May 6, 2011

“I will not go naked”

My friend, N, defines the term, ‘dating,’ as ‘an implicit assumption that all participants are simultaneously pursuing multiple partners.’ I shouldn’t feel bad, she encourages, because I’m seeing not two, not three, not even four, but five men at the same time. According to her, until an agreement to the contrary (i.e.., ‘commitment,’ a.k.a. ‘The Talk’) is negotiated, I have every right to date however many men I can fit into my social calendar. Other friends have made a distinction between ‘dating’ and ‘seeing,’ which has proved too fine for me to grasp; it has something to do with passing first base, but I can’t say for sure.

Through my multi-tasking experiment (based on this definition, I’ve never actually ‘dated’ before—instead I’ve had a string of long-term relationships), I’m finding that this is likely why my last beau only had time for me once or twice a week, even though he didn’t have a job. And perhaps this is why I’m doing it—because I spent the past six months waiting for a boy to call me. Let’s just say I ain’t-a-waitin’ no more.

I tell myself it takes time to connect with people, to get to know them, to find out if there’s something more than instant attraction. This is where I went wrong last time: I thought I knew something I didn’t, and what I’m seeing with my perfect hindsight is that he never was that ‘into’ me. Instead, he strung me along for quite some time with gifts, fancy dinners, and spooning; and once or twice a week I fucked like a porn star, slept in, then was rewarded with eggs benedict and a non-fat latte.

Maybe he liked me a little more than I’m letting on, but frankly I’m a bit jaded from the whole experience. If he could hold me at a distance for such an extended amount of time, what does that say about me and my desire to connect? Was I really just practicing being alone with training wheels, or was I waiting for him to fall so I could figure out how I felt about him? When I’m really honest with myself, I know the later is true. What is it about me that needs to be wanted, and how is that keeping me from truly facing myself and learning something about freedom and independence?

Of course, dating so many people may not the best way to discover the answer. I do get to have the power, which is something I was missing last time, having handed it over willingly for the chance to ‘be known.’ Why can’t I let go of my ego again and allow what’s supposed to happen? Talking a big game is my forte, and I can meditate all I want on being present, letting go of the future, and releasing the past, but if I can’t ever really try again, what’s the point?

Yet being jaded has its benefits—I’ve finally realized that the game aspect is necessary; being too available is not good for the hunter instinct, and if I want a real man (which I do), he needs to feel like he’s actually catching something. Lying down in his path and letting him do whatever he wants makes it oh-so-not-thrilling. So I set boundaries. I make plans with friends, my niece, my mother—whomever, so I’m not always available. I cancel and I flirt. I have not gone naked.

Plus, I’m living the high life—men willingly buy me dinner, gifts, and comp executive suites for my girl’s night out. I get to have interesting conversations with fascinating people who really want to sleep with me, which means they’re on their best behavior, while I somehow get to be as unapologetic about being myself as I ever have been. Don’t want what I’m selling? There’s the door, Mister. I got a line here, so hurry it up if you’re on your way out.

Last night, my frontrunner kissed me after our fourth date. There are a lot of things I like about him, but the way he kisses isn’t . . . how do I say this . . . isn’t . . . mind-blowing. Cher’s “It’s in his kiss” comes to mind, though the last mind-blowing kisser I had was during my early twenties, when kissing was one of my favorite sports. Is my bar set too high? Everything else is promising, so how important is it, really?

And there I go again, compromising. My other forte: I am an expert at explaining away things that really should matter. So maybe I need some time to think. We’re supposed to go out tomorrow night, and I know our physical communication will escalate because it can’t not. So he’s not earth-shattering in my mouth. His tongue played havoc with my shoulder blades and neck; the space just above my breasts bore up to meet his lips. And his chest and back are things of beauty, not to mention his stomach and the dip right between his breastbone. I want him. Trust.

But I don’t want to have sex. Which is why I’m considering canceling. Blue balls are an excellent reason for a man to keep trying, and he’ll have two weeks to think about me because of our over-lapping trips out of town. Plus I want to see these other men to their logical conclusions. I’m intrigued by the slam poet I’m coffeeing with Saturday morning. And the charming hotelier with a killer singing voice is a sweetheart. Then there’s the slightly insecure fireman who makes me laugh and the burly contractor whose cheek, when it brushed against mine, was soft as a baby’s.

Mostly, I don’t want to have sex because it muddles my power. It’s like kryptonite in that the last time with training wheels guy, I had sex then stopped being myself. Finagling him into falling in love with me didn’t work, and I never got to figure out if there was that ‘something more’ because he decided there wasn’t first. The more he pushed me away, the more determined I was to be strong and the more I cried alone, excusing his absences without ever asking for a reason. Pathetic, right?

So fuck that. For now, I’m seeing everyone I find interesting. And, taking N’s advice, I will not apologize or explain myself. I will not feel guilty because I am interviewing but perhaps not actually in the market to hire. It’s the first time in my life that I am not beholden to anyone, and I’d like to enjoy that a little longer. But truth be told, I’m a horn dog. I want to see the frontrunner again bad, and going a little farther than dry humping might do well for his imagination while we’re apart. Mine, too.