What have I been doing since? Well, first up was the night before Christmas Eve. Like a genius, I decided to stay out until 4 a.m. with a close friend. As we left a bar in Lincoln Park and began looking for cabs, we ran into a guy I'd slept with before. I have seen him around my neighborhood (significantly west of LP) a few times but I primarily know him from a bad-choices 4 a.m. bar in Humboldt Park. He is known as "The Clapper" because he gets drunk, sometimes takes his shirt off in the bar, and always ruins the music by loudly clapping along at a very fast tempo. It's awful. The first time we ever made out, I was "taking one for the team" in an attempt to stop his clapping. No one was impressed with this amazing and novel idea, by the way.
So let's just say that, when I hook up with this guy, it is never one of my finer moments.
He offered to share the cab he and a friend had just hailed. He started holding my hand after we dropped the friend off. I don't think he was as drunk as he's been every other time I've met him, because he actually conversed with me like a normal and decent person, and did not clap once. He lives a few blocks away from me and told the cabbie to just drop him at my place. I invited him in. We drank wine.
The sex was okay, but he also decided that he needed to harshly bite and SLAP my breasts. The first time he slapped them, I (appropriately, I think) exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" He looked confused and asked, "You don't like that?" Really, dude? Is boob-slapping something you just do? Or do you maybe ask a girl if she likes it rough, first? He tried that shit again and I shot him down. We had hazy, unmemorable sex. He snuck out while I was "sleeping" (i.e. pretending to sleep and waiting for him to leave so I could go get a glass of water in peace). My breasts hurt for days. Though I got my period a few days later so that probably contributed to the ache.
Then came New Years Eve. I honestly wasn't looking for action that night. I mean, I'm always kind of looking for action. But I was just ready to go out and get drunk with some of my favorite ladies. We hit three bars, drank too much (I also tried 4 Loko for the first time and I truly think it heightened my inebriation because I actually didn't drink a ton that night), I fell down and skinned my knee. It was a great time.
We were ending the evening at a late-night bar when I met John. A common enough name that I don't feel at all bad about using it. Honestly, I remember: entering the bar. Taking several blurry pictures of their decorations. Ordering a specialty martini (drunk -- I am more a whiskey, wine and beer broad). Spilling half the martini on my chair. Then it's blurry and suddenly, I'm saying goodbye to my friends while waiting for a cab with John. Thus, I have absolutely no recollection of actually meeting the guy.
I know we went back to my place and I brought a Solo cup of wine into my room with us, which we almost immediately knocked over while making out. We had sex for a bit and then stopped because he had to pee. Fade to black.
My next memory is of the type I've experienced only a few times. I awoke and, with my eyes still closed, briefly wondered who and where I was. Still with my eyes closed, I became aware that I was on the wrong side of my bed, which I was sharing with someone else. I figured he was probably a real asshole if I couldn't even remember meeting him (supposing that my judgement must have been pretty compromised at the end of the night).
I opened my eyes to find a slightly older man. Good looking, full head of hair. He kissed me and we got back to business. This time, we didn't finish because he was too thirsty.
We got some water and began talking. He was not a creep. He was actually pretty smart and funny. Very political -- very far left on the political spectrum, which was sexy. We talked about music and politics and I was very turned on by it all.
After this post-coital getting to know one another, we had sex once more (and actually completed the act). He stayed and chatted a bit more before my ever-increasing hangover and his approaching work engagement brought an end to our afternoon together.
He told me he wanted to take me to see a documentary he'd referenced and we exchanged numbers. Now, it is my belief that a one-night stand between adults should end honestly and absolutely no false promises need to be made. I'm a grown woman and can handle the aftermath of an honest-to-god one night stand. He was ten years older than me. So I figured, you know, he really wanted to take me out.
So I was briefly in love with this witty, smart, charming man who was going to take me to a motherfucking documentary like some kind of proper person and not the degenerates I usually wind up in love with.
When he hadn't called a week later, I fell into a crushing depression. That lasted a few days.
Then I realized I'd made a horribly rookie mistake in believing him. But I was vulnerable. In the wake of the depressingly uneventful end of my relationship with D2, I was hoping to immediately meet the man I should be with. I had not really thought of D2 in terms of his potential as "the one"* but I had to know that someone who was better suited for the position exists out there.
Well, I guess it's not John. I may have to actually date to find someone, and not just meet a dude at a bar during a 3:30 a.m. blackout.
Next up, I will tell you of the pisser and the sad southern boy.
*I do not believe in "the one" but am using it here as someone I would accept as my "one," i.e. the person I could commit to very long-term, or possibly marry