Tonight could have easily ended in a manner very distinct from how it did end, from me here typing away on the Internet, telling you, the presumed reader (is there such a thing?), about how I fucked up, how I blew chances with a boy I liked a lot, and instead had to come home alone and have ended up on this thing, this Internet, feeling more than a little inept.
I saw There Will Be Blood this afternoon with Niki and the movie was quite good, the type of movie you can say that about, but it was not the type of movie that I am going to be raving about to friends, the type of movie that will inspire thoughts for days, months, or years in me, was more so the type of movie you can recognize as good, rather than the type you want to shout is good. Despite most critics calling it PT Anderson's best work, it is my least favorite of his, his earlier works touching something more in me, saying something I was more able to respond to.
After the movie, Niki and I had Ethan over for martinis and played Scrabble. I won despite a couple of martinis downed and a couple of whippets inhaled, won by a decent amount of points also. Afterward, Ethan and I went to Boysroom where I proceeded to get more drunk and showed my penis to a group of boys who asked to see it, saying that they had heard I had a large penis, a rumor that someone else told me they had heard recently, a silly rumor that is really funny and which also gives me some small source of pleasure.
I had recieved a message from the hot boy from the threesome I engaged in with last week, David, saying that he wanted to meet up tonight and that he was headed to Brooklyn. This is where my stupidity begins to show itself. Rather than drop what I was doing right then and go to meet up with this really attractive boy that wanted to sleep with me, I took my sweet time at Boysroom, and then from there did not even head straight (er, gay) to the place he was at, but rather took an extended detour at Galapagos, assuming that this boy would continue to wait at Metropolitan for me. Unsurprisingly, boy did not continue to wait there, and by the time I finally did arrive there, I recieved a text message from him telling me he was in a cab headed back to Manhattan and that I had been too slow.
When the fault is not your own, when it is for some other reason, or for something more vague, more unclear, it is easier to go on with your night and not feel like you have blown it, but when it is clear that it is your fault, that when the boy you had wanted to sleep with tells you that it is your fault, that you had been too slow (so slow) in meeting up with him, then that is hard to deal with, makes you regret the trajectory of your night and your dilly-dallying ways.
And so rather than sleeping with this boy, who I think may have actually been the hottest boy I have ever slept with, I am instead going to go jerk myself, and probably do so with a bit of self-loathing, probably do so a bit as a chore, and then drift off to sleep, to dreams beyond my control, but which since they are beyond my control may hopefully be something other than this current mental state, may be something hopeful, something sexy, something sweet. There is that possiblity, and then there is the other possibility, the other ones.