Category: The Dating Game

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Kiss Me, Guido?

I just had tea with Guido. “Do not worry… for Italians is not offensive.” I’m not assigning him a number. He’s one of those Italians that I can’t read at all–witty, a bit silly, smart, very relaxed, but without the kind of hungry pleading look that I usually try to feed. We agreed on the sad state of contemporary Italian cinema and commiserated over the dearth of findable monogamous men in the city. I can see him 20 years from now reading the paper in bed looking down at me over his bifocals, imploring me to take another cold shower or find something else to do, “Read a book, Chrees.”

Tonight Big Chrissy and I are going to my sister’s 51st Century birthday party. In lieu of gifts, we have been asked to dress appropriately. I’m going with some kind of mutation, like a third eye or extra eyebrow, or a tail. Not sure yet…

The bears are in town again, making out all over the ‘hood. The energy they bring to the neighborhood is really nice, like the old days of Hibernia Beach and Crisco. Dean is all Super Bear this weekend, making out with anyone who bats an eyelash in his general direction. He crept in around 2:30 this morning and shook me out of a dream about being a giant singing nipple, “Are you awake?” He told me of his day’s adventures, which at the time seemed like the stuff of Polar Bears in Heat, but I fell quickly back to sleep and can’t remember now, so you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m envious of his freedom from restraint and his ability to project a body type that doctors would characterize as “unhealthy” into the heights of desirability. I suppose I’m jealous, too, he’s my creation that continues to spin out of my control and beyond my influence and reach. I’m making him into a “flower” grid later this week, to hang on my wall and smell all I like.

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The Dating Game: Bachelor #13 Has Not Quite Left the Building, Which is on Fire

Bachelor #13 and I went out last night for Valentine’s Day. As friends. He’s made a big point–ever since I told him that I preferred to pursue a relationship with him that doesn’t include exchanging body fluids–to mention the word in relation to everything we do. “A friendship date,” “a movie with my friend,” “galleries with my friend, Chris,” etc… I had been to his house a few weeks ago to meet his brother and his brother’s boyfriend. They made homemade cavatelli (“cava-tell,” pronounced like Carmella Soprano), served with one meat ball each. I devoured two servings, and handing them my plate for more I pleaded, “Just give me three meatballs this time, please.” As I munched through my succulent fifth big meatball, more meat than I think I’ve eaten in my entire life, my pleasure gave way to foreboding as a whiff of something burning drifted to my nose and suddenly everybody was running to the kitchen to put out the fire that had engulfed the simmering pot on the stove. “Save the meatballs!” I shrieked though my half-full mouth. Salt was tossed on the stove and the boys, relieved, headed to the window to smoke with the other guest, a friend of theirs with the cutest little dog I have ever seen. It’s the dog in those posters with the head cocked to one side that puts its paw on your lap to abjectly plead for your affection. While the boys were smoking, #13 turned to me and said, “I really like your art.” Then gravely, “I wouldn’t want it on my walls,” then brightly, “but I can appreciate it!” Later, little Fluffy turned Cujo and bit one of the boys on the nose. The poor guy had to go to the hospital to get stitches to stop the bleeding. “Bye Chris, it’s been fun!” he nasally squealed at me while pinching his nose with a kitchen towel as he jumped into the cab to the hospital.

So Valentine’s Day was considerably less dramatic. South Indian food at Dosa. We each had the prix-fixe meal, so we shared a total of 8 mouthwatering inventive spicy dishes. He wore red and I wore pink. Was it Diane Von Fursternberg who said that all reds go together?

Oh wait, I didn’t mention Bob’s 60th birthday party, did I? Well, everybody was there–Kevin & Dodie, Bill & Connie, Norma & Rob, Dean & Doug, Michael, Denny, Jocelyn, Francesca… and most frighteningly, his mother and sister. I was super freaked about seeing everybody for the first time in 3 years, especially his mother and sister, who make mush of exes with their cold hard quiet feminine stares. Did they all think I was a jerk for leaving him? Had they speculated all along that I’d abandon him? Had he been discussing my super top-secret personal things with all of his friends over tea served in those fabulous little blue and white tea cups? I made sure to at least look fabulous. I wore my chartreuse Dolce & Gabbana velvet jacket, with a superman-blue shirt, black corduroys, and shiny black Beatle boots. If they were going to snicker to themselves, “There he is, that homewrecking chubby-chaser,” they’d at least add, “He’s hot!” But everybody made me feel very welcome, like being with family again. The cakes–yes there were two, one coconut meringue, the other chocolate, both from Tartine–were fantastic. The chocolate cake was just chocolate and butter, and nothing in between, like our relationship, all sensation.

