THE DATING D I E TAdult Education
Anthony Paull
Yes, being a writer is glamorous and interesting, but sometimes I feel like I’ve written myself in a role I can’t fulfill. I ask myself, how did I become a dating expert? Nightly, my friends call with questions about their fluctuating love lives, and I find myself forming answers, but I can’t tell if I’m truly helping. “Don’t get him wet. He’ll multiply!” I advise my friend Cindy. At her condo, we toast to her first date with a doctor.
“What does that mean? He’s not a gremlin.”
“Just use protection.”
From a drawer, Cindy locates a condom, waving it in the air. “You mean this?” A novice at dating, she beams.
“Yes, but remember…you can’t get pregnant from oral.”
“Oh, I know that.” Still, last week she took the morning-after pill because she gave some random guy a blowjob. She thought the semen might burn a hole in her intestines and travel to her uterus. Apparently, she forgot to take that health class in high school. “But I thought you said no ‘sucky-sucky’ on a first date.”
“That depends. Do you want a second date?” Cindy nods. “Then you can’t take it anywhere further than a kiss.”
“Why not?”
“Guys like a challenge.”
“Oh,” she says. Still, I see her filling up her Just-In-Case bag. You know, just in case she decides to bend the rules. A condom, a breath mint, a fresh pair of panties – it’s all in there. However, I can’t call her out; I’m the one who gave her the idea.
Later at the club, my friend Matt gives me hell for it. “Let me get this straight. You forbid her to have sex, including oral, BUT you had her bring a condom, a breath mint, and a fresh pair of panties?”
“Yeah, and a douche.”
“A DOUCHE?” He hiccups his beer. “Oh, that’ll get her laid.”
“Hey, that was my dad’s suggestion.”
“Yeah, that’s why your dad’s single.” He slugs a beer as a young gay attempts Adele on the karaoke machine. Cigarette smoke blurs the crowd. “Look dude. You’re steering that girl all wrong. You don’t wait for sex. That’s like holding off dinner. You know you’ll end up at IHOP, eating some nasty shit at midnight if you do that.”
Matt speaks from experience. You see, he’s the lonely type who finds a guy on Grindr, plans a meet-up and then pretends to care what the guy’s first name is just to get him in bed. On most occasions, they skip the date altogether, ending up in the pretzel position before Matt realizes he despises the guy. Now, each night, his phone buzzes with an arsenal of texts from men he can’t stand. Tonight, at the club, it’s like dodging bullets each time these men try to make contact.
“Just keep looking straight ahead. Look at me. Don’t turn your head. Laugh,” Matt instructs, in the midst of karaoke hour. Past experience tells me this is code red for a prior trick that wants a second treat.
“Maaaaat!” A slinky gentleman with a black faux-hawk wraps an arm around his back, pulling him in for an embrace. “Are you trying to avoid me?”
“No. I didn’t see you. What’s up?"
The man, Pete, snake eyes me as competition before closing in. “I was thinkin’ we should get together tonight.”
“Can’t. Hanging with Anthony.”
“Oh.” He feigns indifference. Still, I see steam rising from his ears, or perhaps that’s just his cigarette being exhaled from a new hole.
Yes, Pete has a bevy of talents. For instance, just when I think he’s moved on, he’s cleverly maneuvered his way back into our inner circle, talking about ordering a pizza. Meanwhile, Matt is hiding by the stripper pole in a dark corner. “I can have the pizza here in 5 minutes. I know the owner,” he boasts. “Where’s Matt? What does he like on his pizza?”
I cage the absurdity, fighting off laughter. “Probably vegetables,” I reply. “He’s a vegetarian.”
His brain triggers him to raise a finger. “Mushrooms! Matt likes mushrooms!” Then, he’s on his phone, placing his order and pacing back and forth, while shouting about where to drop off the pizza. It’s a ten-minute ordeal, followed by five minutes of him telling everyone about the ‘great’ pizza until it arrives. Then, it’s his pizza, and no one can try it because it’s for him and Matt. “Matt likes mushrooms,” he instructs a friend. Then, accompanied by the pizza, he charges into the bathroom after Matt.
Me, I’m wonder why this is happening. Is it a joke, or is Pete just taking Matt on the date that Matt forgot to include in the initial offer of sex? It seems, Matt forgot one of the realities of sharing an intimate experience. It doesn’t matter if you skip a few steps, break a few rules, when it comes to sex, we all end up in the same tangled place when seeing an old conquest again. Rules are rules are rules, and no one likes giving up ass without a little return.
As for Matt, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Exiting the bathroom, he acts as if nothing happened. Pete and the pizza are nowhere to be found.
