The Truth.

So, I’e been doing a lot of soul-searching lately. This might come as a shock, but…

I think I’m gay.

I say “think” because it softens the “I’m gay” part of that statement. But I’m pretty sure about this.

There were signs. Many, many signs. But, naively, I convinced myself that most other – if not all – straight women fantasize about having sex with their hot female classmates, too. Or that being turned on by thinking of two women together [as opposed to a man and a woman] was completely normal. Or that even saying, “I could date a woman. I could probably go down on a woman. I don’t see a problem with this,” is something that other heterosexual women say. Or that whole “I have a girlfriend” thing doesn’t really make me gay. [But it really kinda does.]

Yeah…delusional much?

It’s just interesting that it took a chance meeting at a lesbian club and R’s presence in my life to help me put all the pieces together. And it’s even more interesting that while I was very okay with admitting I have a girlfriend, it’s quite…scary…saying all this now. But it’s how I feel. Being in a relationship with a woman is so much more fulfilling to me than any guy I’ve been with – or any guy I could ever be with.

So that’s it.

The Third Date.

Michael: In my opinion the third date is traditionally the one where you have sex. Does Holly feel that way? I don’t know. I will probably find out tonight. If she starts having sex with me I’ll know for sure.

Ah, the elusive third date. I’m trying to recall all the third dates I’ve had – and how they ended. As many of my regular readers [and real life friends] know, in my past dating exploits, I rarely got to the third date.

Actually, I think I only had proper third date sex once.

It was B, a guy I worked with – and the first guy I hooked up with after The Ex and I broke up. Though the first time we went out, it was just to a bar. The second time, he came over, spent the night, and we hung out all the next day. Twenty-four hours in total. That was a mega-date. Then the third time we hung out, he came over after work, and spent the night. It culminated in sex. He never called me to go out again, and five months later, I heard he got married.

Only one other guy I had sex with took me on a date. That was D. We met at Fenway. And even then, like with B, they were those borderline dates. We had sex on our second date. I awkwardly cried in bed before we went to sleep. He held me. I don’t remember why, but he was sweet. We had sex the next morning. He never called me to go out again, but I see him around the Park from time to time.

The other seven guys I had sex with were all drunken one-night stands. Two of the guys I was friends/acquaintances with before, but don’t really talk to now. Another guy lives in my neighborhood. He saw me with my girlfriend recently. He kissed her hand, said, “Hello, Gorgeous” and awkwardly walked away. The rest I am okay with never talking to again. Except one: he lives in Ireland. I still talk to him. He and I actually had sex two separate times [the only repeat performance], and I thought I was kind of in love with him. I even sort of proposed on our way to the train station. He accepted, too. So I think I might be engaged. If he lived here, and I didn’t have my girl, I might try to make something happen with him. He was the best sex with a guy I ever had.

On the other hand, there were several guys I went out with more than three times that I never had sex with. A couple last year, and more before I dated The Ex. The only reason I can think is that I just really wasn’t attracted to them. And maybe I really just wasn’t attracted to guys in general. When my girlfriend came back to my apartment after our first date, we made out. We hooked up the second night. I was very attracted to her. And even though at first it was awkward, and I wasn’t sure if she crazy or not, I liked her.

We’ve been together for almost 4 months. I can’t remember if we had sex on our third date. But you know…I don’t think it matters.

Lesbian Update, Part II

Bitches are CRAZY.

I feel like I now completely understand what men go through on a regular basis in dealing with us. We are insane. I now have a strengthened appreciation for men.

Yeah, who saw that coming? I’m appreciating men – not bitching about them?? I must be in Bizarro World…

Lesbian Update

To quote Katy Perry:

I kissed a girl, and I liked it.

We’re still hanging out. She’s very sweet, and I am looking forward to seeing where this goes.

That’s all for now.

A New Direction

All the recent man-hating and ranting has left me exhausted, and not really ready/willing to jump back into the pool of Boston Dudes. So, I’ve decided to go a new direction:

I’m going on a lesbian date.

