'Fare Thee Well', Phantom of the Opera

Apparently people are reading my blog.

I woke up this morning and one of my cousins I never talk to commented on my link for my latest blog post just to say he loves me. 

It fucking made my day. 

I'm wondering if someone else stumbled across my blog as well. 

Because for not contacting me for two weeks it certainly seemed quite the coincidence for him to suddenly text me the day I posted 'Say Something, Bitch.'

The Bitch, in question did in fact speak. 

To say Adieu. 

Or rather-

Fare Thee Well.

I actually looked that expression up. 

Yes. 

I googled 'Fare Thee Well.'

(Actually, I googled FAIR Thee Well because I thought he misspelled it. He had not. I kind of hate it when people are more literate than I am. And it's also really fucking sexy. Damn him.)

The funny thing about that expression, and yes, I knew what the fuck it means but I think I wanted context of its true definition since my Phantom of the Opera was a bit of a poet. 

(A musician. Who disappears. Whose face is broken. Who loves from afar. A fucking brilliant nickname. Thank you for the suggestion, Puppet.)

If you look up Fare Thee Well (Google corrected my spelling mistake. Shut up.)

It is not only a goodbye, it also means "to perfection; thoroughly."

Which seemed bloody brilliant to use as a Perfect Goodbye. 

He also began and ended his farewell paragraph with my name. 

And the most indeterminate sentence even rhymed. 

Love isn't dead, but my chivalry has been writhing in its death bed.

He is a fucking poet. 

He also waited two weeks to send me any of his poetry.

Which would be well worth the long tedious hours should the poetry be delivered by horseback on a scroll. 

But since we all have our handy dandy apple smart devices of crack there's really no reason his thumbs couldn't punch out a rhyming couplet.

He just wanted to fucking withhold. 

Sex appeal: -3000

BUT-

But. 

I  D I D  finally hear from him. 

And while it wasn't what I wanted to hear, hearing it has actually made me feel leaps and bounds better. 

I think men think we WANT to pine for them. 

Or maybe they fear the rage they will receive upon the delivery of An End.

But my God, Truth is intoxicatingly wonderful. 

I get off on it. 

That's what always baffles me when people seem offended by my direct truthfulness. 

I'll say what I think or ask for what I want and men--I'm sorry, BOYS--will be all, Woah.

Too much.

You're TOO much.

I went on a date once just because I was pissed off at the guy I'd started seeing and I was in such a foul mood I actually said to the date within the first five minutes of sitting down, "I don't give a fuck if you like me or not."

And the motherfucker thought that was so hot!

If only I'd dated him instead of the idiot I made up with. 

He was probably one of the 37 men in existence who could handle me. 

C'est la vie. 

I'd love to know what my life would be like if I'd made little decisions like that differently. 

Like The Phantom of the Opera?

I met 9 months ago on a different date. 

I'd love to know what would have happened between us if I'd told him I thought he was a doll then instead of two months ago days before his life imploded into what he will probably fondly look back on as one of the worst years of his life. 

One day they will turn those choose your own ending books into a time traveling reality. 

And I can go back and kiss the men I wish I would have and smack the boys I wish I hadn't. 

The Phantom felt reminiscent of two tragic relationships of my past--Mr. Volcano and Prince Charming. 

Because all three, repeatedly said Goodbye but always ended up finding their way back to me, only to say goodbye again. 

They all seemed like somewhat shy men and yet hidden within that feigned introvert was a severe sadistic dom who wanted to exert his control over our stories ending. 

Apparently I am a masochistic sub who is into that otherwise why the fuck would it keep happening?

Choose your own ending:

How bout the one that tortures you and leaves you feeling wildly unsatisfied.  

Good one, Reese.

It's disappointing when you feel the unoriginality of your own life. 

I want something different, dammit. 

Some super tatted up monster bearded hottie knows my climbing buddy and I was like, "Dude. Introduce me."

'Him?' He asked surprised. 

Yes fucking him. 

He is nothing like the men I date. 

But tall, lanky, artistic, brooding, withholding, unavailable 6'4" men refuse to FUCK ME. 

So maybe this hipster of Portlandia will.

Bring on the fucks. 

I swear to God I'm done waiting for the man I love to get his shit together before he can love me back. 

Leave me the fuck alone if you're a fucking mess in the first place. 

Don't tell me you've been dreaming about me. 

I give no fucks for your blatant fawning. 

SHOW ME.

Or leave me in the arms of another. 

Huzzah.

Say Something, Bitch

Men who don't communicate should be castrated.

S L O W L Y.

I have zero patience for withholders.

You have a mouth. 

