I went to Spain intending to make out with a Spanish dude.

My friend Beau recently got back from Europe. His trip was fueled, as far as I can tell, by mad, passionate sex parties. Basically rather than flying from one ancient medieval city to the next, the energy of his boner propelled him through space and time. A woman whose stand-up specials I have promoted in this very blog met her sig o while cavorting through Europe and they post pictures of their adorable intercontinental love regularly. I did not have such grand ambitions. I just wanted to make out with a Spanish dude.

My mom and I recently tromped through Norway and London together on a wonderful trip. As soon as the plane touched land, I updated my location and waited for messages from sexy Norwegian *menn, though obviously I wasn’t going to do anything about them. You don’t ditch your mom for a hookup.

*menn is Norwegian for men. Oceans divide our two peoples.

Right after this photo was shot, I didn’t run off for a sex party with Bård Ylvisåker!

Fun fact: Norwegian menn say “Hei” instead of “Hey” in their first messages. Other than that, they seem to be identical to American men.

I wasn’t that into the idea of a Norwegian romance, anyway. I mean, try feeling like a ~spontaneous fling ~ might be fun when this is the weather.

Even the trolls are like, nah thanks.

In London a man calling himself “Shubbs” messaged me, but I was more into visiting London friends than his beefy biceps. Also I was still staying with my mom, and it would have been very cheeky indeed to leave her to see what Shubbs meant by:

Mmmmm that’s what I call a classy and pretty attractive woman, daymn [sic] jessica, you look amazingly hot and tasty

Hmm. When I think “hot and tasty” I think of fresh steamed dumplings. Also, “pretty attractive?” C’mon, Shubbs.

Mom and I said our huggy goodbyes, and I headed off to Spain. Finally. La vida loca. Los labios de un hombre español! 

Heeei

Only not quite yet, since the flight was delayed four hours and my leisurely first evening in Madrid turned into an excruciating midnight arrival. ¡Qué decepción! Exhausted and frustrated, muttering voodoo curses to the 40ish teens coming back from an exchange trip, I arrived in Madrid way behind schedule. I messaged with abandon. My Spanish abilities were being SEVERELY TESTED.

Example:

Sergio: Hola que tal? Hey, sup

Me: Hola Sergio. Guapo perro.  Hi Sergio. Handsome dog.

Sergio: Muchas gracias Es Thor. Thanks. He’s Thor.

Me: Oh, es fuerte como un dio? Oh, he is strong like a god? 

Sergio: Siiiiiii Yeaaaaaaaah

…

My game was obviously as strong in Spain as it was in the US. Why, then, the title of this blog? Why did Sergio and I not head up to the Templo de Debod and exchange sweet embraces and visa fantasies?

This 2,000 year old Egyptian temple is in Madrid because of globalisation. Thanks, Obama.

On my second night in Madrid, chats with Sergio and Luis going well, I sat down for dinner with what looked like an innocuous group of hostel types. The night’s “Spanish fare” was Thai noodles. All seemed well. It was too late by the time I realized that I had sat down in the middle of a thicket of… Australian backpacker bros.

I understand that I am prejudiced. I understand that this is unfair. However, I will say that based on my stays in guest houses and hostels in the USA, Canada, Costa Rica, Korea, a dream you once had, Japan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, a mysterious mountaintop, France, Germany, the center of the earth, England, Italy, the moon, and Switzerland, it is clear to me that Australian backpacker bros are insane. They want nothing more than to be drunk and to make all others drunk. They are loud, wacky, mostly lovable scamps, reliable upon the accent and regardless of age, income level, or *gender identity.

*Yes, chicks can be backpacker bros.

This comes up in a search for “Drunk Australia Party” and now I am complete.

I had signed up for the pub crawl by this point (Australian backpackers will accept no other brethren than fellow pub crawlers) and we were all getting along smashingly. I noticed that Mike, a hulking, handsome Korean-Australian, was dominating the conversation the way young, confident men like to do. He seemed harmless at first, but his misogyny crept up every so often in the form of frequent “pussy!” accusations and yelling to his fellows to “take their tampons out” when they wouldn’t drink with him.

