Voices

Last night I attended "The Writing Cage" at Glint and actually publicly read something I'd written here on "Client Nine" about She-Who-Visits. In typical OCD fashion I drilled my stage presence and delivery with mirror readings, stage notes, and attempts at nuanced voice inflection. While the room did not simultaneously leap to their collective feet and give me a teary eyed, embarassingly long, standing ovation - it went well.

And most of all I had fun.

There were so many talented writers, singers, and performers there. From the hilariously funny blogger who wrote of hot boy three ways while eating hot pockets to incredible poets and true short fiction writers it was a night I felt true pride of participation. And the hang with cool, smart, kinky people was so good.

I was supposed to have gone with Crush Girl. She has, however, come to exhibit a singular ambivalence about her interactions with me. Our last date was over a month ago. She was away a week then I was away a week. But on our last date I had told her I was reading and she seemed genuinely eager to come hear me. So she put it in her book.

Now was this a date? Or was it something else?

Earlier this week I had asked her to dinner and she'd replied that since we were seeing each other on Friday anyway we could go out to dinner then.

Date? Or since we were likely to be hungry we could eat...together.

Anyway, on Thursday she texts me and asks if it is okay if she meets me before 8pm. The Writing Cage was from 7pm to 10pm, information I'd given her in the previous text in the thread. What was up?

I texted back that I was running home to feed the dog, zipping back downtown to the soiree which was, once again, from 7pm to 10pm and what was up with the before 8pm deal anyway? If it was at all inconvenient for her there'd be others, I was sure.

Truth be told I had mixed feelings about Crush Girl being at the reading anyway. On the one hand I was really touched she wanted to come listen because my writing has been intensely personal, reasonably creative, and my low-rent literary outlet. However, since I've pretty much concluded that she's just not that into me anyway, I figured she might cramp my oh-so-suave style. I could meet the domme of my dreams at Writing Cage, oh yes I could, yes I could.

She called me and left a voice message.

"Darling, I didn't want to cancel, but a girlfriend from out of town was in and I wanted to have a drink with her, but no, call me and I don't want to miss you."

I decided to banish her. I didn't think her little toe in the water deserved to hear my hearfelt screed. So I texted her that we could reschedule but her friend was here only temporarily and she should catch her while she could.

Haven't heard from her since.

I'm tempted to just drop the whole thing. But perhaps that's rude. She was a set up through a friend and I should have dinner with her and provide face saving closure. I'm really not available to go all in and I don't blame her for not wanting to get involved. She says she wants to continue to see me and she gets straight As for flirting. But what is it they say about actions? I'm calling our once a month fabulous flirt sessions off. I want her and, let's face it, she just doesn't want me.

Now I could easily sexualize this whole thing. The unrequited humiliation factor is hot. Trouble is, I'm just playing with myself, which I do enough of already anyway.

I'm tempted to just not contact her again. But I'll probably opt for the gentlemanly approach and tell her to her face.

This dating stuff is hard. While I try to show it she's just drivin' me back. So maybe this love should just fade away.

Just Kids

Last week my wife and I went away to the Caribbean together. She was worried she might not be able to get into the water again. Afraid she'd soon be too weak to comfortably travel on an airplane - unable to just feel the sun's warm medicine during our hard, cold winter. I dreaded the trip. She'd for sure rip my guts out for ruining her life. I'd be trapped on the beautiful rustic resort carved into cliffs, perched precariously above a beautiful cove. I actually couldn't find my passport until the night before we left, and was secretly disappointed when I finally dug it up. Such is the depth of my singularly unattractive passive aggression.

But we had a wonderful time. I don't think there is anyone else in the world I'd agree to go away with for a whole week, let alone one in which I was trapped in a palm tree paradise prison. It was very easy to be with her. She was deliriously happy to be in the sun, smell the ocean, and do nothing with me. Though she rejected my offer to make out with her back at the room on Valentine's Day, I will always treasure the memory of our little idyll of an interlude. There is unfortunately an awfully grim future ahead.

She-Who-Visits loved her Valentine's plant and actually thought I'd sent her one last year. I on the other hand recall I sent flowers and she affectionately flogged me by chiding I should have sent a plant. This year I did and she deemed it "very similar to last year's". I sent her multiple cards, just like last year, except this year's versions included excerpts from "Client Nine" pasted into the card. Not bad if I do say so myself.

We'll see though as this Friday I'm publicly reading from my blog at "The Writing Cage". I'm nervous and excited at the same time. A first and another expansion of my comfort zone.

In other Valentine action, my dommy dance partner sent me a link to a picture of a guy in a CB something or another with a wreath around the package. And Crush Girl texted me a happy V day wish. Unfortunately for me, neither of these women are much interested in pursuing nastiness with me. Sheesh, some wild and crazy single dude I am. My own wife won't even make out with me.

Oh, and "Just Kids" was my reading material by the pool. Gotta love Patti. Mapplethorpe, Jim Carroll, Sam Sheppard. Janis confidante. I lapped it up. New York in the 70's. Life at the Chelsea Hotel. But back in the day is now. On a shoe-string I've expanded my business, I'm dating kinky, caring for my terminally ill wife, reading at a pervy literary salon, and sporting a rakish mid-winter's tan.

Hey, Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine...