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“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.
I stared at a Dallas beauty queen in a tiny black dress and stilettos.
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One night, I sat at Cafe Brazil in Deep Ellum with a tattooed academic who had legs like chiseled stone.
We sat on the patio, watching women walk by in dresses like neon Band-Aids, and he told me about his recent experiments with bisexuality. I drove out to Denton in 5 pm traffic to hang out with him, and we walked around the tiny picturesque square (“the poor man’s Austin,” someone would tell me later) and bought ice cream at one of those places where you can test a million flavors and it’s so hard to settle on just one.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about dating a man who also slept with men—I spent much of the next two weeks kicking it around in my head—but it was definitely not your run-of-the-mill first date conversation. Don’t say Snickers.” And he said, “Okay, it tastes like Sue.” I laughed so loud that it startled the woman behind the counter, and I thought in that moment that the bisexuality thing was fine. In my 20s, I dismissed men for such minutiae: listening to the wrong music, wearing the wrong socks.How materialist, conventional, uncreative Dallas could be.On the dating site where I’d met D., I’d scroll through pages of men wearing button-downs with tasteful goatees and Oakleys perched atop their gelled hair. In response to the prompt “What people usually notice about me,” he had put, “Tits.” He had a backpacker scruffiness, which I liked. When we met at the bar, he hugged me as I went for his hand. ” he said, running his fingers over his flat chest. “They’re magnificent.” I joined the dating site about a year ago, a few months after I moved back to town. I liked them, but not enough, and I was growing frustrated by the come-ons that arrived in my inbox from another random dude holding a cell phone up to a bathroom mirror. ” Or: “Greetings from Tulsa.” Some days I got so sick of it that I considered handing out flyers at the Pearl Cup: “38, writer, I promise you will never be bored.” But instead, I would force myself into the awkward singles bar of that damn website, and I would banter with the men who wrote in complete sentences and showed some flair, and I would find myself driving out to Colleyville, to a bowling alley in Garland, to a Mexican restaurant in the Preston Forest Shopping Center.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.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.
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.