That Loser Feeling: Writing: That Loser Feeling: Events at the Lone Star Saloon

So I almost went home with someone from the Lone Star, which is something I've never done before. Here's what happened.

When I showed up and tried to pass through the hallway gauntlet to the back patio, I got seriously groped by a shirtless and furry gym-rat called Frank. My natural reaction, of course, was to became chilly and unresponsive, because I don't know what else to do.

It's no wonder. A month and a half after coming out, I was dating Dan. Dan was the second man I ever kissed, my first sexual encounter of any kind, and my first relationship. Now that the relationship is over, I find myself forced to deal with several problems that I haven't had to face yet. Chiefly among my problems is that I have no idea how to show interest.

By the time I had screwed up enough courage to go back inside and hunt for Frank, he had already gotten intimately entangled with a man at the bar who, to my dismay, looked very similar to myself. My own damn fault. I waited too long.

Later, my friend Robert and I were talking and laughing, when he suddenly focused on me and said with great seriousness, "you're being cruised." He pointed out a handsomely bearded gent with a shaved head and glasses, and sure enough, the man was looking at me, and turning away, looking, and turning away.

If the man had approached me and asked, I would have gone home with him, no hesitation. But I didn't know how to make that happen myself. I waited, trying to figure out how to proceed, until someone else approached the man, and they started pawing each other. It amazes me how easy it seems for some people.

At this point I started thinking about rounding up Bill and Robert, for whom I was the ride back to Fremont, and going home. And then I thought: fuck it. Take a chance, Matthew. Just one tonight.

I made it easy on myself. I picked a man who was wearing a cool hat. It was one of those curved, wide-brimmed affairs that I can't name— something between an Australian Outback hat and a cowboy hat.

"Cool hat," I said to him. "Where did you get it?"

He smiled. He was serious daddy material, with a bushy white moustache and one of those goatees that angles back toward the jaw. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkled deeply, in that weathered-but-cheerful, good natured old boy way. "It was a gift. I don't know where it came from."

So, quickly and easily, I found myself in a conversation. And then something horrifying happened. At least, it would be horrifying if it wasn't so familiar.

At times like these, my brain likes to do something to me that I cannot quite adequately describe. It's a sensation of loss, of numbing over, of my brain leaving me. But before it leaves, my brain sets the little VCR box to RECORD, checks its pockets for keys, cheerfully tells me that I'm on my own, and then bails.

I can't describe it any better than that. Suddenly all my wit and conversational skills are gone, and all I have left is the little flashing red VCR light, set to RECORD because my brain will want to see all of this later when it gets back.

"Well, it's a cool hat," I said. "I like it a lot," I said. And then to my own amazement, I actually said, "Yep. It's a cool, cool hat."

A cool, cool hat.

My brain leaned back in the door, said "oh, smoooooth," and then left again. It should be clear to anyone by now that my brain is Evil, and is trying to kill me.

He asked me if I would like to try it on, and I did, and it didn't fit, of course, because my skull is so damned big— presumably to facilitate the comings and goings of my Evil brain— and then the man kissed me. And so I kissed him back. And we kept doing that, back and forth, until we were doing it steadily, gently, and then I closed my eyes, and somewhere behind me, someone— Bill, I think— whispered, "Oh my God, Matthew is kissing someone new," and all of a sudden I was overcome with an all-too-definable sadness. My Evil brain came back, knowing that it could do worse and more-lasting damage right away, rather than waiting for later. I already knew what it was up to. The man and I disengaged.

"My name is Brett," he said. He was a bit tipsy. I tried not to think about it. "What's your name?"

I told him my name, and he said, "Matthew, you are a great kisser. I need to tell you that." I wanted to tell him that he was too, but I couldn't. My brain wouldn't let me. He was a pleasant kisser, but he just wasn't Dan.

This is the start of my next big problem. Dan is the single best kisser I have ever met. I know I shouldn't say that— especially not in a public forum. Men, myself included, don't like to be compared to others for fear that they'll come up short somehow, but it's the plain truth, and I'm sorry. Dan has no competition. He kisses like the musician that he is. I could honk on and on about his timing and responsiveness, but I don't want to make him sound like a German sports coupe. He is quite simply loads of fun to kiss.

I thanked Brett, and asked if I could give him a hug, as if his permission had not been implied by his tongue in my mouth. We hugged, and I whispered in his ear, "Brett, I think you're very attractive." He rubbed my back and said that he thought I was very sexy.

Sexy. Such a Seventies word. It made sense that he would use it, considering his age, but it still surprised me. No one has ever said that to me before.

So I went for it, and asked if he was interested in fooling around, words I've never spoken outside of my own home, another absolute first for me. He grinned, and said "Yeah, sure!"

