If a man makes your “toes curl” twice, but wears platform shoes to hide his height, is it worth it?
I used to think my love life was cursed. Maybe because it was. Up until the end of last summer, I held onto a book that heavily dictated and layered the symbolism and foundation of the most serious relationship I’ve ever had. I treated it like a talisman. It sat on a lit bookshelf waiting for me to engage with it whenever I felt lonely
Romantic
Nostalgic
Free
Young
in love. . . sad happy, courting
ANGRY
Old
Staged.
Blamed. Framed. Frauded. Fantastical. Frantic.
disgusting
NEW.
Eventually, among a handful of other goods, I packed it up and gave it to a secondhand store. Half of me wanted to toss it, and the other half couldn’t. There’s the what-if factor. I can’t starve someone else of the one great love story I had. What if someone snatches it out of another’s hands, only to find it to be their sick version of emotional heroin that fuels an inspiration for a better life? I couldn’t rob them of that. Only they could rob themselves of that. Right? Right.
I’m glad the bastard is gone.
I equate so much of my life to sound and dating doesn’t get a hall pass. Although I do have hall passes. With synesthesia, voices that don’t register sound like dry rubber duckies scooting around on styrofoam. Keeping that in mind, I’ve dated kindly and with intention for my needs — on my end, while in search for whatever it was I’ve needed.
Some men have liked that part of me and some haven't.
Let me tell you, having sex in the second city has taught me less about giving validation to my partners and gave me an air of direction to my own life. My drive for the longest time felt like vengeance. I wanted to get back at all men because of the few men who put their face on my face and sucked my soul into theirs and made me feel small.
I blame Masterpiece Theater. You know, the show on public television? I grew up on that. Breasts heaving. The big eyelash “come do me eyes” met with don’t-touch-me dances. Kind of a weird sexual awakening where our society is now profiting off it with Netflix's hit show Bridgerton. Fine. Whatever. I liked to hate it first.
It’s not real. Pieces of it are. But what men want apart from sex is entirely separate to their personalities. And sex is almost always second to what they want with you in life. Jane Austen wasn’t well equipped in irony just because she wasn’t getting some. She paid attention to society. I think dating in the second city while getting some, contributed to my own voice.
Don’t date men whose names you can’t whisper in bed.
Take the one whose name took too long to say in bed, for example. He looked like Hollywood and drew like an architect — because he was. An architect. What he wasn’t, but wanted to be, was a model. I supported his masculine jawline, his skin routine and his strut routine. He read my writing and then told me he was working on something of his own, so I read his. Yeesh. What I didn’t support was when his dog ate my Crocs and he shrugged.
Deceiving looks will make you scream (in a good way).
When I went out with a fireman who matched my height, I didn’t expect to tower over him once I welcomed him into my bedchamber. Sure, you could call it catfishing when he stepped out of his hidden platforms and the gorgeous, thick dark locks of hair dropped below my nose. After he saw the shock on my face, the Short King explained why being short was so difficult for his dating life and suddenly his platforms felt silly and his hands and lips and laughter felt better than a white lie. From what I remember, the Short King made my toes curl twice in a row.
I’ve been the worst version of myself and the best version of myself in front of these people, and all of them have loved me in some sort of fashion.
Blamed. Framed. Frauded. Fantastical. Frantic.
Friend: Do not date unless you intend to be exclusive.
Chicago met me in a hard transition. I was coming off the high of hiking the Tour du Mont Blanc, my mother and I officially mended our wounds, and my closest friends felt like they were seeping into my skin to the point where I could spatter the mixture of our bond all over a paintboard and still nobody would understand how deep our love was. What the world doesn’t tell you is that when all of that goes away, your dopamine drops and your serotonin gets real sad.
Jumping on Tinder and Bumble and Hinge was a quick fix.
I found someone that stayed up with me texting and typing into the late hours and even met me at a twenty-four-hour church when I was bored and wanted gothic inspiration to write. He was sweet and doting and loved me hard. I needed the attention because I was starved for it. My brain was crashing, but I was a fool and so was he. Once I pulled the plug on the romantics, I lost a good friend. And you can’t mend something when you lead someone on for too long.
Stage presence isn’t everything.
One thing Chicago has taught me is that if you want something, you better go and get it before someone else does. Apropos, a man who can quote Shakespeare to you in bed — but only when they’re “on.” Comedians are no exception. Especially the ones who look like they are either going to burst out in tears or scurry off into an icy lake Michigan when they are parted from the stage. I’ve dated a few. However, there was one I dated that was either all there or never there and when he was there it was so intense I wasn’t sure if cupping his head in my hands was enough therapy to coax him through the next week of stage performance or enough touch for me to feel okay for his lackadaisical rejection.
Once you get comfortable with rejection, it becomes yesterday’s news and you move on before there are three knocks at your door asking you out for dinner.
He didn’t do that but plenty of men did and I can profoundly say I prefer a heads-up before someone comes a knockin.’
Stability is a warm blanket.
There was this lawyer who was shorter than me. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone for that kind of thing but thanks to the Short King, I gave it a try and started seeing him. He cooked me pasta from scratch and flipped me all the way over and wrapped me up until Tuesday morning. This man deserves a seat at the table with Chef Boyardee. Outside of the bedroom he dated me. Showed me around Chicago. Showed me that there are some men who have slivers of romance. When he almost got a strawberry tattooed on his ass to represent how sweet I was, I knew our love was on different levels. I left for Scotland for the summer and it set me
Free
In Scotland, I wrote and ran and hiked and explored. Like all people should when they are alone and single and have zero attachments. I can’t remember if it was the ninth time I plopped on top of Arthur’s Seat or when I was nose to glass staring at the da Vinci painting (wasn’t impressed) in the National Galleries, when I realized the advice on taking care of yourself wasn’t a joke. I was perfectly happy being alone, writing in my Airbnb looking out on the castle and listening to bagpipes harp their way in through my window every night instead of faking it with the fifth back in Chicago.
Romantic
Nostalgic
Yeah, that’s not reality. Skyscrapers are, though.
I came back home feeling complete and centered with the idea of growing old with my own success.
NEW.
Enlightenment
I swear when I hopped back on the dating websites, I was only looking for afternoon delight, and midnight, or whenever it fit in with my schedule. It’s too new and too good to write about. I don’t want to spoil it because I have a sour taste with lasting love because for me it doesn’t linger. But g——n do the orgasms. If that’s not enough to break a curse, I don’t know what is.
Header Image by Alex Carrasquillo
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