A Bad Man in a Bad Place

The New Yorker just came over to pick up the remainder of her stuff. We had a bittersweet goodbye. I had a bottle of champagne and she had three glasses. But rather than getting me drunk to take advantage, it appears she got me drunk to try to get me to talk about our relationship.

And she just left.

It's not quite midnight on a Friday night.

I'm going out now. I assume nothing will happen tonight, but that was a mindfuck of a three hours. It wasn't a mistake, I do love her, but oy the intensity.

UPDATE: not a total loss evening, she brought me back my rope and nipple clips. (Unused, I might add...)

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I don't even know what hit me tonight. Went out at midnight. Local bar as usual. Not drinking liquor, so I hang out and have club soda, which they pour for me all night. As I'm not getting any more drunk, my anxiety about talking to new people is staying at the same levels, perhaps going up, but mainly, I'm actually out to listen to the DJ.

Hours pass, the DJ does his thing and brings the absolute magic that he brings.

A girl that I'd met earlier, while watching the Yankees game at another bar, spots me and comes around the bar, sits next to me and starts writhing to the music and talking to me. We chat for about 45 minutes before she gets up to go to the bathroom.

Two minutes after she gets up, a second, absolutely stunning woman walks up to me. I've had my eye on her all night but I've stalled out every time she's walked by, and she's walked by a lot. She saunters up to me, looks me in the eye and says "are you gay?"
"No."
"Oh. Ok." And then she scampers off.

I don't follow, clearly.

Thirty seconds later, she's back.
"Are you bored?"
"No, I'm having a good time, how about you?" Suddenly, she got huffy.
"Whatever." She left the bar.

Her friend, who looked like she was about to hook up with a friend of mine, instead gives him a hug and leaves.

I keep sipping my club soda. Tell the girl who was talking to me about it, and she tells me that girls are weird sometimes. We have an excellent rapidly deepening conversation.

At the end of which she says "I really like you, you're fun." And then she gets shy. "But here's the thing. I'm sorta seeing the bartender. I don't want it to get weird." As the bartender is a guy I like and hang out with outside of work, the needle, obviously, comes off the record.

So my question is - which one of the gods did I piss of that I get the beautiful woman I've had my eye on to come talk to me, only to be called gay and boring, while the other cute girl that spent an hour talking to me, for whom I didn't pursue the beautiful one, is dating my friend. Seriously. Who'd I piss off?

I have to stop being shy around new people. This "approach anxiety" thing is pissing me off.

There's more to this story involving a gaggle of guys that looked like a cross between the Entourage posse and rejects from The PickUp Artist who were sort of the anti-me, who were the reason that both of the girls came to talk to me, a six foot five guy with a strange nickname, and staying out until 5am trying to figure out how to talk to new people. But mainly I'm wondering who the god of decision making is, because clearly I pissed her off.

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I'm off to California. I'm not going to email Surfette. Nor text nor call.

But I might (just might) see The Cuban.

As I've been going down memory lane since seeing The Beauty, I figure I should share the story of how I met the woman that kicked this whole thing off. This is the story, written shortly after it happened in 2002, of meeting The Cuban.
-------
She sent me an email, on New Years Eve, when I was off with the Beauty. I laughed at it - just my luck to be getting email like that on a day when I'm off with the one girl I've wanted for nearly a year.

I mostly ignore it, but I flag it for followup. Something catches my eye. She's read my website, seen the various friends I've had and their websites, and wants to meet me for a drink.

"what's was my point again? ah, yes, if you ever feel like meeting up for a drink and making a new friend in the city, feel free to write. no worries, i'm totally normal. 24. art director. cute."

What the hell, my life's gone surreal already, I'll email her back and we'll have a drink.

I suggest we drink at the wine-bar/coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. Two reasons - first, it's around the corner from my apartment. Second, it's downtown enough culturally that if she's as upper west side as she seems, I can flee into the "well, I'm a hipster" prickishness that I've taken as my own.

I got there early, pick a seat with my face to the door, and wait. I start in on a glass of Cote de Rhone while I wait, and read up on drafting wills in New York, because I'm a law student. That

Every time the door opens, I hold my breath... is it her? Is it her?

Each time, it's couples. Or men.

Five minutes after Eight, the door opens, and a scene from a movie walks in. A stunning and elegant woman, hair trailing behind her in the breeze, looks around the room. She spots me. Under my breath, I protest "non ce posso." She starts walking towards me, and I freeze. I tense up. I start to relax when she tries to kiss my cheek. In standing to give her that kiss, my chair falls from the weight of my bag and my coat.

She scurries around the table to help me with it. I'm awestruck and speechless. Women like _her_ do not troll the internet. Women like her spend time on St. Barths with the money from the settlement of their first divorce.

We sit. I'm utterly tense, and she asks me questions about a topic I know a lot about (me) and I start telling her stories, some of which she's already read. I start to relax. And then I notice something.

She's staring at me.

don't stare at me like that. Not with those lips. You mentioned being friends. Your lips are going to make it impossible to befriend you. Because I'm going to try valiantly to kiss them. And that hair. And your face. I'm getting distracted.

The Colombian calls, to warn me that she's at my bar. It's bad form to bring a woman whom your attracted to out drinking at the bar where your sort-of-girlfriend is lurking with her friends. She's not my girlfriend, really, but she thinks she is, and I haven't dissuaded her from thinking so, for whatever that's worth.

Instead, I try to take her to Plant bar, and we hold hands when we walk out the door. Who is this woman? She's driving me insane. I'm feeling things I haven't felt for a woman in years, maybe ever. And we've just met.

We make it to Plant, only to be disappointed with the DJ. So it's off to a local hideaway spot, where the lights are so dark that even I am attractive.

We sit down, me with my whiskey, her with her scotch, and I realize that what's happening is that I'm rapidly falling for a girl I've barely met. I will control myself. I will not take her home. I will be good and respectful and see.

She's paying for all the drinks. Mine and hers. "I invited you out to drinks, so I'm paying." I offer her cash, and she pouts, offended. "Next round" she faux-scolds me.

There is a lull in the conversation. "Now is the time when I make us both uncomfortable and ask you if I can kiss you. Can I?"

"Not yet" she responds. I throw my hands up in mock surrender.

"On your time, then."

"You're extremely attactive" she responds. I start to blush. It's not often a woman makes me blush. I deflect it.

"I think you've had too much to drink. Have another."

"You don't have any idea how attractive you are, do you?" she says, processing that fact.

"I have an inkling." I'm not going to tell her that I'm on the peakof the single longest string of new sexual partners I've ever had - a grand total of three in a month. But compared to her, I'm nothing, dirt. She's blown me away.

"You make me nervous" she confides. "I was nervous after I emailed you, and when you emailed me back, and when you called. I mean, you could've been like 'wow, who is this freako' or something." I was glad that I hadn't thought those things.

"I make _you_ nervous" I replied? "You've gotta be kidding me. You're ridiculous."

We continue to talk, and I'm feeling a connection unlike what I've had with women in the last several months. It's not so much the sex, although she oozes sex. It's more of a desire to become whole with this other person. I've just met her. I think I need less to drink.

I relax. I let go. I talk, and we chit chat, and idly banter, and generally have an amazing time. Eventually, it's time to go, we both have work in the morning, and we're both more drunk than we'd anticipated. At one point, I'm not quite sure when, her lips, soft and warm and wet and as nice as anything I've ever felt, are on mine, kissing me, her tongue gently probing my mouth, seeking I'm not sure what.

We kissed in the bar for an hour. I eventually got uncomfortable, since the only other patron was a guy hitting on the bartender, and we were the spectacle of the evening.

I suggested we leave. We made it as far as the outside of the front door and just past the bouncer when one of us, and I'm pretty sure it was me but not certain, threw the other into the wall, and I had one of the most passionate kisses I've ever had in my life. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it, eliciting exactly the moaning response that I was hoping for. We stopped back in the bar to retrieve my scarf, and for kisses in the warmth, and then stumbled home to my apartment, kissing each other on the way, throwing each other into walls, unable to penetrate one another deeply enough, not able to get enough of what the other had, desperate to have more.

