Available

by Matteson Perry

  I ran into a mutual friend at a bar and he asked if we were together.

  “She told me all about the dates you’ve been going on,” he said. “She seemed excited, like you were practically her boyfriend.”

  Biting, conversations about ex-boyfriends, weird naked kissing parties without sex—this was all passable. Telling people we were a couple—over the line! How DARE a girl I’d gone out with several times think we might be headed toward a relationship? This girl was CRAZY, right? This was a total RED FLAG.

  But of course she wasn’t acting crazy. We got along and had good physical chemistry—things HAD gone well between us. Being excited and telling people about the relationship was natural. That’s how dating works. If anyone was acting “crazy,” it was I. I’d seen all of Wendy’s Red Flags, but what about my own?

  • Seeking self-validation by getting girls. RED FLAG

  • Dating a girl despite having had no intention of a serious relationship. RED FLAG

  • Willingness to have a fling with a woman in a vulnerable place because I wanted sex. RED FLAG

  • Judging a girl for doing everything but sex, while knowing I probably would have stopped seeing her once we had sex. RED FLAG

  • Telling my friends about the “crazy” girl who’d bitten me all over, despite having liked it in the moment. RED FLAG

  I’d believed I could ignore Wendy’s Red Flags because I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but I should have seen her Red Flags as a sign that I needed to be extra honest about my intentions. But I didn’t. And that was the biggest Red Flag of all. I didn’t ask her out again.

  19

  * * *

  DATING AFTER THE EXPIRATION DATE

  In New York, the parameters of my relationship with Simone had been clear: a short fling between strangers that was over when I left. Her coming to see me in LA meant it was no longer that simple. Maybe we’d have another week of carefree sex, but it was also possible that for Simone, this trip was a relationship scouting expedition.

  At first it seemed like my worries were misplaced. I picked up Simone from the airport, we stopped by my house for a quick sex session, and then I dropped her off at her friend’s place. Maybe she really was in LA to see her good friend and the trip didn’t “mean” anything. I relaxed. Between her lady lunches, best-friend gab sessions, and pillow fights, I probably wouldn’t even see Simone much. I would just give her rides and have sex with her, like a sexual-Uber.

  On the second day, when I picked her up for dinner, she was waiting on the front stoop of her friend’s house with her suitcase.

  “I thought I’d stay over at your place tonight. That okay?”

  “Of course,” I said as I grabbed the bag.

  When she unpacked all of her things it became clear she’d be with me for the rest of her trip. “It would be great to see you when I’m in town” had become “I’ll be staying with you for almost a fortnight.”

  Oh, you poor baby, a pretty girl traveled to Los Angeles and you had to have sex with her for eleven days. I know. I really am a whiny bitch. And we did have fun during her visit. I played tour guide, showing my favorite spots in Los Angeles, taking her on a new “date” every night, dates I could fully enjoy because I didn’t have to focus on “doing well.” She’d come three thousand miles to see me; I’d already “done well.”

  The prolonged stay created a level of intimacy I didn’t get from my normal, purposefully shallow relationships, and as the visit progressed, it became clear Simone would be open to moving to Los Angeles if I asked. She kept mentioning things she loved in LA: the weather, the proximity to her best friend, the more-laid-back vibe. It would be easy to transfer to her company’s LA office, she assured me.

  Though being separated by three thousand miles might have seemed daunting, Simone had her parents’ marriage as an example of how this model of dating could be successful. Her father had met her mother on vacation and they were long-distance for a couple years before marrying—uh-oh, that sounded a lot like us.

  From the way she told their story, I could tell I wasn’t the only one attracted to the Grand Romantic Narrative. Simone wanted the big story, the one where I, the dedicated bachelor, declared my love and asked her to move across the country to be with me. She wanted the Fairy Tale. I even started to wonder if this was the very ending I was looking for.

  On a cloudless day toward the end of her stay, we drove up the coast to a Malibu beach. It was too cold to get in the water, but warm enough to be in swimsuits, and Simone looked great in her blue-and-white polka-dot bikini. We passed a ripe peach back and forth, alternating bites, silently enjoying each other’s company. It felt like we were a real couple. I could see myself with Simone, could see how we might make for a great pairing.

  Though I’d focused more on the physical part of my mission (clearly), I had been thinking about the future too, even compiling a list of traits I wanted in a girlfriend. The purpose of this list was to guard against unwise emotional decisions. It’s easy to know when you’re in love—you just feel it. What’s not so easy is separating those feelings and judging whether the person will be an objectively good life partner. I hoped by creating this list before I got into a relationship, I’d have a blueprint uninfluenced by love and infatuation.

  Here was The List so far:

  • Has her shit together—This meant having a full-time job (ideally, a career), a living situation with less than two roommates, and no outstanding warrants. A surprisingly high bar in Los Angeles.

  • Low-maintenance—This is a pretty standard request, but something to which I needed to pay attention. High-maintenance people held allure for me because maintaining something made me feel needed. But a long-term partner should make one’s life easier, not harder.