Yeah, I know. It’s craaaazy. My best friend and roommate both told me [a while back] that I liked the penis too much to ever go lesbo. My roommate said [and I quote]: “There are girls who scream ’sausage.’ And there are some girls, who screeeeeeam ’sausage.’” Apparently, I seem to really, really enjoy…sausage.

Anyway.

I have a very close lesbian friend who has invited me to the lesbian club with her and her other lesbian friends on an occasional lesbian basis. * Sorry – I keep using the adjective lesbian, and it’s starting to modify nouns that don’t really need lesbian modification. After some coaxing [I was tired and wanted to stay home and be lame], I agreed to go. Rifling through my drawer, I settled on a hot pink, cleavage-baring top and jeans, primped up, and headed out. I decided if I was going to a lesbian club, I better at least get hit on.

The entourage consisted of me, my lesbian friend T, her lesbian friend E, and E’s straight guy friend D. Immediately, T and E were prodding me – “Isn’t D cute?” “Ooh, do you like D?” “If I were straight, I’d fuck him, would you?” – like I’d never seen a straight guy before. He was okay, but very much not my type. Example: On the drive to the bar in his souped-up Acura, he blew stoplights and whizzed past buses at an alarming rate, one that made me say aloud too many times, “I think I’m going to die tonight.” Regardless of the exterior, I just simply cannot date/fuck/otherwise interact with a guy who drives like a complete toolbag.

We parked and got to the club, entered, got a beer, and made the requisite lap. It was still early and the place was fairly empty. Some women in skimpy clothes danced on the stage. Others, fully-clothed, danced with each other on the dancefloor. A strange man, maybe 40, stood alone at the bar, holding a Bud Light. He surveyed the scene. I thought maybe he was security – I think he was actually just a creep. A middle-aged hetero couple stood by the bar as well, and every once in a while, the woman would walk away and start to dance near a group of girls – then return to her place at the bar. My guess? A married couple looking to spice things up with a third. It was an interesting circus. I felt a little awkward at first. T and E started running around like mad, dancing with other lesbians they knew. D and I stood to the side, and chatted about how out of place we felt.

After a few minutes, I noticed a girl across the bar. She was wearing a Celtics jersey and a Red Sox hat, cargo shorts, and was dancing with some other girls. Definitely on the butch end of the spectrum, but I was curious about her – which surprised me. But I couldn’t stop looking at her, and kept thinking that I really wanted to talk to her. It freaked me out a little – who was this girl, and why was I being so weird? Eventually, my group made it closer to hers, and then we were side by side. I wondered if she noticed me and wanted to talk, too. But then I thought, “You’re hetero. What are you doing??”

Later, after I realized this weird obsession wasn’t going to fade, I told T about it. “Oh, I know her friend! Let’s go talk to them,” she said, and dragged me over there. I was scared, and didn’t know what to say…so I said, “Hi, nice to meet you.” I find that usually works in social situations where you meet new people – straight, gay, aliens, whatever. There was no reason for me to feel weird, so I decided just to try to be…normal.

The girl in the jersey’s name is R, and her friend is S. We all decided to dance, and as we walked to the dancefloor, S turned to me and said, “You’re straight, aren’t you?” I felt like my cover was blown. “Yeah…why? You could tell?” She nodded. We kept dancing. I wanted to blend in, but apparently I didn’t look homo enough. Quietly, R said, “Well, all the prettiest girls are straight…” It kinda made me smile a little bit.

A couple beers later [but not drunk], some Lady Gaga played, and R and I danced. We talked over the loud thump of the bass and the lively lesbian chatter. She was cool. She was…cute. What the hell was I doing? She said in my ear, “So, you’re straight?” I said, “Yes…but I could be convinced otherwise…” and I told her she was cute. She said, “Well, you should give me your phone number.” So I did. Then she gave me hers.

I got a girl’s phone number.

T came running up to me as the DJ was announcing the bar was closing. Apparently E had drank too much and was puking it all back up into the trashcan. As I turned to leave, R said, “Okay, well…call me.” And I said I would.