USE IT.

If you've forgotten how to speak just pretend your face is between my legs. 

You manage to use your mouth just fine down there. 

Not communicating is a way of withholding. 

Which is a super manipulative way for men to feel in control when--Oh gee, I don't know--most of the shit in their lives they have no control over. 

But isn't it grand to feel in control over the buxom redhead who thinks she likes you?

Fuck off. 

And it's not just ex lover Mangina's who don't communicate. 

ALL MEN run the potential risk of forgetting how to use their tongues. 

One of my closest friends is Sheldon.

And my dear friend Sheldon has found his Amy Farrah Fowler.

(If you haven't seen 'Big Bang Theory' then I really don't know how we can be friends.)

Amy, however, is not someone Sheldon met at a comic book convention in Portlandia.

No, Sheldon and Amy met on Okstupid.

And she lived in Italy.
Leave it to Sheldon to need to search another country to find a girl suitable to date.
They found each other doing a word search for Physics.
It was nerd heaven.

So understandably, when she came for an extended visit I wanted to meet her.

Years ago I was head over heels in love with Sheldon.
And I was dying of curiosity over this new nerdtastic love of his life.

Only to my frown face, he wasn't going to let me meet her.
"It's up to her who she does or doesn't want to meet."

Wha-Bu-I---HOW RUDE!
Do you know who I am??

My feelings were soon hurt.
I've known Sheldon nearly four years now and I'm his closest friend.
How could he not want me to meet his girlfriend?
Or rather, how could he not want his girlfriend to know ME??
HeLLoOoOO!

I was so upset I told him he was a big fat meanie face and we didn't see each other the whole time she was here.
I went climbing with Sheldon this week and he told me about her visit.
He introduced her to his parents and she apparently was really nervous about it.
Like, super anxiety ridden stressed.
It was Sheldon's Mother's birthday so Amy wanted to get her a birthday card.

"It took her no less than two hours for her to choose a card," he said. "We had to go to so many places. And then she didn't know what to write in the card. She googled traditional American birthday greetings."

And as he continued to share with me her nervousness and how meeting the family ended up going fine, I stopped feeling hurt that I didn't get to meet her.
Because if she was the type of person to have anxiety over a happy birthday card then meeting me would have been even more stressful.
And I went from wanting to punch Sheldon in the balls to being content hearing his stories.

Because he COMMUNICATED. 

Because I found out the TRUTH of the circumstances instead of being left to my imagination. 

What a fucking concept. 

The thing most men don't understand is that we really are simple creatures. 

We goddesses of femininity. 

We don't need the moon. 

We just need to know what the fuck is going on. 

And then we are more understanding than they know 

But the silence?

The withholding incurs my wrath. 

And then I want nothing more to do with you. 

EVER.

Au revoir.

The Disappearing Boy

I heard from The Best First Date Ever.

For those of you just tuning in, things ended abruptly over an arbitrary misunderstanding (SEE Do You or Do You Not Want to Fuck Me).

So that was The End to our Happily Ever After. 

I crawled under a weeping Out of Towner at a seedy motel to get over it. 

(Which prompted me to then choose my vibrator over any date for the next several weeks.) 

But apparently our tragic love story wasn't over because a week after dramatically ending things, I heard from him. 

He'd been attacked and was being hospitalized.

Traumatic brain injury. 

Dental reconstructive surgery. 

Part of his tongue was missing. 

Holy Fucking Shit. 

I still don't know how or what happened. 

All I know is that he was in bad shape and understandably didn't want any visitors. 

It didn't change anything between us but I guess he wanted me to know what had happened. 

Again I didn't hear from him for several weeks and wondered if I ever would. 

Cut to a week ago. 

And he texts me and then calls me. 

And he wants to SEE me.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" He asks. 

It's nearly midnight and I feel like I must be dreaming because I haven't seen him in a month (longer?) and suddenly out of the blue he wants to see me. 

He apologizes for being distant and the way he talks to me, the tone, the affection he expresses reminds me of that first week we started dating. 

It's all going to be ok, I think to myself. 

He's finally letting me in. 

But of course I don't end up seeing him the next day. 

My life is not a romantic comedy. 

My life is a modern day tragedy. 

He does at least call and let me know that he ended up at the hospital again and was there most of the day. 

"I guess I'm not ready to be a human after all," he tells me. 

And that's totally ok because at least we're talking to each other again and if I can't see him for awhile I understand. 

We know we care about each other and that's what matters. 

Right?

Except then I don't hear from him. 

At all. 

AGAIN. 

Nine days and counting. 