"Would you like to come home with me?" I asked her when she got to the front door at my apartment.

"Another time. Not yet."

I kissed her again. "How about now?"

"No."

"Would you like me to stop?"

"No."

"Come into the vestibule, or the front hall, where I can kiss you without freezing."

We went into the vestibule, kissed for a half an hour, put on a show for the neighbors, put on a show for my poor neighbor who was trying to get into the building.

"Are you sure I can't entice you to come upstairs?"

"Not yet. I want to, but I hardly know you."

"Wow. Ok. Will I see you again?"

"Definitely." We make plans to see each other again soon, and she's off into the night, catching a cab and flitting off into the middle distance.
----------
Back to the present, we had a brief fling and it didn't work. I can look back now, look back on what I did wrong, how much growing had to do, and how badly off I was at that time in my life. A week that started with The Beauty ended with meeting The Cuban. The Cuban and I would eventually have a magnesium relationship - as bright as it was short. Years later, though, we've managed to be friends, and I hope to see her this weekend. One never knows, though. Even if not, I always liked this story. Picture perfect meeting, even if it was for a brief moment of my life.

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Out at another one of "my" bars, drinking club soda since I'm on a drinking hiatus. Out with new friends from grad school, and one of their exboyfriends. Dimly lit bar, raining outside, quiet night.

Text message from July 4 - "Hey. How are you?"
"Good. Chillin' with friends from grad school. You?"

An hour after the first text, another text saying that she was going to be visiting the bartender at the bar I was at. Ignore the text.

Get up at around 10 to go to the bathroom, and there she is. Still pretty, still tall, still long chestnut hair in a sweeping ponytail. And she didn't see me, so tap her on the shoulder, say hello, and go to the bathroom.

Come back and talk to my friends some more, wrap the night up with them and go stand with her at the bar. Talk about friends of hers that I'd met, our mutual friend the bartender, and why I'd given her the brush-off.

We start holding hands, and she found that mine were cold. She offers to warm me up in the back room. I give her a look which brooks no challenge, a look that says "didn't we just talk about my not being interested in anything serious right now?" And she smiles at me and goes for a smoke. This is not the sort of woman that men say no to. I'm not the sort of man who cares.

At around 12:30, after waiting with her for reasons that remain a mystery to me, we leave together onto the cold, rainy streets. Making out on the street, and then a cab to my place, up the stairs and into my apartment.

Naked in the first minute and in bed seconds after that, we make out like teenagers, hungry for skin but unable to form a meaningful connection. I don't want to have sex with her, too many complications, too much history of going from just-meeting to thinking we're in a relationship.

Hours of making out pass, playing with her ass, never touching her pussy. Explaining that I've recently come to grips with my penchant for dominance and inflicting pain and remembering that she is one of the "you can do anything you want to me" women I don't press it too much further - although after the ass, what is further anyway? No sex, nothing much, and I don't want to break her so I don't push anything farther. Eventually, fall asleep entwined with one another, waking up a few minutes after passing out realizing that we're entwined and scurrying off to my side of the bed.

Wake up in the morning to more kissing and fondling but again I refuse to have sex with her, even after she begs. I send her on her way and get my day started.

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Birthday came and went as did birthday party. An unexpected text from Surfette made the day complete. Also made me consider my situation.

I still don't know why Surfette went from 60 to 0 in the span of six minutes. She couldn't have thought that I was trying to get a relationship or anything out of the situation - I live across the country and have grad school next month. I assumed that she'd developed a boyfriend in the time between our first night and my travel out there. She never told me about him if he was there, but something suggested that that was the situation, like when friends of hers asked if I was her boyfriend. Could have been hitting on me, could have been wondering if I was the guy she'd mentioned. Don't know, and frankly, don't care.

Many years ago I came to grips with the fact that not everyone shares my belief that there is a spectrum of intimacy. It's all about what you want and agree on, not what everyone else says you have to do. I had friends who I would kiss hello like a lover, and lovers I would be very cold to in public because that was our arrangement. As long as everyone involved was on the same page and everyone knows and agrees on the boundaries, it's fine. As I told The Evil One - it's only cheating if you lie about it or we didn't agree on it. She and I broke up because of exactly that - she didn't tell me what she had done and that was a betrayal. When I found out, I didn't care, except for the lie.

I have conflicting impulses, which is part of the problem. My parents pair bonded at age 20. It was a different era then, and they've been inseparable ever since, hardly ever even sleeping in different beds. I have an impulse in that direction, but my impulse to the contrary is also quite strong. Before I met him, Lex was an inspiration (as he is for many men, I suspect) and of course, now he's a friend and inspiration. Similarly, one of my friends asked me yesterday if I was comfortable with his wife sleeping with The NewYorker. I told him that was fine with me, and probably would have been fine while we were dating too.

I heard from Star the other night, who lives in Chicago. Readers of the predecessor mailing list to this site will recall that she is the woman I had a three night stand with just before I met The Freshman. She and I were talking about distance and picking up where we'd left off seven years ago. Her boyfriend of several years just precipitously left her, and we joked about her flying in for the weekend to relive old times. While we aren't going to do that, it reminded me that the rules we follow are the ones we set.

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My Neighbor emailed me at 4am on Saturday, clearly at the end of a drunk spell. She apologized for her behavior in July, decided that she didn't want to never talk to me again, told me that we should be friends, and was generally contrite.

I told her to meet me for dinner at Mermaid Inn for some fish. She agreed and was waiting at the bar when I got there.

We sit, catch up on the last several weeks, and talk about our respective life situations. I tell her about the misadventures with July 4, the text message ending that non-relationship, and that I'm not in a place to be available to most women for anything other than a romp or two. Same thing I told her when she asked if I could ever have a relationship with her. When I point out that July 4 was 38, she asks "why are you sleeping with 38 year olds when you could have 25 year olds?" It's clearly on. Make clear that I'm not relationship-ready right now.

Finish dinner, stoop sit for a bit, upstairs to my apartment for her to give me a massage. Which leads to kissing, inevitably, and a handjob. I start exploring, discover wetness, and as ever, one thing leads to another. Her on top of me, and an embarrassing minute later, it's over. I laugh at myself - "I owe you one" I tell her as I roll over and pass out.

Morning comes, alarm set for 8 am. Up at 6:30 with her arms around me, a way I don't sleep unless I'm emotionally invested. I am not incredibly into this. Awake and alert now, so I may as well enjoy myself. Legs slung over my shoulders for 10 minutes, on her stomach for awhile, and then rolling behind her. Now it's 7:15 and I'm actually looking at the clock to make sure I've been going for more than a minute. She finally tires of my antics and we roll me onto my back, her sitting on top of me and giving me my favorite view. She's clearly done her kegels, I can feel that through the condom. Minutes later, it's over. "If you'd've done that last night, I'd've been able to sleep" she teases me. Roll over for more sleep.

She slings her arms around me and I'm not having any of that. "You're going to have to deal with that" she tells me. "No, I'm not" I say in my best 'bad puppy' voice. She retreats to her side of the bed and promptly passes out. The alarm wakes us both, and she walks to the shower, cleaning off last night, and out to work. I shake my head at myself wondering why I've done this again. Let her out and lock the door behind her. "Talk to you soon" and she's on her way.

I scratched the "belt notching" itch many notches ago. For awhile I was approaching women because it was fun and scary in and of itself, as an unintegrated part of my life. That served me well enough - I met the girl from reunion that way, and a few others, although nobody who lasted. Chet's been telling me that I need to start applying a filter to the women I meet, that I'm "punching below my weight." In some instances, like last night, I think he's right. Clearly, in others, he's wrong.

I need to learn to say "NO" and mean it.

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My hand is still sore.

At 10, I invited Ms. Holloway to chat. At 10:30, we started chatting. At 11, I told her that I was watching Planet Earth. And told her that she was to come over and watch it with me.