After piling back in the Acura in the rain, we headed home. I asked T the rules for lesbian dating, and she said I needed to wait at least a week before making any contact. I thought that was ridiculous, and I wanted to text R to see if she got home safely. I don’t know how much she had to drink, it was a rainy night, and I was genuinely concerned.

So I texted. And she texted right back, saying she was about to text me. And then we made some tentative plans, that turned into real dinner plans. For tomorrow.

We’re getting sushi.

I’m definitely looking forward to this new experience. If it goes badly, then at least I know, and I’ll stick it out with dudes. And if it goes great…well, then we’ll see.

Right Now.

I just love chocolate-covered pretzels. 

And herbed goat cheese.

And most foods that don’t involve: mustard, mushrooms, or strange meats/animal innards. 

Oh, and also: Brussels sprouts can go fuck themselves. Hate those things. 

Everything else food-wise is [probably] fair game. Especially chocolate-covered pretzels. 

Tangent: I’m tired of writing about dating. So I think I am going to stop. Brief wrap-up [for the three of you who actually care]: Still at square one. Realizing more and more I am “difficult” to deal with – don’t put up with bullshit, and have no qualms with telling dudes as such. Should probably just move to the left coast and start over. Again.

That’s it.

The Houdini Effect

Fuck fuck shit piss motherfucker twat cunt FUCK.

OK, now that I got that out of the way…

As may be apparent, I am kind of pissed. It seems the Welshman has disappeared without a trace. This is just one of the many, many, *sigh* many guys who’ve done this to me – just another in a seemingly endless line of guys who walk around like they’re nice and make girls [read: me] think they’re charming and great, but they’re just masquerading douchebags.

The scenario: there’s a date [or three in this instance] that are very fun and wonderful. Then there are plans for another two dates. He tells me how much fun he has with me. I think maybe he likes me. I send a text the day after our third date – no response. I send another text the day after that – response, then nothing to a follow-up question. Days pass.The previous three dates he had texted to see if we were still on, but this time – nothing. The day of the planned date comes and goes.  Now it seems he is just another foot note in a chapter of my dating life: The Houdini Effect. Now you see him…now you don’t.

And the whole time I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what I did, or what I didn’t do, or what I said, or what I didn’t say.  Conclusion: I did nothing wrong. At least, that is my conclusion for now.

Next thing, I’ll be getting a text from him in two or three months just like all the others do. “Oh hey, how you been?” he’ll say. How have I been?! If you really cared, you would have asked, oh, three months ago…when you had a chance. GO FUCK YOURSELF. Ah well, I have his first season of The Office [British version]. Guess that’s my consolation prize.

Still need the subtitles to understand what the fuck they’re saying. Fucking Brits.

Other news:
- Still stressing about school. But I’m obviously procrastinating and thus causing my own problems.
- Finally got my check from work. My friend told me that it was in the office. Will pick it up tomorrow. Yay!
- My cat still has dandruff, so I put some bacon fat on her food. Maybe that will help.
- I had sex with my downstairs neighbor. This is a whole story in and of itself that I just don’t have time to address at the moment. He’s moving in a week. To Arizona. I was hoping for a repeat performance, but he is also currently blowing me off. Fuck.
- I’m putting $5 on the Welshman texting me sometime around July 4th. Any other bets?

**UPDATE: Just got a text from the neighbor. There could be a possibility for some more sexytime later this week. My vagina can’t wait.