  • Has long-term important friendships/relationships—It’s a bad sign if a person you want to date can’t maintain a long-term relationship. I vowed to take heed if a woman was not in touch with anyone from her past and had fallen out with several former “best friends.” It might mean I’d be next on the falling-out list.

  • Like AND love?—In a relationship it’s important to not just love the person but to like them too. Seems self-explanatory, but sometimes I’d found it hard to judge if I’d be friends with a person if I weren’t having sex with them. If a wizard cast a spell that made me unable to have sex ever again, would I still enjoy hanging out with my girlfriend? If no, then I shouldn’t date her. (I know what you’re thinking, but no, a counterspell won’t work in this situation. The wizard has a staff made of dragon bone, so there’s no possible defense.)

  • Truly respect my partner—In the past, when faced with a problem, I’d often think, I won’t bother my partner with this issue, figuring their reaction would only cause me more stress. Not believing my partner to be someone capable of helping me through a difficult time meant I didn’t really respect her or her input.

  I realize this isn’t exactly a groundbreaking list, but it was important for me to put these things on paper. I needed to be thoughtful about what I ultimately wanted, so love couldn’t blind me to seemingly obvious issues, as had happened in the past.

  Simone passed all of the requirements for an objectively good long-term partner. She had a great job, was socially capable and intelligent, and I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her. No doubt about it, she was a catch. I should have wanted to be her boyfriend.

  But, ultimately, I didn’t. And it didn’t have much to do with her—I didn’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend. Simone was a great person and I enjoyed my time with her, but I also looked forward to her leaving, so my life could be my own again. I wasn’t ready to stop being selfish, to take on the responsibility that comes with caring about a significant other.

  Though her hints about a relationship escalated through the week, we made it to the end of the trip without discussing the future. My relief was short-lived, though. Two days after leaving, she called. We’d never talked on the phone before, always exchanging
text messages instead, but you need to talk to have The Talk. It took a few minutes for her to warm up to it, but then she asked about “us” and I had to explain that there was no “us.” I told her I’d be happy to see her again, but I didn’t want a relationship with her.

  “We had such a great time while I was there,” she said.

  “We did.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I could see why she was confused. Spending eleven days together, having sex, being intimate, it means something. Even if you don’t verbalize what exactly these things mean, they still mean something. Or should. But for me, they hadn’t. I liked her, I’d enjoyed spending time with her, but it hadn’t gone beyond that for me.

  Not only was this unfair to Simone, but it made me worry about my own state. How could I go through the motions of basically being someone’s boyfriend without getting attached? Staying single had started as a choice, but I began to wonder if I’d lost the ability to form a meaningful relationship. A great girl had entered my life and dating her didn’t tempt me at all. Nearly a year and a half into my project, I wondered if I was making emotional progress or taking a giant step back.

  20

  * * *

  USE OR BE USED

  In the beginning of a relationship, there is “magic” in text exchanges. The rhythm and synchronicity can flow like a scene from a romantic comedy, as if each party has a gay magical woodland creature best friend helping them compose the messages.

  When we’d started going out, Hattie and I had that “magic.” But no more. Only logistics remained.

  Hattie: Something got canceled tonight. Want to come to my place at 6 pm?

  Me: Cool

  SIZZLING.

  When we started, I liked Hattie so much I hadn’t even Plotted Points. I saw her twice the first week and on our third date I met several of her friends at a dinner party. Originally from Arkansas, Hattie had the charm of a “proper” southern woman: she wore dresses, was unfailingly polite, and never swore. But underneath the shy, sweet exterior bubbled a sexiness she couldn’t hide. She had the voice of a jazz singer, soft and smoky, like her hazel eyes.

  After our fast start, Hattie and I had only seen each other once in five weeks due to busy schedules. The realization that we weren’t making each other a priority had ended the “magic” in our text messages. We were still open to dating, but it was clear we weren’t falling in love, which sapped our enthusiasm.

  On my way to her place I got another text: Just a warning—I’ve got an early and long day tomorrow. Can’t be up late.

  SCORCHING.

  As we walked to a nearby restaurant, I put my arm around her, but she didn’t squeeze closer to me. The space between us made us look like teenagers posing during a prom date. I let my arm drop after a few paces.

  The sushi place, which had dirty carpet, faded decor, and poorly translated menus, felt like the ultimate “Plan B” restaurant. It was a perfect metaphor for our once promising relationship, now alive only because of convenience. The food was bad and our conversation worse. Not having seen each other for several weeks, we should have had a lot to talk about, but we both defaulted to “not much.”

  We began kissing almost as soon as we returned to her apartment. Our ability to make small talk had vanished, but physically we could still hold a conversation. We gripped each other with desperation, trying to smother the unease between us. Our emotional needs weren’t being met, but passion could make us forget we had those needs, for a little while, anyway.

  Afterward, as the chemicals of sex receded, the remoteness returned. We lay near each other, not touching, like siblings forced to share a bed while visiting Grandma. Yawns and mentions of how busy she was the next day were her only contribution to our post-coital conversation. I finally got the hint.

  “Should I head home so you can get some sleep?”

  “I guess so.” She tried to sound like she regretted what she’d probably hoped for from the beginning.

