R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 11
October 19, 2014
Give Me a Sign
There are two approaches, in my mind, when it comes to dating. You can put on a show of your best self, concealing the flaws and mess, or you can put everything out there and hope it doesn’t blow up in your face. With Scruffy, I’m taking the latter approach.
Over the past few weeks I’ve just let the words fall out of my mouth; all of the words. No topics have been off limits. This may sound like no real shock or revelation, as my entire web bubble of writing is composed of letting my fingers give all the details of private life to the public. But in most cases of dating, the effort is put behind the illusion of how I want to be viewed. I’m officially unsure if my new approach is better than the old.
Scruffy brought up some concerns over things I’d shared in recent weeks. The biggest being the view of myself as cold. Understandably, this is not a desirable quality in another person if you wish to pursue a relationship. Doing my best to try and explain, it’s not that I’m completely cutoff from emotion or dead to the world. If anything, I’m probably the opposite. I enjoy investing the time and energy into friends and those relationships. The portion of me that would be classified as cold is the side that must interact with the world. I don’t want to talk to the stranger who engages while in line for coffee. There’s no interest in knowing the details of my coworkers lives. And so on in this fashion.
But the bigger problem is not my words and the intent behind them. The bigger problem is the sex, or lack of sex. Having glorified and demonized many of my sexual encounters in writing, I haven’t put an emphasis on when and where there’s a lack of sex. After all, sex sells and celibacy bores. If my lazy libido can’t get on board, and the sex remains infrequent or even absent, what’s to keep Scruffy interested?
While I’m obsessing over this topic, I out of the blue heard from Late Night. If Scruffy is interested in me and would like to add sex, Late Night would be the version that’s interested in sex and would prefer to extract the me. As if this wasn’t plainly obvious, the Universe decided to quite literally smack me in the face to ensure the message was received. Walking home from Larrymore’s birthday/Halloween party last night, I stepped on one of the doors in the sidewalk that lead to the basement of a store. Usually sturdy, this door gave way, too much. Intoxicated with my foot falling well below street level, I fell. Falling in spectacular form, face met concrete full force. A stranger was kind enough to pick me up and grab my glasses which had flown from face to gutter. Mortified, and dripping blood I scuttled off to the train where I was the main attraction as people glared. Making the mistake of touching my face to check the damage, my hand gleamed red as warm crimson gushed from brow to lip. Luckily, I live close enough that the show was short.
I still have no way to answer the question of why my sex drive will not behave when I’m very much interested in the person. But while I try and figure things out, I have the war wounds to remind me the Universe is always lurking behind a corner just waiting to slap some sense into me. And if the slap doesn’t get in, the onlookers will.
October 13, 2014
Boroughs of the Dead
October means my favorite or holidays is here, Halloween! Getting into the spirit of tricks and treats, penis jokes aside, I sought out a ghost tour. A handful of tours exist that feature different ghostly aspects, but Boroughs of the Dead offers walking tour which intrigue me, Forgotten Dark Histories of Lower Manhattan.
The title had me hooked. I love history. I love ghosts. Most of all, I really love the Financial District. Arriving promptly for the tour, our guide greeted and kicked things off. What’s better than a ghost tour? How about a ghost tour led by someone who is a charismatic writer interested in the history of the city and the stories? Yes, please.
The tour provided a healthy dose of history; I had no idea many of the stories are a part of New York’s beginnings. From colonial days through the revolution and beyond, murder, pirates and spirits run amok. If that doesn’t entice you, maybe this will. Are you aware most New York City parks have dead bodies under them? It’s true, in fact, they’re accidentally dug up during construction all the time. Speaking of true, all of the ghost stories told are based on real people and events. It depends on your belief in ghosts and the supernatural, but the stories are true…maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of a ghost yourself.
The tour was amazing, and though I didn’t feel true terror, I did leave with some dark thoughts that crept into my dreams. So much so, my ghostly dreams woke me from a dead sleep in a panic. Making the tour even more memorable – it’s good to be scared.
October 10, 2014
You Can’t Walk There
May I star off by asking if everyone is aware Central Park has a curfew? Having walked through it many, many times late at night to get home from the West Side, I am apparently oblivious to this 1 am rule.
Scruffy and I had just finished a show at Birdland featuring Coco Peru. The show was highly entertaining and our waitress was amazing. Anyone who refills your wine glass the moment it’s empty is my best friend. We walked Scruffy’s friend to the train near Columbus Circle and I suggested we walk through the park back to my apartment. It’s one of the last nice nights we’re going to have before winter arrives and I wanted to take advantage.
