Ho Ho Ho, friends. I’m full of fucking spirit, just can’t quite confirm it’s jolly.
The red scare arrives next week, Christmas is tomorrow, and I just got dumped mere minutes before I used that upper hand and did it myself. Misery travels in threes, and as the most intuitive 33 year-old on the block, I already knew this.
I met him via online dating because, truthfully, I have no patience for most men who approach me these days. Except for that cutie who stopped me dead on my tracks mid Miami streets stroll last week, charm and confidence convincing me to hang with him on the beach till the wee hours of the morn. Lance, you’re so great – but I digress.
I’ve been single for nearly four years now. Yes, one, two, three, four. The last ex being the douchebag you already know. I never told you this, but his initials are BS. Fucking fitting, right?
Anyway, I was too busy being awesome, taking fun trips, working, and procrastinating on starting a second business because of, what’s new, fear of failure, so I’d “given dating a break.” Then I bumped into a friend who happily recounted her wonderful romance with a beau she met online – the same site on which I’d disabled my account – and she encouraged me to give it another try. So I did. I went home, got online, re-wrote the damn profile, slapped some new pics on it, and started browsing.
I set my search to “long-term dating only” and men over 30. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit. Tic fucking toc. But I made sure to add “let’s slowly get to know one another” or some other cautionary phrasing of the sort (can’t check for accuracy now because only losers peruse dating sites on holiday break) to warn off the lonely types looking for a ready-to-birth bride. Back the fuck off, my uterus is mega elastic and the remaining ova carry primest DNA.
I thought bountifully shameful thoughts about the dozens of faces shyly staring back at me, ’til I came across his little square.
Oh.. he cute.
Clicked on him. Nice body, beautiful eyes, adorable smile, good job, outdoorsy, SPEAKS MY FIRST LANGUAGE, wants a girl who will make the first move.
DUDE… all I do is make brilliant moves. Messaged him. Logged off.
We exchanged some texts so I could assess his grammar on the go, and settled on a Saturday night in the city. I spent the whole afternoon at my parents’s place, stuffing face, and battling thoughts of canceling on him. Finally got the fuck up, went home, got ready and headed out. We had no concrete plans, so we strolled for a bit ’til we picked a local dance spot with soul and funk sounds. This kid was either gonna swim in his dance shoes or drown right before my eyes.
He swam, confidently, adorably too. We moved to a bar, and I ordered a ginger ale and he had an IPA. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit, I made sure to throw in the quintessential “I don’t really casually date. I want to get to know someone to build something awesome with.” He nodded. The night went better than I expected. Since I’d taken the train in, expecting to be back home before the last ride of the night, he drove me home. I skirted a first kiss, because my intentions are pure, because I want someone to love my mind first. But he looked so sad, and his lips so fat, that I didn’t need to be coerced. We kissed. And it was god.damn.good. Like, I don’t wanna get out of this car, my vagina is WOKE, you better keep kissing me, boy, good.
The next date was the very next night. We picked a movie, and as we sat watching the previews, I let my mouth run off, and he shushed me with a smile. Mmm. This might just be a good egg, I thought. A two hour drive to a beautiful hike in New Hampshire as the third date sealed the deal for me. If we could make it work horizontally as well as we did on our feet, I might have a dating profile awaiting a victorious ‘delete.’
I made him wait till the fifth date. I didn’t wear anything purposely sexy. I knew about his upbringing before I knew about his penis. I was serious about being serious.
And when we did it, it was good. And the next time was even better. Soon enough I had an orgasm, a feat only long-term boyfriends had accomplished.
He lives over half an hour away, but works nearly down the street from me. So I would happily invite him over, share my healthy meals (I’m vegan, y’all. I stick to real food, like a real human), and my healthy sex drive. I helped him not fall back asleep when his 5am alarm went off. And if he seemed extra tired, I’d give him oral for a good day ahead.
Yea. I’m fucking awesome.
We talked every day. Our schedules weren’t exactly similar, but early in the week we’d figure out which nights might work. We spent nearly every weekend together for two months. We acknowledged to each other that we weren’t seeing anyone else. I told him I liked him, and he said it back, ever so sweetly, while playing with my hair. I threw him to the lions, at a gathering with my friends (and their four children), and he was just as great as I’d expected he’d be.
