Could I Get a Side Order of Empathy With That Phallus?

So, yes, as I was saying yesterday, I went to meet Sir Hugo for coffee.

I biked up to the spot under the Williamsburg Bridge where we had planned to meet, and he was waiting for me, sitting on a stoop, reading the paper, with his bike propped up in front of him. He had about three plastic bags wrapped around the seat--which is something bikers do to protect the fabric from the rain--but frankly, it looked like a homeless person had gotten a hold of Hugo's ten-speed and done a number on it.

(Sorry, Hugo, but it's true. You might want to do something about it.)

I also noticed that he did not seem as attractive to me as he had the first time around.

I'm sure this is largely a result of my rose-colored glasses going black, after a week of wondering what the hell was going on--although I like to think it had more to do with the fact that we were in broad daylight.

Whatever the case may be, I had to ask myself WHAT in the hell I'd gotten myself so worked up about.

I don't know why I give such power to a person who seems to be (and in this case really WAS) romantically rejecting me.

Anyway, we got drinks and sat out in a lovely little park by the river. When I told him I wanted to sit in the shade, he asked why, and I said I was scared of wrinkles; he said that--counter to the cultural expectation--he actually thinks wrinkles make women more beautiful. (Just FYI.) Then the conversation began to meander a bit; I assumed he needed to get warmed up a little, before he laid on me the ASTONISHING explanation about why he'd declined a second date, and why he'd taken so long to do it. So, we chatted about the blog, and he told me his impressions of it--primarily that I seemed more mature in person than I do through my site. (Right! Because in person, I do not blab about my innermost neuroses!) We talked about our dating experiences, about what a bizarre and wonderful place New York can be, this and that. I said something about how I am trying to live more flirtatiously this year--he'd missed that aspect of the blog--and he said he thought it was a good thing when women initiated flirting, because he, for one, is almost always too shy to start it up. (Again, just FYI.)

And yet, the whole time, I was a little confused, because I kept wondering when we were going to get to THE POINT. When was he going to tell me WHY he'd blown me off? Wasn't that the whole idea behind him finally contacting me, and us getting together? Because, like, if there wasn't any big revelation coming, beyond "I'm just not that into you," couldn't he have made that perfectly clear with nothing more than an email?

But ... no. I finally realized that he did NOT, in fact, have any enlightening information to impart about what had turned him off, or what had prohibited from declining a second date for so long. His kidney had NOT been stolen by members of the Yugoslavian mafia earlier in the week--that is not what kept him from writing back to me within a reasonable period of time. He had not been seduced the day after our date by Natalie Portman; that is not why he wasn't interested in me. Nor did he reveal to me anything about my physical or personality imperfections that would explain why he felt no chemistry, and which might be useful to me in the sense that I might be able to work on them going forward.

We'd suggested that we get together simply because, I guess, he wanted to make some kind of friendly overture. For whatever reason, he just wanted to hang out.

Realizing this, I told him I had to go.

Hugo suggested we keep in touch--and there, finally, maybe, was the point: He wanted to be friends. Why? I have no clue. Maybe it's because he likes the blog. Maybe it's because he's an unemployed flaneur who has nothing better to do than to collect new chums. Who knows.

Regardless, in the moment, his request seemed reasonable enough, even sweet.

But right now, I feel less enthusiastic.

Because: What kind of SADISTIC NARCISSIST could have read my blog all last week and yet still have been incapable of sending a simple note saying he just wasn't up for a second date?

Is it really that hard TO TYPE OUT A FUGGING EMAIL?

Wait, please, let me answer that: No! It is not! Because I've done it myself! Many times!

I am tempted here to say this is a male thing, this kind of narcissism. But I think, in fact, folks of both genders can be guilty of it. When someone likes you, and you don't like them back, somehow, your brain misfires, and you think you can just forego all basic human decency and treat them like crap.

I know I was a MASOCHISTIC NARCISSIST, in this case--but at least masochists only hurt themselves! I mean, I know I got a little nutty. And my nuttiness was exacerbated, in part, by writing about it every day. And I know, in the end, it was a lot less about him than my own search for validation.

But still. Am I right? Is it so hard to cough up a little empathy?

Sheesh.

Also, you guys are the best. Thanks for sticking with me through all this B.S.

xxx