If you wish to remove a woman from your heart, they say to start dating a second woman. Friends gave me that advice — one would erase the other. But I didn’t want to use one woman to negate another. One, that’s selfish. Two, my life is not the chorus of an oldies song. Besides, I didn’t feel like dating anyway. I was feeling rejected and didn’t want to go through that again for a while. So, I let time work its slow magic. I hoped that one day, I’d simply stop thinking about the far-away woman who’d walked away so unexpectedly. That day had yet to come. I tried to talk to my coupled friends about her, about how confused I felt. My friends have good hearts, they’re great people, but they no longer understand me. They no longer understand dating and how illusory it can feel. How could they? They’re having babies. They’re married. They’re elbows-deep in realness, like baby shit. They know the price of diapers. I know the price of sex wax. When they do ask about my love life, they do so like poorly-written sitcom dads. “Well, dude … have you, um, you know, tried online dating? I’m sure you would find someone.” Ah, yes. What everyone wants … someone. Or perhaps, someone would find me. Something might happen. Like, two dating profiles in search of a love story. I kinda despise modern life for making it so easy to find people to date, and at the same time, making me look like an even bigger jerk because I refuse to do online dating. It’s like starving in a supermarket. You just look willfully stupid. I don’t know why exactly, but I can’t bring myself to fill out the questionnaires, which feel like going on the worst first date ever. With yourself. Online dating offers all the parts of shopping I dislike, mixed with all of the awkwardness of any social event where you wear a name tag. Sign me up! Or shoot me. Maybe just shoot me, and save everyone the time. Instead, of staring into my laptop or browsing my phone looking for love, I gamble on luck. I’m one of those wrongheaded romantic fools, you know, like that guy you see playing a slot machine in a liquor store in Las Vegas at two a.m. Both of us are overly optimistic, dogs humping the leg of Lady Luck. Damnit all, it may be old-fashioned, and even improbable, but you never know when you might get lucky. (And based on the odds of where I most often interact with single women, I’m likely to meet my wife in a gas station.) I ask around, I inquire about how couples met. I rarely hear what you would call a predictable path to love — well, except for people immersed in an ethnic or religious community. Most couples’ stories of how they met sound like bad romance novels waiting to be written. I like that. I want that, too. It’s a well-known fact, couples like to make other couples. It’s a genuine impulse. They want their single friends to be happier, to have someone, and maybe to stop eating alone … over the sink. I get that. For those, and a lot of other reasons, couples I know invite me to game nights. There’s always at least one single woman. So, there’s that. Like I said, I’m a leg-humping optimist. Which kills cynicism on contact, and leaves me stubbornly willing to believe I could be wrong at all times. It also saves me from myself. Like, when I get invited somewhere and I want to say no. (Nine times out of ten.) Instead, I say yes. (Five times out of ten.) And usually, it works out about fifty-fifty in my favor. No better than a coin-flip. But that’s way better than what would happen if I let myself answer “no,” like I instinctively want to. The gambler bets on the flip of a coin, roll of dice, or the spin of a numbered wheel, and half the time, I say, “Sure. I’ll be there.” If I didn’t doubt myself I would’ve never met M. The first time we met eyes was at her house. She shared it with her roommate. My friend TC was dating her roommate. They invited me and a mutual friend to join them and others for, you guessed it, game night. I don’t know why this is a major draw for couples. Is it life imitating romantic comedies, or romantic comedies imitating life? Either way, we went. “Well, I was pissed … because I missed a chance to see Willie Nelson live. I love Willie.” Did I just hear that correctly? She loves Willie? My friend shot me a knowing look. That was the moment I fully took notice of her. I was attracted immediately. Good taste will do that sometimes. I find that folks who love Willie Nelson are people I tend to like. Some musicians are like that. Otis Redding is another one. I tend to like people who like Otis. As game night stretched on, I saw this woman took no shit. That seemed promising. I liked her mouth, and the terrible things that came out of it. M spit her words but with a femme attitude, like her mother was a southern belle and her daddy was a machine gun. It was a pleasure to hear her laugh — it was sudden and full and didn’t match her eyes, which were smoky and aloof. There was no question M was taking my mind off the far-away woman who wanted to be part of my past. But then I didn’t see her for weeks, because I am an idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for him; and truth be told, I was still pining for the far-away woman. I had fallen hard for her and was very slow to get back up. Plus, I didn’t want to waste M’s time. The next game night I attended, M was there. She showed up late. The house we all met at sat on an escarpment of rock and had all of the charm of a 70s folk singer’s home — big windows, old-growth trees shading the house, a long large patio that wrapped around the side. We played games on the patio table. Later, people drifted inside to watch things I never ended up seeing because I lingered on the patio with M. And then, we kissed. As our heads pressed together, her bangs brushed the skin of my forehead, then all the sudden softness of skin. Her lips felt dangerously addictive. There was that spark of spontaneity that gives all great first kisses that kick, that shock to the system. It was a very good kiss. We went back for seconds. And thirds. We kept kissing until we were fat and happy, with grinning bellies. My back was leaned against the house, she was leaned against me. We were set back in a secluded spot on the patio, enjoying our stolen moment, while the other couples were inside, most likely