Author Archives: Joel Derfner

If I keep insisting that E.S. is not my boyfriend, why have I baked him two apple pies and started knitting him a scarf?

Today, after a guy I met through men4sexnow.com and I had sex, I told him I’d had a delightful time and would love to do it again some time. He said, “I like you, but I think I may not be enough of a top for you.” Meaning, of course, “You are not enough of a top for me.”

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be bothered by this, but the title of my ad is “tight bottom.” I mean, how much clearer can you get than that?

It’s okay, he misspelled “moniker” in his e-mail to me, so I had already written him off anyway.

On Sunday I joined a web site called men4sexnow.com.

I have been trying for four days to think of something amusing to say about this, but I have failed miserably.

Please forgive me.

At least men4sexnow.com is living up to its name.

I got an e-mail from W.F. in which he demonstrated his understanding of the difference between a sentence-internal ellipsis (three periods) and a sentence-final ellipsis (four periods).

I am in love.

Now I just need to go on a second date with him.

So last Friday I went on a date with a guy named W.F. At least I think it was a date. It didn’t end in sex, and in my hyper-sexualized state of existence, that threw me into a morass of uncertainty.

We had lunch at Raffaela’s and then we got dessert. He got up to look at the dessert display and came back and said, “I know what I want. It’s this hexagonal tart that’s part raspberry mousse and part chocolate.” So he ordered that, and it came, and it was a regular, triangular piece of dessert. This was my immediate thought: “That’s not hexagonal. I can never love you. You don’t even know basic shapes.” Then a second thought occurred to me and, pretending that I had to go to the bathroom, I got up and snuck over to the dessert case. Indeed, his dessert was only a slice of an originally hexagonal dessert. So I realized I could love him after all.

Of course, it wasn’t a tart, but I can forgive that.

Except—wait—it is just occurring to me that maybe he said not “tart” but “torte,” which is what it actually was—in which case he is perfect and I love him.

Now I have to figure out if this was actually a date or not.

This morning, E.S., with whom I’ve been having nice and casual sex once or twice a week for several weeks, referred to himself as my boyfriend.

Then my head exploded.

So now I guess the only thing to do is to get a joint checking account and become completely codependent on each other and inextricably linked in ways that make us both miserable.

Either that or move to Burkina Faso (formerly Upper Volta).

I’ll post as soon as I decide which option to take.

Last weekend I was at lunch with B.N. and there was a cute guy who kept staring at me. I boldly gave him my phone number on my way out. Later that afternoon, he called. His name is N. (I assume he has a last name, but I don’t know it.)

So we went out last night to a bar called Pop Rocks (his (bad) idea). I’m not quite sure how we managed to get in, since they clearly had an age requirement of 12 and under, but there we were, shrieking in each others’ ears and looking ghastly under the unflattering neon lights. At one point I tried to get a little familiar and he said, “this isn’t a date—it’s an official hang”.

What did he think, I gave him my number because I wanted his thoughts on Frida Kahlo?

I asked him what it would take to turn this into a date, and he said, “I don’t date people this early—I don’t even know you yet.”

Then he exchanged phone numbers with two other guys in the bar.

Then he spent the entire cab ride home alternately feeling me up and tweaking my nipples.

Then he wouldn’t let me come up to his place because it was a mess.

Men baffle me utterly.

In an attempt to salvage something out of the time and energy I’d invested in him, I invited N.E. over for dinner and sex. Technically, the invitation was for dinner, but sex was strongly implied. He arrived and, within fifteen minutes, asked what time the express train stopped running. So I had to make a yummy dinner and sit through it with an unfunny dinner companion, all the while knowing I wasn’t going to get any. And to top it all off, I looked over at the clock at 9:12 and realized I’d forgotten to set the VCR to tape Angel. When dinner was over, N.E. offered to help with the dishes, but I refused. What I said: “No, you’re my guest, you’re not allowed to touch the dishes.” What I thought: “I want you out of my apartment right now.”

At least he was annoying enough that I no longer think he’s hot.

And if anybody has Monday’s Angel on tape, please let me know.

Last week I went to a party for my friend H.O., who had just published her first book of poetry. I spent half an hour flirting with her very cute and smart and funny friend L. (last name unknown). As I was leaving, I took H.O. into a side room and asked her what the story was with L. She said, “He’s my boyfriend, but I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.” It was only then that we realized he was standing in the doorway and had heard the whole thing.

Maybe I should give him a call, since he’s single now and everything.

Last night I was at E.S.’s apartment and we were making out and all I wanted was to get the sex over with so that we could eat the cookie dough I’d brought.

I worry that my priorities are misplaced.