The Last Sunday of April

It’s a gorgeous day outside. Over 80 and sunny. Supposed to thunderstorm later, but that’s a hazard of springtime and I won’t let it get me down. My new spring dress hangs ready in the closet for dinner tonight – a second date with a charming Welshman I met a week ago. We met at at Sox game. I told myself I wasn’t going to do that again [date customers] but he was lovely and sweet, so I said, ‘What the hell.’ Our first date was at a bar I always wanted to try – the Beantown Pub, downtown off Tremont Street. It was awesome. Six hours of chatting, laughing, stories. We have apparently both had problems dating recently – he said Boston girls suck, I said Boston guys suck. We’re perfect for each other. He’s texted me every day since. I don’t want to jinx it…but he is just so sweet and adorable, I could really see letting  myself  liking him a lot. At present, he has pretty much my full attention. Other quick facts: he’s 32, lives in Cambridge, and works for a consulting firm. But he doesn’t like to talk about work – instead, he likes to as me questions about myself. I think he might be an alien or some kind of hologram. If the CraigsList killer hadn’t been caught yet, I would worry about this one – he seems too good so far. But I like it. So long as things don’t fall apart tonight, he’ll be taking me to the Celtics Eastern Conference play-off game on Tuesday. The Celtics are currently up 2-1 over the Bulls. Hopefully they win tonight, and then again Tuesday – making for a spectacular evening at the Garden. Then barring any other disasters or me turning into a psycho bitch [which I am trying hard not to be], he has roof deck tickets to a Sox game the first week of May. It’ll be my first game attending as a fan. I’m very excited.

I’m also excited about this possibility…that maybe there are nice guys out there…and maybe I have found one, who seems genuinely interested…in me. Bizarre.

Other news:
- The semester is wrapping up. Cue massive amounts of stress. It’s cool, though – I have a to-do list that I have created, and am working on checking the boxes. I got one massive, stress-inducing thing out of the way already: “check.” Only four thousand left…
- Human resources decided not to process my paperwork creating the position for me that I’ve held since September, so I didn’t get a much-needed paycheck last week. My work-study money ran out, so my boss set it up so I could be paid from her grant. But nooo…HR had to FUCK SHIT UP and NOT do the paperwork that was submitted twice – the first time being back in December. So I’m broke until they can get me an advance paycheck – the same kind of advance I’ve had to get three times this year because they “forgot” to put in my hours. Ah, well. Who needs money? Not me!!
- My cat has dandruff.
- I finally put sheets on my bed. I’ve been sheetless for over a week. 
- Apropos the last item: I am a lazy bastard.
- I’m going to go do some work so I can enjoy dinner later. Twelve-page paper about the adverse developmental effects of IVF and assisted reproduction…here I come!

Confessions.

I love being outside on sunny days, like today. It’s 54, with a breeze off the harbor. I’m wearing pants and a short-sleeved shirt, trying to get a little sun on my winter-pale arms and chest. It’s a little too chilly to be sitting, shoes off, here in the sun – maybe I look like an insane person, but honestly, I don’t fucking care. It’s April and I am sick of winter. My wool coats have been hidden back in the recesses of the guest closet for almost a month now. After St. Patrick’s Day, I refused to wear them again. And here I will sit, with goosebumps, the sun reflecting off the harbor, and I will imagine I’m in Hawaii.

I might have an overwhelming personality. My friend told me that a guy told her friend she was “overwhelming”…then she told me that I was similar to this other friend. I said that no one has ever called me “overwhelming,” but that thought made me pause. I’ve heard that I have a “big” personality and I’m “intimidating,” but I guess “overwhelming” is a subjective adjective. I’m hoping that maybe I can keep my personality to just “whelming,” minus the “over” part. People like being “whelmed,” right? I mean, sounds fun to me…

I don’t like uniforms. I saw some young girls running down the hall of my college the other day. They all wore pale yellow sweaters and navy shorts or pants. I don’t know why they were running, but I noticed their uniforms. This got me thinking about institutions that make their students, employees, or captives wear the same clothes as everyone else. Why is that? I think it has something to do with keeping people oppressed so they won’t act like individuals, and will conform to group behavior. I don’t study social psychology – I have more of a cognitive/neuroscience bent to my interests – but from the one social psych class I took, this seems like a likely reason. Who wears uniforms? Prisoners [and, conversely, prison guards], public servants [police, firemen], some employees of companies [but mostly in positions that are of lower class, like janitors], Catholic school children, or kids in some private schools. If I think about it, I can come up with reasons why all these people wear uniforms, and the reasons will be different for each group:

- Prisoners & prison guards: to distinguish who is the captive versus who is the captor, and determine the power structure based on these uniforms

- Public servants: to distinguish them in times of crisis or emergency; also, for intimidation sake [or did intimidation at the sight of a uniformed police officer come after one was accustomed to the power exerted by such a person?]