There were logistical issues - a cab ride for her - ice cubes to buy for me - and she was over by midnight. So much for going to sleep early.

A comfortable conversation filled with missing pieces and anecdotes about growing up and learning what each of us needed. A nice walk down memory lane for me, and some interesting data points for both of us.

And then a silence filled the room. A purposeful silence, it seemed. "I was wondering when you were going to tell me to do something or hurt me."

"Go sit on your knees, facing the television, while I go to the bathroom." Silently, she went. "Straight up, don't lean back."

I put a DVD on and walked away. Made myself a drink. Looked over to make sure she was still on her knees. Sat down on the couch behind her and admired my handiwork. And then realized I hadn't really done much in the way of handiwork.

"One important question - marks or no marks?"
"Light marks are fine."

Pulled out some rope. Wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, ankles to wrists.

Admired my handiwork again. Grabbing a fistful of hair, exposing a vulnerable neck, wondering what to do. We've only just met, but there's a comfort that I'm quite pleased with and what appears to be trust. Sex, or any semblance thereof, isn't on the agenda for the evening, but my self indulgence is. This complicates matters, and makes them interesting.

Slaps on the stomach and back, exploring soft places. Slaps on the inside of the thigh, the outside of the thigh, and then pushing down into a crouch. Considered getting a blindfold, but I'd rather leave room for growth.

Inspiration strikes at the strangest times. Off to the kitchen to get a chopstick. Slaps with a chopstick on the tender soles of the feet. Moans in exchange. This is going well.

Untied, more slapping, and now spanking. Hard spanking on a hard ass. Loud smacks rewarded with high pitched moans. The harder I hit, the happier she seems, and the happier I get. I start to tear loose with the spanking and then remember the light marks admonishion, so I dial it back a bit.

While on her knees, bent at the waist, she put her hands through her legs so they were nearly touching her ankles. Beautiful. So tie those there to keep that position. Harder spanking again, enjoying myself and my company. Not a word has been spoken in an hour.

And then the choking. My fingers snaked around her neck gently at first, tentatively. Eye contact. Five seconds of cutting off her breath. More eye contact. Again for ten. I think, and hope, she's enjoying herself. This is a very welcome development.

We'd set boundaries but no safeword and I was in danger of going beyond the boundaries. Twenty minutes after the choking started, I stopped everything to give her a cooling down period. Held her tightly and we made eye contact and just sat there breathing.

"The choking, I started to black out a little bit. It was like getting high."
"That's the point."
"I liked that."
"Be careful - it's a dangerous thing - it makes everything better, but turns the volume down on everything else when you're not doing it."

More small talk until another silence emerges. It's clear she's waiting for me to do something. Good. Let her wait. More of the same, escalating, harder hitting, culminating in a bout of choking her while slapping exteremly tender flesh for which I am again rewarded with a moan.

Eventually, at 5am, we slow to nothing. I am alternately hyperactive, energized, and exhausted, and she looks happy and expectant.

"I think that's all for tonight. I'd like to do this again sometime."
She agreed.
"I'm here for you, you know where I live and how to find me."

I didn't want the night to end, so I suggested breakfast at a nearby diner. We talked about nothing in particular, reminiscing about the few old times we'd had, when she told me that I could order for her.

"Mushroom omlette for her, sausage omlette for me."
She looked pleased. When our food arrived, I casually mentioned that she should "only eat half of that."
"The eggs, or the eggs and hash browns?"
"The whole thing. Only eat half." And then back to conversation.

Eventually, as with all good things, the night had to come to an end. The sun was up, I had a meeting at 11, and she had things to do today. I sent her home with a standing open invitation.

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My birthday has significantly picked up since Viviane linked to me and some other things happened that made me smile. I also realized that a link that doesn't go to any good content is a wasted link. Here's a piece I wrote many years ago, before I was the Bad Man. In fact, this story was instrumental in taking me from mild mannered nice boy to the Bad Man I eventually grew into. If you prefer to read about the man I'd become, 2004 was a pretty busy year.

The distinction between the two is fascinating, to me at least. I hope you like it, at the time I called it "Nothing's Perfect."

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It was yet another show at Brownies, which smelled to me of stale beer and puke, just like every other music venue I’d been to while following the band.

When I walked in, Rock Star Designer sideswiped me with a Wild Turkey on the rocks. He said that I looked like I needed it.

He was right, because the person standing next to him was my ex-girlfriend – “The Evil One.” She was at the show unexpectedly.

I knew she liked the band, but I thought we had a sort of unspoken agreement: I’d gotten custody of the shows and she got our mutual friends.

I was 24 years old, still in law school, and still totally in love with her. She’d dumped me over the summer because I didn’t have a job, and she "couldn't support me any more." I didn't bother reminding her then that I was just a student.

I had lined up an entire crowd of people to go with me, thinking it would be better to have a lot of my friends at the show than a lot of random strangers. I'd had a crush on one of my friends for about six months, which included the two months at the ass end of things with The Evil One. I planned on making my "big move" that night. I called her "The Bosnian" because she'd survived the war there, and somehow managed to land a modeling contract while the whole country was in turmoil. As fate would have it, she showed up while I was still talking to The Evil One, who took one look at her and said, "Dude, she's totally cute, go hit on her. Now!" Remembering the old days, when she'd cruelly dare me to do things like that just to prove to herself that I couldn't muster the balls to hit on other girls, I screwed up my courage and approached her.

In the middle of my conversation with The Bosnian, the next band came on stage. I was, however, mesmerized – ohmygodIamtalkingtoaformermodel… For all I know, they were a Hardcore Partridge Family cover band. Rock Star Designer, his hand like a side of beef, slammed me on my shoulder and growled - "you have to come downstairs, we need to take pictures with you."

For background - at the time, I ran a different website – which easily identified me. This was in 1999, long before anyone knew what a "blog" was. It was new, it was exotic, and all of my friends read it. The photo shoot was supposed to be me and the band that I would then post on the site. They got free publicity, I got to feed my ego.

I excused myself and left The Bosnian to quickly slip downstairs.

When I got back from my "photo shoot," I was startled to see that The Evil One had disappeared and The Bosnian was looking bored. I turned to a friend and asked him what had happened to The Evil One, and he told me she had actually said, "I didn't think he'd really hit on her!" and disappeared.

I turned back to The Bosnian for one second, and just as I opened my mouth to talk, there was The Evil One, standing behind her, looking destroyed. My heart broke seeing her looking so sad, and I walked over and asked her what the problem was. My crush waited in the crowd, looking vaguely bored, while I padded back to my lost love like a faithful puppy.

"I didn't actually mean you should go hit on a Model while I was standing right there. I was kidding. Christ." I chose that exact moment not to remind her about our most recent college reunion. That was the one where where she'd been picked up by a random guy while she and I sat at a table together. He sat down and tried on my cowboy hat (don't ask), right before asking her out to dinner. I also didn't mention that she'd borrowed twenty bucks from me to pay for a cab so she could get home after she was done at his place.

Instead, I just said, almost pleading "I'm sorry, I thought you were serious, I thought you were over me, finally." She had dumped me, after all. And clearly, I'd left my balls in my other pants.

She asked if we could just please leave? The badn was about to go on, but afterwards, they were going across the street to Kurova. I told her that I'd meet her there.

Kurova seemed an ideal choice for cocktails with The Evil One. It's Clockwork Orange meets alcoholic, with white chairs, strange lighting, and a constant feeling of dread. It also had five dollar shot and a beer specials, a particular favorite of those of us who were still poor.

I told my friends that I was going there, hoping to tell the Bosnian last and walk out with her on my arm, or at least to have her meet us there. I was torn, though. The model, or my lost love?

As fate would have it, I couldn't find The Bosnian. I scoured the club twice, checking for any sign of her or her friends. I asked a friend, Good Looking Guy, if he saw her, could he tell the Bosnian where I was going.

