BEFORE SUNDAY:
So I’ve been doing this online dating thing for a few years now. I’ve met, chatted with, and even befriended several men with partners, who insist that they are only looking to make friends. Despite this insistence, their ads often include anatomical measurements, preference for top or bottom, and include pictures of them naked or scantily clad.
Now, I’m thinking that these guys either don’t know that their relationships are headed for the rocks, or they are so deluded by their narcissism that they actually believe what they’ve told themselves and us about their motivations. Yes, a lot of them are open about “playing” outside of their relationships, and those aren’t the guys I’m talking about. I avoid them like fried chicken–delicious but toxic. Oh wait, except for Concubear 2, he’s just plain delicious.
Speaking of honesty in advertising: One of my ex-bachelors is now 8 years younger than when I met him 2 years ago.
I’m going to make my boyfriend so happy. That is, if we ever meet. I plan to smother him with so much affection, sex and baby talk that he’ll have neither time, energy, nor libido for anything or anybody after I’ve drained it all from his barely-standing but still-smiling person.
I’ve been chatting with one truly single guy. His pictures convey that he’s trying to be what he thinks we all want—practically naked, detached, confident and available. After chatting for about a week, he directed me last night to a video of him on YouTube that he made to advertise the theater where he is the artistic director. He playfully and charmingly engages the visitors to the theater and speaks delightedly about the productions and space–a very different person from the run-of-the-mill bear that I thought I was talking to online. He actually speaks my language. I’m really intrigued by these differences between projected and actual identity, and how they’re going to coalesce. We’re meeting Sunday night. I can tell that he’s talented and intelligent and has no idea that people might be attracted to that because he’s probably only had boyfriends who want his body–which is pretty nice I might add–and never experienced the kind of intellectual and physical melding that will define our relationship. That is, if we end up together for the rest of our lives. After tomorrow night I’ll know all about his past relationships, likes and dislikes, maybe I’ll be disappointed, maybe thrilled. Right now I can only fit him into the shoes of my fantasy husband and project all of my desires and expectations on his 100×100 pixel picture.
This morning I had coffee with a really great guy, also someone I met online. He’s very bright and well-read, with a kind of snappy humor that I associate with a higher intelligence. I had to bow out of a trip to the Japanese bath house with him due to an unfortunately situated stress-related dermatitis: first impressions do linger. He did take his shirt off for me, though, in an attempt to re-establish Hibernia Beach at 19th & Castro, causing a momentary traffic crisis.
BC swept me away at noonish to go a’gallerying. We saw a stellar little show of early Diane Arbus prints at Fraenkel. Photos of her familiar subjects are hung amidst dim photos of theater interiors–blurry people engaged in almost readable activity–and snaps of images from the screen; people kissing, a woman screaming… They’re photos that explore safely and from a distance–and in the dark–themes that she would later explore directly and openly.
AFTER SUNDAY:
So we went out Sunday, the single guy and I. First off, he’s the son of… well, his dad was one of the most famous San Franciscans ever. There are buildings named after him. There we were having dinner at Thai House and suddenly the light bulb went off–“Was your father blah blah?” Some things now made sense, but in a different way than I had fantasized. For instance, the distance that I felt between a real and projected identity I think was actually class related. Although he works among the bohemians, he’s of a different class, of a pivotal part of history. He was surprised that I didn’t say, “Oh, I’m sorry,” when he told me who his father was, but it had never occurred to me, as if the public had already come to terms with the events associated with his dad, and I couldn’t attach any personal sentiment to such a public figure. He’s charming, handsome, very easy to be with, but he’s Paris Hilton without the paparazzi, billions, or reality show. Some would ask, “…and??” but my porn movie stars a timid 40 year old hairy virgin chub librarian cinephile, my fantasy equivalent of what would be promised to terrorist martyrs in the afterlife.