Nothing to see here, keep moving

Alright, alright, not too much going on for the moment. The girl and I are doing well. It hardly seems possible, but I think we've seen each other pretty much continously for the past month or so. Things are good, I'm happy. She's met pretty much all the friends who are in New York, knows which girls from my past to be wary of (although she's met none of those) and she has the stamp of approval from pretty much everyone including the best friend, who sternly instructed her that she must take good care of me (err, thanks?). I'm not flipping out about the girls everywhere, even as they continue to wear less and less clothing. I'm sure that stage will return but for the moment, it is not an issue.

School is crazy busy and my semester of being a slack ass has left me in a most undesirable place. Lots of making up work to be done. In a month, all this will be done and I'll have to face the monster that is called thesis writing. Don't even have a thesis idea yet.

I have to go to a wedding at the beginning of May. I'm definitely not ready for it. Travelling long distances for the wedding of a couple I'm not really that into is not my idea of fun. Besides I need to buy a suit and a year of being a student has left about as poverty stricken as I've ever been. I wonder if one can find a good suit at a thrift store. Hmm...

Case you haven't got the gist, I have nothing to report. Be back once there is.

So, are you gonna be my girl?

Yes, cheesy as it is, I actually said those words, asked the question and made this whole thing somewhat official. Saying it's so doesn't make coming to terms with what it means any easier though. I nearly choked last night when I said words, "this is my girlfriend" aloud for what is probably the first time in my life. For the record, two girls in the past have called me boyfriend, both for a total period of less than five months and neither of whom spent much time around my friends (one because I really didn't care that much for her, and the other because we were dating when I was in a city where I knew no one). So Flint's in a relationship. If you've been reading this here blog because you enjoyed my sufferings in the dating world, you may want to stop reading now. Or you might keep reading actually, because there are no guarantees that I'm out of the woods. You've by now gathered that I've no previous experience with this whole relationship business. If you read the previous post, you also know that my fine hunting instincts have made me into the sort of hound dog that is unable to stop sniffing. (It occurs to me that the previous sentence may make no sense at all and that I really ought to take a basic writing class again. Nevertheless we must forge on.)

It's a funny thing. You are born. You're a dork. You slowly come to a realization of this fact and decide it is unacceptable. You learn to dress yourself in clothes your mum did not pick out, learn a few funnies and teach yourself to flirt. You make the standard errors of college dating and emerge, emotionally scarred and unsuccesful on the other side of that experience. But you are a trooper, and so you keep at it, watching Bogart and McQueen movies as if straining to absorb some of their charisma through the dull LCD of your laptop screen. You improve your mind, do a few push ups, mind your manners and try generally to become the sort of person that it's not too embarassing to be seen with in public. I'll note here that I may not have succeeded in all of this. However, at least one person thinks I haven't done too bad. Friggin sweet. Now what?

Well before I go into what, I must address something. You might be thinking to yourself here: "what's the big deal? He ain't the first dude to ever go into a relationship. Why must we subjected to every single moment of the process? Will he be writing about the sex as well? I give the whole shebangy three weeks" To this I answer that, well, you needn't be subjected to anything you don't want to be subjected to. And secondly, it's pretty major for me anyway, so I shall be as giddy and introspective on this as I cann possibly be. And yes, I may write about the sex. Finally, it has been more than three weeks already so there, and please don't go jinxing me.

Onto the now what. Well, details of this relationship must be negotiated. Luckily, I've landed a lady with whom communication is not a problem. I asked her directly what she wanted from a relationship, a question which seemed to take her completely by surprise. After some hesistation and thought, she asked for a moment to think and asked what I wanted in the meantime. I said companionship and not dependency, continued possesion of my personality, support and friendship, and of course mind blowing and frequent sex. Obviously I've thought about this a little bit. She agreed with all of that and got into the spirit of things. She doesn't want to be a less interesting person cause she's in a relationship. She also thinks the other person ought to make you better than you were alone, both points I definitely approve of.

And that's about as far as we've gone thus far. There are still issues that must be broached. I asked how she'd rate herself in terms of sexual adventurousness, an entirely self-serving question on the answer of which much will rest. And there is still that small matter of the complication, who I've intended to write about, but have not quite got to just yet. Stay tuned, more to come.

