Ugh.

I feel like I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.

In a bad way. I think.

Or, actually, I don’t know.

This job I’ve been waiting to hear about? I found out this morning that they’ve filled all the available positions. They’ve put my application on hold. If anything opens in the next couple of weeks they’ll let me know.

I hung up the phone and started to feel queasy. I wanted to vomit.

I talked to my boss’s contact later in the afternoon, and he said in a few days he should have a better idea of whether there’ll be an opening. It didn’t sound like there were guarantees.

So I faxed my resumé to a legal temping agency today. Without steady income throughout this month, I won’t be able to pay my rent at the beginning of next month. I guess I’ll get a cash advance on my credit card if I need to. As a last resort.

I’ve also unearthed an available position in Hoboken with a major legal publishing firm, and I e-mailed them my resumé this afternoon. And I also faxed my resumé to five law firms looking for entry-level lawyers, one on Newark, four in Manhattan.

Now. My job ends in two weeks and I’m faxing out resumés NOW.

I’m a fucking idiot.

I was assuming this job was going to come through for me, and it hasn’t. If I’d begun the application process earlier, they might have had a position for me. They don’t. Other people, but not me. I put all my eggs in one basket and the basket got run over by a truck.

It’s not like this is the first time this has happened to me. It happened to me after I graduated from law school, too. As my parents have told me in the past: Jeff, you never learn.

You know, there are lots of self-critical words I could write here. And I’ve said most of them to myself today. In fact, I wrote most of them down while writing this entry but I wound up deleting them because they would seem so mopey. Anyway, criticism is the last fucking thing I need right now, from myself or from others. So if you have any, save it.

I fucked up. Okay. People fuck up. I’m moving on. Only because I don’t really have a choice.

Meanwhile I’m still on pins and needles wondering what’s going to happen with the guy from Saturday night. I decided to leave him a casual phone message last night. I said, “Hey, just wanted to let you know that I had a really good time last night, and I’d love to hang out again sometime. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Anyway, I’m going to take a nap, but feel free to give me a call if you want… as long as it’s not too late.”

He didn’t call. It must have been too late. Anyway, the next move is his.

And I’m exhausted — I still haven’t caught up on my sleep. So I’ve postponed a date that I was supposed to have tonight with this late-30ish British guy. I don’t think he’s what I want anyway. I responded to his e-mail only because his picture was kinda good-looking and he was a writer. I thought he might be interesting. But over the phone there’s no chemistry. The few times we’ve talked on the phone, he’s been a slow and shy speaker. Unfortunately he really seems to be looking forward to it, not knowing that I don’t share his enthusiasm. After we made plans via telephone a few days ago, there was a pause, and then he said, in his British accent, “So, this is going to be quite exciting, isn’t it?” Dude, have you never been on a personal ad date before? It’s not always exciting.

Tonight I’m going to do laundry and sleep.

Last night I had two weird dreams about people coming back from the dead. Actually, one of them wasn’t people. It was our old dog. I dreamed that somehow she’d come back to life and was still living in my parents’ house along with the new dog. But she was in bad condition. And when I went over to pet her, she bared her teeth and growled at me angrily. She was pissed. Almost as if she’d preferred to stay dead.

The other dream was about John F. Kennedy. In my dream, there was an alternate history. JFK wasn’t really assassinated; as we all know (in the dream), he was just presumed dead, and he wound up imprisoned on an island somewhere in the South Seas, where he was beaten and tortured until he made his way home a few years later. In the dream, I was watching a recreation of his homecoming played by actors in a TV movie. Jackie was pushing his wheelchair up the front path of their house while reporters snapped photos. He said “it’s great to be back” or something like that. The actors were remarkably similar to the real people. How postmodern.

Weird. What is my subconscious trying to tell me?

Only two things have made my day today. One is this beautiful e-mail from a fellow blogger, in regard to the guy:

listen to me and hear me now. relax. lighten up. a guy does not hook up with you, brush your knee, hold your hand, talk to you, guide you to the bedroom and make love to you until 7 in the morning because he “just wants to hook up.” no sir. he is doing that because he has a genuine need, he is *truly* attracted to you and he is comfortable with himself. relax. it’s ok. you are ok. it was good. why think so paranoidly ahead? just like it for what it is. relish it. roll in in. love it. live it and experience it. don’t worry about how much money he makes ( you are SO caught up in that….it. does. not. matter.) just go for it and take it where it leads.

how old are you? i’m 36 and it took me about 33 years to realize these things. i can only hope that you get beyond your insecurites. because, mr. tinman, there is a beautiful YOU waiting on the other side.

