The Mating Scale

This is what happens when Hotass and I have deep philosophical conversations, and drink too much in the process.

Last night, when I should have been packing, Hotass and I went out for dinner at Young Avenue Deli (which happens to be on Young Avenue in case you're wondering)and three pints of beer. Followed by a couple of more at The Pumping Station. It was almost sad that we were at the PS at 9:30 on a Tuesday night.

But over dinner, we started talking about guys, no one in particular, but just the guys in our pasts and presents -- what did or didn't work with in the relationships/affairs/flings, what was wrong with the guys, what was wrong with us.

For example, in our experience, why does a guy who looks good on paper - attractive, smart, good job, mentally stable, a perfect match in every way -- ignites no sexual chemistry? Or why do fuckbuddies remain only fuckbuddies and never graduate to boyfriends or husbands? What keeps an OIF (occasional intimate friend) from becoming man of your dreams?

I had told Hotass a while ago that I believe that every man is either fuckable, dateable or marryable. Usually he's only one. Sometimes he scores at least two of them, but if he's special, he scores on all three, and you've got a match on your hands.

Now of course it's hard to tell, based on appearance alone, if the guy standing at the bar is anything more than fuckable. But after a date or encounter, when you feel like you know him a little better, you subconsciously evaluate the guy to determine the next step - where does he fall in the FDM rating system?

Fuckable - would you have sex with him?

Dateable - we debated this point for a while, deciding what the criteria was for making someone dateable. We eventually agreed that dateable is determined by what you have in common, and basically if you enjoy his company outside the bedroom.

Marryable - is this guy the settling-down kind? Can you see yourself in a long-term relationship with him?

Somewhere in the middle of the third pint, we referred to someone we both know to illustrate our point.

Let's call him JD. Is he fuckable? Definitely. We'd both been there at separate times, and agreed that we would return if the opportunity presented itself. Is he dateable? Eh, maybe. He's a friendly guy, and might make for an enjoyable date or two. But after that, we didn't have much in common with him, and soon the well of things to talk about would run dry. Is he marryable? Probably not. He has a handful of children that live with him. He's definitely stable, but the idea of marrying into a ready-made family didn't intrigue either of us.

By the time we got to the Pumping Station, we had acknowledged the system has a couple of flaws. There were a few exceptions to the rule, such as the guys who scored three yes's on the FDM scale, but still it never progressed the way we wanted. That's when we introduced the Reality Factor.

He's perfect in every way - the sex is great, you like spending time with him, and you can almost see yourself watering roses behind a white-picket fence while he writes the check for the shared mortgage on the front porch swing. The reality is that he lives six hours away, or he's not ready for the mortgage, or he's got a hairy mole on his back that you just can't quite stop thinking about. The Reality Factor puts FDM in perspective.

Then it got complicated. Detailed calculations on cocktail napkins. Formulas, averages and fractions. And since neither one of us is a math whiz and had a few by this point, multiplying complex fractions was a serious problem. But the result was a complex scoring system: grade a man on a 10-point scale for fuckabilty, dateability and marryability, add the scores together, divide by the reality factor, and "x" equals the probability of a love connection.

Leaving nothing to chance, by the time we left, we had derived a 10-question quiz to determine the F score, and planned for similar questionnaires to get the D and M scores.

Obviously, we have too much time on our hands. If only we had devoted those brain cells to solving the crisis in the Middle East, or coming up with alternative forms of energy.

But when you bring your spreadsheet and calculator on your next date, you'll thank us.

Just Catching Up

I know I've been MIA lately but, apparently, I was so stunned by Dick McKay that I lapsed into a month-long coma. I just haven't felt there was much that was blog-worthy lately, hence the absence. But when I think about it, there has been quite a bit going on.

First, there's the new job. It's been a little more of a challenge than I thought it was going to be. I went from working for one of the largest nonprofit organizations in the country, to a two-and-a-half-person local staff. I went from battling cancer to protecting an organ that not many people think about (but you should!) And by the way, who knew that the title of this post would allude to the job that I would interview for a week later?

In my old job, there was somebody for every function, and I admit that I was spoiled. Now I feel like chief cook and bottlewasher. Plus, I kind of feel like I've been picked up by the seat of the pants and tossed right into it. There hasn't been a whole lot of formal training, and not a whole lot of resources to turn to. But I keep telling myself that this is what I wanted: more challenge, more autonomy, a good career move. So I've been pretty overwhelmed in the adjustment, and have doubted that I made the right move, but all in all, this will work out. It's good experience, right?

And then there's the house. No, I still haven't moved in yet, but Hotass has. I've been packing the last two days in preparation for the move this coming weekend. And like last year's move, and every move before that, this too is a source of great anxiety. I don't know if it's common among everyone else, but every time I change residences, I nearly have a complete and total come-apart. I hate the idea of being unsettled even if for a day, and the prospect of putting my life in boxes strikes sheer terror in my heart.

Okay so maybe "terror" is a bit dramatic, but I probably could stand a bit of therapy to help me with my moving issues.

The renovations so far... we've painted with the help of the Gaggle. Brown Teepee in the living room and dining room. Porpoise in the bathroom. Sparrow in Hotass' bedroom. Subtle Touch in the hallway. The first color that went up in my bedroom was Ocean View, but it turned out a little too blue and juvenile for my taste; the color seemed more appropriate for a five-year-old boy who liked to play with trains. So I repainted it a pleasant grayish-blue appropriately named Skipper.



We've ripped out all the carpet and sold it on Craigslist, and the hardwood floors are in remarkably good condition. We've single-handedly remodeled the bathroom. A new vanity light. Installed an electrical outlet. A new medicine cabinet. New light switches (with a dimmer of course). New vent fan. Ripped out the old vanity and installed a pedestal sink. We've replaced the stove, the washer, and the dryer, and, painting a picture of pure white trash, the old ones are sitting on the patio. If you want to take them off our hands, let me now. And I think we've done a fine job with the work so far; not bad for two queer boys who have never done this sort of thing before.

I'd like to propose that our new neighborhood become Memphis' new gay ghetto because don't you think there's something homoerotic about living in a gayborhood called Sherwood Forest? What gay man wouldn't want to call Wil Scarlet Road, Maid Marian Lane or Robin Hood Road home? Of course, we need to get the appliances off the patio before any self-respecting gay man would want to call us neighbors.

And there's been a few other things going on. There was the boy that came to visit from Connecticut, a torrid, all-consuming infatuation until there was the realization that he was there and I am here. And let's face it. I consider anything outside of Midtown a long-distance relationship. He's a wonderful person, but then there's the reality of the situation. A reality that I allowed myself to ignore for a few weeks, but it was a nice few weeks, allowing myself to get caught up in the blush of a crush.

The Dynamic Duo moved to Nashville last weekend, and left a pretty big void here in Memphis. Granted they're only three hours away, and while I was in Nashville this week for work, I stayed overnight with them, but dammit, I'm gonna miss those boys.

So, um, what else? Oh, I saw Pirates of the Caribbean today, after two Bloody Mary's and a crab-Swiss-spinach omelet at Bayou Bar & Grill. The omelet was good and I was unimpressed with the movie. And I'm really kinda diggin' Christina Aguilera's new song, and I'll give it my vote as the Summer Song of 2006. And I don't care how wrong it is, but I really feel sorry for how white-trash Britney Spears has become. I just want Madonna to take her aside and give her a good talking-to. And I'm really sorta worried about this thing in the Middle East.

So that's what's been going on with me. What's been going on with you?