couldnât figure out why I never looked forward to them. I hated opening my closet and trying to decide what to wear. I didnât give a shit what I wore. I always wished I could just get into bed and forget the whole thing.
Iâll never forget looking in my closet to decide what to wear for my first date with Terri. I could live in that moment forever.
I am utterly hopeless.
I made a date with a woman who ran one of the ads. We didnât talk long, but I liked her lush, gentle, African-American voice, and she liked that I was a writer and I liked that she was an advocate for troubled kids, and we arranged to meet at the Persian restaurant on 18 th Street. The next evening, I walked over there at our agreed-upon time and found Dee Williams, the hostess of our potluck, sitting at a candle-lit table. This is an example of what gay women are always talking about. Itâs a small community. (Actually, they always say itâs an âincestuousâ community, but I havenât experienced that, as yet.)
I fucked up the whole date with Dee, who looked adorable in a tight floral skirt and silky blouse that showed off her small bust. Dinner wasnât so bad because Dee talked about herself, telling me that she grew up in DC and attended school in California and moved around a bit, and finally returned to DC, where she became a professional advocate for children who are âin the system.â Sheâs been single for a year, ever since her girlfriend left her for another woman. (Dee reported this with admirablerestraint, although when I looked at her eyes they were two fresh wounds.) I liked everything about Dee and sat there feeling awful that I didnât want to jump her bones right there over the table. After dinner, we went to a bar called Larryâs for a drink and I drank three rum and cokes and then the date really degenerated further because I started talking and couldnât stop. Specifically I couldnât stop talking about Terri. I went on about how she was my first love, and it was like a big explosion, and I moved here to be with her, and blah blah blah blah blah, and I even went into how divine it was to have SEX with her, and whereas Deeâs story about her old girlfriend took about ten minutes, my story about Terri , who wasnât even an actual girlfriend , took about an hour. I would have kept going but Dee interrupted me finally and asked me if I was ready for a new relationship, and I looked her bravely in the eye and said, âOh yes, oh yes, Iâm definitely ready for a new relationship, I mean thereâs no way things can work out with Terri,â but it was so obvious I was lying, it was pathetic.
I was too depressed to go home, so I announced that I needed a cigarette, and Dee needed one too after listening to my yammerings all night, so we went to the Seven-11 and bought a pack of Camel Lights and went back to Larryâs and smoked a bunch of them and talked about whether flies sleep. After we left and parted ways, I was very drunk. The snow was melting and there was a warm breeze and I decided to find a place to hide my cigarettes, since I didnât want to smoke them. I wandered over to New Hampshire Avenue and found an apartment building with a bench outside of it and buried the cigarettes under thebench, thinking how cool it would be to take Dee there the next time we went out and retrieve the smokes like a magician. Thatâs how looped I was, to think that Dee would be the least bit impressed with a woman in her 40s who digs up a pack of cigarettes sheâd planted, not to mention the absurdity of thinking that she would even go out with me again in the first place.
After my evening with Dee, I didnât want to talk to anyone about it, my mom or my sisters or my friends in Cleveland or Jerome or anyone. I just lay on my bed and chastised myself for five days. And then, today, Terri called and it was like the re-opening of a theater that
Iâll never forget looking in my closet to decide what to wear for my first date with Terri. I could live in that moment forever.
I am utterly hopeless.
I made a date with a woman who ran one of the ads. We didnât talk long, but I liked her lush, gentle, African-American voice, and she liked that I was a writer and I liked that she was an advocate for troubled kids, and we arranged to meet at the Persian restaurant on 18 th Street. The next evening, I walked over there at our agreed-upon time and found Dee Williams, the hostess of our potluck, sitting at a candle-lit table. This is an example of what gay women are always talking about. Itâs a small community. (Actually, they always say itâs an âincestuousâ community, but I havenât experienced that, as yet.)
I fucked up the whole date with Dee, who looked adorable in a tight floral skirt and silky blouse that showed off her small bust. Dinner wasnât so bad because Dee talked about herself, telling me that she grew up in DC and attended school in California and moved around a bit, and finally returned to DC, where she became a professional advocate for children who are âin the system.â Sheâs been single for a year, ever since her girlfriend left her for another woman. (Dee reported this with admirablerestraint, although when I looked at her eyes they were two fresh wounds.) I liked everything about Dee and sat there feeling awful that I didnât want to jump her bones right there over the table. After dinner, we went to a bar called Larryâs for a drink and I drank three rum and cokes and then the date really degenerated further because I started talking and couldnât stop. Specifically I couldnât stop talking about Terri. I went on about how she was my first love, and it was like a big explosion, and I moved here to be with her, and blah blah blah blah blah, and I even went into how divine it was to have SEX with her, and whereas Deeâs story about her old girlfriend took about ten minutes, my story about Terri , who wasnât even an actual girlfriend , took about an hour. I would have kept going but Dee interrupted me finally and asked me if I was ready for a new relationship, and I looked her bravely in the eye and said, âOh yes, oh yes, Iâm definitely ready for a new relationship, I mean thereâs no way things can work out with Terri,â but it was so obvious I was lying, it was pathetic.
I was too depressed to go home, so I announced that I needed a cigarette, and Dee needed one too after listening to my yammerings all night, so we went to the Seven-11 and bought a pack of Camel Lights and went back to Larryâs and smoked a bunch of them and talked about whether flies sleep. After we left and parted ways, I was very drunk. The snow was melting and there was a warm breeze and I decided to find a place to hide my cigarettes, since I didnât want to smoke them. I wandered over to New Hampshire Avenue and found an apartment building with a bench outside of it and buried the cigarettes under thebench, thinking how cool it would be to take Dee there the next time we went out and retrieve the smokes like a magician. Thatâs how looped I was, to think that Dee would be the least bit impressed with a woman in her 40s who digs up a pack of cigarettes sheâd planted, not to mention the absurdity of thinking that she would even go out with me again in the first place.
After my evening with Dee, I didnât want to talk to anyone about it, my mom or my sisters or my friends in Cleveland or Jerome or anyone. I just lay on my bed and chastised myself for five days. And then, today, Terri called and it was like the re-opening of a theater that
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