Drunkblog

This is going to be heavy.

Okay, a couple of nights ago, I wrote a blog entry while buzzed. Tonight I got drunk, and I’m not sober yet. Therefore, I can’t say that this is going to be the most exquisite entry. When I’m drunk and I’m typing, all I can do is correct typos.

The Guy and I had planned for him to come over tonight for a long night of fun. But shortly after I wrote my last blog entry, I received the following e-mail from him:

Hey Jeff-

Ok, i really hate to do this, and i’m not sure how to say it other than to be direct. I can’t sleep with you tonight. I spoke with [Lee, the newest guy — this is what I’ll call him] late last night, and things seem to be getting really serious. I really want this, and i don’t want to do anything that might screw it up. Please don’t be upset by this, it doesn’t reflect upon you in any way. You know i’d be in your bed in a second if the unexpected hadn’t happened.

I’d still like to hang out tonight, perhaps go to this party or for dinner or drinks? Let me know.

– [The Guy]

I read this and my heart sank. I couldn’t respond right away; instead, I got some lunch, walked around, and about an hour later I wrote back. I decided to be as terse and non-revealing of my emotions as possible:

If there are going to be a lot of gay people at this party, I might be up for that. Otherwise, why don’t we go out for some drinks.

I’ll call you this evening. Or you can call me. I should be home around 6 or so.

Jeff

He wrote back and said it wasn’t going to be a very gay party, so why don’t we go out for drinks. Okay. Around 6 p.m., he called me at home, and we decided we’d meet up at Sheridan Square at 9:00 and walk to this gay bar called Hell. Okay. Cool.

I got to Sheridan Square at about 9:03. He wasn’t there yet. I waited. And waited. And waited. 9:15. Walked around. Waited. 9:25.

Finally, at 9:30, he showed up.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was with [Lee] and I lost track of time.”

I can’t describe how incredibly shitty I felt as a human being at this point. I felt like I was being rubbed in a pile of manure. Twice in one day, he had dissed me. He was half an hour late to meet me because he’d been with the guy for whom he’d passed me up. I stood there waiting in the cold for half an hour.

As we walked over to Hell, I was incredibly angry. I’m usually a nice guy, a friendly guy, but I was so fucking pissed off at him. It’s not like I could run off into an alley and yell or scream; I was there with him.

Finally, as we were walking, and as I kept my eyes focused on the street map he’d printed out, I had to speak.

“Okay,” I said. “If I don’t get this off my chest, I’m going to be stewing all night. I like you and I want to have a good time drinking with you tonight, but I have to say this.” And I told him how much it hurt to be dissed by him twice in one day. He apologized again, and I said that it was understandable, that I just really needed to express how I felt.

He seemed to empathize with me. Anyway, by the time we got to the bar, I felt somewhat better.

At Hell (which is only a few blocks from where Monica Lewinsky lives, by the way), we had some drinks. Several drinks. We both got pretty drunk.

And what did we talk about? Various things, including our current situation. I managed to tell him how rejected I felt, how I couldn’t understand why people could really like me but just not want to date me, a guy with all these great qualities. And he agreed that I have all these great qualities. He told me that I’m a great, passionate sex partner, that I’m cute, that I’m intelligent, that I’m empathetic. My eyes filled with tears as I was talking to him. This was a side of me he hadn’t seen before, and I was glad he saw me on the verge of crying. As weird as this may sound, I think it showed him another, deeper, facet of my personality. I think it showed him how much this was affecting me. I think it showed him that I’m not a run-of-the-mill guy.

Eventually, my leg was pressed against his leg, and he didn’t move away. Then my arm was resting on the ledge of the seat behind him, and as we continued talking, I let my thumb stroke his back. He didn’t move away from that, either.

But eventually, he did. It was nearly midnight, and he needed to get going. So we walked down Greenwich Street to Christopher Street, where my PATH station was. We were standing by the steps leading down to the subway, both of us drunk. We stood there a while. I said to him (I’m paraphrasing): “Look, I know I’m drunk… but I want you to know that I like you, and if things don’t work out with him, I’ll be here.”

He said something like, “If things didn’t work out, I’d definitely sleep with you.”

I said something like, “I really do like you, in whatever capacity it turns out to be, friendship or whatever. I like you. So, I’m here for you.”

I gave him a hug and then kissed him on the cheek.

“I’m here,” I said again.

And we said goodnight, and I walked down the stairs to catch my train.