The Tao of Slut

I had my first official NYC date on Friday night. My first, because I've decided not to count the actual first one, which some might recall from Blood Alohol Levels, since it really turned out rather uneventful (to strongly euphemise).

Then again, this one wasn't cataclysmic either. Standard, couple beers at a couple East Village bars; location of a couch in a dark corner of the second one; extensive discussion of 1980s obscure song classics; leaning in to laugh; leaning a little too far in , and subtly brushing my nose tenderly across his cheek; pulling away slowly and smiling mischeviously; a kiss; a wandering hand; four wandering hands; a quick walk back to his apartment; a chocolate croissant on Avenue A for breakfast with an iced latte.

It was a pleasant night, undeniably, but one worth repeating?

Perhaps its the primacy of everything in NYC. Perhaps its the proliferation of options among men. Perhaps its the endless possibilities of things to do. Somehow though, I've found myself, for once in a long time, not wanting anything from anyone - well, except for, well you know: money (or good seats to Wicked).

In SF I spent so long bordering along ennui, trying to play off discontent, looking for something to replace, trying hard to date; and for the first time in a long time, probably since Europe or lasting through the one month after I returned, do I again feel happier without anyone.

I love the chase again, the look across a sweating room or a crowded subway car, a nervous approach and flirtation, the capture and kill. When it comes to dating, however, when I find the possibility of staying in, cooking food or laying on a couch and watching any movie starring a woman over 50 or men who don't take their shirts off, I'm over it.

Maybe I'm just waiting my moment of lust to love, as those 80s deities, the Go-Gos would say. Maybe I'm in that other place and time, where I'll do it all for thrills.

Love me and I'll leave you...I told you at the start...

In fact, the Go-Gos are what currently keeps me at least somewhat interested in Fire Island Man. In an evening otherwise ephemeral and insignificant there was a moment, I just remembered tonight, as we spoke of 80s songs, and I mentioned a favorite: Beneath the Blue Sky, an obscure track buried on the Talk Show album, a classic.

He concurred, I recalled, my heart fluttering for a moment (but maybe that was my libido stretching). I was aroused again, and thought I must call him (at least to use his TV to watch the Lost premiere tonight).

Maybe I don't give men a chance. Is it a fear of being hurt? Am I really this unattached or is it much easier for me not to care because I don't know very many people here yet?

Another date wouldn't hurt - actually, from experience, it most certainly could.

Like the time I went on a date with the guy that lived at sex club (yes lived, he was in charge of mopping - no joke).

And as always, I can simply say I cut my foot earlier and my shoe was filling with blood.

It's determined. I'll call him.

Tomorrow though. I'm tired right now. I'd be boring on the phone if I called him now.

Tomorrow though. Maybe.