Rose Gate

So my computer is completely borked out of its skull. “OS not found” was one of the messages it gave me, I think. My sister’s fiance tells me he can fix it, which is exciting, but it was kind of a piece of crap in the first place. How will he fix it, you ask? I am going to America, I tell you! For a month, minus four days. Coming back the day after Thanksgiving. I am looking forward to seeing family and friends, chilling and vegging, and doing NaNoWriMo. I’ve already filled two notebooks with novel notes and am getting pretty excited! I “won” last year— for the first of the five years I’d tried— but the “novel” I wrote was so deeply flawed it wasn’t really worth fixing. (I’m hoping to rewrite it someday.) This year my goal is to produce 50,000 words of a structurally sound, readable novel… and then finish the novel, whether in November or afterwards. And then edit the novel. And then maybe sell it.

I think I can do this, guys.

(*Also it is three a.m. and I’m in a PC bang with my eyes stinging and my lungs full of secondhand smoke. Because damned if I’m not getting my internet fix, with or without a computer, and I was busy today until about eleven. So… that’s fun.)

Maybe I should try dating girls for a while.

I’ve actually always been more interested in women than in men, but have never had the guts to pursue the interest. I’ve been on two dates with women, ever. Both were really nice, but neither struck any sparks. Since being in Korea, I’ve kind of put the woman-loving part of my bi self on a back-burner— I was too shy to do anything about it at home, and was certainly too shy here. I think I’m getting over it, though.

I’m more comfortable with women, and almost all of my close friends throughout my life have been female. I do find men attractive— and have certainly enjoyed my limited experience with them— but it’s incredibly rare for me to start developing romantic feelings for one. (As the J saga indicates, my usual feelings while dating someone range from annoyance to bemusement.) By contrast, I’ve found myself developing semi-romantic feelings for a number of female friends in whom I hadn’t allowed myself to feel any physical interest. I can relax and talk around women, a hundred times better than I can around men, and relaxing and talking are some of my favorite things to do.

People think of sexuality as a kind of on-off switch— you are or you aren’t. I’ve heard people say that bisexuals weren’t real. A college acquaintance who identifies as gay said that he thought he was bi for a while, then decided that being bi was “selfish” or “greedy.” What the hell does that mean? I think the thing that’s been tripping me up is that I’ve had this image in my head of bisexuality as equal and identical feelings for each gender. I don’t know if it is that way for some people— it may well be— but for me, it’s clearly not. While I have physical interest in both sexes, I rarely have any emotional interest in anyone who’s not female. Finding that rare man who strikes me both ways is like looking for a needle in a haystack— and then, universally, the needle isn’t interested in me.

The other thing that’s made me try and date guys for so long is pure, selfish cowardice. I’m from a fairly big, close family on my mother’s side— and about half of them are Mormon. I’m not really concerned with what my aunts or uncles or cousins think, but I’m fairly sure that my grandmother is genuinely devout, and hate the thought of upsetting her or my grandfather with the knowledge I was doing something they strongly believed was sinful. She’s had children and grandchildren leave the church, sure, but they’re all safely heterosexual— they can always come back to the fold and get sealed in the temple later. That’s not going to happen if I end up with a woman. I always had it in mind that if I met a woman I really fell in love with, then of course I’d choose to be with her regardless of what anyone else thought— but I think I’ve been trying to avoid the eventuality by looking for that one perfect guy.

In closing, a mildly funny story I used to tell a lot: When I was sixteen years old— and still devoutly Mormon— I reviewed my long history of girl-crushes (thinking back, they started when I was three or four and continued straight from there) and realized that I was Not Straight. I was kind of panicking— after all, Mormons aren’t even supposed to think impure thoughts, much less be sexually bent— and so I went to my mom, whom I trusted (and still trust) more than anyone, and told her that I was bi. I was so embarrassed— I remember sitting on the kitchen floor next to her computer chair, not meeting her eyes. “Mom,” I said, “um… I’m bi.” (I couldn’t come up with anything more eloquent on the spur of the moment.)

She looked very uncomfortable— at the time, she was a devout Mormon, too. “Uh, what makes you think that?”

This seemed like a silly question. “Um… I have crushes on girls?”

She seemed very relieved, and laughed. “Oh, that doesn’t mean you’re bi. Everyone has those.”

J just texted me. After more than a month of complete radio silence.

“How R U? We’ve never met for a long time. R U still in [town]?”

Considering I also haven’t seen him in the hallways (or smelled his aftershave, which— don’t laugh— tends to linger long after he does), I’m not really sure what to think. Or quite how to respond.

I hope that, back in the land of native English speakers, I will never make the mistake of treating an adult as a child because s/he can’t speak my language fluently. I know I’m adorable, lady, but I’m not six.

I feel like a mutant sometimes. Was there some normal-social-interaction chip that got installed into just about anything else, but that I missed out on?

