“Is she hot now? Because she’s definitely emotionally unavailable?” A very beautiful and very real human woman said that after reading the first round of Ways To Leave Your Lover, and it’s very (very) good to know that I’m not the only one for whom unfulfillment is a kink.
The more you hate me, the better sex with me will be–and that, my friends, is my Gold Star Guarantee.
Now, I’ve confessed already that I have a habit of leaving women places. I’m not going to apologize for that; and even if I did, no one would believe me. But it’s important to note that I always make this decision within the first 48 hours. It’s like a return policy on a pair of joggers.
If I don’t want you, I’ll return you (oops).
I like to think of this as a positive ideology to live by. It eliminates the guessing game. If I’m spending my time with you, that’s exactly where I want to be. I will never entertain you for longer than I want to. You will always know that–whether I’m on a date, on the phone, or inside of you (too much?)–that’s exactly where I want to be.
So, enjoy the next series of my dating confessionals (while they are all true, I promise I’m not a terrible person. I can provide character witnesses). And, if like the girl I mentioned a minute ago, you’re weirdly into the idea – I’ll happily buy you a drink.
I’ll Have The Side Salad
There’s just something about Macaroni Grill. No matter how you’re dressed, you’re always overdressed.
This bitch, was a fucking racist. The kind that clutches her purse whenever a person of color walks by. The kind that thinks having a black friend absolves your entire race from years of systematic oppression. The kind that asked our fucking waitress if she could feel how real her hair was.
If that was how she behaved before we ordered anything, I had no desire to stick around and see what would happen after a couple glasses of wine.
So, I pulled the classic “I’m going to use the restroom, be right back” line and quickly found the exit.
It’s important to note that I don’t like ghosting the waiters or bartenders. I always carry cash with me, and always leave plenty on the table. Odds are, they’re dealing with the fallout of the mess I’ve created, and they at least deserve to be paid appropriately for their time and dedication to my fuckery (see, not a total asshole).
I went down the road a little before calling a Lyft. To my surprise, moments later, MY DATE rounded the corner and made dead eye contact with me.
Was she chasing me down the street? Was she about to tell me off or try and convince me that she isn’t a racist piece of trash?
It didn’t matter. Before I could say anything, my Lyft pulled up. In what felt like a moment pulled straight from my nightmares, she started walking toward the same ride that I was.
You guys, we called the same Lyft share, I shit you not.
Not only did she get in the backseat NEXT TO ME, but she confirmed with the driver that she was, IN FACT, the other rider he was supposed to pick up.
I’m sorry. Was SHE attempting to leave ME? The a u d a c i t y.
I sure as all fuck wasn’t going to be the one brave enough to break the silence. But I definitely held my own when she finally turned to me and said, “okay what the fuck is happening?”
I took a beat, but finally told her that if she didn’t want someone to leave in the middle of a date, maybe don’t be a fucking racist.
“If you don’t want someone to leave you in the middle of a date, don’t wear a backwards hat at the dinner table.”
A real Scarlett O’Hara, y’all. I don’t know if she realized she was at a chain restaurant in a suburban mall, and not at a dining hall in antebellum Louisiana. But my backwards hat only touches my hair, not the waitress’ hair too, so fuck her.
I don’t think I’ve called a Shared Ride since then. Always splurge for the regular ride. Always.
The Ride Home Was Awful
For me, college was full of road trips. One of my favorites was a trip that I took to Rock Island National Park during my senior year. I’d been several times before, but I brought a girl I was seeing along for this particular trip.
We were all far too liquored up for our own good, and of course we thought leaping from a cliff around the water was a good idea.
I was next in line to make the jump when this chick, for some fucking reason decided that 40 feet above the Earth was the right moment to ask me “where I was at” in our “relationship” (it wasn’t a relationship).
“I don’t know, Bec. I just feel like meeting your friends is the next step and you won’t —“
She’s definitely right. I don’t introduce anyone to my best friend until they pass the three-month rule. We were barely into my 48-hour mandate. She was nowhere close to receiving that honor.
“You haven’t let me meet them, and I don’t understand what that meeeaaaannnnsss”
Please note that the exaggeration of that last word is to pay homage to the fact that it was the last thing I heard before I turned around and leapt into the rushing rivers below.
Should I have had that conversation at the top of the cliff? Maybe. But did I make my point by refusing to engage and jumping to my death? Yup.
A few years ago, while on a visit home during the summer, I fooled around with this girl in a prayer room at the church I grew up attending. It wasn’t very good, but the kink of the matter was that it was a fucking church, and the Lord was fucking watching, and I’m a damn exhibitionist at heart.
I was raised a Church of Christ kid. Not only did I memorize the books of the Bible for sport, I can also tell you the quickest way in and out of that building like I’m some sort of star in a mediocre action movie (looking at you Spiderman).
So, when I heard a crowd coming while I was fingers deep in this girl, my spidey senses clicked in and I bolted. In one fell swoop, I pried her hand off of the top of my head (ah, hair pulling), cracked the door so I could gauge how much time I had, and turned back to offer a slight apologetic “I’m sorry I’m leaving you with your pants down” head nod before I slipped out the back.
It could have been any number of things that provoked me but my money is for sure on the guilt and fear and shame of this entire group of bible thumpers suddenly finding out that I’m a raging homo.
I might be an exhibitionist. But I’m definitely not about to punch my ticket to hell this early on.
In a weird way, these stories have created a sense of mistrust that I now have with myself so I absolutely understand if you’re wary of me too. But for the record, ask anyone that knows me, they’ll tell you I’m actually a big ball of fluff and love.