I did, however, get an emoticon from him a few days ago because I sent a text that was basically like I'm worried you're still alive could you please at least send me an emoticon.

So he sent me an emoticon. 

But that was it.

I have no idea what's going on.

I don't know anything. 

I've expressed concern, and worry, I've enquired as to why he talked to me a week ago but now wasn't communicating at all. 

But nothing. 

Not one sentence. 

And part of me doesn't even believe that phone conversation actually happened. 

Because how can a man say he just wants to make you happy and then lay there reading snap chat messages and refuse to send one fucking text my way?

It's been this let me in push me away let me in cut me out merry go round from hell dance and I can't fucking take it anymore. 

Because I deserve a fucking explanation.

Hell I deserve communication. 

My one night stand weeping motel sex communicated more with me after our sad sex than him. 

That's fucked up.  

I was so happy just hearing from him, just knowing he was alive and he didn't think badly of me. 

And that was enough. 

I could have been content with that. 

But no.

He had to call. 

He had to ask to see me. 

He led me to believe I mattered enough to be let in to his world. 

"You can come over and we can watch a movie and cuddle," he'd said.

And relationships really are as simple as that. 

All we need is a little time together, a hug, the chance to be there for each other when we're hurting. 

But I never saw him. 

There was no hug. No cuddle. 

There wasn't even a fucking text. 

I'm so hurt and angry and confused. 

And how can I not take it personally when a man wants to see me and then suddenly won't bother to contact me at all?

His hands work and he has his phone. 

He is choosing of his own free will to ignore me. 

And ignoring me is like, the greatest offense in the history of ever. 

He might as well write FUCK YOU RESA and have flyers made and make vines about it because that's what blowing me off feels like. 

My heart is drained of all sympathy and I just want to erase his number and forget everything that's ever happened. 

But you know he'll contact me again. 

Right when I'm on the verge of forgetting what he looked like. 

Because men are assholes like that. 

If it wasn't for their dicks I wouldn't even talk to them.

My Vagina's too Energetic to be Poly

I think my vagina is toxic. 

Whenever anyone gets near it or even THINKS about getting near it they always end up needing to then get as far away from it as possible. 

Like, fly to Sitka to meditate with the polar bears far away. 

(Ok, that only happened ONCE, it's not like it's a "pattern" or anything. *Laughs uncomfortably.*)

But seriously, for as much as I love sex you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult to find someone that, oh, I don't know, WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH ME!!!

Yes. 

I'm shouting. 

This "problem" is annoying as fuck. 

Fuck.

That which I'm not doing. 

SEE ALSO To not give any.

And the way it danced out of my ex lovers mouth as a sign of sheer delight.

FUCK.

I met this guy. 

"Met"- I TINDERED this guy (I'm telling you, Tinder is the ambassador of my orgasms) and he was super hot & super into me. 

There was just one thing:

He was poly. 

Correction "non monogamous."

"Why don't you just say you're poly?" I'd asked him. 

'Because anyone I've met who says they're poly I don't like.' 

Um. Ok. 

I don't understand his semantic hang ups but whatever. He looks hot with his shirt off so I'm just gonna shut up about it.

So. 

Non-monogamous. 

That means he sleeps with more than one person. 

I can be open minded to that. 

I bet he's really good in bed!

The part that was the strangest for me to wrap my curly head around, though, was that he had a primary partner, a live in girlfriend, but their relationship was open and they both slept with other women. 

My first thought as he explained all this to me was, 'Am I gonna be the star in a threesome?!' Yes. STAR. Because if I ever do try a threesome it is only if I'm the guest being brought into another couples bed. I'm way too competitive to share my boyfriend with some other broad. I'd be all, eyes on the prize, mother fucker! I'm the fucking star of this show!

SEE Diva Complex.

But hey, with a rack like mine, I'm entitled.

So Poly Big Penis (Sheldon named him, I couldn't think of a better nickname) told me he even wanted me to MEET his girlfriend eventually. 

Wow. 

I'm not only gonna get with a guy whose poly, we're all gonna meet each other like real live grownups and probably sip wine and discuss pseudo intellectual things. 

Sooo Portlandia.

So Timing dances her fickle dance, as she's wont to do, and we never end up actually hooking up. 

I mean, "hooking up."

Wink. Wink.

Fucking.

I mean fucking.

The only thing we end up doing together is climbing. 

And that's when I realize, as we actually spend time together, and the conversations aren't just about the possibility of getting naked--

He kind of has the personality of a box of hair. 

I'll admit I didn't see it before. 

When a man is beautiful you don't really pay attention to much else. 

But trying to have a dialogue with him felt like work. 

Like I'm on a bad first date willing it to end. 