We were probably one-hundred or so yards into the park when a car rolls up on us. Mind you we are on the walking path which isn’t really wide enough for cars. We see it’s a cop car and pay no mind, beginning to walk past. The driver rolls down his window asking, “What are you doing?” Stating the obvious, I replied, “Walking home.” What else would we be doing in the park at this hour? I promise it’s not going to be drugs or sex. Those activities are exclusively reserved for beds, bars and bathrooms.
The officer then asks if we can read the sign regarding curfew. I despise someone talking down to me, officer or not, you don’t need to be a jerk. Stating that we didn’t know there was a curfew, my mouth started running away. 59th Street was just twenty or so feet away, I offered to walk to it now. The officer asked if I wanted to spend a night in jail. Thank the lord Scruffy told me to stop, a few times.
The officer then made us stand in his headlights for the twenty minutes it took he and his partner to run our licenses and write us both $50 Summonses. This got me going again. Are you freaking kidding? A ticket for walking in the park? Ticket me for the actual bad things I do in life. The officer being the ass he was made us walk the long way out of the park instead of allowing us to use the exit just ahead. For this reason I am convinced he was just being a jerk to be a jerk. If he truly is enforcing a curfew, does it not make sense to have us exit the park in the quickest manner? Yes. However, when you need to exact power and feel like you’re in control you do petty things.
I fully plan to appear in court – I’m not paying for a walk in the park. The worst part is this ruined a great night, probably more for Scruffy than I. Once you wind me up I’ll bitch and moan without rest. And only one person was around to hear my complaints.
The lesson here: Don’t walk the parks at night. The city is spending our tax dollars to punish people breaking curfew instead of worrying about drug dealers and murderers. I enjoy our priorities.
September 17, 2014
Parlez-vous Francais?
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Paris is quickly becoming my second favorite city. Drenched in culture, people with just the right amount of wrong attitude and crepes on every corner…this is nothing short of amazing.
Four friends and I are celebrating my birthday, or birth week I should say, by discovering Paris together. We decided to rent a flat and get a full-blown, local experience instead of the commercial experience provided by a hotel. The flat is amazing in its own right. Something out of the 1800’s, the walls and ceiling are as intricately decorated as the rooms themselves: Chandeliers, marble fire places, floor length mirrors in every room. Pleased is an understatement for our joint feelings on the place.
Then of course, you have the city itself, Paris. Being a huge history nerd, it’s jolting and incredible to see firsthand the sites which populate our textbooks and remind us so many people, wars, scandals and more. Napoleon’s tomb, the Eiffel Tower, the individual buildings, it’s all incredible from top to bottom. Something we all picked up on was the lack of tall buildings. In New York, everything is always pushing up, to a point where we are comfortable with the massive stone and metal walls around us. Here, the Sun is rushing over rooftops, visible at times other than noon. Trees line every street, sidewalks are massive, and the people are in no rush whatsoever. Paris is the polar opposite of NYC. My NY love will never fade, but if there’s a place to take a break, this is the one.
We’re only on day three, but time is slipping by too fast. With so many things left to see, it’s inevitable I’ll need to return at some point soon. Before I sign off, the two most unusual or interesting things to happen thus far. 1) Man on the plane faints three hours in and has no idea why. I blame the medication he was taking and the free wine he was guzzling. 2) Our bike tour guide was side swiped by a car. Damn, I wish I knew what those French curse words were.
September 13, 2014
Bad Behavior
Everyone has dating behavior. Girls flip their hair, wear push-up bras and paint their faces, while guys shave their backs and balls…or something like that. My dating behavior is more along the lines of trickery. While out on a first date and being asked about myself, I answer, but I answer in a way that ensures I feed you a particular version of who I want you to know. Generally, this is geared toward ensuring a good story comes from the encounter.
I tell you this as a lead into the actual story. A few weeks back I had a first date with Scruffy. No, he’s not a forty-something trucker, but with this nickname it could easily be true. While on this first date we chatted and I made my little jokes, but Scruffy actually seemed to get the jokes – and laughed. Anyone who gets my dirty humor is a keeper. I’d also gone into the date with the intent of not doing the usual game that always ends the same way. Badly.
