Missed Opportunities of an Audiowhore

Maybe my timing is off, or maybe I'm not as brave as I like to say I am, but lately I feel like I am surrounded by missed opportunities. I don't really feel like going into the details of the boring job-related ones, or the near-misses of my academic life, so I'll just cut to the chase of my love life - or the lack there of. I know this will come as a surprise to you dear readers, as this has never happened to me before, but I have a crush on musician. I know, how lame. It's like I can't help but fall for their stupid nonchalance (even though I know deep down they are just as self-conscious and awkward as I am). Sigh.  


Anyway, my newest infatuation is with this guy:



No, not the one singing, though he's a totally nice guy, but the guitar player, Cody Votolato. (Isn't it always the guitar player?) How annoying. To make matters worse, he wears jewelry, which I hate on men about as much as I hate a goatee. This dude wears his necklace like we are still in 1996 Seattle (where he's from). I mostly ignore that part and look at the tattoos... 


So I've seen this guy in two different bands a couple of times here in DC. The first time was with Jaguar Love at The Black Cat back in 2008, and I was convinced he picked me out of the crowd because I swore he kept looking at me during the show. Yeah, I might have made that up in my head, but it was nice to believe at the time, because the dude I was with was not worth the look. It could be possible - the show was in the Backstage (which is tiny), there was a pretty dense crowd (it was sold out), and I was directly in his line of vision (standing on a little platform just above the headline of the people on the floor down front). It doesn't really matter if I made it up or not, because I thought he was cute then, and still do apparently. 


Proven by the next time he came through DC with Telekinesis in 2009 (again at The Black Cat Backstage), and then again a few weeks ago to The Red Palace. I even met him this time around. Sounds great, right? Wrong. For some reason, my dumb ass left H St NE nearly immediately after the show was over (and after shaking his and Bob Boilen's hand). I must have had my OCD panties in a wad about catching the bus home or something stupid. Whatever. The point is, I probably could have hung out with Telekinesis, and The Love Language too, but instead, I bolted like some jilted high school teenager too embarrassed to ask my crush to the prom. 


If I had hung out, I might have been able to shake not only his hand, but the now-consuming desire to make sure I get to see him again. Even if nothing had come of hanging out (aside from feeling like a huge dork), and I had left with my yearnings still un-satiated, I could have at least claimed to have tried. What a Missed Opportunity. I hope there is a next time, and when that comes along I grow a pair and say more than "you guys were awesome". 


What an Audiowhore.     

Friends Come in All Shapes and Sizes...

And some come with a benefits package.

Back in the Fall I decided that I wanted a Fuck Buddy. I had the perfect guy in mind, - well, that just sounds wrong somehow "perfect guy" for this type of relationship, but anyway - someone I knew and trusted that I could have great, and safe, sex with. Someone I wasn't emotionally attached to, but could feel good about being with.  Someone who would most definitely give me an orgasm, spoon me afterwards, get me a glass of water in the middle of the night, and kiss me goodbye.

Things were good for a while, we were seeing each other frequently enough to keep our mutual sexual appetites satisfied, sometimes more than that.  You know, a classic Friend with Benefits situation. What every single, sexually active girl can hope for, right?

Well, then things took an unexpected turn. Pillow talk became less about the sex, and more about ourselves. We started becoming actual friends and started to care about each other outside of the bedroom. I even started to have expectations, even though I promised myself (and him, in fact), that the only thing I truly expected was clean sheets. How naive of me to think that my usually high rate of expectations wouldn't apply to someone I wasn't interested in truly dating, but was intimate with on a regular basis. Back a couple of years ago we tried to date, but it just didn't work out, and still wouldn't today. Somehow, despite all that history, he got under my skin. Against my better judgment, feelings developed. I suspect for him too, though he'll likely never admit it to me.

For instance, if a random memory of a naked embrace popped in my head, I literally got hot and bothered and would smile suddenly. I started to look forward to the guarantee of an orgasm if I saw him out. I started to assume we would spend the night together if we ran into each other. I started to roll my eyes at myself and say "shit" a lot when I realized this was happening.