satisfied with themselves and their matchmaking games. Had it finally worked? But then, once again, I didn’t see her. I chalked our kisses to the romance of the night air. And I let it go at that. I secretly wondered: why would anyone like her want to date me? Lucky for us, her roommate and my friend conspired to bring M and I together again. They invited me to another game night. My friend said M would be there. So, I said I would be, too. Driving over there I had a little chat with myself. I told me, “Look, it’s time we stop thinking of the far-away woman. She never wants to see us.” (Why I’m plural, I have no idea.) I begged my heart to let go, so that I could honestly concentrate on M and her very-kissable machine-gun mouth. The thing about my friend and his girlfriend is, they don’t have much stamina. Not like I wanted that third round of Catchphrase to last forever but they were ready for bed and all pajama’d up by like eleven o’clock. *record scratch* Wait, what? TC and M’s roommate told us not to make too much noise, but that we should stay up as long as we wanted. M and I shared an amused look, but nodded anyway. We got comfortable on the newly abandoned couch. Men don’t often get credit for our enjoyment of the simple pleasure of touch. As we watched a movie, she lay her head against my chest. I raked my lazy yet curious fingers along the warm, soft skin of her shoulder and down her upper arm, continuing down her elbow and then slowly dragging my way back up to where her dyed-black hair split and fell past her collarbone. It had been a long stretch of days since I enjoyed something as simple as fingertips grazing against skin. Her breathing changed in response to my fingers. Where she was ticklish, she jittered and coo’d against me. Where my fingers felt particularly good she purred the way one does when they’re coming out of a nap in a sunny spot, and they’re a cat. Soon enough, we’d given up on the movie. In her bedroom, we shed clothes like drunks shed inhibitions. I think what I find most sexy has far more to do with my hands than my eyes. Like, my lips know sexy, my fingers know sexy, my eyes just know appealing. Caressing breasts, scratching backs, teasing thighs, gripping ass cheeks, my hands enjoyed all of her nakedness and they forgave me for all the months they’d gone without. I found that M and I moved well together. Which is good because rhythm can’t be faked. Like two greedy mountain climbers we both enjoyed a few peaks of pleasure, and then lay back in her bed. We felt our bodies shudder and cool. In that moment, for two naked strangers, it felt like we could be something good. I think it was natural for the other woman’s face to flash in my mind. That didn’t seem like a bad sign. I don’t know why she appeared in my head. But I let the thought go. It helped that M leaned over and kissed me. I forgot how amazing it feels when a woman surprises you with a kiss. How a man’s mind can just go blank. I wanted my heart to be a clean slate, too, and for this to be the beginning of something new. I hopped up to go to the bathroom. And I thought, “…Damn. I used to have a great ass. Now, this is the one she gets to meet.” The thought surprised me. Straight American men aren’t known for thinking of themselves as the object of sexual desire. We desire. It’s part of our privilege. Here I was, suddenly conscious of my want and need to be sexy in her eyes, and it made me feel vulnerably naked in a way I’d never really known before. Did I not care before? Had I always felt sexy before? Why did I care what she thought of my ass? Why her? Does this mean I’m ready for love again? This parade of thoughts marched in my head, as I walked my naked ass to her bathroom, and silently cursed Gravity for being a motherfucker. Think about it: far more than the strong or weak force, more than electromagnetism, Gravity is responsible for most everything we hate about our aging bodies. When I was in high school, the cheerleaders voted on which guy on the football team had the best butt. I only know this because a group of them asked me who wore number twenty-six. Imagine my high school-aged delight when I got to tell them, “Um, me. I’m number twenty-six. What do I win?” By the time I was actually twenty-six, things changed. My ass was still contest-worthy but I doubt it would’ve taken home the trophy. For years, I worked as a house painter, which meant climbing ladders all day, walking roofs, monkeying around on scaffolding — it’s like a blue collar spin class and Stairmaster rolled into a job. But once I started writing instead of pushing molecules for a living, I spent the majority of my workday sitting. Without my blue collar spin class, my ass began to succumb to gravity. That’s not to say it’s all saggy like the old man flesh in the pool scene inCocoon, but when I got up and walked to the bathroom, my writer ass was now the focus of my rootless fears of rejection. Awesome. The next day on the way home I thought about M, and I wondered if my ass was good enough for her. I guess the rejection from the far-away woman had done more to my sense of self than I originally thought. After a shower, I looked at my ass in the mirror. Am I being paranoid? The thing still curves — it can’t be all bad. I stood there, naked and steaming. It was superficial but I hadn’t thought about exciting a woman in awhile. And I wanted to. When it didn’t work out with M, I knew why. And, thankfully, it wasn’t my butt. It didn’t take us long for us to figure out that we had little in common other than Willie Nelson. However, she left me with a willingness to try again. I didn’t realize how badly I’d been feeling, until I did. The far-away woman had left me feeling very alone, and confused. Meeting M helped me forget. I hate to admit it, but my friends were right. So, I’m gonna keep showing up to their game nights, no matter how much I want to say no. Only, I’m gonna get a gym membership. That’s not to impress women I meet, but for me. That’s the thing I’d forgotten about dating — online or offline — you’re meeting strangers, if you’re gonna put your ass out there, it’s important you feel good about it. You can’t love someone else until you love your own ass. (this essay originally appeared on HumanParts@Medium) Image by Hartwig HKD
