I sat at the bar. It had been a long day. As I wrote in my notebook, the Olympics silently on the TV above my head, a beautiful woman, 25 or so, sat to my right. She seemed to know Pam and the bartender.
An aside: I’ve come to understand that Pam and the bartender are dating. I wonder if Pam’s tasted her pussy yet, and I wonder how the bartender reacted to what I wrote about that question, if, indeed, he read what I wrote. End of aside.
I didn’t particularly want to intrude on their conversation. I had a lot of thoughts to jot down, and I couldn’t really make out what the hottie to my right was saying. After about fifteen minutes, though, I heard Pam say: “I don’t understand why people want to go to movies that make them cry.”
“I haven’t heard anything of your conversation up til now,” I said, “but I know why people want to go to movies that make them cry.”
“Why?” asked Pam.
“Because if you can’t cry about your own sadness, it feels really good to cry about sadness that doesn’t implicate you, that isn’t yours.”
Conversation ensued. The hottie and I were talking. Pam receded. We learned a lot about one another. Our conversation was interesting, engaging, long. Utterly asexual. Though she’s super hot, I felt zero chemistry. At any point. Not that I can’t conceive of a universe in which chemistry could develop – I can. But if this universe is that universe, I’m unaware of it.
Fast forward a few drinks.
A tall, young, not especially attractive (to me) man arrives and sits to the right of the hottie. They peck hello. They know one another. It seems he’s here to meet her. They don’t talk, really. She takes out her credit card and settles. We finish up our conversation. She takes my contact information. (I didn’t ask to give it, or to have hers, but I encourage her to contact me.) And she and he walk out. There’s no real affection visible between them, or connection. What there is, I gather, is a plan.
I’m envious. Sort of.
I didn’t want to use her for my pleasure, to connect with her sexually (although, as I wrote, I would be open to developing that desire). I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her had she been interested. I was ready to go home. But seeing her make herself available to someone else, someone with whom it seemed she shared less of a connection (if greater chemistry) than she did with me? That felt bad, in a way that’s hard for me to parse.
It made me a little sad. Maybe in a patronizing, “I feel bad that she has to go with him rather than to connect with me” sort of way that I find unappealing in myself. Maybe in a “I have a hunch that she’s not going to feel good after she does whatever she’s doing with him” kind of way. Also, though, unappealing: not just patronizing, but presumptuous, that. What the fuck do I know? Nothing. I’m projecting my own insecurities and desires onto their relationship, such as it is.
And writing about it here. Which is something I haven’t been doing much of lately.