R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 13
June 25, 2014
Lump Off
I just had one of those dates where it’s very promising until it begins. The guy was cute and nice, so if that’s all one asks for he’d be the perfect catch. The more we talked the less interested I became.
Like I said, it was great from an appearance stand point. As we talked I noticed the pitch of his voice. My voice is far from deep and manly, but he sounds like he might actually be sitting on a dick. That was a tad annoying – and none too distracting. Then there were his stories, they weren’t terrible, but they weren’t really funny. This made me think it wasn’t worth the effort to pull out my best stories, which I didn’t, causing unnatural lulls in the conversation that were both dull and unpleasant.
He was also late. I give him credit for at least warning me of his lateness, but you shouldn’t be late with a Virgo, because true to form I was thirty minutes early. I was also on my second glass of wine by the time he showed up. To my surprise he only had one glass of wine, which I believe was truly to his displeasure. I selected a place that had a decent wine and beer selection because I knew he preferred beer. I’m not erasing my day at the gym for a beer, but that doesn’t mean you have to fake liking wine to please me. Though it doesn’t hurt – but drink the damn wine.
Where I really knew we were wasting our time was when a gay couple two tables over came into conversation. He said something about them and then my response was to add that one of them, likely the fat and unattractive one, was having an affair. My date became huffy, informing he doesn’t like to think of things that way. Really? You can shove optimism up your who-ha because everyone is out to get everyone else. I’ll probably eat those words one day if I am to date someone, but there’s still a good chance they’ll cheat on me, or me on them.
So, here we are again, home with a buzz and no one to play with.
June 5, 2014
Exercises in Futility
Having a bit of a head cold it would be easy to cancel a date. Instead, I kept my date with Bushwick and met for coffee. As a germaphobe I do my best not to touch or be touched when sick, it’s only polite. So, a mini-date was instantly distant and awkward with touching off the table…just the way I prefer.
Sitting with Bushwick he made a comment about liking to know if he was on the same path as someone at this point. No answer was provided from me. Obviously, I walked away with the idea. We’re not on the same path. He is ready to head down the happy trail of love and probably marriage. I really just want someone to hangout with occasionally and hookup now and then and cause no intrusion upon my life. Why have I not been hanging around Late Night more?
This made me think of the saying: It’s not you, it’s me. I consider this to be a lie others tell you to try and bow out gracefully when they’re bored of dating. I could reverse it and say: It’s not me, it’s you. This still isn’t right. I think it’s just neither of us and both of us. Meaning, I should just go enjoy the company of my friends around a bottle of wine, while Bushwick should keep hunting for the guy that will swoon when he gives him compliments.
We are at the point where I must either end things or it’s going to be an epic disaster that blows up in my face. Bushwick and I could actually downgrade to friends, except for he doesn’t enjoy drinking more than one glass of wine and would never enjoy any of my extracurricular activities. I also think it’s better to end things in person, but that means I’m making Bushwick come all the way into the city with what will appear to be a date. This could come off as being a double douche bag…or I could do it by text. There’s apparently no right way to do this, especially since I get the sense I’m only engaging to observe a date-type-guy in his natural habitat. After all, every experience is research for a new book.
June 3, 2014
It Should be ‘Ese’-y
Where to begin. On another dating adventure, sponsored by the ever-popular OkCupid, I found myself out with a really nice guy. We had three mini-dates, all stifled by my schedule. During these short outings it provided an opportunity to get to know each other.
Now, what you really want to hear, my complaints from the mini-dates. People say things that don’t evolve into a discussion on dates or are even off-the-cuff that mean a lot. For example, Bushwick told me that he plans to leave the city some day. Well, I don’t. That means we couldn’t have a future as we are already heading down different paths. Buswick also wants kids. I’d rather contract herpes. Last, but not least, Bushwick is allergic to cats. I now have a pussy right here in my apartment ready to attack any nose that comes near me.