“So, how was your first date?” I question. “Was it hot?”
“Yeah,” he states. “I gave him head.”
I think of the pizza and the dirty stalls. “Gross! Are you serious?”
“Hey, they’re your rules,” he says. “I was just making sure there’s not a second.”
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Say It Isn’t Sooooooo
Anthony Paull
I don’t know if I like my 30’s. I’ve been told I’ve become too put together, too flashy to piss on my shoes at a rock show, and that upsets me because I enjoy pissing on my shoes, at least if they’re cheap.
The problem is they’re not anymore. I have this sick obsession with Vans and Pumas, and lately I’m broke because I’ll only purchase the kind you find in Japan. It’s sad. I don’t know how or when I became this person. While most of my friends are purchasing houses, I’m basically charring my checking account in order to travel in shoes with cargo pockets.
I guess that’s why I’m having problems relating to friends. I feel like we’re all heading in opposite directions, establishing different priorities. A few have kids. A few have houses. And a few have relationships that they won’t talk about because they don’t want me to know they’re just as screwed up as I am.
I swear; sometimes, I feel like the dirty wig store at the mall, like I serve some sort of purpose but nobody ever wants to get too close. Or maybe I don’t want to get too close and that’s why I entertain random conversations, just to keep people away. For example, is it ok to talk about shoving markers up your ass during an otherwise uneventful public dining experience? I don’t know. According to my friend Max, he thoroughly lubes the markers so it’s hygienic. But I can’t tell if it’s politically correct to discuss the matter in public. Therefore tonight, I try to make the conversation ‘pc’, environmentally friendly, and ‘green’ just in case anyone is listening.
“Markers, you say? Are they organic?” I ask.
“Organic? They make organic markers now?”
I blink twice for theatrics. “I just think you should try something less toxic. Like cucumbers. But again, organic.”
He warily eyes me as his phone lights with a text. “Damn, another cockroach,” he groans. “If I get one more in my collection, I’ll have enough occupants to open a roach motel.”
“Cockroach?” I question. “Explain.”
Max says that the term stems from the type of guys he’s been dating. To Max, they’re all the same. When he ignores them, they run toward him due to being left in the dark, but when he shines a light on them, via texts or phone calls, they scatter from the attention. “Just like a fucking cockroach,” he gripes. Therefore, tonight, he’s on a mission: he’s going to spread roach traps, but he’s going to disguise them in the fuzziest way possible. Like he’s going to text some roaches, but he’s not going to ask for anything, per se. He’s just going to flick on the lights when we’re drunk at three in the morning, just to see if they’re crawling about.
“Sooooooo,” he texts, spread on the red Asian carpet in his living room. Then we hoot and holler, downing a few drams of Irish whisky ‘til the replies arrive. A few moments later, they trickle in, taking on the form of question marks, winks, and one angry emoticon face. The good thing: there is curiosity attached. “Sooooooo what?” one fellow replies.
“I just wanted to say hi,” Max returns.
To which, the guy replies, “Hi.”
Simple enough. Well, except now this guy, along with the rest of the roaches, has taken this late night ambiguous text message as a calling card for an open-ended booty call. Suddenly, Max is Mr. Social because he’s not asking for anything. He’s just making his presence known. “It beats shoving markers up my ass,” he says, when we meet for coffee, days later. “I think I’ve figured it out. You can shine a light on a guy. You just need a dimmer switch.”
Therefore, Max no longer engages in intimate talks, texts, or online chats with men. Instead, he opens with vague statements like ‘and’ and ‘huh’ before ending the conversation without anything truly being said. Of course, none of it makes sense but Max considers it a reputable talent. “Particularly if the guy has no self-worth,” he explains, as I drink my espresso in quiet disbelief. “You know, maybe if I start talking in symbols, I’ll finally land a boyfriend.”
Unfortunately, I think he may be right. Lately, it seems people don’t have time to utter a complete sentence. Or has it always been this way and technology has just advanced enough to allow us such a luxury? I can’t count how many times I’ve heard people confess their undying love for text messages because they no longer have to talk to their friends. Each of us, we’re coming closer and closer to an alien race able to communicate with our minds, or limited speech. Perhaps one day when they start injecting us with nanobots we’ll simply chat through a series of beeps and blips like robotic roadrunners, forever on the go. Maybe then we’ll let our lovers spend the night so we don’t have to worry about what to talk about in the morning. For me, I hope this isn’t so. I crave conversation, particularly with boy in the bed. But maybe I’m wrong. After all, my priorities are messed up. I don’t do have kids or a house. All is have is boyfriend and a closet of shoes.
