I am going to be honest; I am totally not above taking screen shots. If you send some fuck shit to my phone, you better accept the fact that I will be screen-shotting what you said,  and I will be sending that photo,  with the necessary commentary,  and appropriate emojis to my best friend(s) and/or sister. There are some things that can only be believed when seen. And, if you are a man who has a problem with the fact that I tell my friends and sister everything, then don’t talk to me. If I ask three friends about a pair of shoes before I buy them,  why wouldn’t I get their input on a man before I screw him?  …or before he screws me.

Proofreading and editing are fundamental. Because after you send some interesting words to my phone, you have forfeited your right to be included in whatever I do with those words after the fact.

Act right. That’s what I tell them.

That is some background information about me,  somewhat necessary for the appropriate amount of appreciation for the self-control   I exhibited during this unfortunate story.

Picture a second date, using the term “date” loosely: we’re young, it’s the day after a fabulous first date. We’re excited. We are well on the way to blissfully drunk. The wine is excellent. There is music and neither of us can stop smiling. And then my hand touches his hand, testing him. He passes. I like the feel of his hand. It is hot in mine when I move from his hand to his thigh and he leans toward me, intent glowing in his eyes. The excitement is there, yes,  it is. But also, nervousness. What if I could really like this guy? Is he as great as he seems? I thought the last guy was great and he was un-great, the very opposite of amazing. But his teeth graze my neck and that, that feels amazing and then my shirt has disappeared and my ponytail is gone and my braids are set free. And he feels very good. Good, and also scary and real and a lot like someone who could be good for me…until he turns out to be very bad.

And I balk with excuses about working early and not really being ready for sex (who is this stranger that I’ve become?) And get out of there, backing out of the door but unable to stop kissing him because, damn, it’s been so long since I’d actually kissed someone and liked it.

And maybe a day passes and I get a text from him. Naturally, I become very excited despite the fact that I ran out on him the other day. But then disaster struck as it always does, and unlike lightning, it will strike in the same place  on several occasions. What he said was: “I reconnected with my ex… and I doubt you want this drama.”  That’s a paraphrase. But how could he possibly know what I wanted? Drama can only exist where there is conflict and I didn’t much care whether he wanted to see his ex or not. But apparently, that was not the correct response, for he required a response from me at all and had already made up his mind that he was not going to see me again. The disappointment was surreal.

Imagine that you’d had an equally fabulous first date. This man was intelligent, dark as in Black, slim, and slightly alcoholic, just how I like them. He had the cutest curly hair and it was soft to the touch. And we geeked about books. Lots and lots of books. We talked shit about people, laughed about movies, engaged in deep intellectual conversation, *shrugs*, and generally talked about the many flaws in humanity like the assholes we both secretly were.

Two months passed and I didn’t hear from him, nor did I contact him, because that’s the way things go when someone cuts you off.

And then I got another text from him. Apparently he’d gotten a puppy and sent me a photo. He invited me over to ” meet his puppy” and ” help him finish a bottle of wine”. These were all code words for sex and I knew I was getting laid that night.

And so I did. We were finally meeting for the third time. More than enough wine was drunk, at least by me so I could drown out the blatant trauma of his earlier rejection. There was more music, more laughter, and some not-so-subtle flirting before we re-experienced our first kiss.

Of course this Rabbit Trail of romantic filth led straight to the bedroom, where we finally consummated our undeniable lust. And very late at night, he cooked for us while we watched a mentally stimulating film that I suggested, before lust had its way and squelched our self-control once more.

All in all, it was a fabulous night. But when morning came, the bullshit flew in the window. He broke a hug with me to look me in the eyes with a serious expression on his face. I didn’t understand comma because nothing serious had occurred during the course of the night. But then he said, “Don’t catch feelings; someone always gets hurt.” Alright then, asshole. There went the few feelings that I had developed overnight back through the window where the bullshit had come in.

As if that wasn’t rude and insulting enough, I received this little gem a couple hours after I got home. “Not to be rude but sleeping is important to me and the snoring… you should probably get that checked out. You stopped breathing a few times last night. I think we should just be regular friends. But seriously, get that checked out. I think you have sleep apnea. That’s when you stop breathing in your sleep. Shit was scary. Lol.”

An accurate paraphrase. Of course, I already knew what sleep apnea was and told him so. Didn’t we vibed on an intellectual level?  Not only was he stomping on any ounce of feeling I might have developed for him, but now he was insulting my intelligence?!

When did snoring become a deal breaker? He never said that he disliked some aspect of my personality or that I wasn’t nasty enough in bed or anything that was actually my fault.

My conclusion to this whole disaster is that he was the asshole of an asshole and I’m 312% done. Needless to say, he and I are just regular friends now. LOL.

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Maple Summers

Believes in freedom. Helping to bring openness to a sexually repressed country. Eradicating slut-shaming. Defending women of all walks. Encouraging explorative and healthy dating and relationships.
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