After this we went on a real date, again it went well, but there was this moment right at the end where things were a little off. I was commenting on the people walking by, mainly being a cunt. Bushwick said, “You’re very interested in people that have nothing to do with us.” The comment was associated with a facial reaction. Perhaps he just wanted my attention but I believe this to be disapproval. Not that it matters, but if you don’t like my comments you’re really screwed.
Then we made plans for another date. Bushwick wanted to come over and hang at my place. Gay Translation: He wanted to stick whatever he had in what I have. I’ve never slept with a black guy so I decided to assume all size rumors to be true and ventured out with the Russian and Larrymore to secure some anal-ese. Let me just say this stuff tastes delicious, I ate a decent amount in the name of testing, but really it only gives a numb tingle for a few minutes. Not enough for black penis insertion. So when Bushwick pulled out a monster penis there wasn’t enough numbing cream in the world to move things along. He literally scared the boner off of me. Be it to say there was no sex, just sleep.
The moment he left the next morning my brain kicked into boy mode. All I wanted him to do was treat me like crap and stop being attentive and sweet. I’m not up for being called “sweetheart” or any other pet name. We are supposed to grab coffee Thursday, but I’m unsure of where this can go…if anywhere.
B knows what I’m talking about.
May 26, 2014
Everybody’s Sober
Continuing my efforts to take the Russian’s advice and not be offish with people. I exchanged numbers with the gym guy and agreed to go out on a date. It’s not like there are a line of guys beating down my door…
He was, as I should have expected, late meeting me at the restaurant for our date. A wine bar around the corner from my apartment. Larrymore had gone on a date recently and told me about the place. It was cute, reminiscent of a Chinese whore-house, but cute nonetheless. Ordering a glass of wine, this is the moment gym guy chose to let me in on his sobriety, for which I am now referring to him as Sober. Not drinking is no longer a societal norm. Not to say we’re all a bunch of drunks but usually it’s the religious and reformed alcoholics that refrain from the delicious poison.
Sober confessed he “didn’t like” drinking. I’m not sold on the answer, as there is probably some embarrassing story he was wise to not share as it would be retold in this forum. We sat, I sipped, he ate and we chatted. A one-sided conversation that had me doing a majority of the work while Sober played grab hands with me under the table. There’s that moment when you realize it’s not so much a date as his effort to hide a booty call with the illusion of a date through the assistance of alcohol. Sadly for Sober, two glasses of wine will not make me drunk, but lucky for him I was willing to play along.
We went back to my place. Usually it would be under the premise of having a nightcap, but knowing he didn’t drink it was clear what was to come. So of course, it was lights out and pants off. What other surprise could be in store for the evening? How about a giant penis. Yes, the skinny white boy was backing black guy junk. There was no warning though his cockiness is now understandable.
Some gay guys are size-queens…I’m not one of them. One look at that thing and it wasn’t happening. There is literally no human sized hole it could have fit in without some intense yoga stretching and a gallon of Analeeze. Sober was left to finish himself off as I redressed and finished my waiting glass of wine. A let down for us both.
I do believe Sober thinks I’m playing hard to get as he now texts me filthy things on the daily and invites me over. For fear of being torn in half I decline or come up with clever reasons why I’m unable to ‘hop on.’ I’m glad in having taken the Russian’s advice and talked to the guy, but I will say it’s odd at the gym now when he texts me from ten feet away with sexually suggestive comments.
To be continued…
And of course, happy birthday Stevie!
May 18, 2014
Friday Night A.K.A. Pre-Hangover…
Friday Night A.K.A. Pre-Hangover…
Half the time I spend out and about playing with friends I’m fishing for good stories to share. Now and then the story falls into my lap, and even more rare it happens multiple times during the weekend.
Friday kicked things off with a secret Lily Allen concert I’d won tickets to attend. Very exciting as I never win anything and this is the best prize one could hope for. Lily Allen is sort of amazing. The Russian and I showed up as the doors opened, getting in line for a drink only to discover the bar was cash only. A tragic discovery that sent us looking for an ATM. Walking down seven flights of stairs I made a joke about the ATM being out of order. In a cosmic twist it actually was dead. The Russian had enough money on hand to buy one beer which we split, turning out to be a good things as you were not allowed to drink anywhere near the stage. #Boo.