I called him out on it (because that's the kind of dame I am) and told him I was getting a weird vibe from him. 

He said he thought we were "just on different energy waves."

Which is funny because when he was trying to seduce me in the beginning he said I was "an amazing beautiful woman full of energy and life" and oh, my "sense of humor!"

I should mention that between his intentions to seduce me and then it not happening his primary and he decided to focus exclusively on each other for awhile so he wouldn't be getting naked with me anytime soon. 

Curious enough, as soon as being naked was no longer an option, my "energy" didn't mesh with his. 

Uh huh. 

Right. 

Men never just say what they think you want to hear to get you to take your clothes off. 

No.

Never. 

They TOTALLY mean all the abundance of flattery and there is NEVER an agenda. 

At all.

EVER.

What a twat.

I felt rejected by someone I'd already lost interest in which is the worst because my ego was like, wounded. 

It needed to listen to Fiona Apple and take black & white selfies and mourn the loss of the possibly ok sex it could have been validated by.

My ego is an angsty teenage girl.

I'd also lost a climbing buddy, which sucked because it is really hard to top rope yourself and the other climbers give you really funny looks.

In hind sight, I should have been concerned when the man sent me EIGHT DICK SELFIES!!

I finally was like, uh, yeah, hi, I'm not into that at all, I've actually deleted all of them, so if you wouldn't mind stopping with the penis promotion. I'm kinda not feeling it. 

And literally, I literally never felt it. 

Or saw it. 

Well. 

I guess I SAW it.....but not before a live studio audience. 

Only with a Valencia filter. 

Any man who needs that much advertising before actually doing the deed is compensating for a lack of SOMETHING. 

Consider yourself warned. 

An over abundance of dick pics is a good sign you're not going to have great sex. 

Or in my case, sex at all. 

Because apparently I'm not hip enough to have the energy of a guy whose poly. 

Excuse me, NON MONOGAMOUS.

Me and my super energetic toxic vagina are gonna go climb this wall alone. 

Who wants a belay partner akin to a box of hair anyway. 

Thanks for the Inspiration, Asshole

My favorite dating site, as you probably know by now is Tinder. 

Tinder has been responsible for both the best & worst sex of my life. 

It has inspired my Youtube videos. 

It has made all my Facebook friends think of me whenever they hear anything related to it.

(SEE 'Girls Are Using Tinder to Trick Guys into Ordering them Pizza' posted on my wall. TWICE.)

The other thing I love about Tinder is how it gives otherwise shy mother fuckers the courage to say the stupidest shit they would never have the balls to say to my face. 

Most of the time it's just stuff that's hilarious.

(SEE 'I'd love to devote some time when you're free to giving you a great orgasm.')

And sometimes it's just pitiful.

(SEE 'Give me a chance to bum you out in person.')

But most of the time it's just the same old same old. 

If I had to sum up every Tinder message in one sentence it'd be-

Hi-Hey-Hello WowOMGredhairSEXY whiskey/fuck/sometime?

But every once in awhile, every 73 matches or so, there's one guy whose messages stand out. 

And either get me genuinely stoked to meet him. 

Or an overwhelming desire to smack him in the face. 

(Wait. That sounds hot. Smack him in the goiter. That's never sexy.)

Cue offending bachelor #435!!

So. 

This guy writes me the other night. 

Let's call him "Paul."

No. 

Let's call him "Jack."

('J' names are the worst. They're like a yeast infection on my life.)

Jack's message starts out complimentary like the majority of them do. 

(Flattery will get you everywhere, gentlemen, so telling me I'm pretty significantly increases your chances of getting a blowjob. Or a kiss on the cheek. Depending on how I wanna fuck with you.)

Jack actually writes because he wants my dating advice. 

Because he watched some of my Youtube & dubbed me "the professional."

(More flattery. Yes. Yes. I'm a god damn genius, continue.)

So he proceeds to write--

"You are a professional here, give me good advice. If I first date wt someone and she could be the mother of my kids but now I don't need that, and I don't want to hurt her or burn that token should I stop or try to have sex and say, wrong time maybe in the future."

"Also is difficult to say if she would be mother of my kids if she doesn't pass sex test."

(Pass sex test? I-uh-i can't even. No. I don't wanna know.)

So I write back that he should find someone else to sleep with because if all he wants is casual sex then he shouldn't try to get that from a girl he sees as potential relationship material. Because if he knows he doesn't want a relationship then he should leave that bitch be. No girl's gonna be like, 'Oh, Ok, not now? But maybe someday? That's definitely the level of interest I want from a man who sticks his penis inside me.'

