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.