As our evening progressed and we became drenched from the vicious storm that rolled in, we met up with the Animator. This was a joyous moment, just like in the book [Shameless plug...Order RmC Book 2!], he’s been long gone for too much time. We ended up at my house for a drink before heading to Evolve. Having tried to go to this bar once before it didn’t work out and I’ve yet to go inside. So this time when we arrived and the bouncer informed us it was a trans party I asked what exactly that meant. In his words, “A party for transgender people and their admirers.” This is the only nearby gay bar, we were going in no matter what. I was unaware how many men have a thing for transgender people. As I waited for the ATM, which worked, to give me cash a transgender guy or girl, I’m vague on the genital details, walked by and with force grabbed a handful of everything I’ve got. I let it happen because really what can you do in this situation.
Let’s jump ahead to Saturday night. After my trans-grab I figured all was well and the weekend would mellow. Wrong. At Boiler Room I was waiting in line for the restroom when a guy walks up and begins stroking the back of my head. Not really wanting strangers to touch me in general, I tried to move away from the tall drunk. He had about a foot of height and two hundred pounds on me, if he were to fall I would surely break something. Then he leans in and I kid not, asks, “Do you need someone to fuck your hole?”
I almost always have a comeback for everything but he had me. Before I could think up something he began questioning, “Do you have a smooth hole or..” That was enough for me, I was going into the restroom even if the toilets were all occupied. What the hell was going on with people this weekend?!
But it did escalate as my favorite, always happy, Boiler Room bartender freaked the fuck out on some guy. Screaming at the top of his lungs he threw the guy out, shoving him all the way across the bar. Who knows what it was about, but it made for entertainment. Well, that and then the six Asian guys that came in right after dressed as Pokemon.
I may actually be ready for Monday, this weekend has been nothing short of work.
May 15, 2014
Brittle
The persona of myself I’ve created in book pages is something I enjoy. So much so that it can be difficult to tell what is me and what is the character of my creation.
This has come to light more so in the last week with Mother’s Day arriving. A few friend’s reached out to ask if I was okay. I was. I am. My day was fine, I planted peas. My mom liked gardening, she usually had peas. So, these fire escape peas are for her.
My nephew said it best. “We’re all surprised you’re doing so well.” This is and is not a shock. I pride myself on being a strong person. Over the past decade I have played all sorts of mental gymnastics with myself in an effort to block certain feelings that I don’t want to experience. I’ve tried to break family cycles of emotion that I view as weak and wish desperately to avoid. Going so far as to distance myself and breaking down relationships that threaten my constructions. I’ve become so good at deconstructing that, as I said, I no longer really know if this is my behavior or if it’s the character I write in stories. Am I as strong as people tell me I am, or am I writing the story I want to remember?
When I’m alone it’s different. I’m not sad. Maybe a bit vacant, but not sad. I’ve been dreaming about her [Mom], it’s been enjoyable as it’s as close to creating new memories as we’ll ever come; even if it is just an illusion created by my overactive imagination. On the days the rain comes down warm I stop on the sidewalk and let it fall. People stare, it’s odd to stop and hold still, but it’s a sense I can’t describe and something almost outside yourself. Then there are the cool nights I walk up to the roof with a drink in hand. Standing, sometimes laying, on the edge of the building. Watching life move all around, six floors down. Nothing stopped and there’s no changing anything.
I’m fine, or the part of me repeating the words is fine. Perhaps it’s all still in process, but how envious I am of my siblings and their lack of responsibility in this situation and ability to wrap themselves in grief and implode.
May 7, 2014
Bitch Face
Urban Dictionary Defines Bitch Face: Any person whose face makes them seem like they’re a bitch.