Me: Hey, can we cool it with the sexist stuff?

Mike: Oh yeah? You some kind of big feminist, huh?

Me: No, I’m just a person, and I don’t like that.

This encouraged Mike. He was a bit on the young side for the group, I was a bit on the older side. I could tell he wasn’t happy at being called out. I seethed at myself not owning the feminist label. It wasn’t much longer before Mike was gleefully telling a story about a woman he had taken back to his hostel room in France.

Mike: There was blood everywhere! No, she wasn’t on her period, man, she was a virgin! Yeah, check it out, I took pictures…

And there, right in the middle of a table of Thai noodles and glasses of sangria, Mike showed iPhone photos so disgusting, so disrespectful of this woman he’d slept with, so utterly reprehensible that I can’t get into any more detail. They were probably even more explicit than you think.

No one else seemed to feel so disgusted, though. An American med student followed up with a story about screwing a girl in Ibiza in his shared dorm room, and his buddy laughed and reminded him that he’d also taken pictures. I simply shut up, walked over to some girls I had met earlier, and spoke Korean for the rest of the night. I hated everybody speaking English in that place.

We talked some major trash about the fact that Mike’s Korean speaking ability was so bad.

After that, I gave up trying to meet someone in Spain. Not because I was put off romance by Mike and his story, or because I was so disappointed in the rest of us for listening and not condemning, or even because of some niggling fear that somewhere, in some context, I’m someone’s pathetic sex story. Not even because it’s just not that safe for a woman to meet a dude when she doesn’t know the area or speak the language perfectly.

I gave up on meeting someone because I remembered that I really don’t like most people.

Not exactly true. I’m sure most of those people, other than Mike, were fine. Without the bacchanalian drinking, maybe we all would have become friendly and gone to Toledo together the next day or something.

Yet, this incident reminded me that so, so, so many people are just one story away from disgusting me, or disappointing me, or simply boring me to death. I’m willing to put up with that in the States, when a lame date just means I’ve wasted a Netflix night. In Madrid, though, in beautiful Spain where I only had four days to experience as much as I could possibly wring out, I wasn’t willing to risk it. I wasn’t willing to risk meeting a Mike I had to get rid of when I only had the one chance to stare at Hieronymus Bosch paintings at the Prado Museum.

MIKE YOU’RE SQUASHING ME! I’M IN THIS EGG!

I might have missed out. Maybe Sergio and I could have held hands and walked through the Mercado de San Miguel together, though I saw a couple get in a fight over churros there. Maybe Juan and I could have smooched in the Real Jardín Botánico, though it was so blisteringly hot that my legs stuck to a rock. Maybe in some universe, some Jessica is all in love, FB chatting some guy in broken Spanish, planning when they can bring him over.

Maybe.

I make myself a pretty great travel companion, though.

Ah, romance. The blood rushes to the cheeks, the palms flutter to perhaps clutch a lover’s for the first time, the bull terrier savagely mangles the chihuahua.

Whaaa?

I am immediately suspicious of anyone who owns a dog that occasionally gets on the news for mauling.

This is not fair, I know. The vast majority of dogs that could easily turn on a child and casually eat its face never do so. Owners claim that breeds like pit bulls and German shepherds are intelligent, friendly, loyal animals who are sometimes forced to become toddler-eaters by cruel owners who socialize them poorly. The German shepherd that chased and attacked me ten years ago seemed very poorly socialized indeed.

What can a man’s pet tell you about the man?

Attack Monster

My cousin trains K9s and watching them perform is incredible. I may be rather nervous while interacting with these beasts (the internal scarring in my leg only dissolved years after my attack) but I know that they’re indispensable work dogs and that the people who own them are often skilled trainers and extremely dedicated people.

