An Open Letter to the Love/Hate Boyfriend

Dude -

Though I'm not given to quoting our 43rd president, what was that quote that W mangled once? "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Didn't he add an "aw, fuck it" on the end? That's the part I can't get right. "Fuck it, and fuck you." I say it, and I think it, and I never believe it.

You got me. Damn you, you got me. I haven't felt like this about someone in... 10 years? Since my first love. And what kills me is that I'm afraid I love you. It should turn my stomach to write that, but I kinda tear up instead. You, who I only spent one night with, though I remember every second of it. You, who's so charming and handsome. You, who can take my shit and give it right back. You, who has run off how many times now?

Some days I hate you. I'll scan across your number in my phone's contacts, and my blood boils. I raise my finger to delete your information... but I never do. An old conversation or picture will pop up and I want to write you letters about my hatred and loathing for you... but I don't. Because I don't hate you. And I want you around. But goddammit do I hate you and want you out of my life.

You make me act irrationally. Do you know how much that sucks? Me, who chooses brains over guts 100% of the time, who maps out her life in Excel spreadsheets, who can't hold a grudge because they just don't make good sense, and who gets panicky if she thinks she screwed something up. Did I screw you up? Not you, really, but what we could have had? I know I didn't, but I still can't figure out what happened, and it makes me crazy.

That leaves it up to you. For whatever reason, you can't handle this situation, or you can't handle me. I know I haven't screwed up because dammit, you keep coming back. You feel this, too - you've told me that much. But you just can't deal. Maybe you need to figure out how to be vulnerable enough to be a real man, or maybe you need to find spine enough to deal with your own shit before you can be with someone. I certainly don't know what it is, and I can't pretend to.

So, from now on, I will let my tiny little torch burn for you, and I will leave it at that. I won't try to stifle it, but I won't let you share it. I'll figure out how to embrace this twisted, sick, amazing feeling that I have for you, but I won't embrace you. I won't stroke your ego. I won't validate your feelings. I won't beg you to talk to me. I won't expect anything from you. But I know that you'll be back. I know that one day, you'll try again. You probably won't have gotten your act together, but if you fail that time, I'm willing to bet you'll try yet again. And one day, you'll have put yourself together and screwed your head on straight and learned how to be a man. Then, and only then, can we really do this.

Until then, though, fuck you.

-Me

The Ex Card

Here's another guest post from one of our beloved readers, Anne.

I was going through a difficult time with an ex and was trying to move on. So, when this new boy came along and asked me if I wanted to hang out, I thought, "why not?" He was cute, seemed quite funny, and he knew some of the same people as me so I felt safe meeting him. After a couple of dates, I realized that this wasn't going to go anywhere. He talked a LOT, and most of what he said was nonsensical. Basically, we didn't connect. After a few dates, I wondered why I had let myself spend so much time with him....

One given day, I was looking forward to seeing my ex, but he let me down, as usual. I ended up sad and in bed by 10:30. So, when the new boy sent a text asking if he could come round, I said why not. After all, I was shaved, moisturized within an inch of my life, and ready to go. Here's what happened next.

He started talking. I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. But he soon went into a spiel about how he had been told that he he looked happy, and it was from hanging out with me. I didn't care, and I told him so. After all, I didn't like him. What's worse, is that he thought me telling him that I wasn't interested was me being shy or demure - that I didn't believe him and needed some reassurance. Ha. He should have shut his mouth and just gotten down to the reason for his visit.

As if that weren't enough, he started talking about his mother and her three boyfriends. They were all the opposite of keepers, to put it simply. When I suggested that perhaps she was going through a breakdown, he SCREAMED at me, saying how she's been like this for 8 YEARS! And I still don't care. Neither did I care about his rough upbringing in Philly, or his several trips to prison, including a two week stint in maximum security. Excuse me?!!!

At this point, I realize that it's definite, I never want to see him again. But it's obvious that this one needs to be handled with care. Though he sends me text after text - what am I up to, can we get brunch? - I play the "ex" card, say I still feel weird, and he understands. It wasn't a lie, but it did the trick, and I'll certainly be playing that card again.

If you liked that little tale, check out Anne's blog at http://annesaneries.wordpress.com/.

Little comforts

I’ve been thinking a lot about exes lately.

And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m not interested in that. Really, can’t we please, for just a moment, admit, all together, that it’s weird, so very weird, to have exes in the universe? I don’t want to pretend that I’ve moved on—which I have, in a sense. I’m not stopped, I’m not waiting, or weeping. I’m just thinking.