I left, and outside, The Evil One was waiting for me. She asked if everybody was coming, and I said yes, but that I couldn't find my crush. I told her that I'd asked Good Looking Guy to look for her for me, and she told me that "Good Looking Guy is trying to get her into bed. He's not going to help you with her, man. Hell, he even tried to get me into bed."

I waited in the cold January air for a few minutes hopeful for The Bosnian, now that I knew I might get stabbed in the back. I sent our group of 20 or so across the street ahead of me. When I got there, The Evil One had stripped down to a t-shirt and was standing at the window, coyly curling one finger in the "come on in, it's warm and you're cold" gesture and smiling seductively.

I followed her into the bar like a rat to the pied piper. I was handed another Wild Turkey, and sat down at the bar. She sat next to me, and we made small talk. About the fact that she couldn't seem to get promoted, that I should TOTALLY come to her party the next night, and eventually, my still abiding love for her.

And then she dropped a bomb in my lap. She told me that we were never meant to be lovers, we were always supposed to be "just friends." *pause*

The needle came off the record with a screech in my mind.

Bull. Shit.

I didn't buy that for a second. And minutes later she said "You know, I wouldn't trade my time with you for anything in the world. I still love you so much, but I'm not in love with you anymore." Whatever that meant, I didn't know, but my heart was sinking into my stomach faster and faster.

I couldn't speak honestly with her anymore. I mistook my naive desire to protect her for love. I couldn't say "yes, the reason that our passion died is because you decided it would be fun to go fuck around that asshole stoner and then lie to me about it. I couldn't tell her that I assumed she felt guilty for a year, and had clearly fucked everything up between us

Instead, I held my tongue in my mouth and my balls shriveled further. She pointed out women at the bar that she'd kissed during college. The tall lithe brunette with curly hair and a Prada fetish, the beautiful blonde with a cocaine addiction. Others.

I listened sympathetically and enviously. I wanted her to talk about me with the passion she had for these other girls.

She pointed out a guy that I vaguely knew, one of the campus studs, and told me of the night she fucked him, and how he was possibly the worst lay of her life. And then she said, "and fuck you. I've been totally unsatisfied since I left you. I don't know what you fucking did to me, but nobody else has been able to [and that part I'll leave out, because it sounds way too much like hubris] since you. Fuck you."

I just looked at her with big sad eyes.

She shook her head and said, "yeah yeah, I know, You still love me."

I didn't want to admit that, particularly after that selfish display. Instead, I told her "No. I was just thinking that nobody in my life has ever hurt me quite as badly as you have. You tore my fucking heart out and stomped all over it, you bitch." I tried to pass it off as a joke with my tonality, and I failed.

"Hey, two of us got our hearts broken that day" she accused. I wasn't sure how dumping me hurt her, it seemed more premeditated than that.

Until that moment, though, I never believed that she really loved me. She's got such a tough girl exterior. It was hard to realize when she'd been hurt.

The music got so loud that it started to hurt my ears. It was clearly time to leave, and I was on the verge of tears anyway.

We walked back across the street, and she asked – "are you up for a walk back to the PATH with me?"

"No" I moped "but I will anyway. You know that I'll still do anything for you." It was true. I would. I felt so broken.

"In that case, I guess I should leave you here." I gave her a hug, kissed her cheek, and as she walked away, I yelled "Hey, it's ok, I'll see you tomorrow night at your party."

She walked back to me - "Oh God, Please don't come to my party" she pleaded. "I know I invited you, but I'm gonna be dressed like a hootchie momma, and I really need to get laid. You don't want to see that."

"No, I don't." I told her I loved her. She just looked at me and said "that's fucking it. Go home, I can't take this." I turned to her jokingly and said "Want to fuck in a church?"

That had worked last time.

She laughed and told me to fuck off.

I turned down First Avenue, and got fifteen paces before something inside me gave out. I refused to let that be the last thing ever said between the two of us.

I turned around and she was gone. I caught a glimmer of her in the distance – she was almost to Second avenue while I was just past First. I knew she was aiming for the PATH, so, after some drunken math, I realized that I'd make it, if I walked quickly. Sixth and Ninth was a long way off.

I was afraid I'd lose her, maybe forever this time. I was too far to make out any detail; I just knew that she was the one with the backpack. I kept walking, single-mindedly aiming for the PATH station, hoping to catch her beforehand. I would walk all the way to her apartment in Jersey City if necessary. I didn't want the last thing ever said to me by the woman I'd loved to be "Fuck off." I hadn't let go that much yet.

I turned the corner at Second Avenue, and my pocket vibrated. Someone was calling me at three in the morning. That didn't make any sense to me, so I ignored it. I was a man on a mission. I lost her around a corner, and charged forward, pocket still vibrating, afraid I had lost her. Until I saw her, and she was at a payphone booth. "I was just calling you" she said, sounding choked up.

"I'll save you the twenty five cents." I felt cheesy a second after I said that, but I didn't care. "I just couldn't leave you like that." We hugged and held each other in the freezing January air. My heart, as always when I saw her, was on the verge of bursting and breaking. She was in my arms again, even if only for a minute. I held her as tight as I could.

Minutes passed. Eventually, she told me that she had to leave, and pushed me away the same way I did to her months before. She turned, said a quiet "I love you," and left.

I walked home without looking back, and without crying this time, although I knew the next night she'd be getting fucked by some new guy. I made it back to my apartment and called her in Jersey. She obviously wasn't home yet, so I left a message. "You know, I know you said it a lot, but I don't think I told you tonight. I love you, too."

I hung up and went to sleep.

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This is a placeholder to remind myself that I had an excellent evening. 230 Fifth - good venue. Good company. Good time. Even if sometimes you just keep the story to yourself at the end of the night, it's good to remember that it happened. The parts about having someone stand on one foot, for example, would make an excellent story, but for another time. Discretion. Valor. All that.

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Went out and saw Princess's band perform last night. Her bandmate saw me and squeeled "It's the lawyer! Look, it's the lawyer!" I quickly told her that I wasn't a lawyer for much longer. Princess was bombed out of her head, but was very pleased to see me, and pointed out that so many friends of hers were there. I had to slip out early, but I was glad to see her being happy and successful. She's gotten good write ups in avant garde places, and I hope those continue.

Princess introduced me to her new man, Equips, and he seemed like a decent dude.

Is it weird that I root for my exes to do well even after we're done dating/fucking/whatever? There's no one I've ever slept with, not even the cheaters, that I harbor bad feelings towards that this point. I hope they accord me the same well wishes, but I can think of a few instances - the Buffalonian springs to mind - where the answer is most likely not.

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I have a noisy neighbor. She screams, loud, as her (I presume) man fucks her. I'm an auditory person. I find this hot.

I've had noisy lovers before. I miss them. The writhing, the noises, the moans, the screaming. The wake-the-neighbors sex, the dirty looks in the morning.

I remember when I was seeing two women at approximately the same time I was talking to my next door neighbor and I said that I had to go clean up, I had company coming over. He laughed and asked me - "so who is it tonight? Oh My God or You're The King?" It was Oh My God. I miss loud messy lovers that inspire me to get sweaty and violent, biting and groping and scratching and forcing and relaxing and generally messing around. Lately I've had a string (Surfette excepted) of extremely delicate flowers and this does not make me happy. When told that I like to tie women up and do unspeakable things to them, they usually titter and giggle and assume I mean other women. And frankly, after the performances they put in, I do.

Last night July 4 came over. Since we met, she's called and txt'd me every day. Sometimes I take them. Usually, not. I realize, looking back, that this is obsessive behavior of the most annoying sort. She has me on the same pedestal that most men put beautiful women on and I understand why beautiful women act the way they do in response. A mix of disdain and "of course you can do nice things for me, now go away." Because they can.

Over dinner at a nearby wine bar, I discussed my past history, and listened to stories of hers. I have been made fairly uncomfortable by her use of the term "darling" to describe me. She told me about her best friend, married for several years, and totally supporting her husband. "If I was married to a rich guy you can damn well bet that I'd be attentive to his every need." I shouldn't wonder if that's true considering how attentive she'd been to me. But by that same token, the more attention she paid, the closer she clung, the less attracted I was.

