Chicksth Dig Schthars

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A prize fight between my glasses and a glass door.

This is a picture of me waiting in Dupont for the train back to Takoma after the Meetup. I am not amused, because I thought that the bouncer was holding the door open for me, and it was clear glass that had just been cleaned, transparent from ceiling to floor. My glasses banged into my face right good, and I was bleeding all over the place when I walked out of the bar. The bouncer looked at me with pity, because clearly I must have been drunk off my ass. I wasn’t… just clumsy and thinking about other things. We went to No. 9, between 14th & 15th on P. If you know the place, you know it was loud (very loud), and the kind of establishment I would never frequent unless something good was going on. Gay bars intimidate me. The idea of standing in a hot crowd, bodies smashed wall to wall, is my idea of a bad time.

However, I thought that going to the Meetup was something good going on, and I was not wrong. The other women thought I was hot. I got very ummm, direct feedback as the night went on. I got numbers, emphasis on the s. I made a connection with one, flabbergasted that she’d worked for both the Methodists and the Presbyterians as an admin assistant and could build a church blind. Intimidated that she’d had twins at 15 and they were now 21. The fact that anyone my age has kids old enough to drink is both amazeballs and terrifying. Another woman was 21, asked to come to the “Women in Their 30s” group by her roommate. I LOVED HER, because she sounded just like BMO from Adventure Time. I showed her a picture of BMO and she giggled. She thought I was hot, too, and I told her I was old enough to be her mother. She giggled and said she liked older women.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.

I met another girl who said she was bisexual and when I said that wasn’t a deal to me, she sighed with actual relief. Lesbians are not known for their open-mindedness in this arena. I am, because to me, this is like saying that only the women I’ve dated matter. My first love was a boy, Ryan, and he made me swoon on a regular basis. It matters.

And then there was K-money, who taught English in Spain and just here for the summer. Former doctor’s wife. Impressed me right away, because obviously.

So many women, so little time.

And then I realized I already had a girlfriend and she was too much to handle- me. I couldn’t in good conscience drag anyone into that. However, I was continually amused at these women trying.

I was, in a sense, fresh meat. I didn’t not like it.

I also figured out why Dupont isn’t called “The Froot Loop” anymore. It’s so expensive that most of the gay bars have lost their leases and it’s not really the gay neighborhood anymore. Things have changed since I was away, and that’s okay. An old queen lawyer for the city explained it all to me while I was waiting for the women to show up, and possibly the best conversation of the evening, except for when the church secretary missed my cheek and kissed my lips goodnight. I don’t know and don’t care whether it was on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why I walked into a door. It’s been known to happen (winking at Argo and Dana because they know that story well).

I am also embarrassed to say that the other reason I didn’t really want to call anyone back is that I still love Argo, and it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t love me. It’s just going to take time, perhaps lots of it. She says it’s over, and it’s better that way. My only comment is, “for whom?” I don’t agree that it’s better this way, but I am willing to deal. I just don’t want to. There’s a huge difference. Your heart doesn’t always dictate love, and perhaps it never does. Lack of attraction on her part doesn’t matter in the slightest. Love does. I am the picture of Lord John Grey, wanting to put away talking about attraction and just love her for who she is, which is a straight girl with hopefully an amazing man that CAN give her what she needs. I’m just icing, and I’m okay with that. Someone else can be my cake (and, tongue in cheek, I can eat it, too). I’m not about to go all John Cusack boombox on her….. again. I took my shot. I lost. So okay, because I didn’t expect her to swoon. I just knew that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t…. that even if she said no, I hadn’t been brave enough to fucking ask. One of my friends supported me in this, as long as I could handle her response. I can.

I am sure she thought it was crazy, especially after not meeting in person. But to me, what did it matter what she looked like? I was in love with her mind, not her body. However, I would be remiss not to say that in the few pictures I’ve seen, the words “worshipful Goddess” are not enough. But I didn’t know that in the beginning. It was all mind, all the time. What I knew was that I could and would want that mind for a lifetime, and still do, but only on her terms, which at the time, was a lifetime of loyalty, and for me, that was enough.

However, she didn’t end the relationship because I, in a sense, “manned up,” and for it, I am eternally grateful. There were other reasons, deeply personal to only us, and I will keep it that way.

And that’s where my mind went as these women were throwing themselves at me. I know that seems egotistical, but let me say for the record that it was kind of scary. I didn’t like it, because I am too Southern and polite to just put it all out there. I thought all the way home, just completely lost in my own reverie. I tried to read on the way home and realized I was looking at the same page over and over. I put my Kindle away and just stared out the window, blood running down my face with nothing but my sleeve to catch it.

I did like the cocktails, though. Perfect, with Dairy Queen style ice. I had an Old Fashioned, my normal drink of choice. The drinks were buy one, get one free. I gave my second drink away, because with the meds I’m on, one is enough. But that one was enough to last me for days.

Dairy Queen ice. Almost worth the scars.

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