Saturday, January 7, 2017

Into the Great Wide Open

Hiya, deviants!

It’s been a strange holiday season.  

Strange and long.

It’s been so weird that on Tuesday, I was actually grateful to be back at my desk at work.

It was nice to be looking out the window at the sunshine on the snow, thinking, “What am I trading the precious and irreplaceable hours of my life for?” on a regular schedule again, coffee cup in hand.

I need structure in my life. A serious schedule.

Apparently, I need to be forced to wake up and go somewhere in -8 degree weather, to be strong-armed by capitalism into putting on clothes that are clean and could be seen by others.

Otherwise, I can’t be trusted to function. I’ll get hold of a long weekend and end up wearing the same pilled leggings for three days and watching Real World: Season 32 while tearing at a rotisserie chicken in the dark like a wolf.
[via pamlovesferrariboys]

Why were the last two weeks so weird?

I’m so glad you asked, faggettes!

Along with holiday-related things:

  • An intense windstorm ripped off my neighbor’s metal chimney cap in the middle of the night. I like to imagine it sailing gracefully through an arctic sky aglitter with stars before landing, in a freak coincidence, directly on my car’s rear windshield.

“It looks like a giant on meth took a crowbar to the back of this thing!” the woman at the insurance repair center chirped, examining my car. She poked playfully at the three-inch-deep crater in the metal under the windshield. “A chimney cap? How the heck could that even happen?”

I don’t know, Maggie.

She sent me into the waiting room to fill out forms. There was a mini-fridge filled with Diet Coke in there, but even the four cans I carefully put into my coat pockets didn’t make me feel better about paying the (shocking) deductible.

  • The New York Times published an article I wrote, in which I offered my hypothesis about where hipsters get their style from (hint: they steal it from us! aka the people that bring society many things worth having, including water-based lube and candid pictures of Holland Taylor and Sarah Paulson’s relationship.)

The NYT! Printed gay content I wrote!

  • I bought a bra and three pairs of underwear.

That last one—the bra—is actually the weirdest thing of all.

I bought undergarments.

It’s because I realized something in the last two weeks, sluts:

I have no idea how to date people.
At all.

I don’t know what “normal” behavior on a classic date—where both parties are single and interested in getting to know one another better—looks like.

I’ve always, always been in a relationship.
My first major relationship lasted 8 years, and it was open. Whenever I went on dates with new people, it was with my partner’s knowledge and permission. Anyone I went out with knew I had a partner at home who was OK with this arrangement.

My ~outings~ were usually implicitly designed around the idea that my date and I would both be DTF if the evening went well and we liked one another.

I used the internet. It was easy.

My second major relationship lasted 4 years, and it was monogamous for 3 of those years, so I didn’t date anyone else.

But now?

Dating is really confusing when you’re not just there to fuck.

How do people do this??

The underwear thing is what made me realize I know actually nothing about dating.

Ready for a backstory?


So: I don’t really...wear underwear on a day-to-day basis.

I don’t need it; I don’t understand what it's for.
For me, it’s like this extra layer of clothing that is totally unnecessary that also can really fuck with my outfit—pantylines are a real thing when all your clothes are spandex-blend dresses.

Now, please don't misunderstand: I love underwear on other people, and I love and own a lot of Structured Undergarments that I wear for the sole purpose of making myself feel like I'm wearing armor under my clothes when I go out.

But daily, regular underwear?

That’s too much, you can’t ask me to do that. I already take a shower every day and wear mascara, I’m exhausted.

Now that you know that:

I was telling Tawnya and her wife, Seven (I live with them), about an upcoming date I had the next night. They were asking me what I was gonna wear, and I was telling them about the planned dress and shoes.

Tawnya looked over at me from the table she was working at and said, “Yeah, but what about underwear?” (She knows me.) “Have you thought about it yet? What if you guys come back here and make out?”

“Why would it matter what underwear I’m wearing if we make out?” I asked.

Innocent as a lamb.
Newly new to this.

Seven looked hard at me. “Because what—you’re going to make out on the couch and it’s gonna get heated and your date is gonna maybe get into your clothes and find...nothing?”

“...Yes? So? I don’t wear bras or anything unless I’m at work,” I said.

I was getting alarmed.

Tawnya: So you’re telling me that if this date turns into a heavy makeout session, and maybe someone’s hands go into your pants, because you want them to, that what they’re going to find is...your naked crotch?? That’s like—that’s like skipping bases.

Seven: Yeah, that's like 0 to 100 real quick.

Me: Are you telling me that I should be wearing underwear to be polite to others?

Seven: No! You should do what you want. All I’m saying is, if I’m going into someone’s pants during a makeout, and it’s our first time making out, and there’s no underwear, it changes the energy a bit.

Tawnya: With underwear, you have another barrier. Something to play with. Time to think. Without underwear…

Seven: Decisions have to be made.