Jesus hates the Flint

Blasting Modest Mouse at improbable volumes with your dick in your hand and your browser at randompornsite.com is a greatly underrated method of recovering from a hangover. It's the endorphins see.

What's with these women? Why are they so beautiful, so available, so present everywhere I go. Where, I wonder, were they when I was devastatingly single and looking? It's strange but I'm barely off the market, and I'm already struggling with this concept of monogamy. I once wrote about falling in love a thousand times a day, and thinking (as all essentialists believe guys do) of possessing each and every one of these beauties. I'm not stupid. I knew I'd have to deal with this issue if I ever got into a relationship. Nevertheless I didn't anticipate, or perhaps I simply didn't realize how much of a wandering eye I have. And because Jesus hates me (probably cause I don't believe in him yet take his name in vain to explain the miseries of my life), he put a whole slew of them in my way yesterday, to mock me, less than a week into my new relationship.

First of all, walking around campus on the first day of eighty degree weather is likely to cause any heterosexual man whiplash. It's not bloody Long Beach people, put some clothes on! I'm trying to be educated here. Anyway, I got on a train on my way to see a concert and my eyes are immmediately drawn to those of a girl who happens to stand above most of the other passengers in the train. I'm a fairly tall fella and other than the occasional dude, I'm not really used to making eye contact with anyone when I look directly across the train. Generally I'm seeing the tops of people's heads. So when I made eye contact with this very pretty brown face, I of course had to do a more thorough examination. God must have had some free time when he made her. 6 foot tal, Amazonian black woman with the most ridiculous backside and rack I've seen outside of a porno and that one friend of mine who's a traffic hazard. And when I'm done checking her out, I realise that she keeps looking over my way. We make eye contact and she must have held my gaze for a half minute, then she burst out giggling and looked away. My photography professor sometimes takes a look at a picture I'm working on and says, "I think you can get that in three." I would venture I could have had this lady in two. Took all my will power not to walk over and give her my number.

And then after the concert, we all went out for drinks and dancing at Hiro. The lady worked late and had work really early in the morning, so she didn't come out. Now, this isn't some new group of people I haven't hung out with before. My concert buddies (minus the best friend), the Turkish fella and his English friend (who we randomly ran into at the Elbow concert) and some more English friends of concert girl. All the new faces were male and I'd never had the slightest bit of sexual tension with any of the other members of the group. So of course, we ended up getting ridiculously drunk, very flirty on the dance floor and concert girl (whose sexuality I've occasionally wondered about because she's never really shown sign of having any) ends up snuggling next to me as I rest in a whiskey induced fog at our table. Everyone else was on the dance floor and she came and plopped by me, obviously very drunk herself and nuzzles right up to my face. She then initiated a somewhat incoherent conversation which she insisted on having right in my face. Were I single, I would have damned the "don't make moves on your friends" rule and delivered the kiss she was so obviously demanding. As I am not, I did no such thing. I asked if she was alright and if it might be time that we made our way out and I put her in a taxi, but she insisted there was more partying to do. So I got up and began the long dance of leaving the club. I give myself a A for impulse control and C- for knowing what the fuck is going on.

Here's the thing. I've been going on for somewhere in the range of six years or so about wanting a decent relationship. Somehow or the other, I've finally landed in one that is healthy, makes complete sense and is with someone I really like, who is really damn fine and awesome. In the period of anticipation, I knew being in a relationship would not kill my wandering eye or somehow immunize me from the effects of beautiful girls, but seriously this is ridiculous. I must end this post now but coming up is a rumination on the relationship I'm trying to build, what I was thinking I wanted in a relationship versus what I'm likely to get, and the negotiations on these issues. In the meantime, feel free to chastise me for me being a cad with (as Chelsea Girl described me) the amorous attention span of a beagle at a chili contest (a description I'm unlikely to ever forget or let go).

Blogging while dating

Well, thank you Mr. Wheaton, didn't know you were reading my mind now. I don't intend to tell Opera girl (is it a bad sign that I can't come up with a better nickname for her here?) about my blog, at least not if she doesn't ask. And if she does, I will tell her and instruct her that I would much rather she not look for or check it out.

