#8 and I went to Black Sand Beach on Sunday. I tried to imagine us as Burt and Deborah in From Here to Eternity, but couldn’t get past Ernest Borgnine and Monty Clift. I still don’t get him. No, I do. Why do I keep making these statements that I don’t know something when I do? Omigod, is that denial? His palm pilot/phone thing buzzes constantly when we’re together, yet he never answers it. Look, everybody, I know this probably isn’t going anywhere, I’m more intrigued by what’s drawing us together. I think that he sees something in me that represents stability for him–don’t laugh–that and the prospect of the best oral talent this side of the Pecos for eternity. Oh, and another thing, I’m all rolling around and spinning and jumping through hoops, and he just kind of lies there–a bottomless bottom. Remember, I wear Meryl Streep’s Versatility, and really need someone who’s more inventive with the horizontal mambo. Or at least moves. Okay, so he’s all into this idea of monogamy, this theory that he’s heard about. Me, I’m into taming this wild creature, that and the purely physical attraction. A chem-i-cal re-ac-tion, that’s all. In the wild, or at the Steamworks, we would have sniffed our butts, dry humped each other and moved on to the next one by now.
The Dating Game: #8 Thoughts
I’m annoyed. I got pretty excited about Bachelor #8’s interest in “dating” me, but sense insecurities and awkward feelings that I recognize from dates past. Bob always said, “The patterns of the past are the keys to the future,” so I need to examine them before I go off and continue to make the same mistakes.
I like #8, find him very attractive, and again, his happy centered-ness is totally great to be around. BUT… We have nothing in common, really, I can tell already. This isn’t a problem, but in the absence of common interests, there has to be an openness to new experience, a thirst for knowledge and culture, an awareness and interest in the visual and sensual. I don’t sense it from him, like he’s just this happy-go-lucky guy who likes to eat a lot, occasionally see a movie, hang with friends, travel to interesting countries just to have sex with the guys who fawn over him on Bear411… I find myself avoiding suggesting that we go to the Karen Finley lecture, or watch Eros together.
It’s like I’m pining over this pretty shell, but I’m actually yearning for some filling. Maybe I’m just feeling disappointment.
Coco, you hardly know this guy, lighten up, dude!
No, really, I know him. I want it all, I want intellectual connectedness and furry belly-bucking. Why aren’t there any bears on Bear411 who read? Should I just cruise the lecture and gallery-opening circuit?
Coco, listen–to–the–sound–of–my–soothing–voice… You’re just getting to know him, enjoy this time, but keep your options open. He’s not asking to marry you, have fun. Respect it for what it is.
Well, alright already, shut up, I’ll relax. Oh, and another thing, he’s not in touch with his man-gina. I thought “versatility” had something to do with being versatile. Isn’t that why it’s called “versatility?” I can see the muscles clenching every time I flip him over. It’s very exciting, but for the opposite reason that he’s doing it.
He’s coming over later, after his brunch with a “friend.” I can play cool, but I’m too much of an insanely jealous insecure neurotic to casually date such an überBear. Aren’t there people out there like me–you know, clingy, desperate? I need to be married, I can’t handle being single anymore.
**Slaps Coco** Coco, you’re regressing! Get a grip! You USED to be clingy and desperate! Now you’re enjoying all that single life has to offer. Cucumber. Cucumber. Focus–you’re cool as a cucumber. Desirable, delicious… cool…
My purple teddy bear is all curled up next to me–his big goofy smile, plastic eyes, and satin bow-tie such a comfort.
The Dating Game: Bachelor #8’s Second Date
#8 came over for dinner last night, and our second post-coffee date. I stewed some artichoke hearts and their stems with lemon and thyme, made some papardelle with onions, bacon, peas and tomatoes, and for dessert a pear cake, that I burned (“in the syle of Tartine,” I told him convincingly), and caramel ice cream.
Fast forward to later when I asked him about his current dating life. He stunned me by saying that he was going out with a few guys but no one serious and that he’d really like to see more of me. No problem. He’s easy, like all those songs say, but with no long-term relationship experience I’m proceeding with caution. He’s either getting to that age when the prospect of being alone outweighs his commitment to variety meats, or he’s reached a level in therapy where he’s tired of sharing his inner self with just his therapist. Or both. Or neither. In either case, or both cases, or neither case, he’s ready for something different, or just some HOT COCO, baby!
So his voice is like velvet, really, like velvet and pastrami–soft, deep, sexy and mouth-watering, but with a working-class Boston twang hovering in the background. His one-syllable name ends in two b’s, but I address him with two syllables, making a slight aspiration after the b’s, as if blowing a kiss every time I say his name.
Arf arf! Toot too–yeah–beep beep!
The Dating Game: Bachelor #?
achelor #…. which number was he again, the UC Grad student? Anyway, we went to first Thursday openings tonight and then dinner at Tu Lan, a favorite Vietnamese greasy spoon on what Midge refers to as “skid row” in Vertigo. Each dish could feed my whole family and all of my stepson’s moms and stepdads. We ordered four dishes. It looked like the emperor should have been sitting at our table. There was much interesting art to see, but I’m tired, so go see the show of Blah Blah at Jeffrey Fraenkel and What’s-Her-Name at Stephen Wirtz, both really great shows with highly developed conceptual and visual conceits.