Flash forward to last night, Scruffy and I were having a drink while we prepared to meet my friends. Yes, he met the friends. Which is even more rare than a good date. None of my current friends, aside from the Animator, have ever met someone I’ve been dating. I mean, they met Late Night, but we were never dating. Back to the point, while having said drink, Business walked up. He happened to be at the bar too.
Stepping aside he asked if this was the guy I was “sorta dating.” I said yes, to which Business inquired to the number of dates had. Five. This was the fifth date. “Who are you?!” Business asked jokingly. But I’m just as surprised. It’s rare I have an interest lasting past the first or second date. Also a reason I’ve been trying to move slowly. If we go at gay speed we’ll have a marriage and divorce by next week. No thanks. It may be that we’ve made it to date five because I’ve not followed my usual, and always exciting pattern of bad habits.
Let’s stay tuned and see how this plays out.
September 7, 2014
Some People Deserve Your Hate
We’ve all had the moment where you meet someone and really hit it off, becoming instant friends. Sometimes this is as short lived as a night out at the bar together when friends ditch you for someone they’re looking to bed. And there’s the life-long version where you end up sharing a death bed. The exact opposite also exists. Sometimes you meet someone and you can’t stand them. Not necessarily hate for the person, but a distaste so strong you think of jabbing sharp objects into their eye.
The Russian hosted an end of summer barbecue, bringing together the usual gays with one new addition. Phil, an old friend of the Russian’s, but a new person to Larrymore and I. Once the newcomer arrived to the party, our little group was already one or two bottles of wine in and having a pleasant time on the Russian’s patio.
As the conversation progressed I realized the newcomer was a bit of an exaggerater, or at least trying to impress us all to some degree. He works, and has worked, for multiple gay dating/hook-up sites/applications. It was as this conversation was coming to a close that he called me unattractive and Larrymore old. Aside from just being an ass, he’s the gay version of the straight guy, who goes to a bar, finds a hot girl and tells her he think she’s fat. All in an effort to lower her self-esteem and screw her before literally moving onto the next victim. Sadly, the tactic is lost on us as no one at the table is interested in daddies, nor bears.
As I listened to the lips flapping on this non-gentleman I realized his stories didn’t add up. For example, after making the old comment he mentioned graduating college in 1991. Previously he shared his age, which must be false, unless he graduated from college around age thirteen. But, who’s paying attention to such silly details.
The real nail in the coffin for me was when he called me a liar. Asking about my Brooklyn Bridge tattoo earlier in the evening, I jokingly teased I was planning to jump from it one day, end of story. Later, he brought it up and asked for the story as to why I would put it on my flesh. Partly going for the shock, and really wanting to shut him up, I told him the why. The bridge is there to remember my mom. She killed herself. It’s a living memorial. This is where the liar portion came in – telling me it can’t be true as people don’t speak candidly of such situations. So I elaborated, something to the effect of lips wrapping around the barrel of a gun. Even suggesting he corroborate my tale with any of the individuals sitting beside me. Be it to say, the subject died there. But honestly, what a jerk.
The barbecue was a great way to end summer, even with it being the hottest day of the year, but I hope the new company won’t be frequenting future events.
August 17, 2014
You’re Too Cold
Now and then [mind you this is incredibly rare], you will meet a person who is just like you. They will have the same sense of humor and opinions, you’ll go on a date and possibly even label yourself as smitten. You’ll have a great night together and look forward to the second date. The second date arrives, you’ll do your best to ignore the pessimistic thoughts in your head saying this is all going to go wrong. You’ll enjoy a few drinks and hours of conversation.
That’s exactly how this weekend went for me. That was until the last hour of the second date when the topic of sex became our focus. When my date, whom I was very much interested in, made a point to tell me how important sex is to him, I thought it necessary to share that I disagree.
My opinion: Sex is a decisive act. When you want someone, or just have the urge to cum, you engage with another human to achieve climax. Emotion is not a part of sex, as it causes confusion and complication that only leads to problems.
When I shared this my date instantly looked disappointed, which I did apologize for as this was not my intention, but it was something I wanted to be clear and up front about because I know how some people value sex and a relationship.
Seeing as we reached a position where there is no compromise and I clearly shared I was not going to promise I would change as that would be a lie, I suggested we go the friend route. This offended my date even more and today, a day after the incident, I’ve received hours of what I consider to be text message lecturing. Sharing feelings, telling me I’ve given up and on multiple occasions saying this was all a ploy to gain writing material. Yes, I’ve dated for writing, but this was one of those rare times when the guy was actually interesting and I was putting in effort.
