Me and musicians don't mix

One of my New Year's resolutions was tested this past weekend: "I resolve to stop cutting certain guys extra slack just because they're super hot. "

I'm not surprised. I had a feeling that would be the hardest one to stick to.

A group of girlfriends and I went to a NoDa club to hear a musician we like. This musician, a drummer and singer from the Bobby McFarrin school of performance -- except with all the talent, yet none of the obnoxiousness -- had another drummer with him as accompaniment. This other drummer was yummy: tall and lean, with bedroom brown eyes, dreadlocks past his shoulders, and a sexy, gray-sprinkled Van Dyke (the 'stache-goatee combo that's so popular these days).

We wound up meeting the two guys after the show, and later joining them at another bar down the street. However, the guys were being pulled every which way by enthusiastic groupies, so I and another of the girls decided to call it a night. As we left, we said goodbye; they were very flirty in their farewells. While my friend got a kiss on the cheek and several touchy-feely hugs from the main musician, I chatted with the dreadlocked sidekick. As we talked, he had a moment of realization that I love: the moment where a man realizes he's a tallish guy chatting eye-to-eye with a tallish woman ... and he likes it.

"How tall are you?" he asked, after a surprised pause.

"Six feet," I responded.

"Yeah," he said with a dreamy smile of appreciation, reaching for another hug. Suede jacket. Strong arms. Dreads brushing my face. Lord have mercy. "Six feet. I need me something like that."

"I'm available," I heard myself say, mentally doing a double-take at my boldness. I had a couple of his dreads in my fingers at this point, playing with them; he didn't seem to mind.

He laughed. "Awww, don't you start!"

I decided it was really time for me to leave, before I did something rash. We were standing close and he asked my name again, wanting to get the last name correct. He knew where I worked and said he would look me up on the Observer site.

Riiiiiight. Dude probably forgot my name before I made it to the door.

But, see, here's the thing. I went through The Musician Phase before. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about? When you think guitarists are sooo sexy, or drummers are really hot, or nimble-fingered keyboard players totally turn you on? And you want to try to date them? Yeah, I caught that fever a few years back. I was a starry-eyed groupie of a great cover band, with the lead guitarist serenading me during shows (how hot is THAT?!), but he quickly lost interest after I repeatedly refused to take him home with me. And I've got photos of myself wrapped around a foxy, dreadlocked Jamaican drummer I clicked with after a reggae concert. He gave me his number, but a woman answered the phone when I called a few days later. She wasn't his sister. (Ooops.)

Even though I've already been through that phase, the other night I briefly considered contacting the dreaded drummer through the main musician's Web site. Then my New Year's resolution -- and common sense -- kicked in. I don't want to be a stop on some dude's booty call tour. The lyrics to a song from an Elvis movie kept running through my head: "I love only one girl/the one I put my arms around/I love only one girl/one in every town." I'm not gonna be that girl.

Besides, one of my friends unwittingly made it easy for me. Turns out after my early exit, she and dreads had a little make-out session. It stopped there, but when I found out, that killed the attraction for me. I don't do anything with men who've been physical with my friends. Sloppy seconds? Not my thing.