In an effort to make her realize that I'm just another guy, I admitted that when we met I did pick her up, although she asked for my number. She didn't want me to think of her as forward, so she reminded me that instead of going for her cheek when I kissed her goodnight, I went for her lips. I told her that I'd also subtly had my hand on the small of her back, walking her from her seat at the bar to a place to stand and smoke outside. She thought back and remembered it, noting that it was very subtle. That I'd basically taken over the situation from that point and she was putty in my hands. Yes, I'm good at what I do, it's subtle and it's easy. I'd earlier told her that she thought she was the cowboy in our little movie, breezing into town and strutting her stuff, when she walked instead into a Vampire movie where the cowboys were a snack on the way to dinner. Since it's easy, though, what I now need to do is add a layer of filtering to filter in only those that are what I'm looking for and filter out anything else.

I really don't want to see her again. We did have sex last night after watching a movie. After each of our prior sessions, she would make me stop before I was done, but only because it was taking so long and she was starting to get uncomfortable. Last night I had no such problem, getting her on all fours and then laying her on her stomach, finishing within five, maybe 10 minutes. She was shocked that it went so fast, and secretly, I think, pleased.

I slept isolated on my side of the bed. This wasn't Surfette or a woman like Surfette, in fact, I was convinced that this woman isn't for me. So I folded my hands under my opposite arms and slept, all elbows and knees, facing away from her. I didn't want to encourage intimacy, I didn't, frankly, want to encourage anything other than sleep.

When we woke up in the morning, she made an offhand comment about my not being very interested in her last night which I shrugged off and ignored. I showered and dressed, having an 11am meeting, walked her out, walked her to St. Marks, and gave her a goodbye kiss. She said something like "I hope you have a good day" and I said "thanks" and didn't reciprocate. I think that's an unspoken goodbye. If it's not, I will make a spoken goodbye soon.

Life's too short to not look for that which I've identified as that which I want. So - that's what I'm doing now. I'm looking for something specific. A certain type of spark in a woman - I know the spark I'm looking for, and after so many mistakes, I know how to hold it, and fan it into a full-on flame, too.

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Dinner with Surfette tonight started with "I have an 8am meeting, I can't stand it." Which clearly meant I am sleeping at a friend's place.

I wonder what happened. I have theories, but don't know. And don't care.

It was a fantastic eye opening experience and I learned quite a bit about myself, about LA, and about what I'm interested in.

UPDATE AN HOUR LATER: I'm not sure what I was expecting, but the hot to cold thing has thrown me for a bit of a loop. I did kind of expect this reaction, kind of, but I didn't expect it so soon. I hope The Biter was right about there being another man, then I'd be less worried about it having been something I said. Either way, i'm frustrated, albeit more emotionally than sexually. Sex is easy to find. Someone worth talking to for 36 hours is a lot harder.

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LA is fantastic. Surfette is as cool as expected, and as much fun to spend time with. And as sexy. Instant connection.

Don't know if anything will come of this lunatic trip. Spent two days on Venice Beach so far and am now in Brentwood.

Surfette took me to a party last night and I noticed something interesting. Talking to anyone other than Surfette was easy. Talking to her was a little more stilted. I think I know why that was, too - I cared about the outcome, worrying seconds after I said things that maybe I'd said the wrong thing. With everyone else, I leaned back, relaxed, and had my way with them. Until a certain tipping point moment last night when I noticed that effect and started treating Surfette like I treated her friends, all of whom gave me a thumbs up, and many of whom wanted to know if we were dating. "No, he's just in for the weekend." That doesn't tell much of the story - we were getting along famously before the parties and the bars, and I just got all self conscious when surrounded by her friends.

I was wondering what it was that I am attracted to about her and I couldn't put my finger on it. She's pretty, but this is LA where a 10 only gets a 9. I realized what it was - it wasn't her looks at all, not her fine ass, beautiful smile, or eyes, all of which were killer but not LA-10. It was her personality. Which has made me think about quite a number of things, in particular the fact that perhaps my "type" is based on who someone is rather than what they're wrapped in. You still must be this tall to ride this ride though.

July 4 and I spoke just now and she told me that I should have fun, get debauched, but please practice safe sex. This from a girl who texts me 5 times a day and left me three messages in two days. Interesting data point.

There is so much more including two beach days, cribbage, "do you want to sleep on the couch or the bed" and large numbers of times I found myself speaking, worrying about what I'd said, and then not worrying.

This is, I'm pretty sure, a fools errand, what with the country between us and the general MO of things, but it's a fascinating adventure.

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That's it. Tonight's the night. Flying to LA to see Surfette who informs me that I'm on my own on Saturday (should be interesting) and I have no idea if that means that I'm out on my ear after Friday or what.

It's a long time since I had an adventure. Maybe I've never had one? This isn't really one, I mean, LA is hardly roughing it. But - when I land the expectation is that the first thing we do is, and I'm not making this up, go to essentially a party of all of her girlfriends. Which is going to not be weird at all because I'm a fantastically social person now that I've learned to relax. But then, how do you tell everyone at a party "I met this girl in a bar about a month in a half ago, we had insane chemistry, we spoke on the phone and chatted a bit, and now I'm here."

As The Biter pointed out - I'm going out there blind and the first thing I do is meet her friends. The Biter's exact words? "Harsh."

Who cares. It's going to be fun, I'm excited.

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So, following in Lexs footsteps, I bought myself an iDouche.

Out. Again tonight. Meetng my friend from High School for the opening of a new bar in my neighborhood. Opened by the bartenders at a local of mine. One of whom was heard to say that in the memoir of his life, I'd have an entire chapter dedicated to my escapades.

Assorted regulars are there, cheering the event on. Drink beer instead of tequila, figure thats a good start. Anything's better than last weekend.

Talk to high school buddy for some time. Show off the iDouche, which he's also got. Girl who looks an awful lot like Surfette clinks glasses with me. Introduces herself. Clinks with my friend. I tease the other girl that she's not clinking and start working on her. I'm here to make sure my high school friend has a good time.

We all talk. Pair off. One group, then the other. I talk to Surfette lookalike. She tells me that she's in New York for the week from London and that I'm cute with my curly hair and that I should take her number in case she needs a guide. She putters to the bathroom.

Her friend looks mad. Her friend, who has just the sort of large and bouncy breasts I want to play with, gives me grief about taking her friend's number. I make a mental note to give the cuter friend to my friend as I'm here to show him a good time.

Passing each other back and forth and it could be on for anyone. I get too close to the non-Surfette one, that inches from face moment that you know is the tipping second and she reaches in and kisses me. I start to worry about the number of people in the bar that I know. I don't want to make a scene. They know what I'm capable of, but I feel bad anyway. I don't want to make a scene. In my head, I keep hearing "this can't turn out well" as I remember that July 4 used to work with these people and strikes me as slightly mad.

Talk the one I'm with, who, incidentally, I never got a name for, to come outside with me and make out on a street corner. It's more secluded.

More kissing. Not much fondling, I'm mainly in the mood to kiss. I want the heat, the electricity, but I don't want anything else. At the end she pulls away telling me that clearly I'm a player. Well, yes. I ask her to come home with me for more kissing, in a secluded spot. She says that she wants to, but she's concerned for her friend. I tell her that she should take care of her friend instead of coming home with me. She tells me that she wants to come home with me, but I'm firm about not letting her. Kissing is good. Complication is not.

I never got her name, nor what she does for a living, or any details, really, despite having tried.

I did get a text just now saying that it was the highlight of her last two days. That's a good start to my week.

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woke up this morning to find my clothing in a pile on the floor, vaue memories of last night, blood on my toilet (from throwing up), a massive hangover, angry text messages from a friend, and vague memories of seeing one of my colleagues out last night, and massive worry about how I might have acted. I think i have a drinking problem.

