One of the questions a reader asked me, my last month or so in Michigan, was how I expected to fare in Connecticut sexually once I made the move here. I’m afraid that at the time I read it as a bit of a snide question, too, since the guy asking it specifically said he wanted to compare my answer with the reality, down the road. (Though perhaps I was misreading.)
My reply at the time was that I honestly expected to have very little action in my first weeks in my new locale—that I was moving into an area where I knew no one, wasn’t familiar with the area, and didn’t know the local cruising customs (and oh yes, the local cruising customs vary, wherever you go). Whatever my status as ‘new meat’ might be when I got there, I said, I really didn’t anticipate getting laid much . . . at first.
My readers were very supportive at the time, I remember, telling me I’d have asses lined up to greet me, and a Busby Berkley musical number’s worth of legs opening in circle formation at my approach.
Well, bitches, and for the first time in my life I’m sorry to have to say these words: I was right.
I confess that I’m a little frustrated, right now. I haven’t had sex in three weeks. That’s an eternity for me. I kind of knew that the last week before I moved was going to be a bust, and quite frankly the week after my move I was too busy trying to clear out boxes and to find my collection of kitchen knives buried somewhere in the mess, because honestly, trying to cut up vegetables and chicken for a Thai red curry stir-fry with a plastic picnic knife is not an experience I ever, ever want to have again. Now that I’ve cleared out a little living space, though, and have found the kitchen utensils and settled into a little bit more of a routine, I’m ready to start playing around again.
And the world’s not cooperating.
Part of it, of course, is that I’m out of step here still. Everyone online knows where all these little cities and communities are, while my knowledge extends to what’s up and down Route 1 in either direction for about, oh, five miles. They know what dropping the name of an exit means, while I have just about figured how to get to Trader Joe’s and back without getting lost more than once or twice. And then there’s New York and its little communities, just over the border . . . I haven’t assimilated all the information yet. It makes me feel a little bit out of the running.
My first online encounter with a guy didn’t go so well, either. This is an actual transcription of the emails we exchanged:
HIM: Hey, you look hot. I am up the road in Oxford. You should come up here and fuck me deep man.
ME: Thanks for the compliment. I like your profile. I just moved here a week ago yesterday. Where is Oxford and when are you free?
I never got a reply back, until about four hours later, when he sent: TOO MUCH TALK AND NOT ENOUGH ACTION DUDE. YOU ARE BLOCKED!
Which left me thinking, Seriously? What the fuck? Because if I want to deal with crazy people, I could just answer the remarks left by the scat-obsessed commenter on my blog during those weeks he's off his schizophrenia meds.
The weirdness continued Sunday, when I had the entire afternoon to myself and ample time and opportunity to hook up. I got online, changed my status to ‘Available now,’ and was relieved when a guy who’d hit me up earlier in the week asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was.
Could I host? he wanted to know.
Yes, I said, I could, for another three hours.
Okay, he said. That sounded great.
Did he want to come over, then? I asked him. Because, you know, he hadn’t actually said he would.
About a half hour after that he finally wrote back. I’d pretty much given up on him at this point, to be honest. Did I have poppers for him? he wanted to know.
No, I didn’t, I said. But my place was free for another two and a half hours.
I waited, and waited, and finally he wrote back after another half-hour. Did I know so-and-so? He gave me the name of another profile. He’d wanted to get with him forever and he was free that afternoon, too.
At that point I was frustrated from wasting an hour of my time on this guy, and wanted to pound out on the keyboard, WELL FINE GET WITH HIM THEN ASSHOLE AND STOP BOTHERING ME. But instead I typed out a much more polite version of the same message, logged off, and went about my business. Because every guy was pretty much the same, Sunday—I’d say I was available and could host, and then I’d get no response whatsoever, or else they’d stall and demand more X-rated photos, or ask for more G-rated photos, or ask about my pharmaceutical access, or do anything save ask for an address and say they’d be on their way.
This is what I’ve noticed about guys in the area: they stall. Instead of saying, “I’m not available right now. How about tonight or later this week?”, they’ll keep you on the hook, and dribble out communications bit by bit to make you think that there’s the slightest opportunity of getting together.
But in reality, what they’re giving me is the impression that they’re too frightened to take a couple of hours to meet someone face to face on the slight off-chance that they might miss out on a chance to meet someone better-looking than I, or better-hung, or someone just, well, better.
I’ve been in other cities where this kind of behavior is the norm. Los Angeles is kind of notorious for it—guys will sit for hours and hours looking for hookups that they’ll never have because they’re frightened to miss out on something hotter than you . . . no matter how smoking hot you may be. And maybe I’m close enough to New York City that a similar kind of behavior has spread out here to the nutmeg state.
Whatever it is, it’s frustrating.
Like I said, perhaps I’m just still out of step. I’ll figure things out, and make some connections, and get back my mojo.
In the meantime, though—and these are words I’ve again never before said—I hate being right.