“I don’t want to date you.” I said it with the flat face of a mallet.
He sat back in his chair like he had been cheated.
“Just like that. You don’t even want to get to know me?”
“Just like that. I don’t want to get to know you.”
To the guys I don’t know on facebook…
You are welcome to come say “Hi” to me if it just so happens that we run into each other in public. A gentleman introduced himself to me last night and at first it was cool. He’s been reading my blog for about a year now and he relates on a lot of levels. I am glad for that. I share what I do, in the way that I do, because I know the secrets we all hide. I share mine so you don’t have to. My friends trust me with their biggest hurts, the vulnerabilities of being human, and the choices they make behind closed doors. “F*ck…. I know right…” Privacy is valued because the truth is dangerous. I am a truth story teller, mindful of danger.
I’m single and it just so happens that I can have ANY guy I want to. I know this is true because grown-ups told me so when I was just a girl. Yes, I can have any guy I want, but I shouldn’t be pretty . Grown-ups told me that too, before and after telling me how pretty I am. I should be smart instead, because there is little attribute in a feature that fades. “You must live life with a beautiful soul, mindful.”
I am mindful of the danger in that. True beauty attracts and my spirit draws many. Last night I reeled in two gorgeous twenty seven-year olds and a stalker. I feel mean saying it like that and it should be noted that this blog is going to be a motherf*cking roast like no other because I had to be walked to my car by a bouncer, and I was so creeped out that I didn’t finish my drink. I went from feeling like I was on fire to being completely put out and that pisses me the f*ck off.
If you want to step to me you better know how to play the game because I will cut off your head and put it on a pole for public display. I am tired of this sh*t and I am telling you right now you boys better man up with some quality because your parents did a piss poor job, lazy motherf*ckers. I am a woman of quality.
When I got to the bar I intended to write about lust. Yes, I am the girl who goes into public for introverted activities and lust was to be the topic because I nearly got caught up in it enough to drive an hour out of my way to go meet a player. This guy is the kind of player that will chew you up, and spit you out, so he can come back and eat you again with a twinkle in his eye. I knew he was trouble as soon as I saw his dating profile. I added him as a favorite and I NEVER add favorites. He’s hot. 6’3, bald head, in construction, with a power tool and a pit bull. The total cliché that girls gobble up. Most girls anyway. He’s exactly the kind of guy I normally avoid because he stopped me in my tracks. “I want that.”
“Excuse me sir… you dropped your pocket.” I sent him a message.
I could post the entire narrative of our subsequent interaction, but I need only tell you that he is smooth and that I was gobbling. YUM! Things were rolling until…
“Well I already think you are adorable… AND entertaining..
hate to say this, but as of yesterday my ex and I
are going to try to work things out. I know that I didn’t give my “all”
to our situation and I feel I need to before I truly know
whether it coulda worked… As everyday passes I try and learn
something new and work on myself… and this is part of it.”
It was right about then that his ex became an acme cartoon character in my imagination ready for a Looney Tune beat down. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I didn’t hear from him for three days, but I was excited to get a message from him again even though it meant that he is the kind of guy who doesn’t really try. If he really wanted to work things out with his girlfriend he would have taken his profile down, and three days is no kind of effort. My friend Brad all but berated me when he heard that he had written again, and that I replied. ”F*ck that. Don’t write him back Amber. He already told you that he is screwing someone else. Block him.”
My lower lip was out. “I don’t want to. He’s cute…”
Brad was disgusted, “Fine, let him use you…”
“He has a size fifteen shoe Brad.” I pouted. “Are you really telling me that there is zero possibility for anything else?”
“Yes, Amber. That’s exactly what I am telling you, so if you keep talking to him don’t fool yourself. He is only interested in a hook-up and I know that’s not what you are looking for.”
Brad joined the players ex as a cartoon. I let my imagination beat the hell out of them both, but Brad got the best of it. I took him out Peter Griffin style.
I decided to meet the player anyway, to roll the dice with a gamble. Vegas is hot, and I had been longing for sunshine. Maybe Brad was wrong? The progressive part of my mind was even down with the idea that I might use him if sex is all he is good for… It would be fun, even though Brad was right. I have been “just dating” for a little over a year now. I am ready for something more substantial than dinner. The problem came with his invitation. The guy wanted me to drive an hour, well past nine in the evening, so I could stand around and watch him work on an RV with his buddy in the dark.
“Did you bump your motherf*cking head mister!!! Do I look like a groupie to you? What am I even going to do with that whole scenario make an oil and daisy duke porno with you and your friend…”
I sent him a text to the contrary after momentarily agreeing to bite.
“Just kidding. Another day, another time. Let me know when you are free. I am headed out this side of town. Night.”
I owe a world of credit to the good men in my life for ruining my sex life, while saving me to be loved. I was willing to make the drive for a guy who didn’t even care to give me his full attention because I am lustful, but they were ashamed for me. “You are better than that Amber. You should never be that girl because you don’t need to be. Do you even know how special you are?” My friend Brad cried like a b*tch so I stopped talking to him. I thought about my friend Rick, the photojournalist I had dated only once. It wasn’t even a date. I asked for help on facebook and he answered. He drove an hour out of his way to help me hang pictures in my new apartment and he bought me a brand new bed just because he could, and there was need. I never even kissed the guy and he gave me a magic day while lecturing me on my value. “You can have a life with a man that wants to take care of you Amber. He might not be rich, but he should want to make you happy. He should want to put you first. Do us nice guys a favor and please don’t waste who you are on douche bags. Choose to be with the kind of guy you deserve.” I smiled while promising not to disgrace his gift. “Why would I want to hook up with any guy that couldn’t give me perfect days in a perfect life”
I have great friends, but Bergie was the reason I didn’t go the wrong way last night. He is my eighty-four year old sweetheart. He lives below in an apartment with his cat. I saw him pull into the drive and so I ran down to ask him about my hair. I wanted to look pretty if I was going and I was worried my look was too classic. I was wearing blue jeans, converse, and white cami. He shook his head at me and said simply, “It’s late Amber.”
My face fell. “I shouldn’t go should I Bergie…”
Bergie turned, slow to my fast. “It’s none of my business,” he started while attending to mind his tongue.
“It is your business because I asked you Bergie. Your opinion matters. Do you think it sends the wrong message? If I go will I paint myself poorly.”
He turned away into a memory, bringing with him regretful longing. “I come from another time…”
It was all he needed to say. I know that time well. I long for it.
I grabbed my notebook and I drove to my favorite Irish Pub instead because there is only fear and loathing in Las Vegas. I had no desire to play. I sat to write instead never realizing that he was watching me. My page was a scribble until his voice pulled me away from it. “What are you writing?”
I looked up and into a face bronzed by youth. I knew he was younger than me, but why should I care. He was like honey wheat bread spread with butter. “I’ll pretend I wasn’t already reading,” he drizzled it with the sweetest smile, the sound from his lips buzzed like strings, acoustic nectar.
I felt myself blush through my own smile which was electric, charged by his. “Oh yeah? Then I suppose you already know then. I was writing about lust…” I was quick, coming into my own energy.
“I saw that,” his mouth was mischief, “What are you writing it for and what’s the deal with the rubber chicken?”
I laughed almost wickedly at my own fun. “He is a rooster. Here’s my card…”