Thank you… I needed that.

The other thing that made my day is this. Had I been drinking water it would have come out through my nose as I laughed my head off. It’s about halfway down. You’ll know it when you see it. Thanks, RJ. I needed that.

Fireworks

I feel like I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.

In a good way. I think.

When I wrote last night’s entry, I had a very slight fever, and I was going to just sit at home and surf the Web and take it easy. So I read part of Sunday’s New York Times online… got caught up on my MetaFilter reading… and I wandered into the chat rooms.

I saw a name I’d never seen before. He was in Jersey City. There was no photo, but his stats looked appealing: he was my age, not much taller than me, ex-frat guy. Hmmm.

I opened up a window with him and said hi. About a minute went by, and then I got an unusually (for chat rooms) friendly and polite response: something like, “Hey dude, I’m really sorry but I’m kind of busy chatting with an old friend right now… can we chat later?” I said sure thing, no problem, talk to you later. I figured I was getting the brush-off.

A while later I was in the chat room again and he reappeared. In the public window I said hi to him, and then, to my surprise, he opened up a window with me. He apologized again, I said it was okay. We chatted for a while. He was intelligent with a dry wit — both good things in my book. It turned out he lived four blocks away from me. It was after midnight. My fever had pretty much disappeared. And I was sort of horny.

He told me that he was on his way into Manhattan to go to a piano bar. He asked if I’d like to join him. But singing showtunes with a stranger wasn’t really something I was prepared to do at that point in the evening. So I politely declined.

We continued chatting for a while, and he asked what I was up to. I told him not much. We chatted for a while longer, and eventually he decided that it was probably too late to go to a piano bar.

He asked if I’d like to meet up. I said sure. We decided to meet in front of this bar/restaurant around the corner from my apartment.

Here it was, Saturday night, a quarter to two in the morning, and I was showering and changing in order to go out and meet a guy.

He showed up, and he was pretty cute. Clear, tanned skin. Nice arms, nice legs, nice eyes.

The bar looked very crowded and very straight, so we decided to skip it and tried to think of other places to go. After a very short and half-hearted attempt to think of places that might still be open, he suggested we just go hang out at his apartment.

That was totally fine with me.

He fixed us a couple of drinks and turned on some music.

There was an armchair and a loveseat. I sat down on one end of the loveseat. When he sat down on the other end, I figured that was a good sign.

We talked, and talked, and talked, and talked. He’s a pretty masculine guy. An ex-fratboy who’s into showtunes. I thought that was cute. He’s only been out for about two months, but he’s no gay novice.

He’s a corporate guy with libertarian politics. Wait, didn’t I just meet one of those a few days ago? What’s going on here? But unlike my date from the other night, this guy’s a big fan of Bill Clinton. He won points for that.

At some point his leg brushed against mine. We kept talking. Then his hand grazed against my hand. We kept talking. Then we were holding hands, and I stroked his palm with my fingers. We kept talking.

I leaned over to get my driver’s license out of my wallet so he could see what I looked like before the goatee. When I settled back against the couch, his arm was there, and it went around my shoulders. Then mine went around his. We kept talking.

Shortly thereafter, sometime after 4 in the morning, we stopped talking and started kissing.

Fireworks.

Eventually, we made our way to the bedroom. Things continued.

Amazing. Incredible.

I hadn’t felt like this in ages.

Several times he said, “I don’t want this to be a one-night stand.” I told him I didn’t either. And I was pretty sure of it. He kept telling me how cute he thought I was. I told him he was too. And he was.

We exchanged witty and sly remarks.

Finally, at around 7 in the morning, we were wiped out. It was light outside. We cuddled up together underneath the covers and closed our eyes.

When was the last time I’d spent the night with someone? February, but that kinda sucked, so really January. More than six months ago.

This felt wonderful.