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The Dating Game: He Meant Well

I really am stumped about where to begin, so I’ll start at the beginning. It all started over a coffee with Bachelor #14 last weekend. His extensive knowledge of wine and restaurants, interest in travel and classical architecture, and his sad blue eyes seemed like a winning combination. At the cafe, he seemed a bit overly excited by me, reaching across the table to feel my chest, holding my increasingly sweaty hand, leaning over and kissing me… It scared and fascinated me, like a moth drawn to the flame, this disregard of boundaries and direct assault on my carefully crafted cool public persona, and it was very difficult to simultaneously acknowledge it, redirect it, and maintain my coolness, but I succeeded on all three counts with a great deal of concentration and a nonstop burble of biographical data.

Well, last night he took me out to dinner. To a really nice French restaurant with real French waiters. You know the kind of date I’m talking about, sure to end with one of those noble-gas-colored American Express cards. During dinner, he grabbed my hand, pulled it to and fro across his nether regions, I pulled it away with a pat on the knee, then he reached under the table and grabbed my crotch and asked me if I was a top or a bottom. He told me that he only likes getting fucked by big dicks, squeezed my crotch again to assess the situation, leaned across the table and, yes, FRENCH kissed me, right there in front of everyone while I tried to push him away in a manner that drew the least amount of attention to my plight.

I had been asked out by Beelzebub.

I thought about tossing my wine in his face, but couldn’t bring myself to do that to a nice wine. Plus I was afraid his head would pop off and start spewing green chunks across the table. I think he meant well, it just came out all wrong. I was very sympathetic because Big Chris and I had earlier watched Funny Face at the CocoPlex and I was still under the spell of Dr. Flaustra’s theories about empathicalism.

He asked me what kinds of music I listened to. “Well, I like Arvo Pärt, The Hidden Cameras, Neko Case, counter-tenors…” trying to give him a sense of the diversity of music that interests me. “Dance, I’m into dance,” he said. “Dance?” I couldn’t imagine what he meant. Gay dance music? Empathicalism gave way to exasperation and I finally just corrected him at one point, when, after mentioning only bars all night and “dance” music, he referred to “gay culture.” “You mean ‘bar culture.'” I corrected him. “No, I mean gay culture.” “You’re talking about beer-drinking and beauty contests. That’s not my idea of gay culture,” annoyed that my intellectual brothers and sisters should be encompassed by his myopic notion of culture.

His background is one of privilege, and he seemed to think he was entitled to a big slice of Bunny Coco. Maybe if we had been at Fleur de Lys, I would have settled into my role a little better, but my duck wasn’t worth the molestation. I felt like a prostitute. Like Jane Fonda in Klute, though–you know, neurotic, smart, growing more and more hostile… It was awful, really, feeling so simultaneously disrespected and desired. And having his tongue stuck down my throat and hands all over me under the glare of all these uncomfortable diners and French service people.

He walked me home from the restaurant, and I stopped in front of his car, which was parked across my driveway. Ever the gracious guest and despite wondering if I had just been battered, I gave him a hug and tried to kiss him goodnight, but he turned his head and asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me up?” “No,” I replied firmly, terrified, “Thanks for the dinner, but no, blah blah excuse blah blah”–(“and not with someone whose idea of seduction was to feel me up under the cheese plate,” I wanted to add). I tried again to kiss him goodnight, but he again turned his head, angry, like a child. I kissed him on the cheek and ran up the stairs and called Big Chrissy. “Omigod, he drives a Lexus SUV and says he only gets fucked by guys with big dicks!” I screamed into the mouth piece. “The last three guys you’ve gone out with have driven SUV’s. What’s happening to you?” Big Chrissy asked with deep concern for my fading principles. “At least I got #8 to buy a hybrid instead of the SUV that he was going to buy.” “So you’re saving men AND the ecosphere now?”

I’m cuddled up with my purple teddy bear tonight. He’s got his furry purple back to me, waiting patiently, passively, for me to finish typing and spoon against his soft downy purple teddy bear butt and nuzzle against his fuzzy little purple ears.

