Hello Bloggies. Well, when I got back from visiting the 'rents for Xmas (they all loved their Art for Animals presents -- thanks for asking!), I had a voicemail from Bachelor #1, left several days earlier, waiting for me. I called and left a voicemail of my own.

After having a drink and a laugh with D last night where we lovingly exchanged Jeanette Winterson books (aww), I decided to pop by a downtown watering hole because its parking lot was crowded. Sitting at a table by myself in one of the two bars, who should walk in and stand by me but Bachelor #1.

"Hey, you! How are you?" I said in good spirits as soon as he looked my way. I asked him how Christmas went and all of that. Although things started chipper enough, they got rocky as soon as the discussion turned to our previous date. First off, I guess he didn't consider it a "date": "A date is where you go out for dinner," he said. Okay. He mentioned several times that he hadn't expected the evening to turn the way it did ("Not that that was a problem or anything"), and I asked him if that was alright. "Was it alright with you?" he asked back, without answering. It was fine, I said, and this habit of repeating questions back at me continued during the evening.

And it got worse: Perhaps I shouldn't have talked about any grand theories of gay dating, but by moving the conversation in that direction, he interpreted it as playing games. What game could I be playing? I asked, The only *game* I can think of is trying to get someone to have sex with you. (Asked and Answered -- and I didn't hear any complaints.) This led to an onslaught of rolling eyes and spitting noises -- like a llama if you've ever seen one in action -- that was supposed to signify the all-deflating "whatever".

So I changed the subject and things got back to normal. We talked about architecture, politics, family, growing up in Ohio. And...

Long story short: I asked him to spend the night again, at my place this time. This time, he gave me two BJ's, and I gave him one. (Ugh! I don't think I'm very good at that.)

In the clarifying light of a sunny Sunday (it was almost 60 degrees here today), I don't think I should have done that. Perhaps my laissez faire sexual attitudes can be considered a game if they aren't shared by the other party. I find it difficult to believe after playing a game or two of pool and chatting pretty frankly about sexual practices. But maybe that's how it is.

(In case you're wondering if I *could* consider him as dating material -- if there was a chance of that: I now doubt it. His spluttery bitchiness would be a long drink of water. I still don't know what the problem is -- I'm only speculating here.)

Well, never let it be said I don't admit my mistakes. It would be cool to be friends, but I realize there's a good chance that won't happen. I had thought about calling, but now I think I probably shouldn't. The damage is done. Game Over.

Post-script Monday 12/29/03
A year ago, I dated a guy I met on-line for a month. On our second date, which was to go to a hockey game, he begged off because his back hurt.

"Oh, my aching back," he moaned as he sat down next to me on the couch.
"Would you like a backrub?" I asked.

And he did. And we did.

On the third date, we went to a jazz club. I've been trying to remember the conversation because almost the same reaction occurred: I watched his face change as I was saying something. "I can't believe you can talk like this after having spent a night of intimacy!" and he was obviously hurt. I wish I could remember what I said or what specifically the topic was. I certainly reacted upon hearing the word "intimacy." I told him we didn't know each other that well; that I had just moved to Cincinnati; that intimacy takes time. Ironically (to me, anyway), at the end of the evening he waved to some friends, "Oh, come meet so-and-so -- we were fuck buddies earlier this year."

Men Are From Mars; and...???