Immoral, question mark?

Billy S. left me a voicemail last night. It was an uncomfortable and awkward listening experience at 11pm last night and equally as strange this morning on the bus. Five minutes of mopey-dopey apologizing and rationalizing got me thinking…

What is it with these guys?

But first, what is it with me?

Let’s look to a conversation I recently had with a coworker:

Coworker has been hounding me for a date for months. At first I was gently, and simply avoided discussing the topic. Still, he persisted and after several passive-aggressive moves on my part, I finally just broke down and considered myself to be out of his league (I didn’t specify whether I was under or over it, however.) After my incredibly obvious outburst, he subsided, and I thought the chase was over.

Wrong-o.

I was giving Coworker a ride home on Tuesday night, and as he was getting out of the car, he asked if I wanted to come in. Of course, I said no. So he hounded me – “Why, why, why, why, why?”

So I told him why:
“______,” I said, “I have absolutely no interest in you. I don’t find you attractive. I don’t find you interesting. I work with you, and that’s it. You’re a good person, but I’m not going to sleep with you. I also don’t approve of your fucking a married woman. That’s just gross.”

He replied with, “Don’t go pointing fingers if your hands are dirty,” and went on to make commentary about my unremarkable, yet unchaste sexual reputation.

Sensing that it was game on, I launched into a highly charged rant about the unimportance of sex as a meaningful device, and how I only used it as a way to make fake connections..to avoid forming real ones, and that I had no reason or desire to form the pretense of intimacy with him whatsoever.

Car door slammed, conversation over.

Now, back to what is wrong with me – nothing.I am an full possession of my faculties and reasoning, and if I choose sex as an interpersonal buffer, shouldn’t that be respectable, or at least understandable?

Obviously, it isn’t, because Billy S. is still under the impression that there is some undercurrent of love in my new found animosity. Yes, Billy buddy, I thought the world of you when we fucked in my car, but that doesn’t mean I was doing it because I loved you. I was doing it because it because physical nakedness is more convenient that emotional nudity. And now, now that you have stomped all over what little intimacy we shared…man, fuck that shit!

 

Negative.

I’ve been feeling pregnant lately.

I mean, I’m not, accoding to the plastic stick I pissed on last night, but….you know, I feel it.

For example, I never gain weight in the abdominal region – those potato chips always go straight to my thighs, but here I am, with a mysterious pooch. I also had the most bizarre dream a few nights ago – I dreamt I bought myself a little piss stick and, depending on how hard I would shake it, it would change from negative to positive.

Weird, right?

Also, I had the most god-awful cramps yesterday afternoon, which is odd because I take my birth control religiously, so I (thoeretically) should not be having the urge to menstruate at all.

So I bought a test yesterday, peed on it, and as I was waiting for it to, erm, season, I got to thinking.

Mostly, I was scratching my head and asking myself, “Who would this belong to?”

Probably Lil Horse, possibly Kubrick, and if I had been knocked up for a longer time then I’d been noticing symptoms, hell…. it could be the demon seed of Billy S. My roommate, an adorale little innocent thing, was listening to me prattle on about my uterus as I cooked dinner, and was even kind enough to provide the final baby detector reading from the bathroom counter.

I thought, aside from the bullet I dodged, that we were having a fairly normal, kind of fun evening.

She was pouting, brooding, acting like a moody fifteen year old.

What the fuck!

Obviously, I asked her what was wrong and. . . the shit hit the fan. She exploded, and through tears, lamented the fact that the guy she liked might not like her and all of her friends had boyfriends and a lot of her friends had babies…you get the idea.

I didn’t know what to say.

I certainly didn’t want to console her, to say, “There, there, you’ll find someone.” I don’t think she will, and I kind of hope she doesn’t.

The past few weeks have been a disgusting hailstorm of memories for me. After hearing from Ol’ Blue Eyes, my former resolve against him morphed into a weird and overarchingly general discontent with life and intimacy (this current state aided, of course, by the spectacular failings of Billy S, which I am not comfortable relating at this point). I had an excellent date on Sunday, and I’ve recently been introduced with a fascinating and beautiful young man, but…I just don’t give a fuck.

Actually, that’s about all I’m willing to give – a fuck. Nothing else, because, I mean, look how that’s worked out for me.