I get the feeling that a lot of the people on Tumblr are more the kind of people I’ve always classed as “normal.” When I was on Livejournal regularly, most of my circle of “friends” were people who had the same social awkwardness I did— twenty-something  virgins (I was, um, 23), people whose best friends lived in books, or who did most of their socializing online. When I read posts on Tumblr, I feel as if I’m missing something, or else as if I’m a separate class of being from the people who get beautiful and go out drinking and dancing all the time. Looks— I can just about manage “presentable,” if I focus on it. Things like straightening my hair, or waxing regularly or wearing makeup every day— they don’t even enter my worldview. It would never occur to me to do things like that, when the best I can usually manage is to get up and find clean clothes that are relatively flattering by the time I have to leave for work.

Is it the introvert/extravert divide that makes the difference? It’s funny; I’m absolutely an introvert, and I’ve heard extraverts of the not-terribly-bright variety use “introverted” as a negative character descriptor: “He’s so… weird, you know? Really introverted…” I’ve always suspected I put people off, just by virtue of being big and intimidating and having a naturally downturned mouth. I think I’m well-adjusted enough not to call it a flaw in my character, but a lot of the time I look around at people with their friends and their plans— and their spare, polite smiles for strange me— and feel very much on the outside of things. It’s always been that way. Lately I’ve managed to make it a little better by making polite but insistent conversation with people until they realize I’m not going to bite them. If I want to keep friends, it’s the same way— I have to go out of my way to arrange meetings and engage them in conversation, because no one really goes out of their way to talk to me.

It still hurts, honestly, but I’m getting more and more used to it. It just bothers me, sometimes, to read people’s descriptions of normalcy— the worth of different levels of beauty and presentation— and realizing how much I’d fail to measure up if I met most of them in person. Glad I’ve gotten better at not bothering with people who’d reject me based on shallow characteristics.

This is just navel-gazing— I don’t actually know anyone on here, and made the blog so I could whine without any of my friends reading about it. Just… commenting.

Embarrassing moment for the day: Got a Korean text this evening. The beginning was something about the store where I got my glasses, and the end said “have a nice day.” One of the guys at the store suggested, many moons ago, that we should go out and have a beer. Between reading the text and typing the middle into a translator, I wondered if he might have dug my phone number out of my records to send me a nudge.

Haha. They were telling me I should have an eye appointment soon.

Look, I love you, but this has got to stop. We have been planning this meetup for over a week. You have had a long time to decide where you’re going, when you’re meeting, and what you’re having for dinner. I don’t mind traveling an hour to see you, or even paying thirty bucks for a cab back. In return, however, I would appreciate some specific rendezvous information BEFORE EVERYONE HAS GATHERED AT THE RESTAURANT. We both have phones. Please be a little more considerate.

I am strongly attracted to tall, broad-shouldered men with dark eyes, dark complexions and strong features. This probably explains a lot of my bad luck finding mates here: most of the men I see are too short, too thin, too pale or too nondescript-looking to catch my attention.

Middle Eastern men, on the other hand, are (facially) exactly my cup of tea. If a Middle Eastern guy is within a few years of my age, my height or taller, and not vanishingly thin, odds are excellent that I will find him at least superficially attractive. This is a major problem, because as far as I can tell the overwhelming majority of Middle Eastern men in Korea are massive skeezeballs.

This wasn’t immediately obvious to me. When I came here three years ago, I ran into a tall, handsome man from Pakistan or somewhere who was working in my town. He asked me out for coffee (I couldn’t make it that day) and then asked to take my picture. I was young (okay, 23) and naive, so I let him. Then I went to work the next day and found out that at least one of my foreign female coworkers had been approached by the same guy the week before, and that he’d kept bothering her for several days despite being told no. 

Incidents followed thick and fast. Two guys in grubby, ragged clothing followed me down the block, saying “Where you from? Where you from? I from—” Another guy appeared at my shoulder as I passed an ice cream parlor: “You me ice cream” was about all he could say. A man on the corner asked where I was from, insisted he was from the US thought he didn’t understand the question when I asked him what state, and asked me to come back to his apartment with him. Don’t remember the specifics, but I’m fairly sure he thought I was a prostitute or something. My favorite (and possibly the creepiest) was the sketch-looking middle-aged dude who ambushed me in a sparsely-populated area and used his cell-phone dictionary to try and ask me out, in Korean, while his even-shadier friend watched fixedly from a few yards away. I think they might actually have been Southeast Asian or something— I was too busy leaving to notice.

So I’ve gotten cautious. By and large, I have a rule: no eye contact with any Middle Eastern guy I pass on the street. I do not like having this rule. I do not have this rule in America (although I do occasionally have to avert my eyes so as not to be caught, say, ogling my little brother’s scandalously cute Iranian-American friend). Even here, I’ll  bend the rule if I see someone cute who looks like he might not be a massive creeper. The sad fact remains, however, that most Middle Eastern guys I see in Korea seem to see casual eye contact as a green light to ask me back to their place right now.

(This rule also seems to hold true for many Southeast Asian men, though by and large they’re too short and skinny to really catch my attention. African guys seem to be even more aggressive than Middle Eastern guys.)

