Dating Bradford: The Pause Button

I left his apartment for once, being given a kiss instead of a cumrag. It had been a wonderful first date, the kind where you don't feel awkward (that much), where you don't try to impress him (too much) and where you laugh a lot, wishing everything could stay on cruise control forever.

"I've never been to a fashion show before," he had told me as we arrived to the red-carpet "Tulips and Pansies" benefit for Village Care New York.

"Good" I quipped, shoving a tuna-tartare appetizer in his smiling mouth, "Then I don't have to work as hard to impress you."

Later we laughed our way up the four flights of stairs to his Chelsea apartment and feverishly commenced to make out on his brown suede overstuffed sofa. His magic words to me were "I'd invite you to spend the night or we could, umm, save that for a second date?"

I smiled into his kind hazel eyes, taking in the beauty of reflected light off the beads of sweat on his shaved head. This man is a treasure, I thought. Wrapping a hand tightly around one of his bulging tattooed arms, with my other running through the soft fur on his muscular chest and flat stomach, I told him a story about how similar words were said to me once. Words which turned a possible hookup into a five-year relationship. Then we talked and kissed some more, and I made a graceful exit before it was hinted at.

On my way home, I couldn't help smiling as I wallowed in feelings of bliss and enchantment. I wanted the feelings to last as long as possible, before things didn't work out with this wonderful man for whatever reason, before my cynicism kicked in.

So few times I'd walked to the subway in such euphoria, wistfully ignoring the city's distractions. I wanted to savor his flavor before hope, expectation and jealousy fell into our cake mix. Before longing made it taste bitter or salty or complicated.

"If I could only press a pause button right now" I thought, "and chew on this delicacy for a while."

Unfortunately, there isn't a pause button. Almost immediately after the bliss dissipates, we are left with yearning. Bliss is a controlled substance in short supply. When we get a rare dose, how can we help from wanting more?

We can't. It's like a helium balloon that beautifully bobs on the ceiling when you come home from a party, but is half way to the floor by morning. The longer we wait for more helium, the more withered and deflated our balloon gets.

So we substitute our bliss addiction with a cheaper and less elusive drug, like doubt. Administered with a simple thought like "What if he never calls?" Or "What if he likes me too much?" Although we pretend the energy between us is the same as our first kiss, there is a palpable difference. Our approach becomes defensive, and the next date is spent subtly seeking flaws, or overcompensating for the obvious ones.

Then our addictive nature quickly moves toward the hard stuff like the lies of self-loathing and cynicism -- "It probably won't work out" -- and, later, spite -- "I hate him for not wanting me."

In the aftermath of our emotional drug binge, we take a "bitter" pill to combat the hangovers. Downing it with shots of bloody-fairie mix and toasting "Men are pigs!" The jukebox plays "I'll never get a boyfriend," and we sing woe-is-me along with the music.

How do we keep from hitting bottom after such a great high of hope? How can we satisfy our palates with just a taste of the good stuff, without sabotaging ourselves afterward making sure we can't get more of it?

Perhaps there are ways of taking that bit of bliss and using it as yeast for our love loaf instead of diluting our dough with too many ingredients. Maybe you can answer me when I ask:
When detoxing from the great date drug, how do we prolong the highs without our personal lies?

(Photo: Greg Powers)