a new trick

Some things that have happened to me this year, and my responses, none of which would have been my responses a few years ago:

- A man with whom I have exchanged maybe half an hour of conversation, ever, reached over at a bar one evening and casually smacked my ass.  "You have such a badonkadonk," he informed me.

I said, "I do, but you know, that's really not an invitation to touch it.  Do not do that again.  Excuse me."  And I left.

- A man who I was seeing turned all flaky, like they do when they're about to disappear.  The text messages continued apace, but the actual dates were suddenly in short supply.

I said, "Okay, okay, enough.  I've reached my limit on ambiguous texting.  I can't tell if you're trying to date me, or just hook up with me, or what.  I'm going to need you to clarify what's going on here."  Thus pressed, he said he thought we should stop seeing each other.  And without much angst at all, I wished him godspeed.

- A man who I was dating seriously was not moving to New York when I was.  He said, "I've thought about the possibility of doing long-distance, but I know how little either of us will be able to travel, and I've watched so many friends get badly hurt that way.  I don't think it's a good idea."

I said, "I know.  I've had all the same thoughts.  I agree."  And we cried, and kissed each other goodbye, and parted the way I've always hoped that grownup people do.

Maybe it's a newfound directness; maybe it's only a symptom of self-assurance.  In any case, of all the unlooked-for gifts that my late 20s have brought me so far, this one might be the best.

niche

We're getting ready for bed, and I have my back to the room, pulling the curtains closed.

From behind me, a voice: "Your butt in pajamas might be my favorite thing ever."

I snerk, turning around. From the waist down, I am built along Kardashian lines, in that inescapable genetic way that no diet or exercise will ever change. "I'm glad you think so," I tell him, "because my butt caters to a niche market."

He throws up his hands and announces happily, "I am your niche!"
    

Sometimes it's just that simple, you know?

candor

An email I received from Charles today, in its entirety:

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The Joshua Bell article is brilliant. (Way too long but brilliant!)

How are you?

I want to make out more.

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Me too, frankly.

vices

"What are your vices? The things you wouldn't want to tell someone on a second date," he asks.

We're at a very nice restaurant in Brentwood, jazzy and loud on a Friday night. The table between us is small and crowded with crab cakes, steak, a really good bottle of red wine. It's unclear how much my mood has been affected by the heavily poured gin and tonic I just finished, but I'm enjoying myself.

I chew, think about it. "Inertia," I tell him.  "That's my big vice." It's an honest answer. It's why I'm still in Los Angeles at all to have this dinner with him.

But he pulls a face, dismissively. In a minute I'll understand that he was hoping for something a little edgier out of me. "What about you?" I ask.

He smokes, he says. Cigarettes, plus weed a couple of times a week. And he likes to gamble. Regularly, at the casinos. In case any of that is a dealbreaker, he wants me to know up front. Then he stares at me and waits.

The truth is that any one of those three is a dealbreaker. I tell him this. But I can't remember the last time someone was so frank with me, not on a second date, and I'm impressed. I tell him that too. There's a brief minute of awkwardness, both of us considering the wall we've hit. And then (is it just the wine?) the conversation sweeps on with a life of its own. We've written ourselves this policy of suicidal honesty. Now we can say anything we want, pick up any subject, and we do.

Later that night, we end up at a dive bar somewhere in the Valley, listening to a cover band play surprisingly great rock and roll. We drink beer and shout the lyrics to Jet's Are You Gonna Be My Girl at each other, my hand keeping rhythm on his knee. With my big black boots and long brown hair, they might be singing about me.

Later yet, still fully committed to honesty, I say, "I want you to kiss me goodnight."  He lights up like a Christmas tree.

I drive home wondering if I'll see him again. He's already told me that he likes me, wants to see me, but he's leaving the decision up to me. And right now, on this drizzly February night, all I can think about is how attractive it is when someone tells you the truth.