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.