Aaaarrrrrrrggggghhh!!!!

Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.

Here I go again! This time... this time...

So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.

And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.

And I let myself get all excited.

I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).

So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.

Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...

On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.

Uh oh.

But still...

Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."

I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."

What the hell?

Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.

But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...

But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.

It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.

And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.

Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.

So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.

Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?

That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.

It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.

Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."

And maybe not.

You promise this time, right, Lucy?

Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.

Okay.

This time... this time....

Here I go!

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