Isn’t it strange that there are people in the world that you used to lay next to every night (if you’re a cohabitating type of serial monogamist, at least), who now have these lives that don’t involve you? They have wives and girlfriends and fiancés and children, and you have new loves, and you live somewhere else, and why does that have to mean you can’t still call his mother? Why does that have to mean that you’re a stalker if you want to see a photo of his new family?

One reason I’ve been thinking is because I’ve been hearing a lot from an ex who was an item so long ago I hesitate to think of him as more than a very old friend. I was visiting home not long ago, and he randomly called. He didn’t even know I was in town, but he instantly started pushing to see me. I agreed to dinner at his intense insistence—he hinted at some sort of trauma. He promised he’d be pathetic, and offered to buy.

We got in the car, and I said, “So. What was all that? What’s up with you?”

“Right,” he said. “So, my wife left me.”

Of course she did. Although there was one point in my life that I’d considered him my backup plan, my safety, in case my life didn’t go the way it expected, I gave up that plan about four years ago when he told me he was having a baby. Since then, I’d been firmly in the camp that supported his relationship, and I’d even been charmed by his wife – and while we’re being honest, I’ll just put it out there. I’m prettier than his wife.

“Oh, buddy,” I said. “That sucks.”

“For her teacher,” he said.

“Yikes,” I said.

“Who is a lady,” he said.

“Oh, fuck.”

At dinner, he told me the whole sordid story. It’s pretty fucking tragic.

He knew our server, it was why he’d picked this particular restaurant. When the server walked away, my friend confessed, “he doesn’t know yet.”

This break had been sudden, and the whole thing had only gone down about three weeks prior. My friend described to me how he understood depression for the first time in his life.

“I wake up in the morning, and I can’t think of a reason to get out of bed. And even when I can, I just can’t think of how in the world I’m going to make myself do it.”

I hugged him, and got a little drunk with him, and said what little, weak things you can say to comfort a friend whose family has just been torn apart. Mostly I listened to him. And when our server asked what the wife and kid were up to, he got the bad news. When our bill arrived, I think it was $5.

“I’ve been getting a lot of free meals lately,” he confessed.

What little things we can do to comfort a friend.

Later, after I’d left town again, he texted me, saying he wished he’d been able to spend more time with me when I was in town.
“I have a lot of friends here, but none like you,” he said.

I’m not sure what he meant by that. In a literal sense, he doesn’t have any other friends who took his virginity. In another sense, he probably doesn’t have any other friends who have considered making a life with him. I’ve thought about what our kids would look like. I’ve considered whether I would take his last name.

But he probably didn’t mean any of those things.

Leprechaun vs. Ginger

***GUEST POST***

Bringing you an important post by Lady Kay, which prompted this Dater to ponder 1) where the line between ginger and leprechaun lies, precisely, and 2) when does it become a good idea to forget all yer mama told ya and tell a guy to just get the eff out.

This is about the time I fucked a Leprechaun.

I have to preface this story by saying that I missed being slutty when I was young. I was more of a prude. I had a longish-term relationship followed by marriage, followed by a very long-term relationship. So my number is still really low at my ripe old age of... oh, never mind.

I met him online. We emailed a few times and then talked on the phone one night. It was late, I invited him over. In his profile picture he looked like a leprechaun, albeit a 6' leprechaun. I hoped he would look less leprechauny in person. He didn't. Damn.

We talked for a while, I drank some. Drank some more. He was nice enough and I was drunk enough so I asked him to stay. Things started. He started moaning. Ew. He asked to turn the light on so he could see, not me, but his dick. Maybe leprechaun dicks disappear in the dark? I don't know. He moaned some more. Too much. I did not come. And I couldn't sleep.

In the morning he asked if I was wet. Wtf? I just woke up!! He asked if I like "morning lovin' ". Um, not when you put it like that. And generally not with strangers. When he was done he asked if I came. No. No, I didn't. He muttered "sorry" and went to the bathroom. Wow. Thanks.

He stayed too long. He's very much into astrology and talked about charts and suns and moons. I was hungover and just wanted to go back to sleep and recover and forget the whole experience. I needed to forget that I fucked a leprechaun. A ginger. My mother would roll over in her grave, only she's not dead. So she'd puke if I ever told her. Which I never, ever would.

I think being slutty is best left to the young. The young and stupid.
It was a valiant effort, anyway.