I’m not feeling any heat from Bachelor #__, although I keep catching him doing the darting the eyes to my crotch thing when I look away. Are we just programmed to do that? He does have a marvelous mind, though, and his thoughts and observations are a delight to be around.
Davide came over when I got home to watch a movie but our kvetching took up too much viewing time and we had to abandon Good Morning, Night halfway through. Time to abadon you, too. Good night, my dears.
The Dating Game: Bachelor #8
Bachelor #8 is exactly like the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz–after he got his courage–in affect and manner. He’s very effusive with his gesticulations, and beams happy contentment in all directions. He’s balding, with those really dark eyebrows that drive me crazy, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a round furry belly. His knuckles and toes are furry, too, like a hobbit’s. I took the BART train out to his east bay outpost Saturday night, and he picked me up and then away to see the new Jennifer Anniston movie, Friends With Money, which we both really enjoyed, and then sushi afterwards. And then a hottub. Now, for those of you who don’t understand what it is that attracts me to furry fireplugs, just accept for the moment that he was the perfection of my type, so it was a little like how I would imagine a straight man with my level of anxiety on a date with Marilyn Monroe. I was nervous, despite my 12.5 mg insurance policy. The evening looked to be a repeat of Armistead’s date with Rock Hudson until I laid my anxiety on the table, the tub that is, and floating on his belly just blurted out how nervous I was. And then all moved along as nature and modern pharmaceuticals intended.
He snores, sleep-apnia snoring, that really loud whizzy sounds-like-last-breath breathing. It wasn’t as loud as BC’s before he lost the 100 pounds, which used to comfort me, like sleeping on the train, and #8’s noises were just as comforting.
I really like this guy. He’s happy and centered and all right there on the surface. Easy. Physically, he’s like Ed Asner spliced with Captain Picard plus glasses and Toni Tenille’s smile.
I can’t imagine him telling me that love will keep us together, though.
Philip came over for dinner Sunday night, looking great, despite being in pain due to pinched and spurred this and thats. Philip and Bachelor #8 could be brothers, I thought to myself as I drifted away momentarily to imagine the two of them and me in bed with our c-paps counting sheep-shaped leaping cream puffs in the porn version of my life.
The Dating Game: Bachelor #1, Again
Last night Bachelor #1 and I saw Spike Lee’s latest, his first mega-budget film, the thriller Inside Man. He got Jodie Foster to swagger and teeter on these 6 inch spiked heels like a circus perfomer. Her performance alone is worth seeing the film, all cocky and confident. While the lights were still up, #1 announced that he likes to hold hands during the movie. My palms immediately started sweating. I tried everything to keep them occupied, scratching this and that, tucking my shirt in, tying my shoes, putting my hand under my arm like I was cold. To no avail, as soon as the lights went out he snatched my hand from under my seat and smushed it into his big hairy paw. I was able to focus on the film, because it was so gripping and well-made. But I was still sweating, as I do when my anxiety level rises. I figured out a way to switch hands and let one dry off, while creating a little air pocket between my hand and his to let the air circulate between the held hands. The lights came on and I quickly withdrew my hand to point out something in the credits, I think about the “clapper loader.” We had a nice dinner and a nice chat, and thankfully I was the one in the driver seat and the one to say, “Thanks, not tonight” when he asked if I wanted to come up. The thing is, I had already given him the “I’d like to just be your friend” shpiel, and next thing he’s holding my hand, asking me up to his condo… I suppose I need to be even clearer, like, “Just being your friend means not holding hands or having intimate relations.”
Earlier, I had coffee with KrispyBear, who should be called “CreamyBear” because he’s such a smooth and easy fellow. Bloke. He says these very English things like “Brilliant, aaaabsolutely brilliant” which I just adore. Anyway, after cohabitating on LiveJournal for the past year or so, it was nice to finally meet the real person, who is every bit as charming and delightful as he is online. Welcome back to town!
The Dating Game: Bachelor #7
#7 came over for dinner last night, and a movie. I made risotto and green beans, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert that I made with a leftover white chocolate brick that I found in the freezer, from I think my 30th birthday, and chopped up. In a twist of the Italian vin santo and biscotti, I served my limoncello with the cookies. It didn’t all come quite together, but his company and conversation were nice. He’s the one who has the sex ads all over the place. When discussing one of the sites with him, he complained that he just gets hit up for sex. Like he was surprised. I suggested that he change his user name to something without the word “sex” in it, and take down the pictures of his nether regions. He’s very charming, sweet, but oddly respectful of my honor, giving me just a little hug before toddling down the hill–yes, another neighbor–and too tired to stay and catch a flick. Perhaps our different announced goals–mine to make friends with an openness to dating, his just for sex, resulted in too much mutual respect, or a kind of magnetic repulsion that kept us from getting too close. I get the sense that he’s a bit nervous about a relationship beyond a night or two, and that’s why all of his ads are superficially about sex. He may see me as not in the category of his one-night-stands, which is great, I’d like to get to know him better. Or he could just not find me attractive. Anyway, it was a very nice evening with a very charming man.