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July 4th came out last night at 11:15. My bartender teased me that I was going to get laid if I had a date at 11:15. I told her that I hoped not, I am trying not to have sex with too many new women right now.

We met at 11:20 at a bar down the block from my apartment, two drinks there, up to my apartment, family guy in the DVD player, making out, sex shortly thereafter.

In debriefing with Chet today we both agreed that I'm getting to be too easy and need to step up what I'm doing to go after the women that I'm really interested in, rather than whichever ones talk to me long enough to have their pants charmed off.

I once again have no goals in this area, I'm not looking for anything specific, so it's hard to put together a path to get there. I need to come up with a goal.

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I made plans to fly to LA to see Surfette after much daring and asking on her part. A drunken July 3 text message sequence ended with her promising me elephants and tamborines to greet my arrival.

That was all until I sent her the text saying that my flight was X and that I'd be in LA on the night of July 19.

Her response: Wow. Ok. Game on, then.

I have no idea if that's positive or negative and I frankly don't care. I'm going to go have a good time, and I'll bring my credit card in case I need to emergency crash at a hotel for a few nights. Or wherever.

Last night I went to a party, as did most everyone, but this was a little odd in that I went to a party in a penthouse in Chelsea to accompany the woman I met on Monday night. Which was weird because I had, well, met her on Monday night. Into the Lion's den I went, finding out that she was 38 was a shock (although I told her she didn't look a day over 47) and that most of her friends were far more successful and a little bit older than me as well.

She had an exboyfriend there, a partner at a firm whose name I know. I kept my mouth quiet about who I was and where I work as I didn't want to deal with that.

The night wound down after awhile and we weren't quite the last to leave but left soon after. We walked from Chelsea to Union Square as we looked, in vain, for an open bar.

"Do you have an movies at your place?" I'd told her earlier of my big TV and the hijinks that caused me to get it.
"Of course."
"How about drinks?"
"I have those too."
"Let's get some mixers and watch a movie. I hope you don't mind that I'm a smoker."
I told her that my very first kiss when I was 17 was with a smoker, and so I'd developed a thing for kissing girls who smoked. She smiled at that and lit a cigarette.

Into a cab, off to a bodega, up to my apartment, and of all the movies to pick, she chose Alfie. An ironic choice, but we watched it anyway. I told her that I saw myself as the main character many years ago but decided to get over it because I didn't like being a douche. She laughed until the end of the movie when she said "So am I the Susan Sarandon character?" I told her she was and she playfully punched me in the arm demanding I take it back. "I'm not that old!" It's true, she's not.

Her body reminded me of The Jaguar as we kissed and fondled and groped and played on and off for many more hours than we should have on a school night. Tall, thin, made of all muscle, responsive and fun to touch. I told her that I am not having sex with lots of new people right now, although I'm totally comfortable with anything else. She accepted that, and we dozed off to sleep wrapped up in one another.

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The Rocker came out and met CollegeBestFriend and me at my bar with her friends. My first comment to CBF was that hanging out with her and her people seemed like a lifestyle choice. I've seen that before - tight cliques who have their own language, shorthand, etc. I'm not one of those people, and I don't fit into those groups.

I was wearing the T-Shirt that Chet and CBF had me buy - a black ill fitting number that reads "You're Not The DM of Me." The Rocker's very cute friend asked what a DM was and I turned to her guy friend and said that I was sure he knew. He claimed not to, so I proudly proclaimed that it meant "Dungeon Master" just before spilling my drink all over her. At which point, she looked at me aghast, pointed at the bar and demanded I get her napkins. The guy looked at me and said "you should tell her that she's not the DM of you!!" I laughed, did, and cleaned up the mess.

Shortly thereafter, they venue-changed me to a bar that I am not terribly fond of, one with a photo booth, and one with just plain not my people. I was realizing, sober, that The Rocker isn't for me either, but I played along, because why not. She's got a fantastic personality, just not who I want to settle down with, and that's what this Bad Man is looking for, eventually.

The night progressed, Whiskey was drunk, kissing happened, photos were taken, more kissing happened on a street corner in the rain, another couple came up and started making out about a foot away from us, on the same street corner, and I told The Rocker that it was my bed time, and that she could either come home with me, or that I'd walk her to the subway.

"If you want me to go home with you, you just have to ask."
"Would you come home with me?"
"Of course."

More kissing, more rain, walking home. Up the stairs, into my apartment, and then the needle came off the record.

Checking what's in my medicine cabinet, what's in my fridge, what's in my freezer, what's in my cabinets, and what's in my closet. I swore to myself at that point that I wouldn't see her again. But she was there, and I was a bit more drunk than I thought, so more kissing, making out, fondling, enormous (what's bigger than DD?) breasts, breast sex, and then a blissful four hours sleep. She scratched and massaged my back (in a good way) and left in the morning.

Won't see her again, but it was an interesting experience.

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"You have to use your powers for good." That's what my bartender told me. "How long have you known her?"
"I met her tonight."
"Really? Wow. You really have to use your powers for good. Seriously. Don't be evil. You're going to hurt someone." We spoke, briefly, about my limiting beliefs, which are disappearing fast in the face of counterexamples. I'll transcribe, when sober, the notes I took this past weekend. Reality seems to be much better than I imagined it.

My bartender was there the night I met Surfette, and was there tonight when The Rocker took me down. i was speaking to him after moments of throwing her against a van, a phone booth, and a wall, pinning her hands over her head and making her moan with pleasure just from a kiss.

"You're totally nonthreatening. You're like a teddy bear." she suggested earlier in the night. I nodded that I was. "You cultivate that, don't you." I nodded again. She laughed that beautiful laugh that told me she was onto me. Didn't stop me, and didn't stop her.

"I'm not harmless. I'm warning you. I'm not harmless at all." She didn't seem to care.

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BattleScars (A terrible name) is now called Surfette. Also of note is that I've now gotten email from more than one of you. Thanks for that, it's nice to know you're out there, and it's good to be back. Feel free to use the comments!

I had a lot to say to you tonight, but too many Jamesons stopped me from saying them.

I was planning on having a short night, drinking enough to get the courage up to email Surfette (hey, they're my neuroses, don't make fun) and I went out for a drink to warm up for that. Jamesons, being a good writerly drink, was the choice for the night.

For the first hour or so, there was an engagement party and I talked to Cocktail waitress about Surfette, women generally, and I think she's probably tired of my claiming to be shy. I think, candidly, that I'm not anymore.

I was also there on a mission. Watch the interactions of the people there. I wanted to see what was what - I've never done that with a purpose before. Sometimes it happens, but my intent, this time, was to just observe. Talk to people, maybe, but mainly see who was interacting with whom and how the social dynamics of the room worked out. It was pretty amazing.

I took a seat at the bar next to a very cute brunette, just my type, the tall, thin, long shiny hair, the kind of woman you want to talk to in a bar but don't because she's sitting checking her phone and wondering where her boyfriend is. You know the sort. So I drank my drink, playing that most favored game - I'm drinking my drink and don't you dare try to take it from me. I'm good at that game.

At the same time, a guy walked up to shiny haired girl and started talking to her. I could read her body language pretty well - she wasn't having any of it. Kept checking her phone and glancing over at me, the bartender, the wall, wherever.

When her friend came it turned out not to be her boyfriend, rather a woman who looked like a younger, better looking, less addled version of The Cuban. My heart jumped into my throat for a second there, and then came back out again when I realized it wasn't her. The new girl cockblocked the poor guy who just stood there drinking for 10 more minutes.

Behind me were a pair of ironed-hair girls, one blonde and one brunette, clearly out on the prowl but not wanting to admit that. I turned at one point and told them they'd missed the bartender, and they looked back with the deer-in-headlights that you give when you really want to talk but are shocked that you're actually talking. I turned my back on them immediately and went back to observing my Jamesons.

