by Anthony Paull
I'd like to report otherwise, but I'm finding a lack of maturity on the dating scene. In fact, I don't see much dating happening at all; rather, I spy a lot of game-playing with men bored to pieces if sex doesn't come before a hello. Is this common?
They say the fastest way to kill a love life is to have a kid.
But tell me: In order to have a love life, must you act like one?
The truth is I had been going out quite often, but I discovered that if I'm not ready to be a slut, there's not much out there for me. Therefore, I've been sacrificing any form of intimacy in the name of charity. Yes, I'm so giving when it comes to everything except my asshole. Consider me a swell guy except nothing swells on me and, if it dares, I swat it away as if an offer of water to a barfly; tonight, I can relate because I've been around the sort, "celebrity" bartending at a local watering hole, where afterward, I'm invited for a dip in a friend's condo pool. Mind you, it's a million minutes after midnight, and I've fed my fellow party people enough beer to fill the pool, but no matter. I'm half-drunk, and I'm up for an aquatic adventure. Being newly single, it beats sailing home to bob on a sea of bad thoughts. Or so I think.
Now, you know how a plethora of petite stars on a clear night can trick any poor soul into a sudden case of the 'sexies?' Well, it's that night. Therefore clothes are off and vodka's on the menu as I settle in the pool, surrounded by a small selection of barely clad sex sharks.
I must admit; feeling sultry in my see-through briefs, I fall under a moon spell too.
Then slowly, I lock on to the people's faces around me. Supposedly, the majority of them are straight, so I don't flirt. Instead, I cling to a circle of females without a care, until one guy—a firm, foxy man named Jay—swims at me. His slurred speech tells me he's drunk. "Hey man, why won't you kiss me?" he asked. Honestly, I hadn't known it was an option, specifically after an earlier chat where he boasted about his "girl."
"Uh, because you have a girlfriend," I said.
He flinched as if punched. "Dude, she's not here. Besides, she'd think it's hot," he insisted. Then, twisting his tongue ring, it catches the magic of the moon as he opens his mouth for a kiss. Still, I push him away. Can you believe that? I'm barely able to contain my boner, but somewhere in my maxed-out mind, I'm not at a point where I can settle for less or want more. Does that make sense? I can't tell. I left a relationship behind because my boyfriend started kissing the dog before he found me barking for the same attention in the next room, and now I can't say what I want, but I know I want something sexier than a sloppy kiss from a straight guy who slides up to me in the heat of my confusion. To top it off, as the president of the condo association comes down in her pink cotton "nighty" to scream at us for swimming after permitted hours, one of Jay's female cohorts takes a chance at turning the chaos into a competition.
Drifting toward me, tits above the water, her chest reminds me of alligator humps. Threatening, so threatening. "I know. I have tits," she said, pointing them like torpedoes. "BUT they deflate. Come on, pretend I'm a guy and kiss me. Jay and I are in a fight to see who can kiss the most people tonight."
It seemed Jay won. His strategy: cornering gay men who label the entire bit "cute."
One such gentleman, I later find slugging from the vodka bottle while no one is looking. "What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Killing the germs!" he hollered. "Did you see how many queens that boy kissed?"
Honestly no, I stopped counting after I refused to count myself in. Looking back, I wonder if I was being a sore sport. Had I lost my humor or had I gained a new sense of self since leaving my ex? Funny, when I was younger, I'd fling myself around so freely; I would never weigh the consequence. Now, it's different; my ex had me set the bar higher. Our love—when it was great—taught me what I want from a winning kiss. Still, I wonder if it was "great" because now I expect too much even when I'm not ready for it. What gets me through troubled water is I know others are in the same boat. So I swim without a life raft, afraid to kiss because it'll likely set me further adrift from him. True, I know that's what I need to find my feet. But lately, I'm caught in a tow, and my toe can't find a place to touch. So here, I think of my ex—the only way to get his attention—and I keep from drowning with a doggy paddle.