I’ve lived in Jersey City for nine months and this guy has lived four blocks away from me the whole time.

I couldn’t sleep.

I started to feel a faint undercurrent of panic. Um, wait. Do I really want a relationship yet? I say that I do, but do I really? It’s all fine and dandy until it actually happens. I mean, my life is kind of quirky. I haven’t turned on my TV in more than two months. I don’t even have cable. My refrigerator’s practically empty. I barely have any spending money. My job is about to end and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Meanwhile, he’s a corporate guy who owns his own apartment at age 27. How can I keep up?

And I don’t know all that much about him yet. And what about the date from the other night who seems to like me? Do I toss him aside now? And I have another personal-ad-initiated date with someone on Monday night, someone I’m not all that enthusiastic about meeting anyway. Do I still go on that date? What if this guy lying next to me in bed wants to become a couple already? My longest relationship was two months. Well, there was a four-month long-distance relationship a year and a half ago, too, but that was different. I don’t have too much experience. And I promised myself that the next time, I’d be more careful, I’d move more slowly.

I realized that it was exactly two years ago that I’d met Biosphere Boy. Exactly two years. To the day.

I desperately wanted to blog.

I couldn’t sleep at all. Hours went by.

Finally it was about 11 in the morning. We cuddled again. Smooth, soft, warm skin. And he liked my body. We cuddled so deeply, so tenderly. But he didn’t want to kiss anymore.

I guess he doesn’t like morning mouth. That’s unfortunate, because kissing is, like, my favorite thing in the world, morning mouth or no.

It was hard for us to make eye contact, too.

At noon he had to get up and go into the office, so I had to leave. There was something weird about our interactions. Slightly stilted, slightly embarrassed, slightly unsure of ourselves, maybe.

We exchanged phone numbers. Hugged. A big, long hug.

I came home.

I need sleep.

Months go by without any dating prospects, and then two of them appear within days of each other.

What is God trying to do?

I’m confused. Very confused. What happened last night? What will happen? I don’t know. This is all too weird.

Move slowly. Move slowly. Move slowly.

Saturday Night Fever

I’m staying in tonight. I seem to have caught the Blogger Flu; first Blogstalker, and now me. I have a slight temperature of 99.2. (That’s Farenheit, for all you non-Americans. Celsius? Metric system? Bah. Too rational.) I was going to go out and party with MermeatherEggiac and the gang tonight, but instead I’m sitting here eating a bowl of soup. Better safe than sorry.

I had a great time with them last night, though. Bill and Ron came in from San Francisco and Boston, respectively; there was also a surprise appearance by Andy, as well as all the usual suspects, and even Beau! He has a goatee now, and I didn’t recognize him at first. Looks great.

I have low tolerance for alcohol, apparently. I had a big bowl of pasta for dinner — two, even — and yet, after three and a half beers last night, I couldn’t drink anymore, so I switched to water. That’s what happens when you weigh 125 pounds, I guess.

It’s almost seeming so routine… all these visits from far-off bloggers… I met so-and-so and so-and-so and we went to so-and-so and so-and-so and drank so-and-so. But it’s always great to meet new people, and it was wonderful finally to meet the men behind Leather Egg and Mermanaic after all these months. Now if only Jonno had shown up. It could have been like the royal family or something. Aw well.

Anyway, I’m sitting at home, finishing up my soup, and maybe I’ll make a fried-egg sandwich (you’re supposed to feed a fever, right? Or… heck, I don’t know). I’ll tool around on the Internet and try not to stress about the fact that my job ends in two weeks and I still don’t know what I’m doing afterwards, or how I’ll pay my rent next month. I’m going to send my resumé to a legal temping firm and see if I can maintain some cash flow two weeks from now.

God, this is so par for the course for me. It’s such a familiar place for me — not having a job. Happened during college, happened after college, happened after law school, and it’s about to happen now. I feel like a screw-up. I’m sure my parents won’t be happy about this. I’m sure as heck not moving back home again. They don’t want that. And neither do I.

The only difference this time around is that there’s a bunch of people reading my words, and so I feel a little less alone; maybe I’ll feel like less of a fuckup if I can remember that I have something of value to contribute to the world. Moral support, baby. That’s what it’s all about.
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