Dating Bradford: The Cold Front

We met at one of Daniel Nardicio's sex parties. I mean, it wasn't
called a sex party -- there was a holiday loosely attached to it, a
well-known DJ and a hint of themed decorative motif that vaguely
disguised the industrial-workshop setting in the meat packing district.

In
fact, it was exactly the venue I would expect for a "clothing-optional
BYOB" (bring your own beads) Mardi Gras soirée for the alterna-fag
crowd -- the gaggle who used to hang out in the East Village before the
rents got too high.

He was very tall, with proportionate
attributes, and after fooling around somewhat more than a bit, we
exchanged digits. Numbers that is, not fingers.

We finally
hooked up at his place in Chelsea one night after my workout. I had no
illusions of romance. We had met under tawdry circumstances, never
actually spoken over the phone, and both had to tiptoe through his
living room so as not to wake his roommate. No, this was definitely a
bootie call. Fortunately he was a great kisser, and sometimes a bootie
call turns into a fuck buddy, and then into a boyfriend. You never know.

Once
it was all goin' on under the corduroy comforter, however, I was pretty
sure he would be a one-off; there was something about the distance he
kept, and his no-small-talk, down-to-business-approach. Then I knew it
would come at some point -- the icy façade that some men put up to
distance themselves after sex. Sure enough, just past snap, crackle and
POP, the cold front rolled in like the fog of a San Franciscan summer.

We
exchanged polite thank you kisses, but they were more like obligatory
pecks on his part. No further tongue mashing occurred between, "That
was hot!" and, "Where's my sock?" A last farewell peck at the door,
complete with his unconvincing, "Talk soon!" thrown out without eye
contact, convinced me he would not be calling me again.

It didn't really bother me. The sex was good, and eight years in New York City had taught me not to expect anything ... ever.

It
got me thinking how "normal" this scenario has become. How the cold
front used to make me feel empty or sad when I first became single
after the end of a three-year relationship. How I missed genuine warmth
and caring in my sex life. But the cold front is now part of
bootie-call-business in today's urban gay culture.

Or is it?

Have I become immune to the negative feelings I used to have, or is this just the way of the flippant floozy today?

It got me wondering; When the cold front moves in, how do we insulate?

(Photo: Bradford Noble)