Man Seeking Muse

Between the hustle and bustle of work and enjoying the start of summer in the city it’s been a hot minute since I’ve trolled the web for men. I logged on to OKCupid the other day, before the site even loaded I got an instant-message from PeachDreams complimenting one of my photos where I’m wearing white jeans. “Those white pants, they inspire boys. You realize that, right?” he wrote.

I’ve received a few messages about the white jeans since I uploaded the photo. Ladies take note: men dig white jeans. Since Memorial Day has passed, I’m feeling jazzed and excited about my summer 2012 collection (that’s what I refer to as the drawer with my summer clothes in it). “Inspires? How so?” I pried, looking for more strokes to my ego.

“It inspired me to write to you in hopes that there’s more muse where that muse came from.” I assured him there was. Muse? Yes, of course I’d like to be someone’s muse. My summer collection has many flowy pieces that I feel could easily cater to a muse theme.

I checked out his profile and learned that he was a brooding poet. His poet identity seemed to be a heavy subject in his profile. He described himself as serious, analytical, and cerebral with a head of “poet’s hair”. In all his photos he looked away from the camera, with a moody brooding stance. A poet’s muse? I might be too goofy and obnoxious to play the part. I wasn’t sold that we’d be a good fit, but there was a chance he could be my Patti Smith and I could be his Robert Mapplethorpe… just two iconic artists… or something like that.

When he suggested getting ice cream I knew that at least if we had nothing in common, I’d get a cone out of the deal so I went for it. He requested that I wear my white jeans but I was auditioning for the part of the muse and nobody tells a muse what to do, a muse just does (I also seem to have misplaced the jeans) so I opted for a black summer dress instead.

I was a few minutes late to the ice cream shop, “I’m wearing blue jeans sitting out front,” he texted me. As I locked my bike up I scanned the few patrons and saw only one in blue jeans. He didn’t look at all like the dark poet from his pictures.

He smiled and approached me, “Hey, I’m Rob,” he said, grinning ear to ear. We got some cones and settled on a stoop to eat them. He spilled some of his ice cream on to the sidewalk then quickly leaned down to wipe it off. I reminded him that it was New York City and some dairy drops wouldn’t harm the concrete but he told me he felt otherwise.

“So tell me about your poetry,” I began. It was subject that he clearly felt strongly about in his online presence so I thought it would be a good way to open him up in real life. I was wrong.

“It’s highly intellectual and incredibly literary, far too hard to break it down in a simple conversation,” he said as he wiped the sidewalk some more.

“You write haikus?” I joked.

“Haiku. Not haikus. Haiku is the plural of haiku. Like “sheep”,” he corrected. “But no, my writing is not like that.”

I nodded, trying to summon a serious muse-like smile. “So on your profile you say you’ve published a book, where could I find it?” I asked.

“I’m not selling it because I don’t believe in consumerism. It’s a project I self published, for me.”

“Tortured artist?” I teased.

He nodded solemnly and looked into my eyes. “What’s your sign?” he asked.

“Pisces,” I made a fish face.

“She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak. I’ve been locked inside your Heart Shaped box for weeks. I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap. I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black,” he recited to me.

“Is that an original?” I asked.

He shot me a repulsed look. “No, that’s Nirvana. You didn’t recognize that?”

No, I’m not cool. I did not recognize the Nirvana quote. Geez, rub it in. I felt I might have been failing as a muse.

“Are you happy in your life?” he asked me. I quickly affirmed that I was. I am, I can’t help it. Life is good. I love my friends and family, my roof deck, my bicycle, the summer, my summer collection, and everything I have going on.

He clearly wanted me to recite the question back so I did. “What do you think?” he asked. “Do I look happy?”

He didn’t look unhappy, I can tell you that. “Yeah, I hope you are. I’d say you look happy,” I replied.

He huffed; it was clearly not the answer this poet wanted. “Everyone tells me I have sad eyes, you don’t think my eyes are sad?”

I looked at his perfectly combed blond hair and into his bright blue eyes that would have made for terrific World War II propaganda and shook my head. “Nope, those eyes look pretty bright to me.”

“What about my pictures?” he pushed on, “Don’t my pictures portray sadness?” he asked.

His pictures were moody but clearly intentionally so. “Yeah, they were a little darker but in real life you don’t look like that.”

At first he looked annoyed but then he said. “You might be muse material.”

As much as I enjoyed my cone and the idea of being a muse, I certainly wasn’t cut out to be this guy’s gal. Having someone to inspire me and that I can inspire is one thing but having someone that needs constant cheering up is not my game.

I hope he finds his muse and I hope I can find my white jeans because mama’s got some summer strolling to do in those man-snatchers.