- Some lower-class employees: to distinguish them as lower-class, especially if the other employees don’t have a uniform, or wear suits

- Catholic schoolchildren: to make them feel the same and suppress individuality

- Private schoolchildren: same as Catholic schoolchildren, but also to make sure the class photos at the end of the year look nice

I partially blame myself for the fact that guys don’t ask girls on dates anymore. I’ve interacted with tons of men, yet I haven’t been on a real date in months – since December, actually. Maybe it’s my fault for letting that happen and “interacting” with them without any sort of formal courting. And I actually do want to be courted. I suppose I should insist that I be courted before any sort of romantic shenanigans ensue. Though I haven’t actually met anyone lately that I want to court me…

I often hope, that if I let a car with their turn signal on go in front of me, that the Traffic Gods will smile upon me and I will be granted good car karma. Though every time I get cut-off, I think that maybe it only works that way in my head and not in real life – and I have determined that I am in my own little world most of the time. Still. Letting someone into my lane of traffic, or pausing to let them pull out of a driveway into an especially trafficked road, makes me feel like a better person. And I guess that’s what counts!

I haven’t done my taxes yet – and am seriously considering filing an extension. I’ve done it before.

I just registered for my second-to-last semester of college – and I’m afraid I won’t actually graduate. I’ll be a credit short of completing my BS requirements, or I won’t pass calculus, or something. I’m also afraid of what is going to happen after I do hypothetically graduate.

I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller.

 

Peering over the wall…

Update: I hung out with The Kinda Sorta Guy [But Really Just a Friend] on Sunday. My out-of-town friends were not impressed. They suggested I put more effort into another guy who we saw at a bar in my neighborhood – a guy who is rumored to like me [so many of our mutual friends tell me]. He and I went out once, but he was too drunk to make good conversation. Anyway, later in the evening of St. Patrick’s Day, we went back to my neighborhood bar and I wrote Bar Guy a note and drew a silly  leprechaun picture, folded it into a paper airplane, and launched it to him across the bar. I said, “Open it.” He said, “It’s a note?” I said, “Yep,” and walked away. It basically said, “When are we going out again?” This afternoon I saw him on the street. He hugged me, said hello, and kept walking. I asked if he was going to work – he said yes. Nothing about the note. Granted, I was on the phone with the cable company trying to get some more channels [for my roommate, who requires SoapNet. Cue eye roll.] But still – he should have seen me, said, “Thank you for the note! It made my night! You’re awesome! Let’s hang out next week.” But no! That’s not what happened! And I don’t get it. So I sent him a quick text when I got home:

Me: Hey jerk. Did you like my present I threw at you last night?

Bar Guy: Yes honey. I brought it home with me.

Me: Good. You should frame that shit. It’s worth dollaz.

Thinking about it more – this is why I am hidden behind a wall and make no effort. I shouldn’t have expectations of what other people are going to say – or how Bar Guy should have reacted to my awesome paper airplane present. And until I am to the point where I don’t expect shit from guys…I think I need to stay single, and behind my wall. I got too all-in-a-tizzy over the whole thing, which is the reminder that I should STOP CARING SO FUCKING MUCH. I was so nervous about giving a thirty-something man a note asking him out. I was upset that he didn’t jump for joy when he got it. I was bummed that he didn’t respond instantly. What the fuck is wrong with me? I really want to not care at all and just go with the flow – but I can’t. And I don’t like opening myself up to any sort of rejection. I’ve been rejected enough, and hurt enough, and I can’t do it anymore. Not even a tiny bit. 

The worst part is that I have realized that I do – still, after all this time – have massive expectations of men. And I can’t have them. But I can’t not have them, so I don’t know what to do.

It’s all just so. fucking. annoying. I’m done caring. I’m done trying. And I’m just…done with it…all of it.

Note to self: There is nothing of value on the other side of that wall. Quit peering over it. Climb down the ladder. Go back to watching Hulu and eating Ben & Jerry’s. 

Ahh, me, Ben & Jerry…now that’s my kind of threesome.