February 7th, 2005

love innocent, viðrar vel til loftárása [mine], viðrar vel til loftárása

TMI, perhaps... but what part?

I don't know why, but I decided to pass on a Super Bowl party up in the hills. Normally I go, and have a good time. I just wasn't in the mood. I had to wait for the plumber and the manager to fix our clogged sink anyway. Besides, there was another party just two doors down that I would end up not going to as well.

A little time passed, bored (and horny), I chatted up a guy I've chatted with before. Cut to the chase, I went to meet him. I had to park way down the street from his house, so I put on my flashers and met him half way to get the pass. ::sigh of relief:: the pics were him; they were recent; he's cute. We've chatted before, and I know he's not necessarily just into hooking up. He seemed to have a similar attitude I have: not looking for anything in particular; hook ups are fun, but open to consider whatever (if the chemistry is there).

He had a job, a nice pad, cute. One of his pics was of him volunteering for AIDS ride, so he has a social conscience. I feel some chemistry. He definitely seems into me, and likewise, I into him, so I think, "Hmm, I might actually want to save this guy's name in my cell phone instead of pretending to." I could imagine hanging out with him more than once. Could he be dating material?

We have a hot time.


We're done. After a quick shower, and rather suddenly, forget those thoughts before—they're out the window. I can't even fathom where they came from... all I want to do is find the various pieces of my clothing that were flung about the room, pick up some Koo Koo Roo, and go home and watch DS9 by myself. He's still polite, and I'm still polite, but he's as ready to go about the rest of his evening as much as I am, and neither of those plans includes the other.

He drives me to my car; we kiss, say what an amazing time we had, and verify we have each other's number. Who knows if we'll actually talk again, but you almost wonder if women are right about guys: is there something biological that causes us to stop caring the moment we get off. Women joke men want to go to sleep right after. Well, I really wanted dinner and DS9. Not sure if those two things are analogous in some weird way, but what all this makes me realize is that... it's not so much that I'm afraid I'll never find Mr. Right, but that I might actually not want to find him.

I don't know the answer. I'm pretty sure it's not what I want, but clearly there's a part of me somewhere in my subconscious that considers it. The Ambien has hold, so I'm not even sure I'm making sense any more, but... ah fuck it. I'm going to stop typing before I begin imagining the laptop doing weird things, and I start writing a grip of nonsequiturs (assuming I haven't already). ...just thinking out loud.
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