I have nothing to hide. I’ve been single now for over two years, and I think my dating life is pretty normal—especially for Maui. I think I have a fairly solid social decorum when it comes to dating. For instance, I never dated or hit on married men. But the flings, the social experiments, the dating outside of type—I mean, hey, it was sometimes necessary. Here’s how it all went down, mostly, in the form of my dating ABC’s:
A was a musician I hooked up with at a friend’s wedding. It was typical of musician hook-ups, too—I played psychotherapist while he got drunk, we made-out sloppily and I never heard from him again.
B was trouble from the very beginning and I knew it. But I was attracted to his intelligence, confidence and the fact that he was new to the island. But that didn’t last long—girls ate him up like sharks on a wounded turtle. Only it turns out, he was a bigger shark than they.
Tragically, C should’ve never happened. He was a nice man, and we had fun but I wasn’t as attracted to him as I initially thought perhaps I would be. When he started pressuring me to spend more time with him, I bailed. And not very nicely, either.
I don’t even remember how I met D. But we’d been getting drunk together for years. We should’ve just remained drinking buddies because I fell into what would become a more frequent pattern of hooking up with friends, then getting annoyed with them when they “looked at me differently” and I’d split.
E came around at a vulnerable point in my life when I longed for someone to “worship me.” And he did, beautifully. He cooked me dinners, gave me massages and made me laugh when I was bummed. But after a while, I realized that wasn’t what I wanted either. It got to be too much sunshine, when I felt most comfortable standing alone in the rain.
G and I met in a bar. Imagine that. We were set up to go out on an official date by his friend, who was also at the bar. I’m putting him into the category of men (including R) I actually went on “dates” with—men who were generally older, more successful and more responsible than I’m used to. I tried but simply couldn’t shake the looming feeling of potential seriousness these dates usually held.
H was a tourist I picked up at Maui Brews one night. He totally wasn’t my type—one of those muscley metrosexual types from Southern California. I think he was even wearing cologne. But sometimes girls have needs that even pretty boy-meatheads can fulfill.
I was the first musician I met while on the job. And it was the first time I realized what a hook this journalist gig is for meeting guys. You see, sometimes, the artists and musicians I interview are so grateful or so shamelessly promoting or so inexplicably attracted to what meager influence I might have over getting their name to the public that they ask me out. Mutualistic symbiosis or parasitism? Aw, who cares…
J was a cruel lesson in fulfilling the fantasy of long-term secret crushes. I had been eyeballing him for years but our timing was always off. By the time the stars were aligned, our long-awaited moment was severely disappointing—severely, because it took five long years of anticipation to make happen. Disappointing, because I discovered he had real-life issues. Pedestals are for asses, my friends.
Another J—along with K and P—was one of a group of platonic guy friends who I felt the need to seduce on various hormonally induced whims. For the most part, we’re all still friends but I do often feel pangs of guilt for not being able to hold some things sacred—like friendship—just because I get greedy.
M was the requisite rebound fling I had right after the demise of my relationship two years ago. I appreciate everything he did for me—and my ego—back then. Especially when he thwarted my vulnerable pleas for something more substantial with him. “Go do your thing for a while,” he said. “Then when you’re done, come back and I’ll be your boyfriend.” Thank goodness he’s not still waiting.
I was completely ego-boosting on O. He was waaay too young for me but hot. Plus, there was a language barrier, which made the tryst kinda sexy. Then my editor handed me this article on “Cougars”—older women who go out with much younger guys. Apparently there’s this whole subculture going on. But it just makes me feel so sleazy.
Happens to the best of us, yes? I mean, we can’t be expected to remember everyone? Ahem. So Q is for all the “question marks” I have in my notebook: that young (again with the young!) surfer boy from New York, the hot business man from the Bay Area I picked up at Longhi’s one Friday night, the sexy South American from Casanova… yeah, so that’s all. I think.
You may notice by now that some letters are missing. For instance, U, V and Y up for grabs. Do I hear a Zebulon in the house?
Samantha Campos is exhausted now. MTW