The Comedian.

There is an off-ness that you notice immediately. A certain look that flickers across the face. I read it as cold, at first. I’m still warm. I’m always warm. He’s cold so I’m going to see what it takes to melt him.

It’s inane, the conversation. I lead it. Smile. I take furtive glances around the bar, taking in the décor, wishing right now that I’d remembered the name of it.

His hair is long. I’m trying that out, being into long thick hair. I think it suggests something that it probably doesn’t.

He looked thinner on his profile, but I’ve been on a few of these dates and I have to say he looks pretty damn close. I haven’t been Catfished yet, well, not since the first time anyway.

He warms up a bit. He’s a comedian, which I think I remember from his profile. He’s small time, does a local circuit. Karaoke bars mostly.

I’ve worn something sufficiently slutty, am doing a good job of making sure I’m as stiff and uninviting as possible, a complete contradiction to my dress–I don’t do this on purpose. I disconnect from my sexuality on a regular basis. It is most definitely spontaneous and outside of my control.

I drink, he drinks, maybe. Talks about the bad apartments he’s lived in as I am fresh off a bad apartment search myself. We relate. Or so it would appear.

We walk to a bomb ass taco shop that I wish I remembered the name of. On the LES. Crazy good taco concoctions that I will probably spend next weekend searching for. Maybe they were taquitos.

We talk, we relate. We get a free taquito from the most amazing staff ever. The food is hands down the best thing I got out of this experience, an experience that would have been horrifying if I hadn’t dated actual psychos in my lifetime.

But I digress.

We walk, he smokes even though I thought he said he didn’t. We talk. It’s cold, he’s broke, so the most we can do is walk and talk. I am okay with this as I no longer care about how long I might see them, for I am in this place where the experience is both the destination and the journey.

However, I get a few drinks out of him. And I don’t mean this the way it sounds. It will all make sense.

We circle a bar for the third time, each time he references some comedian or another that he has some sort of beef with. Real or imagined was never determined.

His body is bad, stumpy. Neckless. He wears flashy colors and references it. Yellow shoes with yellow shirt. Pink shirt with pink shoes. He talks about being on stage and caring about his appearance, wanting the people to see a comedian that looks nice.

I laugh and agree even though I truly don’t give a shit. But the thing is, he would never know it as I remain saccharine sweet and eerily relatable-which is how I choose to circle and attack. Different people have different methods. Mine are “effective” but who knows how it would work if wielded by another?

I think to myself that Sebastian Maniscalco, that’s a comedian who dresses nice. Whatever The Comedian is wearing is not bad per say, but it cannot be called nice. Sufficient, maybe.

We take a train ride back to Brooklyn that begins and ends with him staring directly into my face, unblinkingly, as close as possible.

On the walk back to my place  we are shouted at in the street by a belligerent who attacks us directly once we cross his line of sight. I flip the man off and The Comedian doesn’t yell at the belligerent, but at me.

“If you do that type of shit, then I’ll have to deal with it,” he says as he scurries beside me, hunching his back against possible retaliation and puffing on his thirteenth cigarette.

Little did he know that in that moment, my pussy dried up like a prune blasted with dry ice. Cracked up and fell in shambles at his feet.

His feet. He’d painted his tennis shoes to match his loudly colored shirts. He kept pointing them both out to me, going through pains to boast about them. He wanted me to–basically forced me to judge them harshly.  I remember realizing that they’d been painted pretty early on and that what I call the “Dryening” began at that moment.

Back at my apartment, I invite him in for some reason.

I’m not perfect, just exposing my oyster as it is.

We talk for a bit before he makes his move and we kiss.

He’s crazy. It’s obvious. His eyes. His mannerisms. His eyes. The staring on the train.

He’s quite handsome, if you get past his necklessness. I know that neckless and especially necklessness are not words, but I coin it now and henceforth use it to describe this body type. With this guy, it’s handsome face, followed by chin, followed by broad barrel like torso. Crazy looking and crazy.

But crazy, it’s exciting. It’s a stupid waste of time, yet it’s fun.

Plus. He’s a comedian, is actually pretty funny, a little rough around the edges, wearing a trench coat.

While we kiss I touch his dick, real classy-like. Then I tell him I’m not having sex with him. Since my vagina has undergone a full and thorough Dryening, I, of course, never planned to sleep with him.

Dangerous? Why should it be? Why should I alter my behavior-which is fully warranted as he is not owed my body-just because he may fly into a rage?  Let him try it, is what I say. He’ll wish he hadn’t.

He sleeps over. If you can call it sleep. I awaken to him staring at me multiple times. I smile and ignore it. I go back to sleep, if you can call it sleep, like I said.

The next morning we ride the train, me on my way to work, he, on his way back to Queens. He tries that staring shit and I tell him to cut it out. He comments on how pretty I am and I laugh awkwardly.

We hang the next day. He reaches out, wants to come over. I don’t have any plans so I say yes. He asks if I want to order food, then acts extremely weird about ordering food.

We order food. We eat it. He acts weird about sitting on the bed and eating it and says he rather sit on the floor. I force him to sit on the bed.

We finish the food, enjoy a conversation that gives depth and meaning to his craziness and cements it, if nothing else.

He goes in to make his move. I’m so dry I could produce smoke, but I let the kissing go on for a few seconds before I stop him and tell him pretty honestly, “I’m not in the mood for all that shit tonight.”

He grits his teeth, encases himself in icy rage, but doesn’t react–an impressive show of restraint. We manage to hold a civil, calm conversation. I can feel the simmer but it’s nearly imperceptible.

Soon, I tell him it’s getting late and I need to get to bed. Everything is peachy as he gets his shit and gets the fuck out. I am actually contemplating seeing him again because I have no self-esteem. Ha.

The next day, I am sending a series of terse work emails when my cell phone chimes. I pick it up and am greeted by the priceless gem I have attached below for your enjoyment.

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The rest? Well, it’s history.

 

What did I learn? 

  1. Don’t Date Comedians. I’ve compared notes with multiple women and they’re notorious nut jobs.
  2. There’s a taquito place on the LES that is to die for.
  3. He could be crazy and I have to be more careful because honestly, I’m only out of the woods with this guy because it would take an hour plus train ride from Queens to come kill my ass.
  4. Dating is an invigorating experience, and will get you talked to via text in ways you never ever could have pictured.

 

 

 

 

It Begins.

Or ends.

I am no longer aware of which way I’m headed–only that I am headed toward truth. Here I will speak of one of my few constants, my enduring pastime. The manifestation of a fixation born of some childhood trauma.

It is bliss.

I have come to terms with my obsession, harbored by many and admitted by few.

In time, I will help others do the same; give in and dig in with the teeth.

This world is your oyster, and today I invite you to view mine.