That was the plan anyway. The logical kink in this of course, and one that Wheaton won't shut up about, is that she will find it. Whether by deliberately flaunting my instruction to the contrary, the irresistable presence of the blogger dashboard button on my browser or simply carelessness on my part, she'll find it eventually. This already bores me.

My last blog crashed and burned for the simple reason that both my current and last girl were reading. So was my best friend, another extremely nosy and unhelpful close friend and probably another third of my social galaxy that I was unaware of. Eventually, getting your words thrown in your face, your decisions and inner monologue second guessed and being unable to jot down a private thought without interference got very, very boring. I informed no one that I was closing it, just logged in one day, saved my posts to disk and burned the damned thing.

I actually didn't intend to ever start another blog. In my opinion, the blog had failed and there was no reason to pursue such folly ever again. Unfortunately I need to write. I'm one of those people who needs a diary (although I never succesfully kept one), and who, finding a shortage of people with whom comfortable discussing anything of depth, must attempt those conversations in another sphere. So I started this blog, informing all who asked that I'd retired from blogging and keeping it secret from pretty much everyone I call friend. There are two people who knew in me in the real world before I started this blog who know of it's existence. They are both really good friends, with discretion, who do not have much reason to talk to my other friends, so there is little chance of them accidentally disclosing it's existence.

So I've got this little blog that I like very much. It's a work in progress. I'm usually very honest, but I've probably not told every single detail. It serves its purpose. I like you all, my readers. There aren't too many of you (which is great), but I like you and like knowing that you're out there sympathizing with my plights, whether you say so or not. I don't want this blog blowing up, don't need a huge readership or a thousand people linking me. Yes, I'm an attention whore and I like to be liked and recognized, but I know what purpose this thing serves and it cannot do that if it's being linked by sites my friends are very likely to read.

You know that Jack Johnson song, Breakdown? It is totally fucking righteous.

I worry about my online persona. I want to be liked, but I want to be honest. That might be exhbitionism, but I think it also has to do with a desire for a place outside of my head that's completely honest. I lie to my parents, I lie to my friends, I've lied to every girl I've ever been with and I don't want to have to lie here. Thus I reveal ugly things about myself here, I try to get you to see me as more than a likeable lothario. I've yet to succeed in that, and I know there is much of my life I must talk about more and explore if I hope to get to that place.

But you say, isn't part of the reason you wanted a girl so that you could have someone to be completely honest with? And you're right. And if there is anything that I really, really like about the wonderful lady I've been seeing lately, it's that I've not felt the need to hide much. I may not have told all so far, but I've told no lies and hidden little. I like feeling comfortable enough to talk to her, and I like the way she's dealt with all she's heard about me. The things I've not mentioned, this blog and a few experiences I'm not certain one should divulge until a relationship is very well developed, have not inquired into. If she asks, she gets the truth.

But that still doesn't answer the question of what to do about the blog. If I keep it and I write in it about her, then she'll find it some day and there will be more drama than a Telemundo special. I'm not giving it up, because it seems ridiculous that I'd have to give up something that is so intergral to my exploration of who I am because I'm starting a relationship. You got some thoughts here? I'm rambling. I'm going to make a second post of some extra considerations on the same topic.

First kiss, first date, bliss?

We were standing on the platform waiting for the train to arrive. Her coat hung open. I saw, took hold and pulled her closer. I slid my hands into the coat, holding her to me, feeling her weight lean into my arm through the soft fabric of her sweater. She put her hands up behind my neck, pulling me down to her. A great first kiss requires cooperation from both parties, and that was one of the best I've ever had, a great first kiss on a great first date.

First dates are easy. Most people have had so many bad experiences that expectations are low on both sides, allowing you to easily surpass them. For a guy, there are just a few rules to observe. Shine your shoes (pay some attention to the way you're dressed basically), plan the evening but leave room for improvisation if something doesn't work or she's not feeling it. Guys pay on the first date. This might be a remnant of patriarchal modes of thought, but it's not one that many people are willing to give up, so don't argue, just go with it. Try not to be an incredible bore by speaking about yourself incessantly. Listen to her answers as you will be tested if there is a second date. Try to tear your eyes away from her cleavage to look her in the face for at least a portion of the evening. Find something fun, or different, some spot you've found that's really underground and cool, or something else of that nature. Finally and very importantly, alcohol is your friend. Nothing makes two people like each other more than a bottle of wine or a few whiskeys.