"Hang on just a moment, I have to let some friends know that I'm leaving," I said, and strode over to where Robert was standing.

"I'm leaving now," I told Robert. "I'll be back to pick you up later." Just like Mr. Microphone.

And that was it. Brett and I wended our way through the crowd, made it outside, and started walking.

"Your friends worry about you?" Brett asked. "That's great."

I said, "Actually, I'm their ride home. We live down in Fremont. I was just letting them know that I'm going to be back in a while to pick them up."

Brett stopped on the sidewalk. "Oh, you're kidding." He looked crestfallen.

"What's wrong?" I asked, already knowing what was wrong, and starting to feel bad because of it.

"Aw, it's just that I... " he started, and then stopped. He thought a moment, and then said, "Matthew, I don't want a quickie. I was hoping that you'd want to spend the night."

I wanted to protest against what he was already thinking about me, that I wasn't one of those guys, the ones who fuck and run, that I had never done anything like this before, that I really would like to spend the night with him— but I had a responsibility to my friends. I wanted to say these things, to try to distance myself from the bad impression that I was giving, but the truth was that I did want to fuck and run. I would have preferred to spend the night, sure, but I also would have been happy with half an hour. I was horny, he was attractive— almost intimidatingly so— and I wanted to have sex with him, regardless of the duration.

What I finally said was, "I'm their ride home. They're stuck without me. I'm sorry, I have to come back."

His shoulders sagged a bit. "But... I mean, what can we do in just a couple of hours? I was hoping for more than that."

I considered ticking off ideas on my fingers, but decided against it. "Do you want to sit in the car and talk for a while?" I asked, and when he cheerfully agreed, I winced inwardly at my stupidity, which brings me to my next problem.

I have a history. I have only once successfully wangled the delicate "sex with friends" balance that other men find so easy to maintain. I was suddenly afraid that if Brett got to know me better, even briefly, he would find what all other men find— that I'm funny and neurotic in that special way that seems to indicate that, while friendship with me is fine, sex is definitely weird and therefore out of the question. I wished I hadn't asked.

We climbed into his car, and I immediately noticed his tape collection. The labels were handwritten, in a boring way that made me think of Dan again. Dan would have designed the tape labels in exciting, interesting ways, either taking the design from the original artwork, or creating new ones. He would not have approved of these.

"Oh those," Brett said, and he sounded mildly embarrassed. "Yeah, those are my Barbra tapes. Oh well."

Dan has great taste in music. Dan has never, ever played a Barbra Streisand CD in his entire life. I doubt he ever will.

Brett and I talked awkwardly for a moment, and then started kissing again. His beard is very dense, but also very soft. He tasted beery and good. He nuzzled my neck, and I quickly discovered that his chest and belly are luxuriously furry, a nice salt-and-pepper pelt. I was getting frustrated.

Brett stopped, and leaned back and away from me. "Okay, we need to stop," he said. "If we're going to do this, I want you to spend the night. You have your friends to get back to. Can I give you my phone number? Will you call me?" I agreed to exchange numbers, and he started searching the car for a pen. He couldn't find one immediately, so he popped open the glove compartment and dumped most of its contents on the floor while searching.

Oh, this will never do, I thought. Dan would have been more organized. He would have stacked everything on the dashboard, instead of being so messy.

What the hell am I doing here? I thought. He and I don't have anything to talk about, not like Dan and I always did. We don't have the same taste in music. He's not neat, like Dan. He doesn't kiss like Dan. What the hell am I doing here?

But it was clear why I was there. I was there because Brett is attractive, and because he had shown interest in having sex with me, in his gentlemanly way.

So my biggest problem is obvious. Brett is not Dan. No one is Dan. I am not going to replace Dan with another Dan who is just like Dan, only perfect. I'm not interested in another relationship right now, but I need to deal immediately with the fact that I cannot measure everyone against the Dan Yardstick, and dismiss them if they come up short in any of the qualities that I valued in him. It's not fair to anyone, and it will get me nowhere.

Brett and I exchanged phone numbers, and then went our separate ways. I collected Robert and Bill, who marveled that I came back at all, and we headed home.

I called Brett on Sunday and left a message. In a way, I was relieved that he didn't answer. A few hours later, while I was gone, he called back and left me a message. I didn't call him back right away.

All day today I thought about what I would do. Ultimately, I decided that I would call him when I got home, and if I heard the slightest tipsiness in his voice, I would call the whole thing off. I would claim that it was just too soon after my ended relationship for me to get together with anyone else.

He wasn't drunk. He sounded pleased to hear back from me. We have arranged to meet up early Saturday afternoon and have lunch. We'll see how it goes.

Is this ever easy?

Last updated 24 March 2003