Somewhere God is Laughing


Or at least chuckling loudly.

Ever been in a room where you realize that you have, slept with two of the men in the same room, and oh, yes, so has someone else there, and you’ve made out with another, and oh, it gets better, you’ve asked two other men, in the same fucking room, out on dates.

All I needed was my ex boyfriend to walk in the door.

I knew.

I mean knew.

I was in some fit spiritual place when I laughed to myself.

I did not laugh out loud, but I smiled pretty hard.

It was funny.

It is funny.

Sometimes the world is a very small place.

Now, don’t get me confused with some sort of crazy woman, all these interactions happened at very different times and points of my life and sexual/relationship time line.

One of the guys I made out with?

It was five years ago and I’m friends with him and his wife, so like, no biggie.

The other guy, I, yes, hooked up with at Burning Man.

Come on.

It’s Burning Man.

One was a lover from before I went to Paris.

The other two were in more recent history, one guy I asked out about a year ago, and I have to say, he’s given me the best turn down I have ever gotten.

“I’m so flattered, thank you, but no.”

Quiet, sweet, firm.

We’re friends and run in the same circles.

And he’s got a girlfriend now.

The other guy, I asked out as one of the guys on my list of ten.

I was like.

REALLY?

This has never happened to me before and of in all places, the Inner Sunset?

Ha!

Then I got home and the guy who asked me out to a dessert date, even though I said I don’t eat sugar, happy to have tea with you, freaked out that I don’t eat sugar, and cancelled our date.

Whatever.

It’s all so laughable at this point.

Ah, dating.

And you know, its San Francisco, so yeah, of course there’s overlap, it’s a small world out there.

Also, I do have a community and fellowship that I prefer to date within.

They are the type of men I want to be in a relationship with, so it doesn’t strike me as so strange that a confluence of them were all in the same space.

I’m not sure what God is trying to tell me, but it’s fucking funny.

Even I can see that.

I don’t feel a bit weird about it, that’s the nice thing, I can take it all with a grain of salt and say to myself, “well, self, who’s next?”

I mean.

I’m not going to stop dating or trying to date.

Where’s the fun in that?

I believe that being light-hearted about it all is helpful, being silly can’t hurt either, not taking it so seriously, as I am wont to do with many things in my life, being easy and going with the flow and seeing what happens next.

It’s all a part of the story and the journey and life, dating, is messy.

Funny.

But messy.

I mean I don’t know a single woman or man who hasn’t had a number or horrific/silly/ghastly/laughable dates or moments in dating before finding the person they were supposed to be with.

Or not finding that person.

Or finding out that the best person to date is themselves.

“Take yourself out on a date,” I told her yesterday after we had done some reading and writing in the afternoon.

I gave her some examples of what I have done over the years.

Small things like: lighting candles when I am having dinner, buying myself flowers, drinking my water, sparkling preferably, out of a glass instead of straight from the bottle, sitting outside on the patio when the weather is nice, listening to jazz music, walking on the beach, getting a fancy coffee at a cafe.

To slightly bigger things: riding the F-Market train from the beginning of the line in the Castro to the end of the line in Fisherman’s Wharf, going to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday at the Ferry Building and eating lunch on a bench overlooking the Bay Bridge, taking the ferry to Sausalito, spa days at Kabuki Springs, going to a matinée, walking through the rain, trips to the MOMA or the Legion of Honor, going to House of Air and trampolining, walking through the butterfly exhibit at the Conservatory of Flowers, walking through China Town with my camera, or playing pinball at Free Gold Watch.

I’ve even taken myself on some pretty fancy pants dates: one year I had a three course pre-fix menu dinner on Valentines Day at Le Zinc a French Bistro in Noe Valley, or going to Paris.

Yes, I do count that as a pretty big date, not when I moved to Paris, but when I went there in 2007 by myself for 10 days.

That was as stupendous date.

I even got lucky with a French man in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.

Well, we made out, and had I let him we would have gone further, but too many tourists around.

It was something else to have a wild-eyed dark-haired Frenchman named Philip lean me up against a 200-year-old mausoleum and kiss me silly.

So.

I know how to date.

I do.

And I make a good date.

The world is not as big as I make it out to be and so to be in a room where I had kissed three of the men, slept with two of the men, and asked out two others, isn’t such a huge deal.

A goofy deal.

A silly deal.

A nothing to take seriously deal.

Something to write about on a foggy night while I wait to see what happens next and who I will go out with this weekend.

So far.

No takers.

But you know.

The week is young.

And already weird.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 

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