Week Nine
I have a friend that works in publicity. She works for one of LA’s most established publicists who represents some of today’s hottest stars. When tasked with describing her job, her most common expression is “managing expectations”. It’s important that each of their clients understand what is and isn’t in the realm of possibility given their respective star power. For example, Carrot Top shouldn’t ever expect a GQ cover. If for some reason he does, it’s her job to help reshape his expectations to reflect reality, all the while massaging his sensitivities so he doesn’t have a characteristic Carrot Top meltdown. I should note here, I don’t know if her company represents Carrot Top or not. He was, and I don’t know why, the first celebrity I thought of.
“What the hell are you talking about, X-Cessive?” you’re probably asking yourself.
This idea of managing expectations is really important to today’s post.
I recently took a weekend to travel to San Francisco. I’ve been away from the Complex plenty of times, for holidays and such, but returning to the Complex this time was more difficult. I forgot about the loud noises and dorm-y vibes. I forgot about the listless unemployed and over-fitnessed bodies. I forgot about the crude amount of substance consumption (you know which kind of substances) on the premises. Basically, in the haze of returning from a whirlwind weekend trip, I wasn’t managing my expectations for my return, and likewise, had a more jarring adjustment in store for me. Managing expectations. You wouldn’t go to Pizza Hut and not expect diarrhea.
NICK: MY UNSOLICITED WINGMAN
Remember a few weeks ago I began my post with a plea for forgiveness for the language I’d need to quote? This week I make a similar plea. Please forgive how uncomfortable this post is. If anything, you’ll experience a whisper of how uncomfortable this experience made me. I’ve never said this un-ironically, but for this post, the struggle is real. In retrospect, I’m thankful. The profit of struggle is wisdom…and battle scars. Chicks dig both.
Night 1
Do you remember Dirk? I do. Dirk was that friend we made back at the (you guessed it) hot tub, that night with the Brazilian tourists. He had a great night by my estimation. Dirk used to live at the Complex, years ago, and has family still living here. From time to time, he visits and enjoys catching up with old friends in the area. And, like a discarded Bud Lite or a wad of someone’s pubes, he’s spends a lot of his visits in the hot tub. On this particular evening, and the several evenings over which this saga of awkward took place, Dirk’s friend Josué was visiting as well.
Josué used to live here too. He’s of average height and size, and ruggedly built. With tan skin and a crystal clear face, he also resembles many of those over-fitnessed bodies I mentioned. He broadcasts explicitly that he values working out and it shows. Unlike the score of unemployed at the Complex however, Josué is proudly employed at Radio Disney; a host for some of their web content and what he called a “recognizable voice” in the children’s radio industry.
I’m superficially catching up with Dirk and simultaneously being introduced to Josué and suddenly a tall, skinny white gentlemen bounds in to the hot tub from the pool area. He creates a wake and bobs over to Josué, sliding right into Josué’s personal bubble. Within a few moments, it’s clear the two are a couple. At least, I thought it was clear.
I would have easily assumed our young friend was very young…maybe 17? And perhaps he was and was an excellent liar but he says he’s 23. Josué is 25. Like with many things at the Complex, I plea diffusion of responsibility, and held off on calling the cops.
We carry on with introductions and small talk and when the time calls for it, I dip out, citing a score of undone tasks and vexatious chores at home instead of honestly telling them I’m just going to inhale a sleeve of Ritz and fall asleep to Veep, again.
Night 2
A few nights later, I was on my way back from the gym.
What? I was. Sure, that’s something you’d never expect me to say. Remember when I said managing expectations would be a theme? But I went to the gym nonetheless, and while enjoying a run on the treadmill and an enthralling episode of the Weather Channel’s I Survived a Tornado, I worked up quite the sweat. It was the healthiest three and a half minutes of my life.
On the way back from the gym, I hear someone calling my name. I turn around and discover our good friend Dirk and Josué wading in the hot tub. We chat for just a few moments as I dip my toes in the foggy, green water. Then, like Deja vu, a tall, skinny white gentleman enters the hot tub.
He reaches his hand out to introduce himself. “We met before,” I say, “The other night. You don’t remember?”
“I’ve never been here before,” he says. I’ve forgotten people I’ve met a million times, so I didn’t think twice about repeating our formalities a second time, but given Dirk and Josué’s throat cutting gestures and panicked expressions, I took the hint that this boy was new. A note: I use “boy” here because that is the type of man these guys have been. They’re not children but they have that look…like…“I can rent a car or register for the draft but I still avidly play Super Smash Bros. and drink Monster”.
Sure enough, who I have begun retrospectively calling Bachelor #2 wasn’t the same gentleman as night 1. Despite being slightly handsy with Josué and, I’m assuming, enjoying a good buzz, Bachelor #2 was far easier to talk to than Bachelor #1. Bachelor #2 is a student in Philadelphia somewhere, in his second year of studying photography and has aspirations to become a social media celebrity. Then, he asked what I do.