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Golden Calves

I started my Tangerine Liquour yesterday. It’ll be unveiled on Valentine’s Day evening. My lemon crop this year wasn’t very substantial, so I’m substituting tangerines for Meyer lemons in my Limoncello–Mandarincello! It’s called “Golden Calf: The Drink the Israelites Worshipped.”

Bachelor #8 sightings: My Dating Game fan club keeps me up to date on #8’s post-Coco dating life. His ads on Craigslist claim that he’s anywhere from 40-44 (he’s 49) in age, seeking slim men any race under 44, for a “hot tub with a hot bear. Now.” No fats, no femmes. I wonder if his bath buddies are keeping track of the ebb and flow of his age?

I’m thinking about changing my personal ad to ask for just fats and femmes. All these “masculine” guys are so in demand. I want a big hairy sissy. Now.

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The Dating Game: Meanwhile, Back to My Mid-life Crisis…

I told Lucky Bachelor #13 that I’m not ready to date. Yes, that was me saying that, not my psychologically balanced twin. You see, he’s kind of perfect; good job, happy, open, smart, cute… I’ve felt a kind of pressure, an internal pressure, a little voice telling me that I need to spend a little more time alone before hopping into a serious relationship, and #13’s just not the kind of guy that I can date casually. He was amazing–attentive, accepting, empathetic, emphasizing the value of our friendship. We had just watched Baby Face at the CocoPlex, the juicy Barbara Stanwyck pre-Code masterpiece about an ambitious girl, Lily, who sleeps her way from office girl to mistress of the boss. She’s told by her Nietsche-quoting mentor to exploit herself and use men, “Use Men!” he screams at her. Her rise through the corporate gene pool is mirrored by the camera’s slow panning throughout the film from the ground floor to the penthouse, and in her increasingly more stylish attire. And her hair, which gets more and more marcelled. In the end, she finds real love, and loses everything else. But it’s true love that makes her happy.

I suppose I’m Lily at the beginning of the film, trying to make the best of what I’ve got but focused on living in that deco penthouse with the company president. And in bias-cut satin dresses! Do I continue to focus on trying to make a go with this art career when life is passing me by, or do I hop on the boat and participate in the moment? Can I do both?

I think that most people work, save money, watch tv, travel, retire, and die. That just hasn’t been part of my plan. The plan was to create, become part of a dialogue, see and do everything, die, and leave behind something about my experience that future generations can think about or enjoy. At 41, shifting my relation to my entire being and its purpose, the thought of just living and dying, is like trying to accept that my life has no meaning. I create art that means something to me, can I create a new me?

A baker’s dozen bachelors later, aren’t you people tired of my mid-life crisis yet? Well, my show’s in October. I plan to be a basket case until then, which thus far has been great for production. I really like this new work. It’s coming from a questioning of my own existence and passions, an attempt at constructing a garden of sensual and aesthetic meaning.

Ever attentive and thoughtful, #13 just called to check in. In the pre-release restored version of Baby Face, George Brent shoots himself after Lily rejects him a few moments before realizing that she really does love him more than the diamond baubles that she has chased after for the entire film. Fortunately he’s better at being handsome than aiming a gun. He survives, and Lily finds contentment in true love and bankruptcy. The guy has to almost kill himself before she gets it.

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The Dating Game: Longing and Photographing

So Lucky Bachelor #13 had no problem around the size issues that I was anxious about. Actually I was kind of disappointed. I had pre-visualized the scene, “No, no, not that, get it away from me–help, help, somebody, help, police!” I wish I could tell you about what he does for a living and all the fascinating details of his job, but he’d get fired, would never talk to me again, have a breakdown and end up living in my basement. No wait, he’d have to get on the waiting list–the last one still hasn’t moved. I can tell you all about the most intimate details of my boring existence because I’m an artist and any controversy could only help further my ambitious 5 Year Plan.

I began photographing my “italian cypress” last week. (3 photos of hairy dude arranged to look like a columnar fastigiate. Remember the Katharine Hepburn interview with Barbara Walters?) I couldn’t find the right kind of point on my furry model for the top of the shrubbery, and he wouldn’t let me photograph the places which would have completed the picture perfectly. Whatever. He’s no longer so easily swayed to follow my commands. Gone are the days of complete subservience to my every aesthetic whim.

