"Say, you remind me of a man . . . "

I no longer have a job again. It's a long, depressing story. All I will say is that one should more closely examine a budget before assuming you can hire. I would be lying if I didn't say that I am not in low spirits again. But when am I not?

Nothing remarkable to relay. I went to a party last weekend. I had to convince myself to leave the room. I spent more than three hours in bed trying to talk myself out of the whole idea. Why would I want to go to a party and be surrounded by strangers? Worse, I don't know anyone in that part of town and would be forced to crash on the host's couch. Ultimately, I decided to give it a go. I regret that decision.

The party was hosted by J. the femme-bi boy (who I have learned is actually just a horny little bastard) with whom I had the lapse several months ago. It was his birthday party. Silly me for thinking that someone would want to celebrate their birthday with a tame partaking of drinks, food, and perhaps a bit of booty shaking. Um, I learned rather quickly that I had walked into some kind of desperate dork swingerfest. Essentially, the party was populated with a strange array of science, tech, and role play dorks who had discovered their genitalia and somehow now figured themselves "cool" because they were willing to let their best bud screw their wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend. Not my bag baby. J. proceeded to disappear into his room on at least four different occasions with four different people (male and female, some married, single, or attached), came out of his room, sat on his couch and proceeded to make out with whomever had not yet gone into his room and was (un?)fortunate enough to be sitting there. Mama mia! This kind of sexual musical chairs proceeded throughout the night. I also learned that one of the married women there was J.'s second girlfriend, as in she is a girlfriend in addition to one he apparently has at present. He would introduce her to people as "Girlfriend Number Two." Umm, no. I wanted to ask him straight on, "Does she not have a name?" Toward the end of the night J. was asked by one of his drunk, lingering guests if the "blonde girl" was his. Just like that. "So the blonde, is she yours?" What.The.Fuck? I felt so weirded out. Let me explain why.

I'm not against people doing their thing. I'm not out to judge J. for how he chooses to express his sexuality. More power to him. One tiny thing for me was that I wish I had been provided with some forewarning as to the nature of the festivities. Not so I could trim or shave my legs or anything, but so that I could prepare myself for a lot of alone time. At the very least I would have been able to better communicate that Tiffany was not there to play, if you know what I mean. Because I wasn't privy to the nature of the fiesta I did have a couple of people make unwanted advances. As lonely as I am, uh, no. I've made out with men and women, been in love with a woman before (who was foolish enough to love me back), but ultimately I think monogamy is extraordinarily sexy. If people want to group, swing, or do whatever with a willing consenting ADULT, then that's fine. Me personally, I'd rather be alone, or belong to just one someone. And since that's not happening ever, well, I'm afraid I'm not interested in signing up for anything else.

So, the party freaked me the fuck out. I am getting old. I have decided never to leave the house again.