Tawnya: Exactly.

Me: [bleating] But I don’t have any underwear.

[Silence. Tawnya and Seven glance at each other.]

Seven: Are you serious.

Tawnya: She’s serious. She doesn’t.

Seven: Get your coat, we’re going to the mall.

And that is how I found myself stripped naked to the waist with my cackling roommates in a hot pink dressing room while a saleswoman who smelled aggressively of vanilla flung lacy “balconette” bras with matching thongs at me.

I was buying politeness underwear.
Underwear for dates.

I walked out of Victoria’s Secret (yes! my god) with a pair of pink “boyshorts”, a pair of black panties with a see-through mesh ass window, and a pair of black lace panties that matched a black lace bra that made my boobs look like two elegant, steep sledding hills.

I had to carry a big, pink-and-peach-striped Victoria’s Secret bag through the mall.

Everyone could see me.
Everyone knew.

An old man winked at me.

I’m still not OK.

I went on that date, you sluts.
And I wore my goddamn politeness underwear.

It was, I realized, my first-ever “classic” date—I’m fucking 33 years old, and this was the first time in my life I went on a date with a brand-new-to-me single person as a single person who did not have to factor having a partner into the equation.

The date went well.
We drove back to my house and sat in the car.

Things got a bit quiet and awkward. I didn’t know what to do.

We had just met that night! Were we supposed to kiss? How could I kiss someone I’d just met?!

It felt awfully fresh—cheeky, even.

“..OK, well...thanks,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

My date wanted to kiss, I think, but they weren’t initiating anything.

I wasn’t about to make things easier.
In my new life, I’m not helping people date me. If you want it, come get it, you know?

My date smiled, nervous.
“See you soon?” they said.

I touched their shoulder and opened the car door.

“See you soon,” I said, and walked into the house.

The first thing I did was take off that stupid underwear.

What else don’t I know about dating, gays?


  1. I'm so happy you're back! We missed you!

  2. Yourroommates are incredibly wise. Heed their advice as their wisdom will guide you well.

    They didn't pay me to write the above statements.

  3. If you figure out how to date, please share your ways. I'm 37 and haven't a hot clue.

  4. There are very few people who succeed in making me cackle out loud. GLAD YOU'RE BACK!

  5. I'm so glad you're back! I've been checking randomly every few months and it finally happened! You're the reward for getting through 2016

  6. Everyone does dating differently. It really just depends on the individuals involved. That's why I like dating apps. You can talk FIRST and know what to expect, before you even GO on an actual date.

  7. I just read your NYT article! Awesome!!! It reminds me of a conversation I had with my roommate the other day:

    Me: Hipsters are so confusing. All the awesome lady gays are hidden beneath seas of hipsters who want nothing to do with me. It's like camouflage. Unfair camouflage. And who knows? Maybe I'm even passing on gay ladies because I've been beaten into believing lesbians don't exist anymore..they're all hipsters. "Are you smiling at me because you like me or because your job description requires you to do so?"
    Her: Hahahah oh my god that's hilarious.
    Me: Yeah it's funny until your life depends on it! Hipsters are breaking my gaydar.

    Also also also my current girlfriend rarely wears underwear and it was honestly a nice surprise sooooo you do you!

  8. THANK GOD YOU ARE BACK. Some queer-ass relief as America goes to shit. To answer your question...

    First Dates:
    Coffee = a nice chat, no kiss; Drinks = probs DTF; Dinner = uhm, UHaul much?

    That's how it feels in Chicago anyway.

    I've been single for 2 years and I still have no idea what I am doing... clearly. Thanks for writing again.

  9. Hello again Krista :)

    I don't know how to date either. I normally become friends with someone and then either on purpose or accidentally (with an alcoholic catalyst) end up in bed with them. If sex is good I might suggest something more. It's mostly been with men because the gay ladies have been hiding somewhere. Maybe amongst the hipsters lol

    I found a pretty lady downtown at her work and I got half way down the street and realized I probably should have given her my number. Pretty sure she was flirting and I was just oblivious. Then I flew halfway across the country. Is it still cool if I go back about a month later and ask for her number or is that too late?
    lolol I felt so dumb..

  10. I mean, you don't have to wear underwear on dates! You could just tell the person that you're not an underpants person so that there are no mid-makeout-sesh surprises.

  11. So glad you're back!

    Stay gay,


  12. P.S. Next time you're in California, hit me up. I love girls who don't wear underwear...


    Oh, and I'm a lady, of course.

  13. Bless you for coming back. I feel like I'm in the same boat with dating, tell us more!!

  14. I am so excited you are back! Been married for a long time so can't tell you shit. But please expand on your shenanigans. precariously through you.

  15. I have religiously checked this page every few months waiting for your return. You were so missed!!

  16. Glad you're back, but seriously embrace being independent. You're 33 you need to mature, the article is fun ...for a 19 year old.