No bullshit

Bad Annie went on a date with someone I met online. First online date ever – second date total in 30 years.

The ceramicist was sweet and smart and funny. Unlike the last date, I was very comfortable with him, my usual smart-ass self. We hung out for the whole evening, went back to his studio & made out on the couch. And I decided not to fuck him, at least not right then, so I came home. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before.

He followed up the next day, we’ve chatted a few times since, I’m seeing him again on Sat. It’s not going to be an earth-shaking relationship — he’s really not ‘boy’ enough to stand up to me — but fuck I’m bored, he is absolutely better company than being alone.

Hiked the Adirondacks last weekend – just lovely. Dreamt one night that I was writing poetry, well not exactly writing, I could see it visualized in the air in front of me, and I was picking words and phrases, working quickly, trying to pull out the right ones as it scrolled by and put them on the page.

New barriers broken today: I had an actual date with b-boy, it was in the daytime, and we went to his place. I had a spare ticket to an event and I knew it was something that would interest him, so I took a deep breath and invited him. He accepted and was good company. He invited me back to his place (side note: omg he has roommates, I haven’t lived with someone other than a lover since 1988). He had to do laundry at the place across the street, so we were on a timer (side note: timer is kind of fun). I found a new favorite position — him standing, me sitting, perfect height for his dick in my mouth plus gives him lots of control over the action. He repeated the “you should teach seminars on this” comment which I have to say just makes me happy. It was a good day.

The other night I dreamt that I was taking care of someone’s baby, probably about a year old. She was crying and I started talking to her like I do with babies, like they’re sane and sentient. And then she answered – in full sentences. Still sort of like you’d imagine a baby would talk, but fully conversational.

Last night I dreamt that b-boy texted me and asked if I was on foursquare, wanted to confirm it was my usual login (which I don’t think he actually knows). Had to check my phone when I woke up to be sure it was a dream.

May 22 and I didn’t cry. I knew what day it was, and I’ve spent some of the usual time thinking about S. and letting my heart break just a little again, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to post a tribute on my Facebook — so many high school friends are there now — but May 22’s the day he died and that’s not the day I want to remember. May 21, even worse. Can’t begin to imagine what that longest day was like, for him, for his mom.

I’ll post something on his birthday in two weeks, maybe that will seem more fitting.

Four months later and the random booty-call text arrives. What the hell, I’m lonely. And damn, I have grown fond of b-boy. It was nice to see him, nice to have someone want to see me naked.

Woke up on time, scale says I’ve dropped another pound, coffee shop back to normal this morning, actually got to formally meet my neighborhood crush (we knew each other already, of course, but not by full name), got his card. Don’t worry, I know he’s married, not stepping on that turf, just nice to hang out though. He’s got such a sweet smile.

Worked from home today, took off for my annual gyn appointment and learned I’m healthy (which I knew) and that I got to skip my pap this year (yay).

If I could just find an apartment in my ‘hood to buy, and a more regular sex partner, I’d be a happy fucking girl.

Did I mention that ex-boy is moving back? probably in June. I seriously need to be having regular sex with someone else by then. Preferably someone I can drag out to the occasional party where there are mutual friends.

He was in town this week to see family and start sorting out move plans. Almost didn’t see him — we had made plans for dinner Weds that he cancelled on Tues, and I was supposed to be away for the weekend. My plans changed and I relented, we had dinner Fri. Didn’t fight, didn’t cry after, honestly, didn’t really care. I think that now that I don’t want to have sex with him any more, the rest of it doesn’t really matter. I am relieved.

It’s no secret Bad Annie prefers the company of men. I’d happy have sex with either gender but generally, girls are tiresome. I don’t want to talk about my feelings, I don’t want to gossip, and although I like your dog, I don’t want to talk about your kids.

I love my neighborhood coffeeshop. I go there every morning, it’s a ritual thing. All the regulars know each other, the baristas keep us up to date on neighborhood gossip. Weekends are a crush and I don’t enjoy it much, but weekday mornings are a haven.

I realized last week that I hadn’t been enjoying it as much for a while, until recently when it got nice again. And then it struck me: school had been out over the holidays, and so the mommys took over the coffeeshop with the kids. And now it had gone back to the boys club, me and handful of guys, occasionally another woman but someone like me. We make conversation in quieter tones. We crack sarcastic jokes. We drink our coffee and read the communal newspapers and go about our day.

I was still focused on that revelation when I went in this morning. Saturday and filled with non-regulars, crowded and noisy. The manager recognized the look on my face and said something about wanting the early morning boys club back. Funny we both hit on that description at the same time.

Did I mention Bad Annie went on a date? a real date, like a real girl. Met him at the usual bar on the night of the big snowstorm. He followed up the next week, made plans ahead of time, put some thought into where we went, paid for the drinks, walked me to the subway, somewhat chaste kiss good-night, called the next day, texted a ‘good weekend’ after. Oh, I’m not at all into him, but it’s very, very nice to be able to say my last date was last week instead of 22 years ago.

I’m sensing a trend here. In this one, I’m crashing at someone’s house on Houston St. It’s a real house, not an apt. In the morning we’re all getting up and tiptoeing around, turns out we’re not supposed to be there. And it’s a massage parlor, a skeezy one at that. We sort of get caught so I end up outside at the bus shelter with the masseuse. Neither the massage nor the sex it leads to are that good and I think, ‘aren’t you supposed to be a professional?’