This concluded moments ago when he told me how truly cold I am and that I should seek therapy. I didn’t argue nor reply to the comments. He is entitled to his opinion. And I’m entitled to mine. I find people who need a therapist weak. They don’t know themselves enough to know what they want, how they feel and what’s acceptable. Nothing about my behavior over the last twenty-four hours was inappropriate. I was clear, direct and honest. No matter how often people say these are things they want it’s not close to what anyone really wants.
I’m getting all the blame for this misfire dating experience, and that’s not a big deal. But for the first time it’s actually not my fault, it’s nobody’s fault, but I’m clearly seeing that there must always be blame. I also have a bigger appreciation for the Late Nights of the world who are clear that they don’t want to date you and it’s only sex. It certainly doesn’t seem so terrible.
August 16, 2014
You’re Kinda Filthy
Ride the subway, log onto Facebook, or open your eyes in New York City and you’re bound to be attacked with a Handybook advertisement. A company offering many services, one of which is house cleaning.
People coming into my apartment, my personal space, is one thing. Friends and family are welcome, but strangers make chills ripple up my spine. A tad compulsive and incredibly controlling, the idea of someone being alone in the apartment, touching every and anything drives me mad. Add to this, I like a clean apartment, but feel that I can never get certain things, such as the kitchen and bathroom, clean enough. Ignoring the voice in my head who consistently worries about all and anything, I booked the appointment and stressed each day until it was time.
The pro arrived at the scheduled time, cleaning tools in hand and ready to get down to business. I asked if she needed anything from me before leaving her to it and heading out for a happy hour rendezvous. Two and a half hours later I received a text message to confirm everything was set and the pro was done.
Arriving home later in the evening it was a pleasant surprise to find stains off the stove and a spotless tub. Two things that consistently give me issues when trying to scrub. Of course, things were moved around on places like my desk, but nothing a normal person would notice. What my pro didn’t know is I actually set a few dirt traps around the apartment to see the depth of service. All but one of my traps was clean and I can’t blame her for missing the one. It’s high up in an obscure spot no one in their right mind would clean.
I’ll keep my appointment for two weeks from now, though I may downgrade to a month or bi-monthly cleaning as I really just like the added shine brought on by the pro.
August 10, 2014
7 Things That Happen After the First Date
7 Things That Happen After the First Date
1. You wait the obligatory 24 hours to say, ‘Hi.’ Then go insane wondering why they aren’t replying.
2. Your date eventually replies, but leaves a four hour gap between every text to truly drive you fucking insane.
3. Two days post date and you’re analyzing your entire existence. You were obviously wrong about how well the date went.
4. You begin anger drinking with friends and examining what a piece of shit your date really is/was.
5. You finally hear from your date who has a lame excuse for why he/she didn’t answer you on the phone that is always in his/her pocket.
6. You forget everything that has happened and eagerly wait for the next text.
7. The cycle begins again and you find yourself on OkCupid hoping your last date has been hit by a taxi and dumped in the East River.
August 7, 2014
Robotic Love
I can be a bit compulsive. Everything has a place, look and feel. So, when I inherited a cat it was the fur that began to be a problem. Enter: Mint Auto Sweeper.
Let me explain. I usually sweep the apartment once or twice a week. The space isn’t enormous, but the cat hair quickly accumulates and appears as tufts rolling randomly across the floor. Aside from making me insane – it’s gross. When a Groupon deal presented an amazing price for the robo sweeper it seemed like the time to give it a whirl.
This is where my compulsive nature has taken on a life of its own. Let me just say: I can’t live without Robbie. Yes, I named the sweeper. He’s amazing. Aside from navigating areas I can’t get to with a broom, such as under the bed, he can do it as often as I like. Twice a day he maneuvers the apartment, picking up cat hair and dust. I’ve even gone so far as to use the mopping feature. #FilthBeGone!
I was jokingly called lazy by a friend on Facebook for buying Robbie, but once you go robo there’s no going back. I want an entire army of these little guys cleaning nonstop. Now I just need to get the accessories for him and we’ll be all set.
Instead of growing into the old ‘crazy cat lady’ I’ll become the ‘crazy robo lover.’
P.S. I want to recreate this amazing video:
Rent (minus) Control
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