I've been on a lot of first dates. A willingness to talk to strangers combined early adoption of Nerve's personals and occasional help from enthusiastic friends has meant that in the past few years, I've dated more than every guy and most girls I know. Of course, this entire blog is testament to my lack of luck in relationship land, so even when a first date goes well, I try not to get overly hopeful. Much can still happen to take things off track.

Happily though, as I write this, I'm waiting for Opera girl to get off work so we can go on date number X. That X doesn't stand for ten, it means unknown. I think we've seen each other every day this week, either cause we parted in the morning, or we met in the evening. The event with crazy lady from two posts past happened on our second date, and it definitely did shake us both up. But Opera girl (gonna need a new nickname, this one seems very limiting) is a fan of direct talk and we had a long and really intelligent talk not just about crazy lady, but all the issues surrounding it. And it didn't scare her off coming to my place, for which I'm grateful.

I'm a bit scared to get too hopeful. I take back anything I said about her looks. She is ridiculously cute and that's not just the endorphins talking. I keep catching (and she might too) myself staring at her. Must get that habit under control. She's on track to meet the most of my friends in the shortest period of any girl I've ever dated. This is helped along by factors such as her actually being age appropriate for me, living in the same city and our not having met in any sort of dodgy manner. So, cross your fingers for me and lets all hope I don't manage to screw it up somehow.

Tagged - This will be over as quickly as your high school boyfriend

Matilda over at Jaded Fashionista put this on me, my very first tag. I feel special. Unfortunately anyone who's been in my bathroom knows that it's pretty spartan, so this will be short.

1. Body soap?
Dove, Cucumber and Green Tea, which I started using because it echoed my old cologne, Bulgari's Green Tea

2. Face wash?
Noxzema Tingly Citrus Formula - sadly I've been using it so long, it doesn't really tingle anymore. Need a change.

3. Shampoo?
Garnier Fructis, 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner - I've got a shaved head so even this seems redundant

4. Moisturizer?
Vaseline Intensive care - used it since I was a kid, need it to tame my crocodile skin

5. Cologne/Perfume?
Currently Marc Jacobs men. I like to change these regularly or have a couple at hand, cause I like to be able to smell it myself and you lose that ability after you've used the same one for a while

6. Deodorant/Anti-perspirant?
Gillette Clear Stick

7. Toothpaste?
Colgate Total

8. Mouthwash?http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif
Listerene.

9. Razor?
For my croc skin? I use an electric razor

10. Shaving cream?
Electric razor, hence no cream

11. Aftershave?
or aftershave. I put some moisturizer on and move on

12. Missed anything?
Nope. I'm surprised I have that much to report. Apparently, I'm not the ascetic I thought I was. Alrighty Feisty, Angelina - care to share?

Open Letter

To the crazy bitch that run up on me and opera girl the other night and yelled a whole bunch of mixed up shit,

Strange that the first time that person would ever call me nigger or display to me racism in it's starkest and most naked form would be a black woman. After all, most of my time in America has been spent in the liberal Northeast and even in a much commented bastion of racism like Boston, everyone understands that in public and in polite society, one does not display their prejudices so openly. So while I've experienced and written of (not necessarily here) many instances of subtle racism, I've never experienced anything even close to this in terms of horrifically unselfconscious racism. It was like being in a scene from Crash.

Listen crazy lady, why you gotta run up and mess with a date that was going swimmingly. We were about to get up in my apartment, crack open a bottle of wine and explore positions 1 through 13 of the Kama Sutra. And then you gotta run up yelling about, "what is this shit? what's this all about? this is why Niggers (lets talk about how much pleasure you took in delivering this word repeatedly) like you ain't never got a job. I mean, do you have a job? what is this? fucking, nigger, blah, blah, blah." Don't really remember too much else in detail of your rantings. I'm generally not in the habit of paying attention to the obviously insane. I don't watch Bill O'Reilly either.