 

But back to my roommate – she was going on about relationships and in my trademark callousness, I replied, “Well, you know, it isn’t all its cracked up to be.”

She rushed to her room and slammed the door.

So, there I sat in the kitchen with my curried chicken, brooding. How can she, who has heard me crying through the walls and slamming dishes after a particularly nasty conversations with former romantic partners sit there and talk about how nice a relationship would be?!?

 I can’t decide if she’s stupid or masochistic.

I love her to death, but c’mon….

It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,.

That Awkward Moment When…

… the guy you’re sleeping with has a girlfriend.

Thursday – Lil Horse’s roommates, who happen to be friends of mine, invited me over to their place for a little shindig.  I drag my adorable roommate (who I’ll call Shortcake from now on) to their apartment, and just as we’re getting ready to pop in, I receive word:

“Hey, just so you know, Lil Horse asked ______ to be his girlfriend.”

To further add insult to injury, I’m barely in the front door for a minute when Lil Horse catches me in this giant, rib-crushing hug that lasted forever. Can we say awkward? Then, I met her.  And she…she is not cute. Or remotely intelligent, or sensible, or, from what I hear, good in bed. A crushing blow to my self-esteem, indeed. I mean, not that Lil Horse had potential beyond a fuck buddy – I mean, he sleeps with everyone. I’m just hung up on the fact that someone as shallow as he is… Deutsch pointed out to me that it’s because I’m easy, but I disagree.

Easy is the girl who will go home with you just because you bought her a drink, or just because you’re cute, or just because she’s desperate. Midwestsexcapades is the girl who only sleeps with men who can carry a conversation, and don’t drag their knuckles on the floor. The difference is standards…that and being able to say, “This is exactly what I want to be doing at this moment,” instead of “I wonder what will happen later, maybe I shouldn’t do this.”

So, I’ve been prowling, and I’ve set my sights on a nice young man, whom I will dub P.

P is such a nice guy, and I really enjoy his company. We have a lot in common, you know the drill.  Rumor has it that he’s a bit infatuated with me too, which leads me to a bit of sticky wicket. You see, I have taken a very firm stance against relationships indefinitely and P is the kind of guy who I used to seek under every scuzzy male facade.

And we just can’t have that, see?

There’s something easier about waking up to someone who doesn’t care how you got there, or how you’ll make it home. When your only concern is, “Did you come?” you lose the painful intricacies of feelings and future. If I’m only with you on select weekdays and some weekends, you cannot even pretend you have any control over me. If I am just “that girl,” and I remind myself of that, I will not form unhealthy attachments to men who look pretty, but shatter like sugar if I get too close! With relationships comes love, and with “love” comes an emotional beating.

Besides, I have a cat. There’s no room for another mammal in my bed.

Playing Hard to Get: A Historical Context.

If I say “courtly love,” what comes to your mind? Knights and ladies? discreet conversations in the shadowy passages of some great castle? handkerchiefs tied to lances?

How about the advice your mother/sister/best friend/cool aunt gave you about playing hard to get?

The notion of “courtly love” is relatively new on the timeline of human emotion. The term was first used by Gaston Paris in the late 1800’s.

In the ages of lords, ladies, knights and white steeds, adultery was punishable, at the very least, by public disgrace (worst case scenario, they killed you. Shit.) Unfortunately, arranged marriages were still all the rage, so many exuberant, lively young women found themselves bound to boorish creeps for all eternity. They craved love, and affection, often finding it in the company of the young knights wandering the castle halls. Most women, unwilling to die for a quickie, settled for undying, idolistic love, the kind that never has a happy ending. The men with whom they’d fallen in love (and who’d possibly fallen in love with them) accepted her unavailability, and instead expressed their burning, pure love through noble deeds and conquests, all in the lady’s name.

Or you know, fuck that noble shit. Those knights in shining armor probably just wanted a piece of ass. But, because of social norms and zealous religious faith, good sex came at a price. The classy, well-maintained broads came at a high price – living at her beck and call until she either decided to put out in gratitude, or moved on to the next nubile piece of meat. If you were a knight, you’d probably die in battle soon enough, so casting the dice wasn’t much of a stretch.

It’s not all misogynist theory however; the ladies were plenty guilty of some damn fine manipulation, too.