Still. Any guy in NYC who owns this kind of dog should be of very low priority. A working dog owner either lives outside the city (gross) or spends half his life running around with his dog to ensure that it gets the exercise it needs to not assault (gross again.) Bottom line: a city dweller who owns one of these has got to sacrifice something, and it’ll probably be you unless you’re also a crazy dog lover.

Non-Murderous Dog

A man who owns one of the “gentle dumb” breeds of dog is the kind of man who will greet you at the door with a cup of sweet chai tea and perhaps play you a melody on the beat up old guitar his father bought in the 70’s. He is a lovely person.

Downsides: he can’t run away to Europe with you on a whim, busking for euro pennies with that old guitar of his. Stinky Charlie needs consistency and can’t be dragged off to Prague. Also, HAIR EVERYWHERE.

Approach with caution. This man falls in love fast. He is basically a gentle dumb man.

Best Animal

Ya got me, I’m a cat person. This man is a kind and well-socialized human who can attend most parties. He will show up at your door with a bouquet of flowers that he bought from a blind woman. Oh, he has his faults, too. Due to his toxoplasmosis, a chronic parasitic illness suffered by all cat owners, he is risk-prone and often speaks harshly to Verizon customer representatives.  Sometimes he will attempt to leave the house fully nude. Fortunately, he is covered in an inch-thick blanket of hair.

Rodent

This guy is delusional, believing that a creature too small to properly snuggle could ever care for him. He will be delusional in other ways. He will think that buying food at Whole Foods automatically makes them healthy. He is fairly firmly convinced that his towel is clean. He thinks he has been to Mexico one time. Be prepared for a ton of work with a rodent-owner.

Also, if the rodent-owner’s rodent has rodents, momma rodent will eat  her baby rodents in front of you as you shriek in helpless anguish. Be prepared for that.

Lizard

“A lizard is said to be a witch’s best friend.” That is a quote from the first page that came up when I was looking for a picture of a lizard and now I’m terrified. There isn’t much you can do with a witch, ladies. A man who owns a lizard is likely deeply involved in the occult and has no time for you or meeting your friends at your improv show. He will shout out suggestions like “the blood of a virgin” and make everyone feel so uncomfortable.

Any Insect

In this case, it is the beast that owns the man.

Eagle

Your man is a real provider, because he is a Mongolian eagle hunter.

Upsides: rodent control, international travel, Lord of Birds.

Downsides: You crave an Oktoberfest, you’ve got fermented mare’s milk.

 Sea Turtle

Your potential date lives in the New York Aquarium, which means commuting to the end of the N or D lines. No thanks!

I’m really screwing up this dating thing.

I’m a bisexual man. I like men and women.  I like masculinity and femininity.  So, I should be lighting the dating world on fire like a queer Caesar striding triumphantly into Rome, right? Instead I’m like a neurotic Nero, analyzing my every dating move and striking down potential mates before they even have a chance to meet me.  What am I doing wrong!?

It took 30 years for me to come out as bisexual.  After having worked many macho jobs (dairy farm worker in New Zealand and commercial fisherman in Alaska, to name a couple), I decided that it was time to stop wagging the machismo dog and declare to the world what most had already suspected: I was NOT straight.

I did so in the classiest way possible: Facebook.  For days after my announcement I danced euphorically in the drops of love that rained down from the Facebook Heavens.  Glorious.  Empowering.

In the months following, however, I started to feel awkward and uncomfortable.  I had declared myself different, listed my sexual orientation as ‘bisexual’ on dating sites, but was still only seriously pursuing heteronormative relationships.

I know this is a bit of a red herring, but I would link some of my trepidation of dating men online to the type of curt messages that quickly rolled into my mailboxes.  You know, thoughtful little gems like, ‘Hey, cutie,’ ‘What are you up to ’ or just, ‘Nice legs.’  I finally understood the complaints of many women who experience mailboxes crammed full of such uncouth drivel from horny drooling men. At the same time, I’ll admit that I was a bit flattered by the attention (Am I right!?)

