Our first date seemed as if we were off to a whirlwind beginning. We were kissing outside in the parking lot before we even walked into the Japanese restaurant. Even as I was kissing her, though, I knew we were doomed. I always notice that if I am talking to someone of the opposite sex and they’re approximately the right age, not married and breathing — I’m going to broach the subject of going out on a date. Inevitably, I will begin to contemplate the level of excitement I feel about the prospective match, and before long, it all just falls apart.
Sapiosexuality is a real thing, but it’s not as cut and dry or black and white as some would have you believe. It’s not at all as if I can not get sexually excited by someone who is as boring as a dentist’s brochure, it’s just that I can’t get myself to put any real effort into it. People pick up on these things, you know. In fact, in the case of the parking lot kisser, she called off the second date with me. I was convinced that she was able to read my mind. Or my poetry on Instagram.
No matter. A few months back, I followed the thread of one of these ill-advised relationships to its unpleasant conclusion and all it netted me was a few unmemorable nights of sex and another person walking around this planet who thinks I suck as a human being. So, I should look at this recent turn of events as a godsend of sorts. It saved me from a repeat performance and another person with a convoluted opinion of me. (Although, how convoluted it is, is definitely up for discussion.)
I mean, as far as I’m concerned, I am just a human being. I long for physical connection; for touch; for affection. Once that primary need is fulfilled, it’s only natural that I start asking myself the deeper questions. Ones like, “Do you really think you can make a go of it with someone who likes pink fedoras and owns every Nickelback album?”
These are valid concerns. There’s the question of optics, though.
A gentleman asks himself these questions before any clothes come off. I feel as though I lucked out in this last turn of events because something unexpected happened that put the brakes on it before I did. I’m not necessarily saying that it was a forgone conclusion that we would’ve slept together, but it wasn’t entirely unlikely, either. My karma and my reputation really needed this lucky break.
I woke up this morning with a mantra rolling around my noggin: if it’s not love, why bother?
If the thought of spending time with a particular person doesn’t send waves of dopamine running around my bloodstream; if the thought of touching my lips to theirs doesn’t send me into a state of giddy ecstasy; if I’m not at the point where I can’t stop thinking about them all day long, then I don’t think I’m going to be whipping out the ol’ Discover card at any Japanese restaurants any time soon. Or whipping out anything else for that matter.