In a recent chat with the Russian he asked why I made bitch face at the stranger from the gym. My answer, “Reflex.” Though this is a facial reflex it’s not really doing me any favors. So today I tried something a little different.
Ending up at the gym about two hours later than normal today I was surprise to see the guy, perhaps other people aren’t as habitual about an exact time they like to workout. We played the same game, he smiled each time he caught my eye, but this time instead of looking away or glaring back, I gave a slight smile. Sounds simple, but it takes intense thought to not auto throw bitch face at strangers. At the end of my workout gym guy happened to be near the exit as I passed. Typically this means nothing, I walk by without acknowledging and get back to work. Taking what I think would be the Russian’s advice, I stopped, said hello and talked to him for a moment.
Stepping back a bit, let me share something about the Russian. We go out with regular frequency and one thing I notice and even admire is his ability to walk up to someone and start a conversation. Confidence is impressive and it does take a certain amount to approach a stranger, especially in the city where you are likely to be rejected because the person is in fact a bitch.
This is unusual behavior for me, at least the engaging with strangers part. I look at it as a way to stir up a new storyline at the very least, knowing I have a new book to complete, and who knows maybe a decent date will come out of the whole bit. [Optimism makes me shudder.]
May 5, 2014
Ways to Die Alone
Walls and defense mechanism are some of my favorite things, right up there with friends and wine. There are few places that I don’t worry too much about being defensive because it’s not usually necessary. One such place is the gym, until now.
I’m sharing this before I forget. About a week back a guy was giving me the head nods and smiles, I assumed he was cruising for a blowjob in the locker room so I ignored him and went about my workout. Having not run into him since, he faded from my mind. Today, wouldn’t you know, he appears at the gym again…come to think of it the last time I saw him was also on a Monday. Note: Go to the gym one hour later on Monday.
Heading for the stairs to finish off the day’s cardio, we came face to face and I could tell his lips were forming the words, “How are you?” My earbuds do an excellent job of blocking out most sounds, except the annoying grunty man. Being a bitch is one thing, but I have proper manners, I stopped, paused the music and responded. Then he dropped a line on me, “Your workout looks intense, but it’s working.” This was accompanied by a full body glance. Usually I would have a smart remark to comeback with, but not being in the defense zone I was caught off guard. Party grossed out by the line, and also partly flattered because when you’re dripping with sweat, red in the face and out of breath it’s not the best of all looks.
At that point he seemed to be fishing towards that point where a phone number may be asked for. Being enough in my right mind to sense that I excused myself quickly and made to a section of treadmills that ensured I wasn’t alone and would discourage further conversation.
There was a brief moment at the very end of my workout where we were also alone, but I was contorted into a stretch and when he began talking I smiled and gave a head nod. I’m not exactly sure the message it conveyed, mainly I was hoping for, “Please go away,” which is what happened so that worked out.
This kind of makes me laugh because it’s not that often people approach others…aside from in social apps which are not exactly real life. Of course, this even more rare as guys are usually not too quick to approach me, mainly because I try to have bitch face at all times. So as I do my best to not play in the gym dating pool it’s one more way to ensure I creep towards that ever dreaded permanent alone.
May 3, 2014
Gym People…If so they can be called
Gym People…If so they can be called
There are many posts I see floating around based on people in the bar and the nightmares you’re going to encounter; single or not. I’d like to see an infographic based on the gym douche bags we’re all faced with at any and all gym points of contact. This may be exaggerated in New York compared to some places, but it is New York after all. Here are some of my [least] favorite gym people:
Grunty the Gorilla
Almost always a roided out guy who weighs about 300 pounds. His head looks a bit small on his shoulders, mainly because his neck is sinking into mounds of chemically produced muscle. When you see, or more likely hear this person, he’s doing some basic exercise, such as a crunch. He will be lifting a little bit or no weight at all, but with each movement when a normal person exhales he lets out a grunt. Comparable to someone who is in an unfortunate situation on the toilet or a really excited person in bed. It’s distracting, annoying and kind of disgusting. But Mr. Grunty will keep his grunts up, getting louder when no one looks his way. Remember, for him it’s like a zoo, he’s the gorilla and if we don’t stare at him he’s likely to fling pooh your way. Metaphorically speaking in most cases.