Then the time came for a few trips we more or less planned before we knew each other. I had a long weekend at the foot of the White Mountains in the books, and he was heading to Cuba, to return a day after I’d leave for a week in Miami. We didn’t see each other for nearly four weeks, but we traded texts, pictures, and messages of “I really miss you.” Well, at least I really meant it.
I had three priorities upon my return: kissing my dog, kissing my cat, and kissing that boy. I headed over to his place, and as soon as I laid my lips on his, tactically looking for that taste of magic, I peeled off empty handed. I tried again, and it just. felt. different. I shrugged it off. We talked, exchanged gifts. I’d gotten him a shirt he loved – it fit perfectly because I knew his top and bottom sizes, how he likes his coffee, what foods he doesn’t like mixed together, the face he makes when he’s annoyed.. you know. Because I’m fucking awesome. He got me a handmade wooden box we both had some trouble opening, but which I loved anyway, like I would’ve loved any old thing he might’ve chosen to gift me.
We had great sex. I still couldn’t shake that something wasn’t right, so I tapped him on the forehead and said, “what’s wrong? why are you so serious?” He looked to the TV and mumbled he was sick, his body hurt, that was all. We fell asleep. In the morning he made me come, we took showers, and ordered Thai food. We spent the afternoon napping and cuddling, until it was time for both of us to go see our parents. We made plans to see each other the next night, Monday. I left thinking something *still* wasn’t right.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. We barely exchanged texts, and the words we did offer were superficial. I finally called because I knew his voice would give what he denied me with his texted words. He was uncommonly chirpy, he didn’t ask what my weekend plans were, and that affectionate boy I knew had checked out.
In all negotiations, you have got to be ready to walk away before you’re ready to begin. I knew the Cuba trip had stirred something in him – I’d been through the same experience, and returned home from 3 weeks in Hawaii absolutely convinced I was done with the 9-5 and 2-week paid vacation crumbles. I needed to run my own business, I needed my time to be mine, I needed to Live Life and surround myself with minds that understood we’re not here to grind and die. But hey, I also knew the climb is so much more pleasant with a partner by my side.
I told him I knew something was up. I told him I liked him, and it was unlike him to be so distant. I wished he’d share what was on his mind, but at least, I asked, give me honesty.
The next day went by without a peep from him. I decided if he didn’t reach out by the end of the night, I’d let him know I no longer wanted to see him. But he called. He said he shuts himself in when he’s got a lot to figure out. And with the studying he was facing for a work-related license, a new job, and new long-term travel plans he was making, he’d likely shut himself in more, which would be unfair to me. He also said bla, bla, and some additional bla. Ended with, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING OUT OF THIS.”
And, “I HOPE YOU DON’T HATE ME.”
BITCH, I DON’T HATE YOU. JUST RETURN ME THE LAST THREE MONTHS, A
DOZEN MAGNIFICENT BLOW JOBS, AND ALL THE GOOD WILL I SENT YOUR WAY, AND WE EVEN.
And, “YOU DON’T HAVE TO DISAPPEAR, WE CAN STILL TALK”
BITCH, SOON AS WE HANG UP, YOU CEASE TO EXIST.
I was calm. I wished him well. I wished him Merry Christmas. I wished I texted mere minutes before he called.
I texted a good friend, ordered a pizza, and tried to watch a romantic movie. They all sucked. I stuck to science fiction – the kind of art that gives us the truth about human nature.
So, boo, I just wanna tell you:
- Thank you for the orgasms. I probably came more in these last three months than I did over my two years with BS.
- Thank you for gently, and non-judgmentally pointing out that I was again a pothead. I quit the daily joint and am in the best shape I’ve been in years
- Thank you for helping me remember I have the spirit of Tim Ferriss and the skills of Lexi Belle
- Thank you for giving me the opportunity to practice effective communication, faith in my good intentions, an open heart and open mind
- Thank you for the beautiful hand-carved wooden box. I still can’t open it, like your heart, so I’m giving it away
Merry Christmas to us. May the new year bring exactly what we’re looking for. Atop my list are more adventures and more success – with a best friend who prefers me undressed.