Time Out

Girl's gotta hike a trail.

Be back in 500 miles.

Since the end of February, when I went to Portland and saw Crazy Chinatown Man, we've been constants in each others' lives.  Hardly a day passes without communication between us. I text him funny stories from my work, he emails me pervy Craigslist ads from his housing search, we complain about the heat in the Pacific Northwest this summer and exchange selfies when we are hungover or sick.  I've known him for over two years now while he, having been in a psychotropic drug-induced haze on our first date that he can't remember, starts the count from our second date ten months ago.

It's the most time I've invested in a man since this blog started.  In our own weird, casual, fucky fuck way, we've formed a relationship that means something to both of us, which neither one can define.

I miss him often and for some reason, lying in bed last week, I wanted him to know. "I miss you," I texted, and immediately I felt vulnerable and teary.  The words are less weighty and political than "I love you," but they are intimate and come from a similar place.  Since my last boyfriend, he's the only man I've said them to.

I didn't think I would see him again unless I traveled to Oregon, but he wanted to come visit before I get down and dirty on the Pacific Crest Trail next weekend.  We ate, drank, played chess, sat on my rooftop, laid in bed until 11, nuzzled, kissed, sucked, sexed, were sober and not.  He'd lived in Seattle for two decades before he moved and upon seeing the worsening traffic, boxy condos, and pudgy men with tech badges, agreed that I need to leave as soon as possible.  It's not his scene any more, and it's not mine either.

He'd given me his phone to look something up when a text came in from a woman.  I'd heard her name and seen her picture before, and while he'd never offered information about their relationship, I knew intuitively they were dating.  I do my best to avoid drama, so I handed the phone back and said "K___ just texted you. I don't want to accidently read it."

He handled it perfectly, exited the text, gave me the phone back, and returned immediately to our conversation as though there had never been an interruption.

Then the same thing happened an hour or two later.

I wasn't mad or even annoyed.  How could I be?  We have no obligations to each other and live in different states.  Yet it still stung, and I had to know the status of their relationship because the uncertainty of not knowing was far worse than whatever he could possibly tell me.

I don't remember what he said exactly because I was trying hard not to cry, but I felt like he was respectful both to me and to her, which of course made me want to cry even more.  Anyone who has been through heartbreak knows the feeling I'm about to describe that has no word in English:

That feeling when you care about someone so much that you genuinely want what is best for them but you're devastated inside because what's best for them isn't you, and you say you're happy for them (because you are) but you're also just sad and bitter and resentful that she was born with genes that make her thin and attractive with no makeup on.

There should be a word for that.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom because the tears were about to start flowing, and once that happens I turn into a spigot that won't twist off.  Then I returned and continued on with the evening, trying to focus on the here and now, the him and me, the energy we have together that means something, regardless of his connection with another person.

That night when we were kissing, I was careful to avoid leaving any marks, any small bruises on his body that would indicate to her that I had been there, because I didn't want to be the cause of messing up a relationship he is trying to build.

If that's not caring, I don't know what is.

 

Clarification

It's not like I met the dude below on the internet, sexted him for two years, then met up with him when he came through Seattle.  That would be nuts.

We've known each other for sixteen years.  See March 29th post.

The Date Two Years in the Making (if it was, in fact, a date)

Two years and five months of sporadic dick pictures and requests for me to fly to Colorado culminated in my encounter with "D_____" on Tuesday evening, when he hitchhiked out of the North Cascades to Seattle to make his Wednesday flight to Denver.  We'd had plans to hang out that night, which he asked permission to alter:  "Do you want to hang out with just me or is it okay if we go to dinner with my friends too?"

I wasn't sure it mattered, which summed up my interest.

I rang the doorbell of a home in Greenwood and D____ answered with bloodshot eyes, a clear indication of the amount of marijuana he'd already consumed.  He asked if I wanted to see his climbing pictures on his phone, which I did, and as I was browsing through images a text came in from another woman:

"It's such a nice night here.  I wish you were around so we could watch the stars together."

I didn't even care.  Operation Get R____ Laid was in full force, so I turned a blind eye and passed the phone back, "Someone's texting you."  He'd already told me he wasn't seeing anyone, and I liked that theory better.

We went to a brewery with his friends and he continued to smoke, stating "I want to go to a Van Gogh art gallery right now," because we totally have those all over Seattle.  By the time we finished eating and went back to the Greenwood home, it was already 10:30.

"I have to get up at 6 and go to work tomorrow," I explained.  "What's your plan?  Are you staying here or are you coming back with me?"

"What do YOU want me to do?" he countered back, refusing to answer the basic question.

"I would like for you to come back, but I don't want you to feel like you have to."

He thought about it for a moment, then gave his answer.  "I mean, I'm not opposed to going back with you."

FUCK YEAH!!!!  "Not opposed" sounded like an enthusiastic "yes" to me!  We said goodbye to his friends and made our way to my apartment.

I did feel bad, because I could tell he was exhausted and stoned, so I wanted to clarify that there were no obligations:

"We can just go to sleep.  I know you're tired, and I don't want you to feel like we need to have sex just because we're in the same bed."

I undressed in a different room and put on pajamas.  He did the same.  We got into bed together on separate sides and I fully expected to fall asleep, but he started to touch me, and I responded.  He was tired but he was also a man, and tired men like sex too. 

I'd give it a solid 5 out of 10 stars, which I believe is as many stars possible for first time sex on a Tuesday night with a man who is completely baked and "not opposed."

I don't think it quite qualifies as a date, though, so I'm going to hold the count at 77 because, you know, I like to keep my numbers low.


 

Yes. The Answer Is Yes.

Details to come.

Am I Getting Laid on Tuesday?????

I am straight-up lonely, having no real desire to try and forge a meaningful relationship before I spend seven weeks hiking along the Pacific Crest Trail and then likely peace out of Seattle.  At night I have sex dreams and during the day I miss my exboyfriends (at least the good ones), but going on more dates to try and achieve romance seems like an epic waste of time.  We've established that my odds of finding any sort of connection are exceedingly low.  I'd rather work on my crossword puzzle book for now and eventually try my luck in a different state.

Then last week, Crazy Colorado Man (see March 29th post) sent me a text saying he'd be climbing a few hours away from Seattle over the holiday weekend, and he needed a place to stay Tuesday night before he flies home.  Could he crash with me?

"Yes," I responded immediately and wayyyy too soon if you believe in playing hard-to-get.  I realized my error as soon as I sent the text and consoled myself with the fact that at least I didn't punctuate with a string of exclamation points like "Yes!!!!!", or go further and capitalize the letters like "YES!!!!!", which most accurately would have conveyed my feelings.

So here I am, by myself in Seattle, with two and a half years of text messages with this man riding on a single Tuesday night.  If the stars align for an above-mediocre evening, it couldn't come at a better time.   Physical intimacy would be nice, but I'd happily settle for some nervous anticipation, easy conversation, a bit of sexual tension, and a drink with a man who I know I have things in common with because we actually met in real life.

It could alternatively be really frickin' awkward, and I may wish I was working on my crossword puzzles.