Think about it: if you are a bored lady of the estate, married to some disgusting, fat jerkoff who’s all slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am,  you need some distraction. So, what better distraction than a handsome man who is willing to give his all for your non-sexual pleasure!?! Flattery, and I don’t care how much shit I catch for this, is effective and just plain nice. If all I had to do was dangle my pussy just out of reach for a little bit of conversation and pretty words…wait a hot minute!

See! See…..playing hard to get has some merit! This playa’s game has some historical context!

Of this little game that men and women seemingly love to play, Slavoj Zizek writes:

                “…our ‘official’ desire is that we want to sleep with the Lady; whereas in truth, there is nothing we fear more than a Lady who might generously yield to this wish of ours – what we truly expect and want from the Lady is simply yet another ordeal, yet one more postponement”

Now, girls, if your goal is feel pretty, and valuable and desirable to mankind in a (sort of disgustingly) shallow way, by all means, dangle that pussy just out of arm’s reach. I see the historical, and I suppose modern, value in such games,but generally, they aren’t for me. If I wake up one morning, and decide that I need it, I’m gonna hunt it down. (And please, do not call me out on the “visible, but not available” tactic I’m using with Lil’ Horse…. he’s good in bed and I’d like to continue receiving his services. Gotta keep him coming if he’s going to keep you coming, amirite!?!)

So all of that “Wait two days before calling” nonsense?

I say use at your own discretion!

It’s Been A Long Time Comin’ Since I’ve Seen Your Face

I though I was done embarking on sexcapades.

… I was wrong.

How long has it been anyways? Months? Wow. Let’s play a little game of catch-up.

Since the last time we, uh, spoke, dear readers, Billy S. and I made the leap of commitment and coupleness – then immediately leaped right back. You see, Billy is what I’d like to call “emotionally retarded.” He’s a pre-teen frat boy trapped in a 33-year-old man’s body. You’d like an example? Well, one of his reasons for our separation was, “I need to focus on school Bunny. You distract me.”

I distract him. Readers, let me tell you – Billy S. started college the year before I began…wait for it…kindergarten. AND I have seen this man’s academic record. He’s been “distracted” for years. Seventy-five…75% of the classes he’s taken since 1996 are recorded F’s and W’s…and he thinks I’m the problem? Get real.

Since then, Billy S. had been serving as my safety net. Well, until recently. He started getting weird, so I nipped that in the bud. Besides – he’s 33 and living with his parents, has no job, has no car. Eeeeeyyyyyeeee can do better, amirite?

Oh, I heard from OBE recently.

Six plus months after just disappearing, he calls me and  acts like nothing happened. “I was thinking of you”. Yeah, and I think of you every day, and how you put me through the wringer, then just POOF! fell off the face of the earth, but I don’t call you, and pretend that I’m not still trying to lick the salt from the wounds!!!!  Then, when I refuse to ignore seven years of repetive bullshit for the sake of some easygoing conversation, he tells me I’m complicating things.  

Fuck that shit. Things happened, and they will not happen again. End of story.

But, back to my ohm, and the sexcapades  –

Let me tell you about Lil’ Horse. A few odd Thursdays ago, I stumbled into a party. Lo and behold, there sat one of the best looking men in the state of _ _! Well dressed, handsome, polite – probably gay. Or, so I though until he picked me up and carried me to his car. He whisked me away like a way-too-drunk-down-to-fuck Cinderella. He is a beautiful man, with a nibbling fetish. (He also thinks I give great head, but that’s another post altogether.) Fun was had by all, and now I’d like to consider Lil’ Horse a stellar addition to my repertoire. He does pose a challenge however – Lil’ Horse is an infamous ladies man. His best friend told me  not to trust him, and whenever I casually mention that I know him, people react with, “Oh, my god, he sleeps with everyone.” Yeah, and I don’t?

I say: Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

But I haven’t gotten any from him in a week or so. I did run into him at the bar last night (thank God my boobs looked good), but I didn’t go home with him. Believe me you, I wanted to, but in this particular situation, remaining visible is more important than remaining available. It’s a battle for the upper hand!

Instead….I utilized the booty call.

Like I said, hate the game.

I’ll call last night’s entertainment…Kubrick. We’ve been pals for a few months, but during that time, he was deeply embroiled in a relationship with a friend of mine. Anyways, though circumstances outside my control, the happy couple parted ways. My condolences and all that shit, but Carpe Diem, bitches.

