Boyfriend material?

I made it three weeks before having sex with Z. Funny how that’s a long time, nowadays. Everyone I told acted like I was holding out for years. In other news, I feel okay about it. I don’t think it changed anything, and we decided afterward to only see each other. That would make him my boyfriend. Right?

I guess, though, there’s always this little insecure part of me that wonders, now that he’s had it, is he going to back away? Will the dates stop? Will the cuddling stop? Will the, “I really like you’s” and the “You’re amazings” become few and far between?

Just because I decided to have sex with him?

He’s a great guy, and I believe that he likes me, but I’ve been burned enough times that it’s hard for me to not wait for the other shoe to drop. The “I’m not looking for a relationship” phone call, or a lack of phone calls at all. I get scared, and I don’t want to ask for reassurance or confirmation. I just want to trust the fact that I’m the kind of girl he could like. I think I am. Right?

Slip and Slide

So Z and I have gotten into the habit of making the 45-minute journey to each other’s homes. Until last night, things had been relatively nonsexual, basically due to the fact that one or both of us tends to have too much to drink when we meet up. And neither of us really want, to put it bluntly, to fuck things up by fucking.

So it was interesting to be fully, soberly aware of tongues and lips and necks when we started kissing last night. And it felt so hot to feel almost ticklish at the touch of his hand sliding into my underwear — I thought it sweet that he didn’t know if it was okay to go there yet, and I almost grew impatient. All of that self-consciousness that comes with being in a new relationship is there, although I’m trying to get over it. So I put his hands where I needed them to go (he didn’t need much help) and really, truly tried to turn my brain off. I wanted to feel, not think, and I think I did better than okay this first time around.

It’s not like I’ve never done any of this before. I’ve done a lot of it before. And I find it unnerving that I’ve been willing to screw the brains out of people I like about a fraction as much as Z. But when it comes to him, I feel like what I’m starting to hold onto is too precious to give up with something forced or shallow.

Sex dreams. Enough said.

I obviously have not had good sex in a long time, because almost every time I fall asleep I have a vivid sex dream. I sleep at least 9 to 10 hours a night, so usually this is enough time to have at least two ridiculous dreams about two different partners.

Last night, for instance, my first go-around was with Will Ferrell. And not just normal Will Ferrell, but Will Ferrell in “Semi Pro” syle — complete with afro. I remember little except having some weird sort of R&B music on to set the groove. Strange.

The next one was a little bit closer to home. It featured Ben*, this guy I had a fling with last winter. He’s older than I am, he’s 30 and a seriously unstable bartender. I used to call him “The Walking Red Flag.” But when I finally gave into sex with him, it was probably the most intense session of my life. I had the presence of mind to cut off contact with him after that, because I didn’t need to be chasing around someone who was so dark and troubled and sexy, because he really was all three. Now, we’re friends, and he just had a daughter with someone. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s his first.

Anyway, back to the sex dream. It was in a Key West beach house that belonged to my grandparents, and I remember searching for a place to have privacy. We’d start, then stop, then start again somewhere else. It wasn’t particularly great, but when I woke up I felt like such a fool. I haven’t felt that sort of lust — while awake and functioning — in such a long time. I think my lack of carnal experience since moving here has gotten the best of me.

In other news, I can’t wait to go to sleep again.

Good sex, gone.

One of my good friends, Mel, was just over at my house. We smoked cigarettes and talked about how to meet men in our area of the state, which is pretty limited to rednecks and hillrats. She and I are two college-educated, cute and fun girls who have had the worst luck since moving here for work.

Now, I’m not saying the problem is me. Maybe it is. I can be sort of demanding, emotionally distant, overly aggressive and just plan insane. But I know at my core I’m a cool girl. And, let it be said, I am awesome in the sack — and I HATE it when people say that, but I think it’s true for me.

This is just a half-drunken rant (I happened to be drinking some sort of vanilla-bean flavored ale while chain smoking Ultra Lights), but I have not had good sex with someone I felt a connection with in over a year, and it’s driving me nuts. It’s a dry spell like I’ve never known. It’s sort of like starvation from the type of intimacy I used to find almost too easily.

It’s not like I’ve been celibate, though. In fact, far from it. I’ve racked up a fair number of unworthy lovers in the 13 months I’ve been home, at a higher rate than I’m comfortable with. Men like me, I’m not going to lie. Or at least they do when I’m shiny and clean and slightly tipsy, smiling in their faces like the most classy bar slut they’ve ever seen. When we wake up there is that mutual disgust I don’t even need to go into right now. That’s when I lose interest, or he loses interest, but usually we go on few dates just to save face. It’s a horrible waste of time and money in the face of $4 gas.

