block, I inquired as to where we were gong, and he shrugged. I suggested mulled wine at this place, and he recoiled in a way that I've never seen a WASP react to alcohol. Seriously, what is there to have against mulled wine? But I went with it, because I don't have that reaction to any alcohol ever.
We meandered down South Street, deciding to flip through papers at a bar (and thus, kill two birds with one stone). We landed on Brauhaus, a mildly kitschy German joint where the waitresses dress up and polka music is constantly playing. However, I will give them this: they have great, imported beer for a relatively low cost. Mr. GoE and I got a couple, and mulled through the progression of our days while sipping away.
Eventually, we landed on what we would do that night. "Well, there's always BBG night at Sisters." I should begin by saying that Sisters is a gay bar near Rittenhouse, so already, the local struck me as a bit off. But I humored him and asked, "What's BBG night?""Britney, Beyonce, and Gaga. It's a drag show, and it's kind of amazing." Don't get me wrong, I like drag shows as much as the next girl, but as a fun group thing when everyone gets drunk and cheers and sings; for an intimate date, BBG was not exactly what I was jonesing for. But, for the sake of being agreeable, I nodded and noted that I had yet to be to a drag show in Philly (avoiding full-on committing to the plans, but confusing him by staying within the topic of conversation). And true to form, just when I think he is the most flamboyantly masculine straight dude I have ever met, he responded, "Yeah man, it's a fantastic show. I really admire good drag work- I mean, it's not easy." I should have left it, I should have stopped prying because I did not want to know, but the words were forced from my mouth: "How do you know it's not easy?" "Well, I used to do drag competitions in college. It engaged my competitive side. And most of my friends were queer, so it was something they were into that I then got into."
Why do I ask? Why why why?
With the impeccable timing that bartenders always seem to have, ours came to our portion of the bar and asked how we were doing on drinks. I, being low on money, said that I was good (although after the drag bomb dropped, I could have used a vodka the size of my head). He then looked at Mr. GoE, who, mimicking me, said he was good. Based on his next comment, I'm convinced the bartender heard the drag portion of our conversation, because he pushed further: "Are you sure? We also have a great schnapps list- that might be your thing." Coming from a burly guy's guy with muscles and a beard (who, might I add, I was flirting with a bit while my date was in the bathroom), how could it not have been loaded?
And true to form, what does Mr. GoE say? "What the hell, I got paid today, yes." Oblivious. We ordered a couple of glasses of apple schnapps that were delicious, and feeling buzzed and slightly horny, we decided to go back to his place, he would change out of his business garb, and we'd go out.
On the way to the 2nd Street Station, I picked his brain for a few more meaningful tidbits. On our last date, he had chatted to me about his brother, a 30-year-old guy who was socially incompetent, but had a girlfriend who was willing to put up with it, so much so that she was hoping for a marriage out of it. They even bought a dog as a practice baby. Apparently, simultaneously to our date, Mr. GoE's brother was asking this girl to marry him. And he was thrilled, not so much for his brother (he claimed it wouldn't last past an engagement), but because his pedigreed, Connecticut family would finally stop counting on him for grandchildren. Well, if that's not turning someone else's joyous event into self-gain, I'm not sure what is. We laughed about it, and I then reassured him (ironically, though I'm not sure he got that part) that this was a fortunate turn of events: he could now turn into a toxic bachelor. He was thrilled.
You know what they say about irony: it's a joke but it's mostly true. The thing is that W.G. has yet to call me back, and I'm oddly fine with that. At this point, I hope he doesn't, and I will not be putting forth that effort either. The more I consider it, the more I realize that there were too many red flags, too many flaws that I am unwilling to address or live with. Because I am not ready to settle. I don't know if I want a relationship; right now, I'm really into just playing the field and keeping things casual. And I wanted to put that in Mr. GoE's mind; I plan on being a toxic bachelor myself.
We finally got to 2nd and Market, took the subway to Girard, and began the five-block walk back to his apartment. There's something about that few-drinks-under walk back that boosts my sex drive- it's a fully-clothed, public version of foreplay. Things got handsy, but not obscenely so. There was kissing and some over-the-coat action, but nothing that required grabbing a headboard in ecstatic agony. As we walked up the to flights of stairs to his apartment, I was certain we wouldn't be going out that night. I blame it on the schnapps.