I’ve had the experience that, when people find out the company I work for, they cuddle up to me. Given the company is a household name, I understand the illusion of prestige and I’ll admit, sometimes the attention is welcomed. But any inflation of my position would be exactly that, mere aggrandizement. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job and it’s an awesome job but not “pass me your headshot” or “send me your script” awesome.
Bachelor #2 was one of these. Without any investment or follow up into exploring what I actually do, Bachelor #2 became instantly flirtatious when I told him where I work. I shrugged it off as the usual Complex hot tub routine and he eventually tired of it.
“I’m going to cool off in the pool,” he proclaimed, slowly pulling himself from the village bath water. “Don’t leave me,” he commanded me as he walked away backwards. He turned on his heel and skipped away to the pool. It was all very Pippy Longstocking.
“Your new one is a little free…” I say to Josué.
“Oh he’s not mine.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Perhaps he’s about to lecture me on the harmful effects of possessive language in progressive, millennial relationships.
“He’s yours.”
Nope. He’s just pimping him out.
Josué went on to explain that he met Bachelor #2 “at a party” which I later learned is code for a gay hookup app and said he’d “had his fun” but figured he’d be a better fit for someone else. Is this why they called me over? I ask myself, Are Dirk and Josué not my real friends? I was more disappointed than when a…when a…sports fan witnesses their sports team lose a…um…sports match.
“I’m good, thanks.” I thoroughly explain to Josué.
I take off.
After Night 1, I never expected to see Dirk or Josué again. When I saw them, while I wasn’t surprised or taken aback, it was contrary to my expectations, yielding an unprepared response. Similarly, I neglected to explain myself or engage Josué or Dirk on their assumption of my sexuality and/or desire to be “set up” with someone because I honestly didn’t ever expect to see them again. I mean, for sure there couldn’t be a night 3. So I left without explanation. What do I care what a Radio Disney host thinks about my private life? But then –
Night 3
Days later, on a Saturday afternoon, Dirk and Josué join me in the jacuzzi. With them is a new tall, skinny, white boy. We’re minutes into chatting and the new boy, Bachelor #3 is chatting. it. up. with me. Very flirtatious. He keeps bumping into me and saying things like “stop hitting me!” and rolling his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to,” I’d say.
“Don’t get upset, I’m just joking,” he’d say.
“Okay,” I’d say.
This happened a few awkward times and then Bachelor #3 must have gathered some courage or had a sudden lapse of judgment. So he went for it. Bachelor #3 slides over to my side of the hot tub and indicates for me to lean in, like he has something urgent to tell me. I lean forward and turn my head, expecting him to speak quietly closer to my ear and then I notice Bachelor #3’s hand climbing up my thigh and into my swim trunks.
Let’s talk about fight or flight.
As many are aware, fight or flight is the colloquial phrase used to describe the two rapid instinctual responses humans experience in fear inducing moments. In most instances like this, my natural inclination is “fight”. I slap, kick, claw, bite, punch, whack and flail to keep myself from harm. I get more instinctually violent and defensive than a Trump supporter on Meet the Press. In that vein, I didn’t expect the response Bachelor #3’s actions yielded; namely, my “flight” response.
I pushed his hands, which had reached some pretty intimate spaces very quickly, forcefully down and away from me. I shouted, “Hey” like a background vocalist on a Lumineers track and vaulted out of the tub, all within an instant. And then I ran. In retrospect, I must have stopped just long enough to collect my dry belongings from the lounging chairs adjacent to the jacuzzi, but in the flash of a surprise reach up the trousers, I don’t really remember.
I don’t want to hyperbolize, but I could elaborate for an eternity on the thoughts and frustrations I experienced in the wake of this event and still not really untangle the thing. So I’ll just continue the story. The important thing, and the thing you should remember moving forward, is that “flight” here made sense. At the time, I thought I probably would never see Dirk, Josué or Bachelor #3 again…at the least, I wouldn’t ever see them all at the same time. But that would be assuming that I actually learn from all this insanity and stop returning to the jacuzzi…
Night 4
Some time later, maybe a week even, I’m enjoying a dip in the jacuzzi and some quiet reading time. It’s Sunday afternoon and I’ve never seen the community areas of the Complex so empty. Then, as if my peace set off some sort of alarm cue for them, Dirk, Josué and Bachelor #3 join me in the hot tub.
Without acknowledging any of them, I start to gather my belongings.
“Why’d you run away the other night?” Dirk is the first to broach the subject.
“Um.”
So I decide to level with them. At this rate, if I keep expecting I’ll never see them again, they’re going to end up as my roommates.