So today I was at Itaewon for a trip to What the Book (had to pick up the next Scarpetta book, dontcha know) and I saw a tall, good looking Middle Eastern guy in the subway station. He looked to be a couple of years older than me, and was well-groomed and not obviously skeezy. I gave him the once-over. Didn’t much like his flashy sneakers or pristine athletic clothes— not really my style— but I thought maybe I could allow for cultural differences there.

Twice-over. He saw me looking, and looked back. He looked smart, I thought. Potentially interesting. More importantly, there wasn’t the fixed, I-am-a-pervert-and-want-to-eat-your-flesh stare that a lot of guys give me. (That look is one of the main reasons why I have the no-eye-contact rule in the first place.) He looked normal. He looked nice. He looked cute. I smiled at him, and kept walking.

A few minutes later, I passed the same guy as I was walking up the escalator. (I am one of the ones who walk up the escalator.) Thrice-over. Initial impressions seemed accurate. I gave him another cautious smile, and walked on.

I guess he started walking, too, because he caught up to me a few seconds after I got to the top. He let me get through the turnstiles, and approached in a nice, non-threatening, non-creeper way. Asked me where I was going. “The bookstore.” Asked me where I lived. “Outside Seoul.”

“Can we meet later?” he asked, as we stood on the second escalator.

I laughed. “We haven’t even talked.”

“Yes, but you have to go, and I have to go down and get my bag… Please.” He was quite charming— his voice was light, joking, not at all needy but clearly sincere about wanting to meet again. “Can I have your number?”

“…You don’t even know my name.”

He gave it to me, and asked for mine. Vibe still charming; a little roguish, a little forward, but still light and flirtatious. I found myself liking him, and actually gave him my number. Even told him what town I lived in, which I shouldn’t have done. He called my cell and waited until mine rang— would have been awkward if I’d given him a false number!— then said, “Okay. I will talk to you later.”

He extended his hand, a little hesitantly even, and I took it and shook it—

and he pulled me towards him and tried to kiss me, on the mouth. In the middle of the subway station. What the everloving fuck. So close, and yet so batshit fucking crazy. In what country is that okay? I don’t know where he is from, but I’m willing to be that wherever it is that kind of thing will get you arrested. I was so surprised I kind of squawked, and barely managed to push him away. He didn’t seem at all fazed— just laughed in a “had to try it” kind of way, and patted my back as he let me go. To give you an idea of how charming I found this guy, I wasn’t even all that mad even then— kind of scandalized, but also kind of amused. I went on to the bookstore, and hoping he wouldn’t call.

He called three times in thirty minutes. I didn’t take any of them. Finally blocked him. I really, really hope he doesn’t show up in my town and start looking for me. He doesn’t seem the type, but you never know. I’m going to have to have a regular false address to give out so I’m not caught off-guard when sketchy strangers ask me where I live.

So… that was my adventure today. Consequences of breaking one’s own rules. Is it strange that I was more annoyed by the repeated phone calls than by the attempted kiss?

Met J again for abbreviated coffee. It was typical of my meetings with him— we bumped into each other outside the other day, there was an awkward pause, and he said, “Long time, no see!” and suggested we have coffee. He wasn’t available until 11:30 tonight, and I work mornings, so in fact it was hot chocolate and an hour’s conversation. He’d made other plans and actually stayed half an hour beyond what he’d planned for…

I’m starting to think this would be much better as a just-friends thing in the long run, anyway. I’ve seen no indication on his part of physical interest— I mean, he says I look nice and gives me little compliments, but he’s a bit too much of a gentleman. On my side, I’m finding him less and less compelling each time we meet— now I think he’s cute, but nothing terrifically special. They are good conversations, though, and it’s nice to have someone so nearby to hang out with. Unless he suddenly makes a move and amazing chemistry happens, might have to maneuver slowly in the “let’s be good friends” direction while trying to make sure he doesn’t take it as an insult.

And, as I told Busan (Bestie), the man doesn’t like sweets. That might be a gap too wide to bridge.

-

I was a voice major in college (actually a double major, and voice was one of them), and lately I’ve been trying to pick it up again. Noraebangs are one thing, but they don’t have Faure or Debussy or any of the arias I studied… I just miss it. I’ve been YouTube-searching videos of pieces I studied, and it gives me an ache like homesickness listening to them. For the umpteenth time I’ve started thinking about going back for my Master’s in vocal performance.

I know that I would love it. I’ve gotten past, or am getting past, a lot of the issues that kept me from doing my best in college— depression, poor social skills, lack of responsibility— and I think I’d do a much better job of it this time. I miss the scholastic lifestyle, as well— spending hours in the library doing research, having lessons in my voice professor’s tiny office, organizing everything just-so before the beginning of the school year, buying (and renting) books and taking notes. I think I cheated myself in a lot of ways while I was studying voice, and I’d feel a lot better about it if I could go back and do the job properly.

The problem, of course, is that it’s entirely impractical. Graduate school is a massive time- and money-sink, anyway, and for all but a lucky few a Master’s in performance isn’t going to mean anything but extra debt. I can’t even see myself as a career musician. It’s the university experience I’m craving, not the end result. I know it’s a bad idea in almost all practical respects, but… I’d really love to do it.