Truly though, I wouldn't mind having a conversation with you. I'm curious as to what it is about seeing me with a white girl upset you so much and hit you on such a visceral level. I think I could probably have a conversation with you. After all, you were jogging in full athletic get up, some skin tight Adidas or Nike get up, along with those bright orange headphones they foist on would be atheletes with no taste to help them get in the zone. In order to afford that gear and do something so bourgoise as jogging around a neighbourhood where the most exercise most people get is running to catch the bus, you must be be a member of wage slave (unless you're fueled by daddy's money - a distinct possibility in your case), yuppy, consumerist America. Within such circles, it's probably not acceptable to get all wild and ignant like you did the other evening. Perhaps that's why you did. You were tired of holding your tongue and you felt this was a safe space within which to express your vitirol. Or perhaps there were other reasons. I'll tell you though, it definitely wasn't a safe space. If I had been a pimp with my ho, I would have bitch slapped you without a moment's pause. If I were a drug dealer with a new customer, I would definitely have marked your face for violent and extensive retribution later in the week. And if I were a teacher going to work over the week's lesson plans with another teacher, or just a guy walking with a neighbour (there is a white girl living above me after all), you'd just have ruined the week of someone with no real ability to retaliate.

Well, I'm none of those people, so public excoriation will probably be the worst punishment you receive. Hopefully that's combined with some regret and soul searching on your part, which should have happened when you over adrenalized mind settled down and thought about what you'd done. I've got questions for you though, lots of them:;

1. We ain't in 1950's Mississippi. Miscegnation ain't no crime. How have you not got this memo?
2. Beyond our walking together, there was no outward sign of affection between us. We weren't holding hands, stopping to make out or any of that. I know cause our body language was worrying me at that very moment. So what is it that hit you so deep that you lost hold of your bourgoise mask and went all hood on us?
3. What was that whole mess about the job thing? What does the person I date have to do with my status in the working world? Is dating a black girl the key to the job of my dreams? How have not been informed of this?
4. You pull any other stunts like this lately or regularly? Cause I know a couple of asylums that aren't quite full. Streets would be safer without you. You're a menance.

There's probably more of these, but carrying out imaginary conversations with crazy people is an activity that brings limited returns. I do gotta note a couple of things though. I'm getting really fucking tired of this over defensiveness about interracial dating among black women. Having been interrogated a few times by exes and friends of exes, and reading hysterical conversations in blogland on the same topic, I feel safe in saying that at least a few people are going about addressing the shortage of desirable black men in exactly the wrong manner.

Losing your fucking head, becoming aggressive at the mention of a black man dating a woman of any other race (white, brown or friggin green), demanding regression charts on the number of black versus other women that one has dated, and the general insane sensitivity that accompanies the issue, does not make you in any way more attractive. Being the individualist that I am, unless contributing to an issue on larger grounds, I always advise that one maximise their own potential. Protests about the state of things and societal issues are all well good, and should all taken up where it is possible to make real change. On a day to day level though, if your ass does not want to die an unwanted spinster, I suggest finding a wider pool within which to date. If there ain't no black men, try white men, brown men, hell even women if you find yourself flexible. If you are not attracted to or find those groups not attracted to you or for some misguided reason find yourself unwilling to date outside the pool of available black men, you must somehow or the other be the most attractive fish within that pool. I ain't got no advise for you there, other than to try not to be a completely psycho bitch. Good luck.

For the immediate future however, please keep your narrow mind and narrow hind out of my path. With my date on my arm, the most important thing to me was getting her to safety, away from psycho lady. On any other day I run into you, I may have the time to speak cruel, cruel words to you. I haven't hit a female since I stopped roughhousing with my sister at 13, but if you come up on me all hysterical like that again, I may make exceptions. That is all.

Flint, in a not so seductive mood

Meet The Perverts

Were all perverts this charming and attractive (and confined their amorous attentions to fellow perverts and willing converts like myself), they would be welcomed far more readily into general society. The Pervert's Saloon, organized by Dacia was way cool. Putting faces to the words I've read for so long was really cool, and it was interesting to adjust the persona people have created online and try to fit it to the faces and bodies you're now seeing. I'm happy to report that everyone was at least twice as attractive as online, having pretty bodies to match the minds I was already enamored of. Thank you for the introductions CG. How could one not feel attractive being introduced by such a lady? They're not all linked in my sidebar, so I'd like to introduce some of the perverts I had the pleasure of meeting, or simply hearing read last night.