I decided to take a break, because I realized that being my FB was not enough. But not because I want more out of him, but because I wanted more out of someone. I wanted all the rest of it. The dinners at home, the making out in the street, the back rubs, the showers any time of the day, you know, the stuff you get when you date someone. The stuff you're not sure your entitled to when you're just sleeping together. Not to mention, when your feelings start to get hurt, it's suddenly not so easy to ignore the red flags you tucked under the bed.

So, after careful consideration, I've decided to fire my Friend with Benefits. Try to go back to just being exes who are still friendly so it's not awkward when we see each other out, which we will. In essence, I'm breaking up with him.

How ridiculous is that? Stupid emotions, ruining a perfectly good Fuck Buddy. It's ok because now I can go back to just being single, and hope that I don't go too long without meeting a nice man who wants some expectations from me.

An Open Letter

Dear ________,

You will never be the love of my life. You're too selfish and so am I. I don't like to be anxious when we meet up because I'm secretly scared that you won't pick me. So I'll take care of that, and not pick you instead. I won't bother to build anymore expectations, I know you prefer me more simply. Well, I'm not simple. And I'm not sorry.

I also won't pretend that there are others like you to help me feel better about the whole thing. Instead I'd just like you know what I know. That I want to say things like, I'm too pretty for you anyway. Not that you ever said so. In fact, it's why you're mean to me. Like the little boy on the playground who would rather run as fast as he can to the top of the slide and pretend he doesn't want to be caught and kissed by the girl whose chasing him. Such a stupid game.

But it's fine really, because I want a man who will turn and chase me back. Who will care about me wholly, and tease me with nothing but good intentions. Because if you're going to be the shit that I'm knee deep in, it better be worth the stench.

In some ways it's too bad, we do well when we're tangled up together. When we stop trying to be our clever selves, and are actually ourselves. But the rules aren't laid out real clear, and sometimes I want company in my mid-afternoon nap. Sometimes I want to invite you over for dinner, or into my shower. But that means there would have to be terms, and I don't want make those with you. Because I might like you, but I don't love you, and you don't love me.

I'll miss you sometimes. And think of you when a song comes on, but I won't let you ruin that album for me because even though there were some strings attached, you decided not to see them. Which means it won't be so bad when I cut them. The only thing left for us in common is music, so I'll see still you around.

Oh, and thanks anyway...

P.S. Be good to whomever you finally decide you want to chase back.    

Scar Tissue

Funny how scars take shape.
Long and thin, barely noticeable unless you're close enough to try.
Made of yellow cotton, stitched together with an empty promise
Or not even that.
Ice buckets are warmer hotel mates than what lies between these scratchy sheets.
Sometimes they feel like an open wound,
Paper birds taking flight,
Late night whispers,
Good morning sleep in your eye.

I like bruises better anyway,
Even at the deepest
They're too shallow to stick around and cause any real damage,
And they don't mind company in their healing.
Scars are more solitary.

It'll be funny when you don't recognize me next time.

Looking sheepishly down at fingers wrapped in selfish skin

Trying to play that same song again.

You know, the one about knees

I'm still working on that backwards walk.

Or is that just the record scratching.

Vinyl scars -

Those do hurt the most.

More like a stretch mark though when you think about it,

A constant reminder of your growth rate,

of how you managed to scrape something else

a little too fast for just a scratch

And a little to deep to just heal and go away.

Ode to a Weekend

To start -  

a beer, a book and a little black heart.
A girls night out, followed by meeting a boy in the park.

On to hear a poem about holding hands,

I ache to reach out across the spans 

and let my fingers talk to his. 

Instead, I let right tips find my own left wrist.

Forget penance,
this is smiling at innocence.

What's next?
Fit a tight face in crowded place,

and laugh at my own damn pace.

Sigh deep when that song on repeat

finds its beat and lets you keep

thinking you're the breaker and not the broke

and that we can still hold on to hope.
This much is true upon finding that I couldn't be fonder
then to witness love at first sight
of a Daddy and his Daughter.
With a simple gesture, he has taught her
Nothing beats a good brunch date.
New York is full of those though, I suppose.