Kubrick wasn’t bad. I’ve gotta give him props. For someone who’s been in the icebox for over a year, he managed to retain at least some of his prowess. That being said, I’m still going to encourage some regular practice…with me, of course. (Again, with the game.) He needs to work on his “What to say post-coitus” script – patting my belly and making an impregnation comment killed my lady boner for the evening, possibly the rest of the week.

You know, I like relationships, I do. However, no relationship is better than a toxic relationship. I’m not stressing it. After the recent clusterfuck relationshits I’ve had, it’s pretty easy to swear up and down that I will only have sex forever. Besides,  I have my academics, my job, my family, my cat and my art – I’m too busy pursuing excellence to be somone’s emotional punching bag/arm candy.

However, I have needs…and just enough time to pursue a few (dozen?) sexcapades.

Hey, You!

Yes, you, Ol’ Blue Eyes.

I’m writing a book about you.

Well, another book to be more precise, but this time, I have money,

 an editing team,

and tons of old correspondance.

Rejection Doughnuts

I’ve never really had a weight problem – I was chubby in high school, but during my freshman year of college, I dropped 10lbs. The follwing summer, I lost 20. My sophomore year, I held steady and now, I’m toying with an on-and-off five pounds. I eat when I want, when I want (as long as my retail hell/single woman/cat lady budget will allow it.) I consider myself a foodie… I appreciate what I toss down my gullet.

So imagine my surprise and shame when I scarfed half a package of doughnuts in the Wal-Mart parking lot this morning.

Oh, and two Little Debbie cakes on the drive home.

 

 

I had almost forgotten about my gastrointestinal transgression when Deutsch called, and invited me to lunch. I tried to tell him I wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t buying it –  after all, I NEVER eat breakfast, and he knows this. He kept prying, and wanted to know what was really going on, probably expecting me to blame a hangover or something.

I told him I had overindulged in processed pastry goodness in an emotional frenzy.

I had fallen victim to rejection doughnuts.

Last night, I kept dreaming about Ol’ Blue Eyes and Billy S. I would wake up, shake it off, and go back to sleep….AND IT WOULD HAPPEN AGAIN! I tell you, at 3am, with your favorite exes feeling thisclose, you feel like this guy:

Finally, after 8 hours of so of torture, I got up and per the usual, checked my email only to find 3 rejection emails: 2 from potential employers and one from a publishing company.

So, I did what I always do – drove to Wal-Mart to buy a few basics: kitty litter, Febreze, water filters. I left with food, and lots of it.

I was more emotional than I thought because before my tires had moved an inch, I was covered in crumbs.

Afterwards, I felt satisfied and guilty.

My god, it’s like SEX!

Not So Bad

I’ve been toying with the idea of changing the name of this blog to “Confirmed Bachelorettehood.”

No, not really, but it would be incredibly accurate.

After the latest Billy S. drama, I had a sit down with some very important people in my life – mom, dad, and my therapist. The four of us decided that my taking a break from relationships (perhaps indefinitely) was a good idea. After all, it is only in the throes of a relationship, or an almost relationship, or the post-relationship that I begin a boring downward spiral of excessive substances, self-loathing and crying jags.

Billy S, at last blog notice, had dumped me, citing our similarities as the kiss of death to any relationship we’d dare to attempt.

So, what did I do? I got drunk, and started filling out job applications, writing furiously and meeting new people. It was most good.

Then, he tried to make up for it. After spending three weeks hardly talking and not seeing each other at all, we had a chilly little dinner, for the sake of returning borrowed books. The evening ended with a hug, and his quiet, mousy voice begging me to just be patient.

All of this was followed by his telling me how stupid twentysomethings are, and that I was overconfident and weak.

So, I haven’t spoken to him in what feels like ages, and I feel pretty good. I’ll be heading back to school pretty soon (after getting all four wisdom teeth removed, uff da!) I’ve been actively searching for a new job outside of retail hell, and reading like crazy.

On the plus side, Deutsch is back, so if I do find myself seeking some midnight loving, he will always answer the phone.

What a win-win-win situation!

I Am Drunk

Billy S. finished us off, so now, I am on my parent’s living room floor sipping champagne and filling out job applications.

Fuck you man, I have better things to do.

From Me, To You

“I’m falling in love with you. Stop sending me poetry.”

“You love me?”

“I think I do. I did. Stop sending me poetry.”