Being out without Ann excited me. She wasn’t against alcohol, but she was a small Asian woman who had no tolerance and therefore rarely drank. And so I drank less. While this was good for me health-wise, I was twenty-six years old and living in one of the greatest cities on Earth; these were not supposed to be my “healthy years.” I was excited to go see music, get drunk, and stay out as late as I wanted.
But being out alone wasn’t the only reason I was excited. I was also looking forward to spending time with Kate Middleton’s friend Lindsay, whom I’d met once before at a party. Nothing had happened between us, except that I’d noticed she had great collarbones. There are breast men and butt men—I am one of the rare collarbone men. We are a small and misunderstood group. Her shoulder blades sprang from narrow shoulders, snaked under the straps of her tank top, and met in the middle, perfectly symmetrical. She had other attractive traits—a beautiful face and nice body—but those collarbones, man!
After the concert the four of us walked to a dimly lit, low-slung bar on the edge of Chinatown decorated with taxidermy animals that stared at us angrily, as if we were the ones who had killed them. It was a random, unknown New York bar, but it was cooler than the coolest bar in my hometown, which made me feel cooler than everyone in my hometown. Which is the whole point of living in New York City.
We hadn’t finished our first drink when Dustin and Kate Middleton had to leave because she felt the symptoms of an oncoming flu and wanted to get to bed.
“You guys leaving with us or staying?” Dustin asked.
Lindsay and I peered into our almost empty glasses, then at each other. There was a glimmer of attraction, enough to make us curious. We had the same idea.
“I’d have another, if you’re game,” I said.
“Yeah, let’s have one more.”
We hugged our friends goodbye and moved to stools at the bar. Four hours later, Lindsay and I were on the fifth iteration of “one more drink.” As the night had worn on, we had moved closer together, until we sat shoulder to shoulder. For a while I’d rested my left arm on her thigh, letting it fall there as though by accident. Oh, that’s your thigh? I thought it was some sort of a fleshy armrest.
The music was loud so we had to speak directly into each other’s ears. I felt her breath on my neck when she spoke, and could smell her hair when I answered. Lindsay’s hair smelled WAY better than Ann’s. I convinced myself this wasn’t a matter of different shampoos but of biochemical compatibility.
Around 3:00 a.m., our conversation paused. This was the moment when we were supposed to kiss. I knew it would pass quickly. Soon Lindsay would take a sip of her drink or fix a piece of her clothing that didn’t actually need fixing and the moment would be gone forever. But I didn’t want the moment to pass. Every ounce of my emotions and hormones pushed me to kiss her. The lone voice of dissent was my conscience.
“You can’t kiss her,” my conscience said. “I know the relationship with Ann isn’t going well, but she’s still your girlfriend. You’re a Nice Guy and Nice Guys don’t cheat.”
My conscience was right. I shouldn’t cheat. I couldn’t kiss Lindsay.
But then . . .
Don’t they say the things you regret the most are the things you DON’T do? Isn’t life about embracing the now? Aren’t we on this planet to live every moment to the fullest? Ann and I are going to break up in the next month anyway, so what’s it matter?
I checked back in with my conscience.
“Those are some really good points,” it said.
I kissed Lindsay. She kissed me back.
Our kiss became passionate and we were making out right there at the bar and we didn’t care who was watching because we were young and drunk and it was 3:00 a.m. in NEW-YORK-FUCKING-CITY and we were doing something WRONG, but it felt right, so GODDAMN RIGHT! It was the kind of kiss they write songs about, the kind of kiss men go to war over! This was it, this WAS LIFE, and we were DOING IT!
So . . . it was a good kiss. My conscience said nothing more for the rest of the night.
Lindsay and I kept making out until the bartender pulled us apart when the bar closed to give us the check. She came back to my apartment where we kissed more, but didn’t have sex.
In the morning, after a couple hours of sleep, we hugged goodbye at my door.
“That was fun,” she said.
“It was. I should get your number.”