Minutes later the guy was in and talking to the two of them. I don't know how he did, but when he ended that conversation, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "If I said you got blown out of two sets, would that mean anything to you?" It didn't, but he put together what I was saying and got both offended and interested. He went through the expected "are you hitting on me" and when he found out that I was giving him unsolicited tactical advice (stop saying Fuck every other word) his interest spiked and asked "what's your deal?" I didn't tell him who I was (or, more to the point, who I am here and that I'm a trained professional and such) and instead gave him more unsolicited pointers.

He walked to the bathroom and I tapped another guy on the shoulder that I didn't know, this one that I'd seen many times before. I introduced myself to him, got his name, proceeded to memorize it, and will consider him part of my entourage from now on. Every time I see him he's with a beautiful woman. Good guy to know, I think.

I turned back around and the brunette started bumping into me. Clearly had to talk to her too, so I started in and she gave me her name, and the Cuban-lookalike gave me her name, and started talking.
"I'm Bad Man"
"I'm CubanLookalike, I've seen you around here."
"Nice to meet you finally" *sounds of oxygen being sucked out of the room, mental note that she's seen me before and commented on it filed*
They introduced me to the tall banker-type guy they were talking to who seemed both dull and annoyed that I was interfering, so I tried, unsuccessfully to make friends with him. Shortly thereafter, they left.

And I went and spoke to the Cocktail Waitress, mentally recording all of the names of the boys and girls I met. I told her that she wasn't allowed to let me go home with ugly girls, and she should follow the mandate of the MTA - if you see something, say something. She, as well as the bartenders, have been put on notice both of my singledom and my no-ugly-girls policy. I should note that I think, having told them that, I've become something of the pet project of the bar. After Surfette and I went home together, the next time I came in, they gave me hi fives, hugs, and told me how impressed they were. Strangely, only one of them had been there, but the story, it seems, got out. It's a strange thing, being me.

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They all have their own songs in my head. The NewYorker has a corner on all Hip Hop and Rap I've ever encountered. The Liberal has One Of These Things First (Nick Drake) because that was in her movie. The Cuban has Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad (Moby) based on a single kiss we had. SouthernBelle had Little Red Corvette.

And now BattleScars has Tonight Let's Dance (Elefant).

So, she didn't come over and I went to see a bartender friend at a bar in NoLita at 10:30 and when I got there he was pouring tequila for me, and cheap tequila shots for a pair of 21 year old Israeli boys. One of the boys, in a brazen show, walked around me to the girls sitting on my other side, said something salacious (I didn't quite hear it) that got a nasty response, and then, ego bruised, they left.

The girl sitting closest to me had long hair that kept brushing on my arm, so I figured I'd occupy my night with some conversation.

"Guys, I need a female opinion. I met a girl the other night..." and I told them the whole story. They were strongly of the belief that it was a serious connection. I'm not sure I would go that far over the cliff, but they were in complete agreement.

The night wound on and I tried to explain men to them - we point at what we want - and why New York is a terrible city to settle down in - any flaws you find in anyone are just as likely not to be in the next one, so just move on to the next one immediately.

The night wound on, more banter, they bought me a drink, and I admitted that I'd been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer before I went out. And one of the girls, the much cuter, younger, European girl with the piercing blue eyes nearly started shrieking she was so excited. She asked if I'd watched Firefly, and I complained about the ending of Serenity. She tested my geek cred by bringing up Babylon 5 and I challenged her authority by asking if she'd read the novels. She had. She agreed that the Technomage trilogy was dull compared to the other cycles, and so I got her number, so she can be my new bestest geek friend. I don't have a lot of geek friends, and I need to get closer to my roots.

If none of this means anything to you, that's because you're not an uber-nerd like me. But if it does, one thing it should mean to all of you aspiring casanovas is that there are beautiful women out there who share your interests.

For quite some time I've worried that I wasn't attractive, that women didn't like me, that women were scary, etc etc etc. None of it turned out to be true. Talking to girls is easy. When I told the two girls that I knew that women wanted to have sex more than men did, they both looked shocked for a second and then smiled, as if I was part of a club of enlightened men that they didn't realize existed. If only they knew, right?

After they left, another woman - Dharma - started talking to me, asking me what I had kept those two enraptured with for so long, and cheering me on for getting the number. So I told the story of BattleScars again, and the story of the evening, and she concurred that BattleScars was interested, but also concurred with me that she could also flake. I left at 3:30 happy and energetic and wishing I didn't have work tomorrow, leaving Dharma for the bartender, who clearly was into her.

Still no word.

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A hoped for rendezvous with the giver of the Battle Scars was prevented by family complications and an early flight to the opposite coast. Alas. So, off to visit a bartender friend and see what his bar looks like on a Monday.

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Lex and I were having cocktails, talking about his new marital status, the impact that's had on his meeting women (not much) and my recently single status. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a very pretty blonde sitting at the end of the bar talking to two other girls, but as it was guy's night, I left it as a mental note.

I rarely see Lex, and while I'm sure he'd've understood, there are priorities in a man's life. A man's friends are a higher priority than shiny things.

"Can I buy you guys a drink" came into my ear. I said that she could even faster than I processed that it was said beautiful blonde asking.

She bought us a round and chatted us up when one of her friends came over to, presumably, drag her away. Lex, in true Lex form, occupied her friend with talk about his wife and her boyfriend and his mistress.

The Blonde and I were engrossed in conversation about who can remember what, but she was clearly in the moment, so I kissed her. I made some innocuous remark about pain, and so she bit my tongue. Clearly, time to leave. I paid, grabbed her by the hand, and walked us back to my apartment.

In the morning, after I got her number and before she left, she pointed out a long scratch on my back, from my shoulder to the small of my back.

Battle scars.

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"Is the view better from up there?" I asked as she was standing on a couch, surveying the bar.
"No, I'm too short to see my friends."
"Ah. I'm coming up there with you."
"I'll come down."
"What's your name?"
and it was off to the races.
5 minutes later her friend walked by to tell me that she needed a hickey.
15 minutes later I'd grabbed her and was grinding with her on the dancefloor.
an hour and a half later, she told me she was tired and going to bed.
"Would you like company?"
"Sure." And off we went.

I've been spending a lot of time on the approach phase of my interactions with people. Since I started, I've been getting good at it incrementally. Walking around with Chet last night, I spotted a woman looking lost on the street and without thinking started talking to her, offering to help. Until now, I would have had a whole converation with her in my head, but not in person. I was quite pleased with myself. Reviewing the archives here, I see that this has always been a struggle for me. I'm glad I've decided to get this part of my life handled.

In other almost-as-important news, I cancelled my Cable TV, now I'm going to have to find something else to do with my free time. Reading, for example, which I stopped doing in the face of watching Scrubs. Terrible choice, Cable. So much better off without.

So - new motto - Fortuna Favet Fortibus.

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So, another stall out for me. Out with Chet at Libation. Five very hot girls dancing together, made themselves known to us, the hot tall blonde girl in the group locking eyes with me and then me stalling out. Why? Unstalled as she was about to leave.

Conversation later with my cocktail waitress about this, asking why, after dating a lawyer, gogo dancer, strippers, escorts, actresses, hostesses, etc, why was I having approach anxiety. No answer, but good to get the question percolating.

Future said something about Talent and Skill. I have talent, but not skill.

Talent is born.
Skill is earned.

You must starve to acquire skill. More than that, you must stare at yourself with an unflinching eye, willing to say, "You need to unfuck that part of you!" while never stooping to level judgment. I never said it was easy.

I'm looking to develop skill. So, first move - I cancelled my cable.

One other note that was interesting - I was talking to CocktailWaitress about the stall-out at like 2am and I bleated that hotter women prefer hotter men, and more to the point, the beer belly that I developed over the last two years was hindering my self image. Her exact words were "women don't care about that." Interesting to note.

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On my way to work this morning, I opened a guy at Starbucks (based on trying to be generally more social) by asking him what he thought of the Jack Spade bag he was carrying. Not only did he open like a can of tuna under a can opener, he told me about the bag, how his friend works for Kate Spade and that the Jack ones have been less impressive in the last few years. Interesting.

