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D., just moved here from Portland, don’t believe in the gender binary.
We were sitting in the Grapevine bar, in Oak Lawn, sunk low into two comfy, gloriously ratty old armchairs near the front. ” I said, staring up at the red lantern shaped like a star. “I can’t believe I never got drunk here,” I said, because getting drunk in places like this used to be my specialty.He told me he liked the show , the unofficial bible for polyamorists, endorsed by “Savage Love” columnist Dan Savage. The whole conversation felt like one long dare to prod me into asking if he’d slept around on his ex-wife. “Let’s go to dinner,” he said, squeezing me close as we parted. It’s Just Lunch offers clients a chance to get acquainted over lunch.The firm does all the work, making reservations, clearing the matches with customers.Maybe it was being older, maybe it was living at a moment when people were having deep, challenging conversations about marriage and sexual orientation and the meaning of fidelity, but it seemed like the men I dated were having the same midlife paradigm shift, reconsidering the old maps, blazing new trails for themselves.
I sat at a Starbucks near the Galleria with a friendly, fit black man (I’m white) who was recently divorced and lived in The Colony, which sounded to me like some eerie sci-fi TV drama. But he didn’t contact me again, and I never knew why. I was a real adult, a grown-ass woman, and he was in that shaky place where you have just emerged from the long tunnel of commitment with wobbly legs and blinking eyes, and you need to go bang 25-year-olds for a while.
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The place had a low-lit carnival feel, skuzzy and seductive at once. I don’t drink anymore, but I still like sitting in the cool stupor of a bar and watching the night rise up like a tide. And that was nice, because I could still bum myself out thinking of all the ways I didn’t belong in this city.
“It’s my favorite place in Dallas, because it’s all different types.” Gay couples. The woman next to her at the bar wore a tank top, jean cut-offs, and boots.
They’ll make someone a good boyfriend one day, just not me. And for all my groaning about the city’s men, the guys I met were not the same old stereotype.