proteanme

Here’s the deal: I’m fucking in love. It’s amazing and insane and every day I could post something here about it. But I feel protective and maybe a tiny bit shy about it in terms of blogging and also self-conscious that maybe it’s obnoxious to go on and on about it here, even though I’m guessing its been obvious, anyway. But it’s also why, lately, I’ve not been posting very much. And then this morning, I thought fuck it, this amazing thing is happening in my life, I’m just going to be upfront and write about it more directly, and with that sentiment in mind I’m going to tell a story about a date that happened this past fall.

We were feeling high on each other that night and we’d gotten kind of dressed up to go out to dinner. Ties and nice belts and MTB had on this awesome leather vest. I’d gone to her house to pick her up and we’d bolted from there pretty quickly because the trick or treaters on the street we’re making her dogs a little nuts. In fact, we sort of ran out to my car and then turned the music up loud. Driving to the restaurant, we kept looking at each other and grinning almost every time we stopped at an intersection. We sat side by side at the Indian place and we laughed about how we couldn’t get our chairs closer together because how bulky the arms on the chairs were. We held hands, anyway, though, and we leaned over the chair arms and kissed each other’s cheeks as we talked about how our weeks were going. I remember looking at MTB at throughout dinner and thinking that I couldn’t quite believe this was happening; “this” being that I was going on dates with her and that dates with her could feel so amazing. I’d said as much to her at some point before this date and she’d said something similar back to me.

After dinner we headed out for a drink. Location was our main consideration in picking a place and because we were in southeast, on upper Division, I suggested the Sapphire Hotel, which I was thinking of as a queer friendly place, although I don’t know why I was thinking that. Maybe because I went there once with VR and the waitress had flirted with us. MTB and I were talking and laughing and leaning into one another as we walked into the Sapphire. Holding hands tight. Right away we both noticed that we were getting stared at, as if our walking in that door was like sliding a needle across the record. It was weird and we tried to laugh it off and find a place to sit, but the only two seats, side by side, were at the bar and one of the stools had some kind of schmutz on it. We stood at the bar and tried not to figure out if the bartender was purposefully ignoring. I might have even tried to clean up some of the junk with napkins before we finally got the  bartender to give us a rag. Even with a rag it was impossible to fully clean up the schmutz, which most likely was some kind of mustard. Little globules kept showing up everywhere — on the floor, on the stool rung, under the seat — and the bartender stayed too busy to pay any attention to our efforts. I started to feel like I was in a really bad TV show, which seemed so absurd because MTB and I were so impossibly high on each other. We finally got some water from the bartender and gave back the nasty rag. This is stupid, I was thinking, and I just looked at MTB and said “lets get the fuck out of here.” She smiled so big at me and squeezed my hand and told me good call.

We made a b line to Crush and fell into a small, early in the night, Halloween crowd — a couple of handfuls of people in costumes, the only one I remember being an insanely hot gay guy dressed up as sailor. It was such a fucking relief to be in a “gay” bar. We lamented the demise of the E Room. MTB and I sat close to each other on the couch in the back room and watched people dance and talked and laughed and drank our drinks and made out. Someone got up on the little stage and did some air guitar and we clapped when they were done. A guy who was dancing with a larger group of people came over and asked to take our picture. MTB was immediately suspicious. Why did he want a photo of us? What was he going do with the it? On our very first date at TBA, there were roaming photographers and MTB had purposefully scooted out of the way when this woman was tried to take a picture of us eating ice cream. This gay guy answered that we were hot and really cute together. We laughed. MTB blushed a little bit. I told her I didn’t think it was big deal and also that she is fucking hot and it’s not like he knew who we were, anyway. Not like he could post a photo and say this is MTB and LM at Crush. He took a couple snapshots and said thanks. It didn’t really make sense, but it made us laugh more and squeeze each other tighter and smile bigger. And normally I’m shy about saying things like this, but it was like something magical was happening.

I’m part of a dinner group that I hooked up with via craigslist. Organic foodie dykes is what the founder calls it. It’s a very dyke/lesbian group, most of the members identifying as such. Crunchy or androgynous is how I’ve heard them actually describe themselves, although there is one self-identified femme. I helped her move this winter and she sent me a thank you email in which she referred to me as a stud (a nice little butch/femme exchange). Anyway, the food’s been good and the monthly company is nice. But sometimes I swear it’s as though my foodie dykes have never been on friendly terms with a butch before, because on more than one occasion I get these funny kind of hesitant and shy questions about dating femmes.

I’d guess as a butch I get the same kind of signal guys get from women when they are interested. If we’re on a date she’ll give me the green light for making a move later by initiating some innocuous physical contact, most commonly she’ll touch my leg or hand or shoulder as she’s telling me something. Me, I leave that there until later.  Then if I’m interested when we are on our way out of where ever it is we met, maybe I’ll put my hand on her back .

What’s fun and possibly torturous, but in a good way, is all that stuff that happens before the first date. How she signals her interest to me. One girl asked me to build a table for her, bought me a saw and then watched me build it. That was a good one. Another came back from her holiday break to work some extra shifts that happened to be at the same time I was working. Better yet she brought me a gift . Oh, just something she bought off a street vendor in the city. Nothing really. That was a good one too. Then there’s just the all the laughing at my jokes and sure I’m funny but not that funny. I especially love it when she bends her head down a little and then kinda looks up at me while I’m telling some story. Or there’s how she makes sure she always gets a ride with me when everyone’s making a plan to go the big game or the big party. And one of my all time favorites is her sitting by me at the bar and when it gets loud she leans in real close and whispers in my ear.   But maybe what I like best is how she’ll walk across a room, knowing that I’m watching her but acting like she’s not paying attention until I catch her eye and she’ll look away.

Ahh, being butch needs to get added to the list of things that make my life meaningful.

A song will come on in my headphones sometimes and I can barely hold it together. Cause it tugs so hard at this longing I have for all the nuances of love that make the acreage I need to be close to someone so much more manageable. Oh to see my shoes with hers, to leave behind some shirt of mine in her closet, to hear her say, “hey baby”, to know she keeps my key in her pocket. I swear that would be enough.

I met this girl a while back who I like a lot, but it’s complicated and she lives on the other side of the country. I’m not saying anything more than that. There’s nothing to tell here, really, just wishing I wasn’t so dang far away.

That’s right I’ve been dating. The more I date the more specific I get about what I’m looking for, which is frustrating because in general I’m just not finding it, except for this one girl (“girl” being her word) and I can’t really tell what’s gonna happen there. I know I want someone who’s got some details about ’em that I can dive into. And I mean authentic details, not the kind that just get performed. Not that performance isn’t fun, it’s just there’s gotta be something going on underneath it. Obviously, I like my women willful, a little larger than life, sensitive, smart and quirky. And hot, of course. And now I’m thinking gimme some imagination too, but temper down that self-involvement with a little humility and still be ambitious about making being alive special.

I’ve been thinking about this music mix that this girl I like made for me, and it’s perfect in that it grabs my attention and pushes at me, but it’s not so greedy that I can’t get caught up in these kinda heartbreaking details, a cello coming in, a note extending just a little bit longer that I thought it could stretch, a piano line that builds on itself then fades. I think that’s what I’m looking for in a date.

I had this fantasy I was gonna turn myself out as a stud. Date and fool around. But without the right details I can’t quite get it up, so to speak. The last cutie who showed me any detail was working the check out at New Seasons on one of those foxy lady shopping days, and she noted how I put the heavy stuff first and then reminded the bagger to take notice and divide the heavy stuff up between sacks. It was almost kinda hot.