Dacia: Organizer extraordinaire, model and champion of perverts everywhere
Cherry Bomb: Allow me to be frank. She's hott (two t's and a sweating Flint) and from her story, whip smart and able to take care of herself when confronted with sneering retail customers. I love a capable woman
Chelsea Girl: If you read this blog and the comments, you already know I adore Chelsea Girl. Monday night, I met many others who also adore her and got to confirm that she is as hot as her words.
Jefferson: Didn't get to meet Jefferson, but watching him read and toy with the crowd, while attended by a coterie of women, it's hard to doubt the sincerity of his stories or that online persona. Plus the spider web complexity of his love life makes me look a relative ascetic
Jane: Jane Vincent was at the event unexpectedly, and read one of my favorite stories from her site. It was even more entertaining in person. Later on, I caught get grooving like a superstar on the dance floor.
Lex Konrad: If you've ever read NLP, you've got to wonder how any guy could get so much play and be so laid back about it. Meet Lex in person, and it is obvious. Lex is like the physical embodiment of laid back, plus he's tall (I mean, taller than me at 6'5 or so), charming and very funny. And if you've never met Les, you're really missing something. She's really ridiculouly hot and really warm ad fun as well. If you're reading this Les, we'd really like to see more posts from you on the blog as well. Do write.

There were a lot more wonderful people who I did not get the chance to meet but really enjoyed hearing read. Desiree was a wonderful host, amusing and engaging. Tony Comstock (that a name or what?) is, as described by many people, one of the few pornographers I would actually like to sit and have a drink with. Really glad I went and got to meet so many people. Thanks to Dacia for organizing the event. Wouldn't miss the next one for all the free condoms in Manhattan.

Good thing my head's attached as I'd likely lose that too

In the half decade preceeding 2006, I can count on one hand the number of things I lost. After a childhood of exceeding carelessness, I settled into some sort of responsibility and actually learnt how to take care of my things. In 2006, that ability of mine completely disappeared. Here is a catalogue of things I've lost in increasingly bizzare ways this year:

1. My favorite pair of gloves, some tan Cole Haan gloves that sat safely in my brother's room for two years before I picked them up Christmas, only to lose them at the end of January.
2. My ipod, a year old, 40 gig wonder that made many a trip bearable for me.
3. Two hundred United States dollars. Unfuckingbelieavable
4. Two hundred dollar Oakley sunglasses

A quick glance at that list quickly confirms that, the cash aside, these are all pretty nice but non-essential things. It's like someone declared a luxury tax on me, nicking or otherwise facilitating the loss of all my little material pleasures. Of course, that person would be my own careless self. I stuck the gloves in my back pocket an actually felt them fall as I ran to catch the bus. In my rush though, I paid no attention till I was settled on the moving boss, at which point I convinced myself that I must have left them at home and not brought them out at all. Yeah, you lie to yourself all the time too. The ipod was either dropped or nicked from my back pocket during a night of extreme debauchery on Lit's grimy premises. Despite my intoxication, I'm still mystified that anyone could have got anything out of such fitted jeans without my attention, but I do remember being pretty damn distracted for portions of that evening. My most recent loss, the sunglasses also appears connected to Lit, suggesting to me that perhaps I should find another place to indulge my debaucherous side. I could swear that upon departing last night, the glasses were in my coat pocket and I even remember playing with them as I walked towards my door. Unfortunately before departing to watch Brick and then party some last night, I took on my apartment with broom and mop, organizing and cleaning to sparkling goodness. Thus, when I was unable to find the sunglasses this morning, there were no mounds of disorder in which I could convince myself the glasses could be hiding. Those damn hipsters! As to the dough, well I rarely carry more than 60 bucks in cash on my person, preferring to pay for everything with credit or debit. Of course, the one day there was an exception to this, the cash mysteriously disappeared. Strange and stranger.

Anyway, with far more urgent fiscal priorities, it is unlikely that I will be replacing any of these things anytime soon. If anything good has come from all of this, it is that at least my senses are more alert to my environment. Devoid of gloves, earphones and shades, my touch, hearing and vision are now that much less encumbered. And short of losing my watch or the clothes off my back, I have few useless pleasures left to dispose of. Wish me luck in keeping those I've retained.