Not interesting about the bag, I could give a crap.

Interesting how wide open a person blows when a simple question is posed to them. I'm going to see if those results are replicable with other issues and report back.

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So, now what seems to distract me is short skirts. Because talking to strangers has become, almost overnight, easy.

I don't want to overstate the case. Because I didn't do what are classically called "cold approaches" or anything, although I don't know why I think that, since I was talking to people (of both genders) for a portion of the night. I went out with Chet and his roommate, a cute French 24 years old girl who deserves a name but these days I don't feel creative enough to come up with one.

We had a bit of fun on our own trying to get to a party that we missed, and instead ended up at Sugar. Much of the time I just stood like a stone looking around and then I looked at Chet and said "I'm going to the bathroom, I'm going to harass people." For those of you who are dry-humor impaired, that meant talk to them...

Topic? The line. The night. Where they were from. Guys and girls. Social person. It's easy once you get started.

The cold approach in my mind was what Chet did, which was, when he saw a woman sitting on a couch looking lonley and bored, he sat down and started talking to her. When her boyfriend showed up, he befriended the boyfriend and made himself liked by the both of them. We then bounced.

Also interesting was that he befriended the bouncer. I have a lot to learn from Chet. He has a lot to learn from me, too, on what to do once he's befriended them. I was always known as the closer, he's the opener. We'll work it out.

Now some of you are wondering why I'm not writing about my sexcapades. I'm not having any. My relationship with The NewYorker matured me, or changed me at least, to a point where the idea of just having lots of empty meaningless sex isn't appealing to me. Some may be wondering why I'm not just going for low hanging fruit and starting back that way again. It's hard for me, after having been deeply in love with someone, to just jump back into bed with new women. So what I'm doing, and what you're seeing here, is me in a halfway point, dealing with an issue that was a sticking point in my mind until now - the sticking point was talking to strangers.

Chet raised an interesting confusion he was having when we were at Sugar, which had been echoed by the cocktail waitress at my bar. Her confusion was, if I could talk to her so easily, why couldn't I talk to everyone? His confusion was what my problem is. He described me in a way that I'd never heard before but when he did it was very clear that he was right. I was complaining about the short barely-ass-covering-skirts that were stressing me out into inaction and I said to him that I was "totally distracted by the shiny things out there." His response? "you know that you're the shiny thing they're looking for, right? You're living here in Manhattan and they've all driven over bridges and tunnels and gotten dressed up and shiny so that they can meet you and maybe you'll take them to your place in Manhattan." Hmm. I'm the shiny thing. Interesting. And probably right. It's all in the framing, isn't it.

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Office party last night. Set out with a goal of meeting three new summer associates so I could practice the cold approach in a safe setting. Success. Met one by the bar, one by the bathroom and one by the wall.

Why, you may be asking, is Bad Man having trouble with approaching? I always have.

Lots has been written on the subject and in theory much of it is very good. In practice, the minute I get into the scenario where there are new people, I freeze.

Chet and his roommate came out and Chet got one of my paralegal's numbers. Good deal, Chet, she's hot and extremely smart.

I have a lot of work to do to get from approach anxiety to approach excitement. One of the problems is that my state, lately, has been totally flat with the exception of one day when I was up. The other problem has been my drinking. I think I need to take an old friend's advice and drink soda or something when I'm out instead of getting schloo'd. Schloo'd is good when that's the objective. When the objective is meeting new people and or opening sets for the heck of it, drinking is bad.

I'm still ahead of 85% of the world with my openness and such. But it's the other 15% that I'm having trouble with, and I want to be at least in the top 5%.

There are games and tricks and such to do this and I used to be able to do it and the New Yorker was a master at it. Somehow, I've had it as my only sticking point for so long that I haven't come to grips with it.

The other issue is that because it's a sticking point, I haven't been filtering who comes in. I need to start doing that, as there's a surfeit of women out there and I only want to spend time with ones that are good for me.

This post typed up in the back seat of a taxi on my way to work, heavily hungover.

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Went to a party at Chet's place today, with all French people (due to his very cute now-24 year old french roommate) and his other roommate who shares my name and penchant for country. and western.

And?

Approach anxiety hit me like a ton of bricks.

Which was bizarre. I raised the issue with Chet who pointed out that of all of his friends that have met me, none haven't liked me, and the worst question asked about me was "is he high?" to which the answer had been a resounding yes. So, umm, what's my problem again? Besides needing Doritos?

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I'd forgotten how much fun it was to hook up with a new girl. In a bar no less. Just... fun.

She pulled an interesting move. "Do you want to dance?" And then once we were up and dancing, it was physical and we were touching and escalating of touching from knee to shoulder to dancing then making out. Not a bad way to cap the work week.

I recommend, if you don't have rhythm, get some. If you are having trouble getting some, ask someone for help. If you're still unable to get it, try country or indie music.

Also an interesting moment - we were standing at a bar and on the banquette was a rather big guy who she was afraid we were in the space of. So I leaned down and asked him. Big smile from him for being so polite, which seemed to shock but please her - that I'd gone and cleared that up for us. What is it they say? Lead the men and the women will follow?

So, that was fun.

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My girlfriend and I went to see Shock and Awe a go go at the Cutting Room on Friday night. We'd already seen Epstein and Hassan in their show The Black and the Jew which was pretty amazing and groundbreaking.

I'm sure all of the other sexbloggers and aspiring PUAs out there agree that everyone deserves to cum.

That's what their whole show was about. It was all of those good adjectives you hear - fun, irreverent, and sexy all at the same time.

We both got a crush on Sister Ammo and while I wish we'd had time to talk to her after the show, we had to run out to our next event. Sister Ammo - if you're out there - my girlfriend thinks you're hot, and I totally agree.

And Jessy Delfino? "My pussy is magic?" My girlfriend's been singing that at me all weekend to encourage me to fuck her more. Which has led to a little bit of chafing. So, thanks for that.

And if any of my readers are in NYC the weekend of July 7, and want to see a wild show, go to the Cutting Room at 8pm for a show different from any other show than you've seen.

Hope you're all having a happy fourth, and I won't be so conceited as to assume you've missed me since I've gone fishing here, but I missed you. Hope you're all doing well out there in blogland. Unlike Sir Italian, I plan to keep coming back here to post when I have the time and inclination. I'm just not in as bad a place anymore.

Love you all, and hope you all get to cum, whether it's alone or with someone else, soon.

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Dinner at Tao - excellent food, lousy waiter, lousy table, and so loud you can't hear yourself talk to the person next to you.

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By two in the morning, I'd been through a lot of shit yesterday. Work shit, Personal shit, girl shit, and none of it good shit.

I stood at the bar, my nerves frayed, and tried to rewrite my piece for tomorrow night. Instead, feeling like I was buzzing and very stressed out, I started talking to the woman sitting next to me.

She was dressed for Valentine's day, in a shortish skirt, tasteful fishnet stockings, and her lipstick was perfect.

I told her about my day. I kept some things to myself, like why I was in the bar in the first place, because to tell all is a bore.

We talked about the fact that she had taken the next day off, in case her Valentine's day went well, and so she was out all night. I had brief sentimental moments, late nights in Carnaval with The Beauty, late nights in Standard by myself, late nights in Tribe with a veritable plethora of beautiful women.

And then, when I realized how late it was, I said good night to her, and traipsed home.

It was, officially - my worst Valentines day ever.
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Yesterday, Athena text messaged me during the day. The upshot of the texting was that we agreed to revert to being friends - we were friends first, after all, and we've decided to uncomplicate things.

When I realized that I was done with my work and it was still early, I invited her out to grab a drink and talk like old friends do.

We talked for awhile, and had beers and sat in a dimly lit bar in the West Village. We agreed to meet there as it was neutral ground, far from both of our apartments. It helped lessen the temptation.

After some time sitting there, she started to rub my belly for luck, I assume, as she starts a new job today. She started to rub m