  As she watched me get dressed, I had a feeling I’d never had before—I felt cheap. She’d fit me into her schedule not because she wanted to see me again, but so she could get laid, and now she was sending me out into the cold night. (Since I lived in Los Angeles, not actual cold—it was sixty-eight degrees—but like emotional cold.)

  Despite it being 11:45 p.m., I hit traffic on the drive home, because there is always traffic in LA. As I sat there not moving on the 101, I got angry. There was no way around it—Hattie had used me. She’d used me for my body and then thrown me away like a half-eaten candy bar. Well, you know what, lady? I’m not filled with nougat—I’M FILLED WITH EMOTIONS.

  I hoped she knew she’d missed out on some GREAT cuddling. I had my cuddle game on lock: always willing to be the big spoon, eager to dole out back rubs, happy to talk about hopes and dreams. Not to mention my soft skin! With me, you’re not getting the reptile skin of a philistine who doesn’t believe in moisturizing. No, I am a daily user of lotion, and YOU reap the benefits.

  As I stared into the glowing red taillights in front of me, I hatched my plan. I would put on a full-bore assault of woo to win this girl’s heart. There would be no more occasional check-ins—I was going to call often for long and engaging conversations. And there would be flowers and trinkets and little gifts. And next time we had sex I wouldn’t stop until she’d had a billion orgasms. Afterward, we’d embrace so warmly she’d think, Inside these magic cuddle arms is the only place I feel safe in the world!

  I was going to do everything someone does when they want to be a girl’s boyfriend. Everything, of course, except be her boyfriend. No, once I’d wooed her, and it was time to have The Talk, well, let’s just say she’d be the one sitting in traffic late at night.

  Nobody puts Matteson in the corner.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you’re so mad. Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kurt asked the next day as I ate brioche French toast with banana citrus caramel topping.

  He was right. Sex without commitment was exactly what I’d signed up for.

  “Yeah, if anything, I would have thought you’d feel proud,” Evan said.

  Hey, yeah, I should have felt proud! A woman with a busy schedule had wanted sexual pleasure and she’d called upon me to provide it. Need a break from the go-go lifestyle of the modern woman? Feel free to use my sexual prowess to take your mind off Having-It-All.

  I realized the problem—while I didn’t want a girlfriend, I wanted to be with women who wanted to be my girlfriend. I wanted to be wanted. It sucks to reject people, but it sure beats being rejected.

  “Also, I think your dating success may be going to your head a bit,” Evan added.

  I hated to admit it, but the ego bruise probably was a big part of it. How could Hattie reject me, the King of Dating? It was an unhealthy attitude. I’d have to be careful about that.

  Evan had some news of his own to share.

  “So, Joanna is back in the picture. She wrecked her car last week.”

  “And it was Evan to the rescue?” Kurt asked.

  “She called me. Very upset of course. Needed a sympathetic ear. We’re not back together, but we’ve talked or texted almost every day. I may go visit her.”

  Evan held his coffee cup in front of his face, a shield against our disapproving stares. But neither Kurt nor I said anything. We’d said it all before. Maybe the sixth time would be the charm.

  As for Hattie and me, we never saw each other again. I texted her a couple of weeks later, having come to terms with my status as a sentient sex toy, but she didn’t respond. After being angry she’d used me, I was of course mad that she no longer wanted to use me.

  21

  * * *

  THE SLEAZY GUY

  A lot of people leave the club drunk. That’s not special. But arriving at the club wasted? At only 8:30 p.m.? THAT takes work. I achieved this feat by attending a three-hour beer festival before going to the club. I’d started out thinking things like My, my, I don�
��t think I’ve ever tried a Saison so delicate! Do I detect rosemary? By the end of the session, my analysis had simplified to THIS BEER IS BEER FLAVORED AND IT IS GETTING ME FUCKED UP!

  Drunk and randy after the beer festival, I decided to fish at a pond where I’d had luck before, the same hipster dance club where I’d met Red Flag. Because I arrived early the dance floor was sparse, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed having the space to fully express myself.

  As the night wore on, the dance floor filled with people, many of them pretty women. As I danced, I scanned for an interested party and eventually caught eyes with a pretty redhead. Back in the ancient days (fourteen months earlier), making eye contact with women was a herculean feat. I’d either look away instantly, betraying my lack of confidence, or stare too long and seem like a creep.

  I’d since improved. I held eye contact with the redhead for a beat, just long enough to let her know it was intentional, and then looked away before it changed from I’m interested to I’m interested in cutting off your hair and eating it.

  It worked and we began to dance near each other. It was on. But I wasn’t ready to make the final move. I had more pressing needs—another drink. If there’s one thing drunk people know for sure, it’s that they’re not drunk enough. While waiting in line for my drink I felt a tap on my shoulder; it was the girl from the dance floor.

  “You left me out there,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you by buying you a drink?”

  “How about a shot?”

  Exactly what someone who’s been drinking for five hours needs—I ordered tequila.

  We returned to the dance floor together. I put my hands on her hips and drew her close.

  “Finally!” she whispered into my ear.