Secondhand Girlfriend

As everyone knows, graduate school is for people who could not find the love of their life in undergrad. That's why it simultaneously pains me and pleasures me to see the end of my personal wedding season come to an end today... at least for a couple months. This past summer, marriage has practically become the new black, and with the possibilities that could unfold this November, my likelihood of marriage could go from potentially either gender back down to one, which would mean that for tax purposes, I would have to go back to seeing only women. Sigh, oppression.

And for any conservative Republican reading, I would like to let you know that if that does happen and the idea of gay marriage is extinguished by the reign of Romney/Ryan that my chances do not just dwindle from 100% likelihood of marriage down to 50%... no, no. It dwindles down to about 17%. And I'm here to tell you why: you see, when it comes to the dating world, I'm not the most confident person. Sure, I can be your man's man after a couple shots of tequila and something along the lines of a horse tranquilizer, but I'm not the kind of person that just randomly walks into a bar and shoots someone a line. I don't say any of the words on the following list: tits, the p-word that I won't even spell out, breastacles, rack, and the newly familiar term "hot pocket" (unless you're talking about the edible ones with chicken, in which case, yes, I will have one). Honestly, I'm more of the guy that you run into at Starbucks who spills his Pumpkin Spice Frappucino on your shirt, then incessantly offers to buy you a new wardrobe with money he doesn't have, and then somehow you connect with him over the free form jazz playing overhead that neither of us understand. Call me awkward, but after that moment... I'm a keeper.
But the problem is, I haven't been in many Starbucks lately because I'm pretty sure when I check my BB&T bank account the balance reads: three nickels, an orange piece of paper, and a two-thirds used tube of Burt's Bees, which leads me to believe that my bank knows way too much about what's in my pockets.
So instead, I'm left at the mercy of the people that I just happen to pass by. This week, in one of my graduate classes, I met a girl. She's cute and has an adorable personality, and honestly, the whole thing was a little intimidating. I haven't date a girl in years, and as soon as I brought her over to my apartment to watch a movie, I was immediately reminded why. As she was on her way over and I was desperately trying to simultaneously tuck in the couch cover and hide the duct tape penis that my roommates had made, it hit me. When I find myself legitimately interested in a girl, one of my male friends steps in, says something that automatically qualifies me as either: weird, a full blown homosexual, or sexually inept; and then moves in to claim his "territory." That could also be another downfall of mine; I've never believed any human to be territory... I'm pretty sure we extinguished that in 1863, but then again, I was an English major, not a History. But what a terrible feeling it was, hiding the silver penis with clammy hands because I knew that because of past occurrences, my fate was sealed. And in the middle of what could have been construed as a menopausal hot flash, I had another kind of flash... a flash back.
My experience with dating in high school was about as in depth as a mirage puddle in the desert. I had two girlfriends, and those "relationships" lasted about fourteen minutes. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first experiences with this friendship thievery or "lady jacking," as I come to later coin it. My freshman and sophomore years were dedicated to an on again, off again, somewhat polygamous relationship with my friend who actually got married today. Though we would just refer to it as passionate, most would probably have called it abusive on several different levels. Then, I spent the latter half of my sophomore year pining after a fellow RA who I'm pretty sure was dating another guy for the duration of that crush, which eventually led to the end of the semester, which I'm sure will be covered in a future post.

However, it was the summer after sophomore year that I fell for this tiny, petite blonde with giant blue eyes. If you will travel back to 1982 with me for a moment, I'm pretty sure that Michael Jackson would have referred to her as a PYT (Pretty Young Thang). And as interested as this tenderoni (last Michael Jackson reference, I promise) seemed to be in me, it all fell apart that she, my friend John, and me went night swimming. The night seemed to be a blast, and I was confident that I was making stellar progress on the flirting front, but then again, I always think I'm making good progress when it comes to flirting. I have the same problem when I play Mario Kart; I always think I'm winning until I glance around and notice that everyone is waiting on me to finish lap 2 so that I will be disqualified and move on to the next race. I had told John how much I liked her, and like most of my guy friends, he promised me that he would play wing man and totally get me the hook up. I never really wanted the "hook up" because if I learned anything in 7th grade sex ed, it was that when you have sex with someone, you're having sex with everyone they've ever slept with as well. As a twenty-two year old, that statement only reinforces my absolute fear of germs which may also explain why I've avoided traditional intercourse like the plague.
After night swimming was over, John offered to take Caitlin back to their dorm because it was so late, and that he'd see me tomorrow. Such a rookie error. John had left his phone in my car that night, so when I went driving the next day, I didn't notice it until the phone lit up... a text from Caitlin. "John, I'm so sorry for what happened the night before. I'm so embarrassed. We can't tell Justin." Luckily, Taylor Swift was playing in the background: something hateful and determined to keep me focused on driving instead of pulling a u-turn to drive through their dorm. And it wasn't soon after that my ex-girlfriend called me to ask if I had heard that John was caught have sex in the bathroom of Gibson last night.
However, while I may not be good at getting the girl or solidifying any kind of flirty moment, I am exceptionally skilled at exploiting these moments to their full potential. I picked John up later that day to give him his phone back, and I waited until he was buckled in. I wanted us to be on the highway; I wanted to make sure that even if he jumped out of the car that he would have some serious road burn to show for it. I turned to him and said, "So when were you going to tell me that you and Caitlin had sex in the bathroom?" He was frozen and with no place to go.
It was one of my weaker performances because I wasn't used to one of my friends taking someone I was interested in and doing the sex with them. But, as I joined a fraternity, I became much more well-versed in the politics of flirting, dating, and having sexual intercourse in the bathroom. Soon, it became sport to me, with my strongest showing being at a fraternity party when I announced that two people had just got done having sex upstairs. Our freshman year, we were instructed to find our vocation: the thing that made us happiest in the world. I assume that thing was supposed to be tied to some kind of monetary income, but alas, I had found mine elsewhere: exploiting and humiliating people that had sex with people I was interested in. Eventually, I would return the finishing punch to John my senior year by comparing the passed out girl on his bed to a "sitting rabbit that a hunter would never shoot" until she came to and ran out of his room. Then, I would go and make out with someone else in another room in the apartment (see A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings).
Sadly, the first story went awry anyway as the girl I invited over has a boyfriend, so like most cases with me and girls, I will assume the role of her brother/gay best friend/super cool guy friend, which is completely okay because I excel in those roles anyway. It is refreshing to know that with the very small number of people I've met in the DC Metro area, there really is much less personal competition in my life. However, the gay population is much higher up here, so when it comes to men, I guess I'll have to keep my dukes up. But as a romantic contender, I like to believe that I have grown as a fighter and a flirter. There are no rules in adult world; it's no holds barred. Pat Benatar said it best, Love is a battlefield. Oh, Pat... you're too insightful for your own good.