It’s been a strange holiday season.
Strange and long.
It was nice to be looking out the window at the sunshine on the snow, thinking, “What am I trading the precious and irreplaceable hours of my life for?” on a regular schedule again, coffee cup in hand.
I need structure in my life. A serious schedule.
Apparently, I need to be forced to wake up and go somewhere in -8 degree weather, to be strong-armed by capitalism into putting on clothes that are clean and could be seen by others.
Otherwise, I can’t be trusted to function. I’ll get hold of a long weekend and end up wearing the same pilled leggings for three days and watching Real World: Season 32 while tearing at a rotisserie chicken in the dark like a wolf.
Why were the last two weeks so weird?
I’m so glad you asked, faggettes!
Along with holiday-related things:
- An intense windstorm ripped off my neighbor’s metal chimney cap in the middle of the night. I like to imagine it sailing gracefully through an arctic sky aglitter with stars before landing, in a freak coincidence, directly on my car’s rear windshield.
“It looks like a giant on meth took a crowbar to the back of this thing!” the woman at the insurance repair center chirped, examining my car. She poked playfully at the three-inch-deep crater in the metal under the windshield. “A chimney cap? How the heck could that even happen?”
I don’t know, Maggie.
She sent me into the waiting room to fill out forms. There was a mini-fridge filled with Diet Coke in there, but even the four cans I carefully put into my coat pockets didn’t make me feel better about paying the (shocking) deductible.
- The New York Times published an article I wrote, in which I offered my hypothesis about where hipsters get their style from (hint: they steal it from us! aka the people that bring society many things worth having, including water-based lube and candid pictures of Holland Taylor and Sarah Paulson’s relationship.)
The NYT! Printed gay content I wrote!
- I bought a bra and three pairs of underwear.
That last one—the bra—is actually the weirdest thing of all.
I bought undergarments.
I have no idea how to date people.
I don’t know what “normal” behavior on a classic date—where both parties are single and interested in getting to know one another better—looks like.
I’ve always, always been in a relationship.
My first major relationship lasted 8 years, and it was open. Whenever I went on dates with new people, it was with my partner’s knowledge and permission. Anyone I went out with knew I had a partner at home who was OK with this arrangement.
My ~outings~ were usually implicitly designed around the idea that my date and I would both be DTF if the evening went well and we liked one another.
I used the internet. It was easy.
Dating is really confusing when you’re not just there to fuck.
How do people do this??
The underwear thing is what made me realize I know actually nothing about dating.
Ready for a backstory?
So: I don’t really...wear underwear on a day-to-day basis.
I don’t need it; I don’t understand what it's for.
For me, it’s like this extra layer of clothing that is totally unnecessary that also can really fuck with my outfit—pantylines are a real thing when all your clothes are spandex-blend dresses.
Now, please don't misunderstand: I love underwear on other people, and I love and own a lot of Structured Undergarments that I wear for the sole purpose of making myself feel like I'm wearing armor under my clothes when I go out.
But daily, regular underwear?
That’s too much, you can’t ask me to do that. I already take a shower every day and wear mascara, I’m exhausted.
Now that you know that:
I was telling Tawnya and her wife, Seven (I live with them), about an upcoming date I had the next night. They were asking me what I was gonna wear, and I was telling them about the planned dress and shoes.
Tawnya looked over at me from the table she was working at and said, “Yeah, but what about underwear?” (She knows me.) “Have you thought about it yet? What if you guys come back here and make out?”
“Why would it matter what underwear I’m wearing if we make out?” I asked.
Innocent as a lamb.
Newly new to this.
Seven looked hard at me. “Because what—you’re going to make out on the couch and it’s gonna get heated and your date is gonna maybe get into your clothes and find...nothing?”
“...Yes? So? I don’t wear bras or anything unless I’m at work,” I said.
I was getting alarmed.
Tawnya: So you’re telling me that if this date turns into a heavy makeout session, and maybe someone’s hands go into your pants, because you want them to, that what they’re going to find is...your naked crotch?? That’s like—that’s like skipping bases.
Seven: Yeah, that's like 0 to 100 real quick.
Me: Are you telling me that I should be wearing underwear to be polite to others?
Seven: No! You should do what you want. All I’m saying is, if I’m going into someone’s pants during a makeout, and it’s our first time making out, and there’s no underwear, it changes the energy a bit.
Tawnya: With underwear, you have another barrier. Something to play with. Time to think. Without underwear…
Seven: Decisions have to be made.
Me: [bleating] But I don’t have any underwear.
[Silence. Tawnya and Seven glance at each other.]
Seven: Are you serious.
Tawnya: She’s serious. She doesn’t.
Seven: Get your coat, we’re going to the mall.
And that is how I found myself stripped naked to the waist with my cackling roommates in a hot pink dressing room while a saleswoman who smelled aggressively of vanilla flung lacy “balconette” bras with matching thongs at me.
I was buying politeness underwear.
Underwear for dates.
I walked out of Victoria’s Secret (yes! my god) with a pair of pink “boyshorts”, a pair of black panties with a see-through mesh ass window, and a pair of black lace panties that matched a black lace bra that made my boobs look like two elegant, steep sledding hills.
I had to carry a big, pink-and-peach-striped Victoria’s Secret bag through the mall.
Everyone could see me.
An old man winked at me.
I’m still not OK.
I went on that date, you sluts.
And I wore my goddamn politeness underwear.
It was, I realized, my first-ever “classic” date—I’m fucking 33 years old, and this was the first time in my life I went on a date with a brand-new-to-me single person as a single person who did not have to factor having a partner into the equation.
The date went well.
We drove back to my house and sat in the car.
Things got a bit quiet and awkward. I didn’t know what to do.
We had just met that night! Were we supposed to kiss? How could I kiss someone I’d just met?!
It felt awfully fresh—cheeky, even.
“..OK, well...thanks,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
My date wanted to kiss, I think, but they weren’t initiating anything.
I wasn’t about to make things easier.
In my new life, I’m not helping people date me. If you want it, come get it, you know?
“See you soon?” they said.
I touched their shoulder and opened the car door.
“See you soon,” I said, and walked into the house.
The first thing I did was take off that stupid underwear.
What else don’t I know about dating, gays?