We got inside, and took our coats off. The quiet restraint was working for me (oddly enough), so I scooted onto his bed. Earlier that night (in a context I no longer remember), we were talking about Tom Waits, and so, in a truly in-the-moment act, I asked him to roll me a cigarette and put on some Tom. We lied there for a bit, motionless, watching the smoke float above our heads, and as I neared the make-shift cardboard filter, he took it from my hand, put it in the ashtray, and threw me down. That's the thing about Mr. GoE: he may be flamboyant as all get out, but the dude's got umph.
Clothes went flying and he began working his way down my body. Truth be told, I was still sore from W.G. a couple of nights before (who wouldn't listen when I told him, repeatedly, that my clit was not a penis and should not be rubbed as hard as one), so when Mr. GoE started going at it, I knew from the get-go that I wouldn't be able to come. I gave him a few minutes, but as soon as I could, I turned the tables and began going down on him.
Never in my entire life would think that Tom Waits would get me in the mood. Damien Rice, yes, Radiohead (oddly enough- but their later stuff, like Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows), Jeff Buckley, anyone mildly self-destructive but mostly smart and soulful. But Tom Waits: he sings about prostitutes and drinking until it hurts. And it's not even the content- it's his voice, his rough, sand-paper, filterless Marlboro Red voice. But that night, it worked, so well in fact that it became negligible, just part of the buzzing air of the room. That was until I was in the middle of giving him head. Actually in the middle. Like his penis was in my mouth and my head was bobbing up and down and I was suddenly made aware of Tom.
Now, I know what you're thinking: how does one become acutely conscious of the background music that was, a moment before, nothing? Something had to happen. Was I abruptly disgusted? Did I gag? Did he say something that turned me off? Because, at least for me, when I'm in it, it takes a lot to break my attention in the way that he did, and rarely is that interruption a good thing. Well you see, what made Tom Waits such a prominent presence in that room was Mr. GoE, ventriloquizing him. Yes, that's right, scratchy, 20-years-of-smoking voice and all. Let me say it one more time: the man who I was going down on, not in general but at that very moment in time, was singing Tom Waits, in the Tom Waits voice.
I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or insult: you're so good you make me want to sing OR your blow jobs are so mediocre that I have to sing Tom Waits in order to keep myself from falling asleep of boredom (for the record, I'm going to say it's the former: I may have a small mouth, but I have both tongue action and stamina in my court, although mostly, I just can't bring myself to believe that I am bad at fellatio). So I stopped, I looked at him, and asked, verbatim, "I'm sorry, are you singing Tom Waits in the Tom Waits voice as I go down on you?"
And then, a sort of beautiful thing happened: we laughed, and laughed hard. And naked. For me, that's important. I mean, don't get me wrong, orgasms and passion and all of that is a priority, but when they become so serious that the humor of nudity and clumsiness of bodies becomes ignorable or worse, embarrassing, that's never been something I do well. I have to laugh and feel like I'm with someone who can laugh, and for all of his shit, Mr. GoE can do that.
Eventually, we stopped (collecting myself after that episode was not a simple feat), and we started going at it again. He wanted to have sex. Of course he wanted to have sex. He didn't need to make the oh-so-eloquent proposal of "Wait, let me go condom up"- his feeble attempts of naked dry humping did me just fine. And then, I had to say no. I wasn't in it. Maybe it was Wednesday's date with W.G., but I can't juggle in that way. It's not something I'm capable of, or even want to be capable of. Toxic bachelor may be something I'm striving for, but casual sex is not. In true Mr. GoE form, he took this information very well (or at least, my short and simple, "No, I need to take this a bit slower. Is that ok with you?") and responded, "Yeah, I'm still going to get lucky tonight. [Pause.] Wait, I'm still going to get lucky, right?" I assured him he would, and followed through. Twice. There was no singing.
The next morning we woke up, did the hazy-lazy-early-morning lounge for a couple of hours, got up and went out to brunch. After a filling meal of pumpkin french toast and coffee, I headed back to center city to get my day started. At three. Dating is beginning to take a toll on my weekends. But what can I say, it keeps things interesting. After all, I would not have been serenaded giving my vibrator a blow job on a Friday night...
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