I handed her my phone so she could type it in, knowing this was the final betrayal, a sign I didn’t consider this a onetime mistake. I was already looking forward to seeing her again, but as she left, I felt something else underneath the excitement—guilt. I had cheated. I was now a cheater.
To defend myself, I will point out that this was pretty mild cheating. On a scale from one to Arnold-Schwarzenegger’s-secret-kid, this was like a three at most. I wasn’t married and this wasn’t a long, ongoing affair. We didn’t even have sex. What had happened between Lindsay and me would be considered, in many European countries, a “friendly hello.”
But we weren’t in Europe. We were in America. So it was cheating.
Ann and I weren’t right for each other, but she didn’t deserve the pain of getting cheated on. So I wouldn’t tell her. We would break up soon regardless, why burden her with the added suffering? The best course of action was to keep this secret. FOR HER. It would be a burden for me to contain this dark truth, but I’d bravely do it, to protect her feelings. Definitely not to make me look better. No, it was a selfless act ALL FOR HER.
As it turned out, I did not have to “heroically” carry the burden of this secret for long. Because I got caught. Less than twenty-four hours later.
Here’s how: I wrote an email to Grant telling him what happened between Lindsay and me. That was mistake number one. If you cheat, don’t put the evidence in writing. If you feel the need to tell someone, call them, and even then, you should use a burner cell phone, like you’re a drug dealer on The Wire.
My second mistake was the subject title I chose. It was, and I quote: So, I cheated on my girlfriend. Yep, that’s the title I used for an email containing information I wanted to keep secret.
When Grant’s response happened to arrive while Ann was using my computer, the subject line made her pretty curious about the contents and she read it. A big fight ensued with lots of yelling, mostly from Ann. There was little I could say in my defense, because it was hard to discredit evidence I’d written. You’re not going to believe that asshole, are you?
Finally I got an opening when she shouted, “How could you sleep with someone else?”
“We didn’t have sex,” I said, proud to have something to refute. “We just kissed.”
A flawless defense, right? Apparently not.
“That’s worse,” Ann said. “Kissing is WORSE than sex.”
First of all, that’s not true. Kissing is not worse than sex. Unless you’re Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, kissing ALWAYS ranks below sex. And second of all, it would have been nice to know kissing was worse than sex when I was busy NOT HAVING SEX with Lindsay. At the time I’d thought, We’d better not have sex, it will make things worse. Turns out it would have been a real win-win.
I had spent the last couple of months wanting my relationship with Ann to end, but that night I fought to keep it together because I didn’t want my cheating to be the reason it ended. When people would ask, “Why did you two break up?” I’d have to say, “Because I cheated,” and they’d say, “Oh, I didn’t know you were a bad person.”
And so I spent several hours persuading Ann to stay with me. Not because I loved her and wanted to be with her, but so I wouldn’t be a “bad person.” Which, of course, makes me a MUCH WORSE PERSON.
I should have said, “I’m sorry I cheated on you, but I did it because I’m unhappy, and we need to break up.” That emotional honesty would have been truly “good.” Instead, I spent the night convincing her we shouldn’t break up. It worked, but it was, of course, only a temporary fix. Six mont
hs later we broke up for good without either of us having said, “I love you.” Ironically, we probably stayed together longer because I cheated, our relationship sustained by my guilt.
I tried to get in touch with Lindsay after the breakup, but she’d moved out of the country. I’d lost my chance and she became a “What-If Girl.”
Occasionally, over the next few years, Lindsay would pop into my head and I’d think, What if? What if we’d had a chance to date properly? What if that night was the lightning strike of love? What if she was “The One”?
And the speculative answer to “What if?” was never a realistic It probably wouldn’t have worked out. No, the answer to “What if?” was always We would have fallen in love and moved to Seattle to open an artisanal cheese shop and had adorable children who look great in boat shoes.
It’s rare to get a real answer to “What if?” Life goes on and the question fades away. But that’s not what happened with Lindsay. Four years later, in the midst of my single year, Lindsay came back into my life. The Ancient Greeks had the Gods of Olympus to manipulate their fate; we have Facebook. One night she popped up in the “People You May Know” feed and my heart jumped.
