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I am...a New Yorker
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[Previous entry: "Trapped in a State of Imaginary Grace"]

Friday, December 27, 2002
Walkin' on Sunshine
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Seeing...
Someone special.

Flirting...
With a big, tall cute guy on the M101.

Kissing...
Someone else entirely, leather jackets crinkling together. What the hell is happening to me? Itís like spring in my pants again and I just want one, nice, steady smartie.

Marvelling...
That it took a boy from Brooklyn to get me out to a little bar in my own neighborhood. I dread drinking, thinking I canít afford it, but jeez, ya gotta have some fun once in a while.

I am...having such a good time with K. It's easy. Comfortable. Not in a bad way, like we are brother and sister or bored, but in that we are cooperative -- whether making plans, dinner, or conversation. We genuinely enjoy each other's company, as well as many mutual interests. There is a lot to talk about, there is much laughter.

There is also this giant, pink elephant in the room that I for one am ignoring -- afraid its name is Rejection.

Granted, I was sure he'd say no the last two times I asked him over. So I debate about emailing him yesterday and today, even though we talked about going to see Gangs of New York. He tries to explain nuances of sound on certain songs. When I say I am sure I will never pick up on such small details, he insists I will. "Youíll come over, I'll play it for you. You'll see." There are things like that, talk about doing things at some future date. But innocuous things.

Mostly, the difference with K is that it is nice to spend time with him. So many men don't care anything for what's between my ears. So few get that there is anything to me beyond my body (for better or for worse). So often, it is just excruciating to make it through a brief meet up, let alone dinner. K and I talked, ate, watched TV and listened to music for about 5 hours on Tuesday and I could have talked with him for 5 more. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. It doesn't get much better than that.

By contrast to what else is out there, this is wonderful. I went out with a guy last month who wore his wedding ring and stared at me goofily throughout dinner. I was flabbergasted about the ring and weirded out by the staring. And that was all before his Parkinsonís medication wore off without any forewarning. There he sat -- staring at me, not talking, wearing a wedding ring and having tremors. It was a bit much.

So much for celibacy, physical or emotional. The irony is that I'm not at all desperate, I'd rather be alone than with the wrong person. It just feels so right, so different. K has all the great qualities I like in my friends. Heck, he has friends, whom he talks about. So many men keep women in a small corner of their lives. There is this difference...once in a while, we stop when we laugh at each other's jokes or find we have yet something else in common and we grin and look at each other for just a little longer than is friendly.

It's the way he makes sure to compliment my cooking, to say my charred peppers are cooked perfectly. Or, when I tell him about my big, black-booted, ass-kicking days in San Francisco he isnít freaked out that Iíve beaten the crap out of some weirdo following me, nor does he say Iím a man-hater as a result. He just says, "As well you should" and rinses the plate he was washing.

I am not trying to rush, to have expectations, because the journey itself is fun. Yet it's hard not to want more with someone I really like. Tiny, Mighty K berated me last night for being "too nice" to K. She said he won't appreciate me because I cooked for him twice. If he is that way, better to find out now...rather than not be myself.

God knows I've been wrong before, but he just doesn't seem like he's going to turn. There is this calmness and sense of cooperation and acceptance with him that is just refreshing. Before we ever met and I declined his offered ride home from John's show, he didnít take it personally. Instead of ignoring my safety concerns, and trying to convince me he was a good guy, he simply said he understood and told me where he worked.

There are other things. He is good with the cat. He is sensitive to others, but not whiny about it. I know where he works. I know where he lives; I've been there and I've been invited back. I've met his roommate and another of his friends. He tells me about himself, his friends, and his family. It seems so easy to lead a double life in this city, to gloss over details, to pretend to be someone else.

Part of me thinks he's the real deal. Part is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or not.

[Next entry: "Limerant"]
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