You're Screwed: I Can't Screw

I went to a Halloween party this past weekend and came back with two phone numbers. Now, I'm lucky that my crotch doesn't precede me mentally in everything I do. I can start, at least, having a conversation with a guy without a giant va-jay-jay rising before my eyes. But eventually, the thought pops into my head: "You're screwed, buddy. By which I mean not screwed."

Because that's the end goal, isn't it, whenever people talk in that setting? Night, drinks, darkness? If not within the coming hours, then later, after a few dates. Eventually.

Except in my case eventually is an indefinitely long time from now. And no one can tell from just looking at me.

Maybe I'll start wearing a chastity belt to weed out the meat hunters. Outside my clothes, of course.

(Dammit, dammit, Halloween costume! Instead I was a unicorn. Dammit.)

Both guys asked me out on a date rather than making some more ambiguous advance. I told both I would go out with them because I'm trying to, like, be open to that, or something. I figure the more people I know the more likely I'll find someone I want to be with for more than one night in a past, pain-free body.

But I'm not really excited. I find dating frivolous. I know relationships have to start somewhere, but I usually get a quick idea of whether I want to spend a lot of time on someone, and after I'm sure I don't, I find no point in pursuing anything further. I like being alone more than I like being with someone who's okay.

I'm mentally at both extremes: give me really-like-him or give me sex. Except now I can't do the latter, and, on top of finding someone in general, the former has the Giant Va-jay-jay Hurdle -- i.e., who wants to date a girl who can't screw?

Yeah, yeah, reassurances, shmeassurances. I know there are guys out there who would understand. I also know that when a guy hits on me in the darkness of the night, it's not to talk about existentialism as presented in The Stranger. But if it smooths the transaction, sure, Camus all night long.