I clicked on her profile. Her current place of residence was Los Angeles. That was my current place of residence! I dug deeper—she was not listed as in a relationship and her photos showed no evidence of a boyfriend. My “What-If Girl” was single and lived in the same city as I did. CUPID, YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN.
I sent a message. She responded. We went back and forth a few times and she invited me to a concert later in the week. I immediately agreed to the plan, seeing as it had worked out pretty well last time I’d gone to a concert with her. I hoped the band would be good, since we’d most likely be using one of their songs at our wedding ceremony.
Yes, dating Lindsay would mean abandoning my year of being single early, but what could I do, MAGIC was at work. If a magician makes a slice of cake appear out of thin air, you don’t say, “Sorry, I’m not really eating carbs right now.” No, you eat the magic cake, because you don’t screw around with magic. Or free cake.
* * *
The first band was onstage when I arrived at the concert venue. I stood on my tiptoes to see over the bobbing heads and spotted Lindsay across the room. She looked great, beautiful and stylish in a leather jacket and tight jeans, rock-and-roll armor for her delicate frame.
She saw me and waved. Our eyes stayed locked as I pushed through the crowd. We hugged. There was something in the embrace. It felt special, comfortable, RIGHT. It was the hug of star-crossed lovers finally reunited. There was no doubt my time as a single man was about to come to a storybook ending.
“This is my girlfriend, Nicole,” Lindsay said.
She motioned to her left, revealing a beautiful girl with bright blue eyes and the same petite frame as Lindsay. As I said hello, I tried to figure out what “girlfriend” meant. Girlfriend like This is my best girlfriend whom I get brunch with or girlfriend like I am a lesbian and this is my girlfriend whom I make love to because I am a lesbian?
When Lindsay slipped her arm around Nicole’s back I had my answer. They were a pair of hot, hip, young lesbians, the likes of which I thought only existed in American Apparel ads. The absence of boyfriend indicators on Facebook now made sense, as did the many pictures with very close female friends.
This was a real plot twist considering the last time I’d seen Lindsay there’d been some evidence she was attracted to guys. You know, the whole making out with me thing. Sure, I have soft skin and listen to a lot of Katy Perry, but technically I am a man.
Was I the last man she’d kissed? Did I drive her to lesbianism? I knew people didn’t “turn” gay, but gay people must have a tipping-point hookup, right? What if I was that person? What if kissing me made Lindsay think, Oh, this is disgusting. That confirms it. Men are not for me?
But then again, it could be the opposite. Maybe her experience with me was so incredible, she had thought, If I cannot have this man, I shall have no man! I preferred the latter interpretation.
Regardless of what role I played in her realizing she was a lesbian, why did Lindsay invite me to hang out? Why would she want to see some dude she made out with one time years ago? And with her girlfriend? It made no sense.
Wait . . .
WHAT IF I’M HERE FOR A THREESOME?
I’d thought fate had reunited us so I could find True Love, but something more important could be in play—sex with two women at once. The universe works in mysterious, horny ways.
Even as I considered the possibility, I knew I’d fallen prey to a classic naive-straight-boy thought process—How does their sexuality relate to ME and MY fantasies? But it was possible, right? They could be bisexual. Lindsay had seemed attracted to me. I spent most of the concert having this conversation in my head:
Rational Matteson: Matteson, lesbians are lesbians because they AREN’T attracted to men. They didn’t bring you to have a threesome.
Horny Matteson: BUT MAYBE THEY DID! WE DON’T KNOW! WE KISSED HER THAT ONE TIME.
Rational Matteson: No, that’s not why we’re here. We don’t live in a pornography movie where any social encounter can turn into sex.
Horny Matteson: THEY COULD WANT A PENIS AROUND EVERY NOW AND THEN. IT’S POSSIBLE!
There was no threesome, but it was a nice evening. Lindsay and I still had a good rapport and I liked her girlfriend, whose high energy complemented Lindsay’s laid-back nature. Between acts, as the roadies swapped out instruments, we talked about movies and Ryan Gosling came up.