Blazing Bottom
The gays have pretty much taken control of gyms, at least in New York, maybe the straights still hold their ground in the Midwest. Not that it matters, but there is always one extra-gay, gay at the gym. Usually bone thin, fresh our of a tanning-waxing session and ready to not sweat. He may be walking on the treadmill, hanging around a bench press or on the mat doing downward facing bottom stretches. This one can quickly be spotted because of the strut. It take self-control to not laugh, hips moving from side to side with such veracity and conviction you must move if only to ensure a hip bone doesn’t shank you.
Hungry Muffin
Girls are at a disadvantage in the gym. Most the guys there come in an array of shapes from skinny to meat head. Most of the girls are one or the other: Super fit or super not. And not that anyone should feel shame [well some shame should be felt], but there is a certain point at which spandex clothing, even at the gym may not be the most suitable choice. Think about the thigh-master looking machine. When everything on you is skin tight, but the skin inside is really in need of stretch two sizes larger, we can see every nook and cranny. Every one of them. There are also mirrors all around making sure the reflection of your hungry camel junk is evident. No one will say anything, averting their eyes, a few straight guys gawking and you blissfully unaware of your accidental display of lip service.
Glaring Daddy
I can’t say if this happens to girls with older straight men at the gym but I’d assume so. There always seems to be at least one older guy, sometimes attractive and sometimes very much the opposite, that will glare at you. He has no shame, having lived long enough to not give a shit and just directly go after his prey with dagger eyes. You’ll feel uncomfortable and avoid his eyes at all costs, suddenly trying to display how committed to the treadmill you are if only to avoid that moment of eye contact where you know in his head you’re bent over a steam room bench getting plowed.
These are just a few of the many interesting and obnoxious people that make up my gym. I’m sure everyone has their own.
April 26, 2014
Dust in the Wind
As my mother’s birthday drew closer anxiety set in. I wasn’t sure how I’d react to be honest. Things have been as normal as ever, in a sense it’s almost like nothing ever happened.
When the day finally arrived I woke in an obnoxiously good mood. So good, if I were a stranger on the street I’d feel inclined to punch someone this happy in the face. Rather than fight this unusual happiness it was easier and more desirable to let it happen.
The plan was to meet a few friends and head down to the Brooklyn Bridge after everyone finished work. When my mom originally passed away I did as she asked and poured a majority of her ashes over her father’s grave in Monroe, Utah. That was what she wanted, and today was about what I wanted. Spreading the ashes at the base of the BK bridge would make it possible for her to always be nearby, in a place she loved and in the perfect spot for an eternal view of the Manhattan skyline.
I’ve had the remaining ashes with me the past seven weeks, keeping them in a safe place that could not be accidentally disturbed by prying cat paws. Just before six in the evening my friends and I gathered at the Brooklyn Bridge Park / Empire Fulton Ferry. Unable to find a flask and not wanting to carry eight beers around and potentially get busted for open containers, I brought Bud Light Straw-brrr-ittas. These little cans are tasty, strong and just the right size to drink quickly.
Around a newly planted tree I spread the ashes, pouring a drink over them [she would absolutely want to be included in the toast]. Saying a few words in my head, we toasted, drank and that was the end. The end of the sad portion that is to say. It was important to properly celebrate so we made our way to my mom’s favorite of city bars, The Fat Black Pussycat.
In her honor, we had a good time, me taking it a bit too far by staying out all night, enjoying thirty minutes of sleep and then rolling into my next hungover work day. But I can for sure say that my mom was provided a proper goodbye and would have been proud of the ridiculous drunken antics on her behalf.
As she said on behalf of all and any of her friends that passed away. “God’s speed my friend.”
Rent (minus) Control
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