This project is a lot more difficult than I had anticipated. Rather than shooting a bunch of images and then assembling them into something–the form appearing out of my shuffling images around–I’ve already designed the final piece and am trying to find the right parts on my model to fit the picture. Poor D has to stand there with his hands over his head, or his leg on a stool, for hours at a time.

Rather than shooting something on D that’s shaped like the top of an italian cypress, I’m draping him in the same background fabric used in the other images in the piece, and kind of creating an area that approximates the same shape. What was the background will now be foreground, and create a kind of tension that’s going to make the piece much more dynamic visually.

For New Year’s Eve I was supposed to go to Bearracuda, but my disco nap gave way to sleep inertia and I ended up watching the fireworks from my window while flossing my teeth in my underwear.

I can’t take another year without a boyfriend. I feel very lost without a mate, yet I guess I’ve progressed to a point where I’m not willing to play house with just the first person–or second or third or fourteenth–who crosses my path. Alas, I keep plugging away… I just want something to feel, I don’t know, worth it all. Not really perfect, just sexually and intellectually challenging enough to warrant the huge chunk of time devoted to avoiding being productive.

I told my Married Man that I needed a break. It’s only been a few days and already he’s asking after me. I needed a break because, well, frankly he’s just so desirable. And so very NOT. He is married after all, so don’t get attached Little Bunny Coco. “Danger, Will Robinson!!” Aren’t there unmarried guys who read, direct plays, have seen Odd Man Out, paint, cook, are totally excited by me, and haven’t made porn films or been the Featured Bottom at some Bear Party Hug Thing?

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Lucky Bachelor #13: Anxiety, France vs. California

Last night I enjoyed a delicious dinner at Bistro 1689 on Church Street with Lucky Bachelor #13. The cuisine is “French/Californian,” and from what I sampled, bistro cooking at its best. We both had the duck confit. The skin was crispy, and the meat just fell off the bone. The sauce served with it cradled the essence of the meat in a smooth richness that didn’t distract or enhance. It just let it be–a little ducky that gave its sweet little life to me. The wine that I had with it did exactly the same thing, stimulating just a small portion of my palette, but with an amazing array of flavor and experience packed into that little corner of my mouth. I find a lot of French wines to be that way, quite different from the California style of assaulting the taste buds from every which-a-way. My salad, of baby romaine lettuce with sauteed mushrooms, was drizzled with a coarse-grained mustard vinaigrette. And love.

So back at #13’s pad, making out on the sofa with the TV blaring in the background, I heard something on TV about the Unabomber and started laughing. “What?” he asked. “I was just thinking about the Unabomber…” but he cut me off before I could complete my thought, mock-offended that my thoughts could so diffused–like a Sonoma County Pinot, and not the French bordeaux that he thought he was sipping. Somehow my thoughts about the Unabomber led to a discussion of sex, and I told him that I wasn’t in a hurry to hop in the sack, having spent 6 months with a guy whom I didn’t really like, but liked having sex with, and very limited sex at that, but still, limited sex within the confines of a relationship structure that had no meaning or substantial content. This time I want to get to know the person first, and see if there’s something relationship-y that can support a sexual exploration. If not then maybe we could be friends. Or just have sex anyway. I just don’t want sex to cloud important things that I need in a mate, like an appreciation of mid-century lighting and Joan Blondell. Or maybe that’s a bunch of bunk and I’m just experiencing anxiety around his fear of more challenging endowments. Just what is too challenging for him, anyway? I know I’m making too much of it, for if he really loved this other guy he would have worked–or nibbled–his way around the problem, but still.

Calm blue waters, calm blue waters, calm blue waters…

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Dinner with Emily; The Dating Game: Juicy Forgotten MM#1 Details

Emily treated me to dinner at Chez Panisse Wednesday night, my second such treat in the last two months. While we didn’t get to sit at the Chef’s table, we did enjoy an equally memorable meal upstairs in the Cafe. I had the fixed meal: mixed greens; porcini mushrooms and polenta; ice cream and chocolate sauce. Getting the simplest-sounding dishes is key to understanding what they’re up to over there, and indeed, everything that could have been expressed in a salad of “mixed greens” seduced and wooed my tender taste buds into complete submission to flavor and freshness.