Anyway, back to my original, beer-driven complaint: Is it my stage of life, is it me or is it my location that’s to blame for this total lack of finding anything like a connection? I have about had it with this shit. I’m sick of this, honestly. It’s all so predictable.

… Where’s my beer?

A decade-long crush I didn’t deserve.

A guy, I’ll call him Blue, confessed last weekend that he’s been in love with me for nine years.

Nine years?

That means I was 14. I was in ninth-grade and I actually remember Blue calling me at home after several weeks of flirting and after-school Internet chats. But I got so nervous that I just watched his parents’ listed number pop up again and again on my Caller ID, a flicker of green and black on the phone’s face.

Nine years later, I’m 23, and I still do the same thing when his name pops up on my BlackBerry. I blame poor reception every time, and he never seems to fully believe me.

Blue’s a nice guy, but not one I’d want to end up with. He’s smart, but he’s blue collar. He’s funny, but sometimes a racial slur slips out. He’s cute, but years of beer and pot have rounded his features into handsome doughish-ness.

But he’s always been so sweet to me and has never tried anything inappropriate, even when he could’ve. He’s the one who pushes me away when I’m drunk and sloppy. But still, when I get drunk I act cutesy and wonder to him why he never calls to ask me out, when I know damn well he’s tried really hard to do this before. He’ll remind me of specific dates we were supposed to hang out that I flaked out. And I’ll say, ‘Ok, for real, let’s go out next weekend.’

Then he calls, and I ignore. Nine years of this. I’m the girl he’ll never be good enough to get, but that doesn’t feel good in the least. What feels even worse is that he says he loved me before I had contacts, before I had boobs and before I had blond hair. He loved me when I was hugely awkward and ugly, and I’m not just saying that — I really was all sorts of not cute.

It feels bad, because no one ever looks at me now and sees what he says he was able to see when no one else was looking.

A text conversation between the crotch grabber and me

Me: I don’t think I’m going out after all.
CG: Alright, do you want to come over to my place and watch a movie instead?
Me: Would you hate me if I said I was exhausted?
CG: Welcome to the club. I won’t have time to hang out until sometime next week.
Me: (no answer)
CG: Alright then.
Me: Don’t be mad.
CG: I have had a rough day and you’re not making it any better.
Me: (again, no answer)
CG: Do you expect me to be happy about it? It’s been a fucked up day.
CG: (several hours later) I wasn’t trying to be mean I am just having a rough day and I was looking forward to hanging out with you. We will have to get together early next week. Ok?
Me: Maybe. I don’t know why you think acting childish would make me want to go hang out with you more. I’m honestly worn out and maybe my day wasn’t great either.
CG: I wasn’t acting childish.
Me: You basically said I was making your day worse. That doesn’t want make me want to drive 45 minutes — when I’m already tired — to come see you. I’m going to bed.
CG: Tonight no I wouldn’t expect you to. It probably wouldn’t be a good night to hang out anyway. Good night.

I ask you, about how many red flags could YOU count during this sorry excuse for a conversation? I counted about six.

The case of the crotch grabber

I’m still casually responding to messages from Sean. This is someone tried to get me to extend our date a little longer by grabbing my hand and bumping it against his erection.

“See what you did to me?” He asked, “Why are you leaving now, just when we were getting friendly?”

The pleasantness of the past three hours, which included a cutesy date of “Gossip Girl” and Chinese takeout, flew out the window. Bile rose to my throat. It was my second time ever spending time with this guy, and apparently a kiss goodnight was not enough. So I say goodnight as quickly as possible, snatch my hand away from his crotch area and nearly hit a wall with my shoulder in the rush to get the fuck out of there.

Why am I still talking to him? I don’t know. I suppose it was inappropriate and gross and could very well be a deal-breaking kind of thing to do. I haven’t seen him since then, and I know before I decide to hang out with him again we’ll have to have the “Do Not Ever Put Your Hands On Me (Or My Hands On You) Without Being Absolutely Respectful First”-talk. If I don’t have the balls to bring his offense up, I certainly won’t have the balls to ever see him again. At least that’s what I’ve promised myself.

Or at least we’ll have to hang out in a group. Hopefully there will be minimal crotch grabbing when my friends are around.

A open letter to an asshole.

Dear X,

Since I drunkenly decided to sleep with you, I’ve noticed our texts and our conversations are a lot more one-sided. I wish I could say I’m digging the one-word answers and the unavailable behavior that came out of nowhere as soon as we woke up. 