“Well, you made me feel really uncomfortable and I decided I didn’t want to stay around that.”
“What?!” Dirk asked.
“He (pointing to #3, of course) put his hands in my shorts. And I did not, I didn’t want that,” said I.
“He what?!”
Explanations ensued. Bachelor #3 explaining he thought I was flirtatious and “asking”, Josué explaining that he assumed I was gay and interested based on how often I “ran into them” at the jacuzzi (because I have the time and energy to stalk these guys) and Dirk explained he did not really assume anything or have thoughts about anything because he’s basically a four-year-old with voting rights and his own data plan.
They all apologized and communally explained they meant no harm.
Then, my explanation.
“Well, it made me uncomfortable because, you know, I’m engaged.”
And there we are, that invisible fiancé crutch. I can’t really explain, and don’t fully understand, why it’s easier for me to divulge my sexuality through an imaginary betrothal, but what I can say is it’s the easy, innocent thing. I don’t fault people for assuming I’m gay by way of stereotypes. I moisturize and own a pair of overalls. I’ve been to a Kelly Clarkson concert. I once met Cher in a Michael’s.
So rather than trying to negate and deflect an assumption that’s based on physical evidence (albeit the least important evidence since, ultimately, the desire and willingness to engage in sexual activity with the same sex does seem to be the foundational aspect of homosexuality) I rely on this crutch; the safe alternative. I wear no ring. I am young. They don’t need to feel guilty for assuming I’m un-engaged. But they’ll likely feel guilty for assuming incorrectly about something so fundamentally tied to my identity…
Okay, so I am un-engaged. BUT the fib (it’s a lie but I’m saying fib) kept the conversation above water, so to speak, and aided in the upcoming subject change.
As the two gentlemen and the one sexual fiend (because he didn’t ask nicely!) apologize in the wake of discovering my impending nuptials, I suddenly realize I have successfully shifted the attention off of the “event” and onto an imaginary “Canadian” fiancé that is “traveling” for “business purposes”.
Bachelor #3, or The Assaulter, goes to the pool. I’m left with Dirk and Josué and Josué decides he needs some advice.
“So you remember Bachelor #2?” he called him his name that I don’t remember, but for blog purposes, “So, I’m feeling like I’m pretty serious about him and I wonder what your advice would be…since you’ve probably been through this all with your fiancé, right?”
Uh oh.
So this goes on for a while. Josué and Dirk want to know how to break the ice, ask the girl/guy out, do I have some good first date ideas? I answer the questions generally and, not wanting to further a lie, neglect to add detail on “my relationship” but, rather, volunteer advice based on my own, real convictions in regards to relationships. They seem to gel with it and the conversation is pretty healthy. Until:
“Dude. What’s gay sex feel like?” Dirk to Josué.
So I realize my exit is near. Josué began by explaining his love for tall, skinny, white dudes, which was an observation I made, fulfilled by Josué’s explanation. The reason Bachelor #1, 2 and 3 all looked so similar to me is that Josué has a type…
“Tall, white guys have the biggest dicks.” he told Josué confidently as if to say the Earth is round or an object in motion stays in motion.
“How big?” Really, Dirk?
As Josué begins measuring up the hot tub’s hand rail and assumably comparing it to a mental image of our friends the Bachelors #1, 2 and/or 3, I decide to leave. I grab my belongings and start walking out. I look back just once, like Pi toward the Tiger, hoping for that moment of connection; a solemn thank you for being in my life or, at least, nice meeting you. But, like Pi’s tiger, any emotional sensitivity I’ve witnessed in my interactions with Dirk or Josué have been my own emotions reflected back at me. Instead, I see Josué is now performing sexual acts on the hand rail and enjoying them while Dirk encourages him with a “f*** yeah bro” and it’s just all too much. How many weeks of this are left?
____________________
I feel the need to clarify my comments on Dirk and Josué. Despite how uncomfortable I was made to feel this particular interaction, I don’t mean to paint them in a negative light. They’re kind people; both easy to talk to and extremely friendly…too friendly? Maybe.
Managing expectations. This week should come as no shock to myself or any of you. This is what this saga has been leading up to. Invasive physical advances, sexual acts demonstrated on a molding hot tub hand rail, an 18 year old frat guy yelling “f*** yeah” into the night; these are the faces of the Complex. The fact this post exists and is in any way sensational only demonstrates how poorly I’ve managed my expectations thus far. I go to the hot tub “to read” and somehow act surprised each time someone tries to reach up my shorts, plan my wedding, or hand me their waterlogged headshot. I can’t be surprised or shocked by any of this any more; this is the population of the Complex being true to their nature. And here am I, nearing my anniversary (and exit date) and in some way, I’m one of them.
Coming up: College Kids, Alums and The Beanie Artist