I mean, I get where they’re coming from.

My reception to the re-occurring  ‘nice legs’ comments would oscillate back and forth depending on my self-confidence that day. I’d think either, ‘Oh, youuuu.  Aren’t you a cheeky little monkey.’  Or, “Fuck you!  I’m very self-conscious of my oddly muscular and overdeveloped calves- only a lover has free-reign to cat-call me, you insensitive prick!’  Of course, I never actually responded, fearing that such a decision could lead to actual conversation, or worse (slight panic attack), an in-person meet-up. I wasn’t at the confidence level to feel sexy in my own body, especially with my then recent sexual orientation declaration, to interpret such messages as compliments and just roll with them.

The empowering feelings associated with my decision to come-out online have faded in the years that have followed.  Even though I eliminated any perceived roadblocks to dating men by going public, since that day I have only had a few sexual experiences with men. You’d think that coming out as an adult I should be able to embrace yourself and celebrate this unique opportunity at rebirth.  Who is there to stop me, after all?

Well, I’m the only one who has been restraining myself, moving at a pace comfortable for myself, but mostly not moving at all. I think this has been because I’ve been afraid to solidify my bisexuality through real experiences with men.  I don’t mind telling people I’m bi, but then find myself unable to take real steps toward dating men.  When I look at porn, 95% of the time it’s heterosexul oriented.  Is that because I am 95% attracted to women?  Or, is that because I am still desperately trying to convince myself that I am straight?  I don’t know and I often feel self-conscious that I haven’t figured it out.

Last week, I did something that some (okay, most) humans perceive as pathetic: I went on a first date on my birthday.  I decided to tell the lovely woman whom I was with that it was my birthday and that I was not in fact ashamed of the timing (I was).  She asked if I was just trying to get laid on my birthday.  I said that would be great, but also I wouldn’t have been able to meet her for another week (one full year in online dating) considering my busy schedule.  We drank, we laughed, we flirted and ultimately slept together.

The very next day I was a performer in an LGBTQ improv show.  I was completely terrified because I felt like a total sham and liar.  Not only had I just slept with a woman, I had only limited experience with men.  I felt like I was a terrible LGBTQ ambassador and that I didn’t belong in the show.  My fellow performers and audience members had created a safe, loving environment, but this time these droplets of love landed cold and heavy on my body, in the form of thick beads of nervous sweat.  I completely missed the point of the show.

Afterwards, I spoke to the organizer and gushed about my insecurities.  They listened patiently and then responded saying, “You are enough.  You are defined by your unique individual experiences.  You need nothing more to validate yourself.”  Such a simple message which honestly I’m sure we’ve all heard before, but it resonated at a time when I really needed reinforcement.

<3

I need to stop invalidating my own identity as a bisexual man, and embrace the fact that I don’t know what the future holds for me in terms of a partner.  More broadly, and beyond just sex, I simply need to be more open to companionship and intimacy, instead of clamoring for reasons why things won’t work out.  I’ve spent countless hours in my illustrious online dating career wrongfully obsessing over which search filters to use in order to winnow out all the characteristics I think are deal-breakers in a partner.  I’m a master at split second snap-judgments (a hookup app recently told me that I have said ‘no’ to over 9,000 photos of other users). Stop it.  Slow down.  Give them a chance.

A few days ago I decided to do something terrifying: I messaged a man on Mesh.  I desperately hoped I would receive a message saying, “Weird legs.  Bye.”  Instead, he responded to my thoughtful message with a likewise thoughtful response.  In following messages we discovered we had a mutual friend.  We now have a meet up scheduled. Maybe we’ll have a great time when we meet.  Maybe our real-life personalities won’t be compatible.  Maybe we’ll be physically attracted to each other.  Maybe not. I’m just glad I decided to keep stepping forward to find out.

I’m still gonna beast out from time to time.