A deadline looms
and suddenly I am running the streets!
I leave behind the dead fumes

and come home to fresh, clean sheets.

Crawl into bed, 

and be damned if I don't dream of him instead.
To wake up with breath abated,
Oh how frustrated!
Not the way I thought this would end...
But those thoughts are not mine to mend.
And I will see you again, my dear weekend.

Repost of a Poem About a Mustache

I promise to have something authentic and of my own style soon... apparently I haven't been drinking enough to keep the creative juices flowing: So in the mean time, enjoy this brilliant poem by Diane Wakoski. Thanks Karen.

WHAT I WANT IN A HUSBAND BESIDES A MUSTACHE

Well, to begin with,
you might as well not apply for the job
if you don’t have a mustache (
     or any plans
     for growing
     one
          )
and I tend to like men who are not too
tall,
say 5’8” or 9”.
I like men with powerful shoulders
and prefer big hands.
no requirements for the size of your cock,
but you have to like to use it,
preferably just on-in me,
and be willing to fuck quite frequently at least until we’re 90.

That’s another thing.
I want a man to be steady
to plan to be married to me
at least 50 or
60 years
with no sabbaticals.

I like men who read poetry,
and men who write turn me on even more (though I know that’s
     trouble
In fact its such a dangerous line that I think I’ll reverse it:
men who write “don’t turn me on”)
if they’re good.
I also only like ambitious men,
men who will take their destinies in their hands
and try to shape them.

I want a man who is mechanical,
physical,
likes to build,
work with his hands,
perhaps even a sportsman,
but one who does all these things with intelligence
and preferably learned them from
books.
I like a man who has faith in books.
That means he’ll also have faith in me.
I’m a very long and imaginative book.

I’d also like my man to be a simultaneous traveler
and homebody,
one who would be happy working at home
with me
or equally happy
out wandering around
looking at new things with me;
one who found himself the key to the meaning of the world,
and who found me the key to the meaning of himself.

I like a man with good manners,
one willing to respond to the world;
a man who likes music,
and who has definite style.

One who could earn a living,
though I’d contribute a good deal;
one who wanted a real woman
and who loved her
for her womanly
accomplishments.

A man who reads.
A man who likes painting.
A man who likes to talk in bed.
A man who likes the sun but thrives in the cold.
One who loves to touch my body.
Who kisses often.
Who types his letters.

One who drinks bourbon.
Who can ride a motorcycle.
Who collects books.
Who has a big dog.
Who calls my name in his sleep.

So far, I’ve only met one man like this; but if you think you qualify,
write in for the application forms.
Truthfully,
you don’t have much of a chance against
this first candidate.
But I’m democratic
and want to give everyone a chance.

Include a photo of your mustache.
I have not yet finished my document
describing the exact kind of mustaches I prefer.
But that is an area of connoisseurship
to me.
Believe me,
there are some mustaches
that just wouldn’t qualify.

I am known for my
discrimination.

A Dream. The Moon. You.

A handsome man in a suit hurries down a white hallway. He is wearing a white button down shirt and a tie. As he gets closer to the end of the hall, it is clear he is approaching a closet.  He begins to take off his jacket and reach for the knob. He opens the door and reaches in to grab a new jacket, but instead of a jacket swap, another door opens and he steps through, becoming another man entirely. The new man stands still on the other side of the door and lets it close behind him. I don't know either of them.

Suddenly through my door I can smell cooked noodles in the hallway - and that is no dream. The people down the hall are stoners so I bet they are making mac & cheese to fight off the munchies and wait for the lunar eclipse that's supposed to take place in a few hours. It's supposed to mean something special, the eclipse, though I can't remember what exactly, kind of like a dream.

I hate looking up the meaning of a dream. It always seems to sound like the same vague interpretation with no real answer. Like a horoscope or palm reading. Or exercising an ounce of self control. Or over-thinking something until it is no longer obvious. Or forgetting that it takes a lot of courage to go out there and radiate your essence. That whatever it is you dream, it will likely reoccur, just like a man will walk through a door, and the moon will go into total eclipse.