It would be nice to feel on the same page with someone again. There are specific ways of relating that I need beyond just proximity, to be stimulated by ideas and thoughts and experience. I am enjoying the dating game, and the time I’m spending growing and developing alone, but a part of me is already longing for the kind of deep relating that only comes with companionship.
The Dating Game: Bachelor #2 Cooks Up a Storm; #5 Goes Gallery Hopping
I’m not ready to jump into dating after all–the serious kind, with sex and everything, although I am continuing to meet and flirt with and even poke some very interesting men. It seems that I’m finally relaxed with being single, and am enjoying hunkering down with developing myself and my work. My last two lovers were so hurt by our breakups, that perhaps I’m a bit afraid of destroying any others while I’m so unsure about what I’m ready for. I suppose this can be seen as an exploratory phase–I have this whole life ahead of me all the sudden! What to do?? Where to go?? What do I wear?? The possibilities are overwhelming…
So Bachelor #2 had me over for “goulash” on Friday night. His idea of goulash was this elegant and tasty braised beef dish served in an intense red wine reduction. We also had yam soup, chicken liver pate, and a chocolate mousse, which he called pudding, for dessert, with mixed berries. He’s a wonderful cook, and a wonderful conversationalist. It was Good Friday, and we talked of his current crisis of faith, the Gospel of Judas, mink, and the Austro-Hungarian empire–the part of it that his family is named after, or that is named after his family. I can’t remember which–he was softly petting my hands during his explanation, which was a bit distracting, and really nice, but I had to switch gears and give him the “I’m not ready to let you pet more than my hands right now” shpiel. We met up again this afternoon for lunch at the de Young and to see the Art and Crafts show. The show’s pretty spectacular, covering the global scope of the movement. In James Turell’s occulus outside, he uttered the words that assured his erasure from my little black book–“I don’t get it.”
Bachelor #5 and I visited galleries on Saturday–the Misrach show at Fraenkel, the Muniz show at Bransten, Joel Sternfeld’s photos of alternative communities in the US and Nigel Poor’s stupid conceptual blots at Haines, what’s her name at Brian Gross, the before and after earthquake photos at Stephen Wirtz, and Michael Wolf’s fantastic and claustrophobic color fields of Hong Kong high rises. We came home and watched Layer Cake, but in scanning the possible titles to watch, he uttered the words that assured his erasure from my little black book–“I didn’t really like Election.”
Bachelor #7 will be coming over Tuesday night for dinner and a movie. I already felt him out at tea a while ago, while he felt me out literally, even squeezing my pecs to see what was behind my stylishly blousey blue top. He’s smart, is interested in art, really, and film, and seems to have a very active and fun life, engaged in all sorts of diverse interests. He has ads, though, on every gay site there is, with graphic pictures of all of his business. I’m playing the madonna to his whore, though, so stay tuned for fireworks or flying frying pans.
The Dating Game: Depilation Woes
If I may take a moment of your time to complain about a serious problem that this newly liberated bachelor is encountering: muff trimming. When did everyone start doing this horrid thing to their pubic shrubery? I don’t care if you’ve got a little one, let ME find it. The Muff Trimers tell me that the hair gets in the way, that it gets rolled into condoms… ?? Really, I don’t buy it. Aside from the unnatural look–and it completely doesn’t make the member any bigger, it makes it look like the Muff Trimmer is trying to make it look bigger–it’s sensually problematic. I consider myself a master of all activities related to the use of the tongue and lips, the main tools of my pleasure giving, and it’s a bit jarring to encounter stubble 3 feet below the clip and shave zone, like finding a patch of sandpaper on an ice cream cone. And there’s always some kind of interesting bare skin to be found somewhere to be stimulated, so keep those razors and clippers away from your testicles, gentlemen. Oh, the horror, the horror.
The Dating Game: Bachelor #6 Gets Some
I had dinner last night with Bachelor #6 at the new mediterranean place down the street, where La Mooné used to be. He’s 27, soft-spoken, a project manager with a local bank, who likes to “hang with friends, watch movies, and travel.” Since his house is a half block away from mine, I walked him home after dinner and sort of lingered for the half second that it took him to ask me in. We sat on the couch and I chatted in that way that I do when I’m not particularly listening or caring about what’s being said, but wondering through the babble if as the guest Miss Manners would approve of me making the first move. I decided to jump off the diving board and into his grand expanse, letting myself be completely surrounded by his warmth and affectionate heavy petting. If I may fast forward a bit, let me tell you about his butt: it was the butt to end all butts, like an animé butt. From down there, all is blotted from view, except a brilliant dark fuzzy corona through which to catch brief glimpses of the back of his head lolling this way and that. Having explored so many hairy bodies intimately with my camera, my eyes are trained to relate in a certain way to my subject, and with the addition of hands and mouths arms and legs and whatnot, the experience becomes an aesthetic encounter in which all senses are activated. I had a hard time not constructing art pieces in my head–or just clapping.