That Time I “Almost” Got Laid
A follow-up to 365 Days
Just to recap, I’m still not dating. This also means I’m not “talking”, not texting, and most certainly not fucking. The worst part? I actually tried.
After I wrote 365 Days, I took a moment to reflect. I had ended 2022 totally single. I was supposed to be healing myself, working on my feelings, and making myself an overall better person. But was I actually better? The jury was still out. So I did the I Just Want to Know challenge and asked all of you guys what you thought about closure. Is it real? Do we need it? Most importantly, should I contact all my exes like a fucking psycho and have them fill out a 15 point questionnaire? You all, hands down, agreed that was a bad idea. So, obviously, I did it anyway. If you missed it, you can find the results here. In short, one ex answered in a surprising amount of honesty and accountability. One ex acted like he never received it, didn’t know anything about it, and if you’d set him on fire, still wouldn’t have admitted that the fucking sky was blue. The other I had to begrudgingly cut out of the experiment altogether because he probably couldn’t read it in whole, and I wasn’t about to make flashcards for him.
…he probably couldn’t read it in whole, and I wasn’t about to make flashcards for him.
With all this healing and newfound knowledge under my belt, I decided to try and date, again (I’m rolling my eyes in case you can’t tell). I’ve talked at length about how I don’t date people from work: people I work with, who work for the company, or people I meet at my place of employment. But, as I hadn’t had a brick and mortar store in about six months, I was willing to bend the rules if the opportunity presented itself. In the meantime, I reactivated my profile on one dating site, refreshed my pics, and got to swiping. This is what I got.
Bachelor #1
Never panned out. It didn’t translate to text and both parties lost interest.
Bachelor #2
This guy was the exact opposite. We were* friends on Facebook, although as a bartender in Vegas, it’s safe to say I don’t know most of the people I’m Facebook friends with. Regardless, he reached out saying he’d seen my profile and was interested. The message was short and sweet, nothing creepy to see here, and the initiative had me intrigued. Some texts were exchanged, but it quickly became apparent he was fucking nuts. Obsessed with his “bitch” ex-wife and totally absorbed with his sneaker fetish social media feed, the biggest red flag was how obsessed he was with me. I decided to be honest and let him know I just wasn’t feeling it, and we could remain friends (on Facebook, with no further contact, just like we already had been). He texted the next day (mmm, doesn’t feel like no contact). He then replied to every single story I posted as if I was talking directly to him. He kept referring to himself as a good guy and begging for another chance. But the coupe-de-grace was a monumental text out of the clear blue sky inviting me to sit down (face to face) with him so he could give me some juicy stories for my blog (that’s right, this blog). He said great things were happening in his life and he wanted to pay it forward as part of God’s plan. I had already basically told this man to fuck off. I allowed him the privilege of continuing to cyber stalk me as a pleasantry because I didn’t want to have to block him. But after talking to me in the most condescending of manners, as if he was going to do me and my “little” blog a favor, by sharing all his stories about the crazy women he’d met online?! Mother fucker, you are the crazy bitch online. BLOCK. DELETE.
Bachelor #3
Made it all the way to a date! Three in fact! He found my blog, read it, and still wanted to meet. This meant he already knew I was crazy. Win win. On our first date he showed up in the same outfit as one of his pics, including an insulated vest, but I said nothing. He was quiet and conservative and while I could tell he wasn’t my type, I wanted to give him a chance. Date two was lackluster at best and although I’d penned an entire blog about why it’s ok to fuck on the first date, I was puzzled when our evening ended with an awkward hug. Date three was a disaster. We met for dinner and a painting class. I made every effort, even steaming the wrinkles out of my dress and wearing matching bra and undies. In return he showed up late, unshowered from a bike ride, in the exact same outfit as date one. While I was certain that he wasn’t homeless, I couldn’t quite understand why he didn’t have any other clothes. Perhaps a collared shirt or pants that didn’t smell of ball sweat. And, again, with the puffy fucking vest, so I just had to ask, to which he told me all about the importance of keeping your core warm. If you’re hiking Mt. Everest, sure, but I must have missed that key Las Vegas survival tactic. Over the next 40 minutes, he managed to call me hoity-toity (meaning frivolous, flighty, marked by an air of assumed importance), segregate my food options to just the happy hour menu, and inform me that he’d taken another girl on this same date recently, of which she got drunk, embarrassed him, and they never went out again. Guess what? Twinsies! By the time he decided to kiss me goodnight, I’d been trying to escape for almost an hour. Weeks later he, too, would send a letter length message of which I wouldn’t fully read. BLOCK. DELETE.
Fuckboys all around the world should be tearing up right now.
I quit, again. Or thought I’d quit until just the other day when the stars aligned and an attractive young gentlemen asked me how I felt about younger men. 12 years my junior to be exact. He was a customer and while a rule is a rule, it’s been hard in these streets. Was it kismet? No. Was he going to be my next great love? Definitely not. Was he going to change the way I felt about men and turn this bitter heart sweet again? Bahahahahaha, not a fucking chance. What he was was attractive, available, and interested. And for 24 whole hours I had hope. Hope that I would see an erect penis again before I die, that I would again be blinded by the salty drip of sweat from someone else’s brow, that I would, just once more, orgasm without the assistance of technology. And, just to make sure we were both on the same page, I told him to send me some dick pics so I know its real. To my great surprise and even greater inflated ego, he read my blog on dick-picing do’s and don’ts, and oh what a collection of pictures he did send. There was the standard, the angle, the action video, and the dick/face combo. I was flabbergasted, floored, stunned. I sent him my coordinates and told him to rush over after work. Having secured my Door Dick appointment, I laid down to catch a few zzz’s before the kid showed up. But to my chagrin, show up he did not. Text me he did not. And for the first time in the history of unattached hook-ups, a man passed on a piece of potential pussy and ghosted BEFORE he got the goods. Fuckboys all around the world should be tearing up right now. I’d like to think that he crashed his car speeding to my house and subsequently died, or suffered a head wound and lost all memory of me, but I think its more likely a scenario like this: his pregnant girlfriend told him to bring his ass home and he was too chickenshit to admit he was a lying, cheating bastard. Either way, I’m going to light a candle tonight in memoriam of that time I almost got laid.