“He’s so great,” Nicole said. “He may be the only man I’d ever sleep with.”
“What a coincidence,” I said, “he’s also the only man I’d ever sleep with.”
Ryan Gosling’s beauty transcends sexuality.
The Ryan Gosling talk led to a discussion of the movie The Notebook. It’s the story of how a young couple survives years apart and innumerable obstacles to be together. It’s the ultimate weepy romance. As Lindsay’s girlfriend spoke about how much she loved it, Lindsay rolled her eyes. Even in a relationship between two women, someone hates watching chick flicks. I held the same opinion as Lindsay.
But I didn’t just dislike The Notebook; I hated it. Throughout the movie, Ryan Gosling behaves like a psychopath. He threatens to drop from a Ferris wheel if Rachel McAdams won’t go out with him. He writes her a letter every day. He buys and refurbishes a house she mentioned she liked one time. This is all bizarre, unrealistic, creepy behavior, and Ryan Gosling being super attractive is the only reason girls find the movie romantic. If you replace him with Steve Buscemi, The Notebook becomes a terrifying thriller.
In the middle of my rant, as I explained to Lindsay and Nicole how no one in real life acts the way people do in romantic movies, I realized I was, at that very moment, acting like I was in a romantic movie. I was at this concert because I’d made out with Lindsay four years earlier and I thought it “meant” something. I believed fate had brought Lindsay and me back together, as if God said, Hold all my calls until I’ve reunited Lindsay and Matteson. I’ll get to fixing world hunger when I get to it!
I thought I’d learned my lesson with Kelly, but here I was again, seduced by the Grand Romantic Narrative. At the end of the night, Lindsay didn’t come rushing out of the bar after me, didn’t chase me down to declare her love, didn’t kiss me in the rain. That may be how things happen in movies, but life is not the movies, I was reminded once again. Our ending wasn’t epic or amazing. The answer to “What If?” was You’d become friends and hang out occasionally, but nothing beyond that, because penises aren’t for her.
12
* * *
RELATIONSHIPS WITH AN EXPIRATION DATE
Having lived in New York City for four years, I still had a lot of friends there and decided to visit for the Fourth of July. The trip kicked off with a barbecue at my friend Robby’s house on an afternoon so humid the only thing to do was sit and drin
k cold beer, which suited me fine. Though I was happy to see all my old friends, another guest piqued my interest as well, a coworker of Robby’s named Simone.
“She’s very dedicated to her work,” Robby explained, “which is good for her career, but bad for her love life. I told her I have a slutty friend visiting, so she should come to the barbecue. I think she’d be up for having some fun.”
“We sluts prefer monogamously challenged,” I said, “but other than that, I’m on board.”
When Simone arrived, Robby stopped just short of miming sex motions as he introduced us. He might have been more excited than either of us for this to happen.
“I’ll let you two get acquainted,” he said as he walked away to tend to the hamburgers.
From a physical point of view, Simone was definitely someone I’d like to “have some fun” with—she had a cute freckle-flecked face, a kind smile, and a nice body. She seemed like a great person too. I mean, I had just met her, so who knows, but I was looking for a vacation sex partner, not vetting someone for the FBI. Our short conversation didn’t touch on moon landing conspiracies or the power of crystals—good enough for me!
In the past, if I’d been told a girl was interested in me, I would have screwed it up by engaging in a flirting technique known as the Parasitic Organism. I’d have stayed in her presence all night, ignored my friends, and practically followed her into the bathroom—I’ll be right out here, so just holler if you need any help!
But now, I was becoming good at dating and could flirt without coming across like a recently released convict. I never hovered around Simone, but made occasional eye contact and chatted whenever we were near each other. By the end of the night, I was pretty sure I could have hooked up with her, but I decided to hold off, because I was exhausted. I was in town for another ten days, and if I played this right I could see Simone a few more times. I gave her a hug goodbye and told her I hoped to see her again before I left New York.
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