I can only figure that I’ve been pitched into a pile of those girls, disposable sluts that obviously give it up too soon and aren’t worth getting to know beyond a quick hit. And it’s not like I can blame you. A lot of girls think we’re empowered and owning our sexuality by putting a lower value on the act of sex, but it seems that even if we loosen our morals up a little, the judgement is still there. You can’t have progress if the act of easy sex is still seen by one side as whorish and uninteresting. 

I guess, in my defense, I have to say that I’m still worth knowing. I’m not one of those girls. In fact, I’m not really part of any club but my own. Just because I decided to sleep with you doesn’t mean I lose my good qualities in the process. I happen to be really smart, really cute, really funny and really sexy. I’m sorry if you don’t feel the same, but you deciding to treat me as someone less than I am is your choice, not mine. It’s clear I’m writing this to feel better, yeah, but only because it’s natural to want to be accepted if you do the most intimate thing you can do with another person. It’s astonishing to me that you could care less about how I see you — it’ll never cease to amaze me that guys like you don’t care about what I’ll think about you after the act. You take what you get and really don’t care if I think you’re cool or funny or handsome. I guess it’s good that you don’t care, because your behavior proves that you’ve got a lot of growing up to do.

The fact that you are rejecting me stings and is a bruise to my ego, but you don’t get to take anything of significance away from me. If anything, you’re a lesson in judgement, a notch in the bedpost, a night that slips from my memory.

 

Fuck you.

/k

 

The art of the booty call …

Since I intend to cut Sean off, I want to contact of Brad for some no-strings-attached sex. I realize my last post was about making some guy wait until I was ready, and I still plan to do that. When I meet someone I could like, I’m not going to give it up just because that’s what is expected. I’m promising to myself to hold out for romance.

However, I’ve already gone ahead and slept with Brad, and it was good, so I need to figure out the art of booty calling/fuck buddyism. I can tell he can match me in bed — I don’t get that vibe often — and I’m not sure I could see myself getting attached to him. He’s really sort of bland beyond his physical attractiveness. Everybody wins.

Brad’s left me a message but I haven’t returned it. So when I resurface, I want to be flirty in an “I don’t want you, I don’t need you, I’m just being cute [but I really wanna get laid]” sort of way.

These situations never turn out well, do they?

What happened to romance?

I thought it was kind of silly when Carrie Bradshaw fainted when her Russian boyfriend asked her to dance with him in the park on their way to the opera. She said something along the lines of, “take it easy. I’m American!”

What I’m dealing with now is not a cultural barrier of any sort — at least not the sort of barrier Carrie was dealing with — but with the complete and utter lack of pacing when it comes to dating. Why is it that we have to move full-speed ahead to the finish line (sex) when we meet someone new? Is it just the people I’ve met or the person I’ve turned into? I have no idea. I feel like texting has replaced talking and making out on the couch has replaced dinner dates.

Last night I hung out with Sean, I guy I met last weekend who had treated me really pretty nicely when I got too wasted to make it home and passed out on his bed. Nothing happened and he didn’t try anything … a first. We woke up and I was a little put off by the cuddling, but by the time he took me to lunch I was feeling comfortable with him. Usually when I’m in this sort of situation I like to get the hell out of there, but with him it was a okay because he wasn’t ultra-aggressive … just a little too affectionate for having just met me.

Anyway, fast forward to last night. We watched Gossip Girl at his place and got takeout Chinese. He tried to get me to cuddle but seeing as I’m not drunk I don’t really remember how … pathetic, I suppose, but I know a few girls who have this same problem. I get up to go but when I won’t stay and fool around he gets a little cranky.

Like I owe him some sort of physical affection at the end of the night, almost. Like he’s put the time in and this is what is naturally supposed to happen, almost.

This has happened before. I’ve dealt with guys who act this way and I usually give in to them acting childish. Then I end up hating myself. I didn’t let it happen this time. For the first time in my life I’m figuring out that I deserve to be respected by a guy, regardless of how I meet him. Just because I happened to meet this dude in a bar doesn’t mean I have to be on the typical ‘bar dating’ schedule of hanging out and then sex.

I finally think I’m worth someone waiting for me. This is a first. I’m a little nervous because I realize it’s been over a year since I’ve dated someone seriously — and in that time I’ve just been going nuts with partying and seeing guys who are horrible for me. What I once thought was getting it out of my system has ended up being almost paralyzing when I try to actually do what I think is the right thing. I don’t trust men at all. I don’t know how to cuddle and I definitely don’t feel comfortable with someone reaching for my hands or my waist when we’re out on public together.

I feel part like a monster. But the other part of me feels like I’m waking up. I’ll take it.

And as far as things go with Sean, I think it is at the very least a good strategy. If he never calls me again because he doesn’t think he’s going to get some play, then it’s probably a good thing.