Emily might be showing with me next October at Mark Wolfe. I hope it works out, she’s hot! Her abstractions are painterly in a way that my work isn’t–gestural and worked, all about surface and color–but her use of line and the grid will play nicely against and with what I’m constructing.

So did I tell you? I’m having a solo show next October at Mark Wolfe Contemporary, 49 Geary, 2nd Floor. Mark your calendars! It’s my most ambitious project yet, and it’s going to take me about 8 more months to get it all shot, printed, and framed. The show seeks to expand the current bear stereotype of the Carhart-clad he-man: “tee-hee-heee” instead of “yeaaaaah.” Stay tuned for more details!

Oh. I forgot to mention one of the most memorable things about my recent rendezvous with Married Man #1. Well, it turns out that he’s a bear porn star! I made him turn on one of his movies while we were defiling his marriage bed. Every so often I’d see through a jumble of legs and arms and thises and thatses and see our positions mirrored by what was happening on the screen, like one of those mirrors that replicate their reflections to infinity. He said the same kinds of things that porn stars say, too, like, “Yeah,” and those instructive comments that always crack me up, and of course the astute “you like that blankety-blank, yeah” observations. His star quality was apparent, and with a smoldering kind of warmth and understatement that had me believing everything he said–and clapping!

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Private vs. Public

I suppose that within a couple of days, I’ll go through every one of my journal entries–again!–and make them publicly accessible. I experienced a little jolt when the ex of a guy that I recently went out with got bent out of shape over something I wrote. Jeesh. It’s my life! In a typically hysterical response I made every entry “friends only,” as if I could contain my publicly posted thoughts within our little community. This took a few hours.

I’ve struggled over maintaining an essence of a personal life, believe it or not, and complete disclosure. I’ve never been good at keeping things secret anyway, and while there are issues and experiences that I might not discuss without a little prodding, I’ve found it liberating to write openly about my dating life. There are even men on my friends’ list whom I’ve dated, and I figure it’s better all around if everybody knows where I’m at, even if where I’m at is in several states at once. Love me, love my schizophrenic befuddlement.

Bob, my lover of 11 years, writes autobiographical fiction, really experimental pornography. While we were together he pushed me to integrate my obsessions into my artistic expression. I’m not comfortable being though of as a writer, but journaling has provided a satisfying outlet for something that feels authentic. Like it or not. I mean, here I am with my insecurities and indiscretions, fumbling around trying to make sense of it all. Love is somewhere at the end of this trip, but it’s also love that keeps me moving along.

Look in your heart and let love keep us together. What ever.

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The Dating Game: Married Man #1 and Bachelor #13 Double Feature, Take 2

My Married Man asked me over this afternoon. Is there an equivalent male-gendered term for “mistress?” Today was only our second rendezvous, but already we’ve become quite attached. He confided in me that he’s got a crush on me—he used those words, delivered like Juliette Lewis in her amazing star turn in the remake of Cape Fear. Evidently he doesn’t talk with his other sex buddies. We talked for a very long time this afternoon, mostly about relationships and Carol Reed, and again, four Moments of the Clouds and Rain between us. When he asked if I was dating anyone, or having intimate relations with other married men, I could sense that he could see something in our interaction that he was yearning for as a main course, instead of the amuse-bouche that we’ve become.

A few hours later, back at Casa Coco, Lucky Bachelor #13 came over for dinner and Meet Me in St. Louis. We didn’t exactly dance the hoochie koochie, but we did finally do some serious making out. I was so pooped from my earlier encounter, that I asked if he’d be comfortable staying at first base. So we kissed and talked and kissed and talked. It was like being in the 7th grade again, and kissing Lori Simpson at the dance, only without Styx…

I’m sailing away, set an open course for the virgin sea
I’ve got to be free, free to face the life that’s ahead of me
On board, I’m the captain, so climb aboard
We’ll search for tomorrow on every shore
And I’ll try, oh lord, I’ll try to carry on
That was the makeout part, remember?

Anyway, back to my entry here… I’ve been thinking about Bachelors #12 and #9, looking forward to seeing them in the new year. #12 called tonight just as I was about to start the movie, and hearing his voice felt very comforting. No, it was more than comforting, it was familiar. Not familiar like reminding me of something else, but familiar like touching something inside of me that hasn’t been touched in a while.