(Men are such idiots.)

So then he proceeds to tell me --

"I don't work well with strangers in bed."

(Yeah, NONE of you do, honey. I'm well aware. SEE 'When the Motel Bed is Harder Than Your Date')

"I did it with someone the other day on my second date and it was just ok, I used to have great sex wt my ex."

So 1--I find it rather amusing that Jack has written ME to ask advice about a girl he went out with & just days after fucking some OTHER girl. Trying to impress me with his little black book? Hmm?

2--He admits he's not into the one night stand/sex too soon just like my Motel Dandy & just like I've experienced & even HEARD guys say. I'm finding a theme here. (SEE Men need more romance/emotional connection to fully enjoy sex.)

So I find our dialogue so far to be interesting & amusing. 

And then he decides he has me all figured out and starts telling me how I am.

"You love the game and u use men."

"Do you even get attached to men? My point is that men is your stage of acting."

I'm sorry, WHaT?

"I guess we see you so much upfront that we think you don't want anything serious."

Ok. 

Let me see if I'm getting this right. 

I use men. 

Because.....I love sex?

And I communicate that?

Uhhuh.

And I couldn't possibly want anything serious from a man because I don't get attached and I just love the game. 

Because I've said I love sex. 

But it's ok for Y O U to Wanna fuck a girl you don't respect enough to be in a relationship with (And expect her to WAIT just in case you decide someday you ARE ready, when you grow into your big boy diapers). And it's also ok for YoU to fuck a girl you're not connected with at all & even bitch that the sex wasn't that great when YOU WERE THE ONE HAVING IT TOO DO YOUR FUCKING JOB AND MAKE IT GOOD.

But I. 

I am just "not going to find him on Tinder" -as you informed me-because I'M playing games. 

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. 

How HOw for fucks sake do people still think like this?

He expects women to be down to fuck but doesn't respect them for doing so. 

He also finds me intriguing enough to want my advice on his To Fuck or Not to Fuck dilemma but criticizes me for being the type of woman to follow her own advice. 

So I was LIVID to say the least and told him he didn't get me at all. 

But that's ok because most men don't. 

And that the last blog I wrote talked about how I'm still in love with my ex. 

But it's cool. 

Shame on me for wanting my vag to get some attention. 

I should just hide the fact I like sex or that I know what I like at all so maybe one day, if I'm really lucky, I can have sex on a second date with you that's just ok. 

Cuz I'm sure every time you stick that needle dick into some lonely girls vajay it's ALWAYS JUST OK. 

Because you suck at everything. 

And I should know. 

I am a god damn professional after all. 

So don't piss me off. 

And also. 

S U C K  M Y  D I C K.

I'm sure you'd be ok at that. 

Maybe I Want to be Sad

When you go through a breakup your friends want you to feel better. 

Right away. 

Like.

Yesterday. 

They don't want you wasting another moment on that loser who doesn't deserve you, who didn't appreciate you, who really should have been more interested in your hoo hoo than yayo.

They mean well. 

They just want you back to your bubbly, confident, all sass and no frass vim & vigor self.

(Vim & Vigor? Does anybody actually say that? Do I even know what the fuck that means??)

It's a good thing. 

It's a good thing when you're fortunate enough to have people in your life who want you to be happy. 

But no one ever seems to understand that you might not be ready to give up your sadness. 

Maybe I want to be sad. 

I'd already done what I was "supposed" to. 

I'd already embraced the supposed cure all for a lost love--the only way to get over one guy was to get under a new guy. 

That's what Mother always used to say. 

(I'm kidding. If my mother actually ever said that I would die laughing. Love you, Mama).

I threw all my cares out the happy hour window and dove into the spontaneity of a stranger. 

But surprise, surprise he wasn't amazing. 

And instead of feeling satisfied it only made me crave my lost love even more. 

Why would being with someone else right away help me get over the person I still had feelings for?

I compared everything. 

The way his kisses were different. 

The way his eyes didn't look at me the way his had. 

I didn't want someone else. 

I still wanted him. 

I still wanted to want him. 

I had a revelation. 

The only reason I was doing any of it was because I thought it was what I was supposed to be doing.

To LETGO.

To MOVEON.

Everyone kept saying it like some chant from the bleachers watching the game of my life. 

️Portlandia in unison.

Let Go. Let go. let go.

But God dammit.

Could everyone just shut the fuck up and let me think for a moment. 

I'm not ready to let go. 

I haven't gone through it all yet. 

The sadness is holding my hand while he won't. 

Do you have any idea how long it's been since I even liked a guy enough to be sad about him?

So fucking long!

It feels good to miss someone. 

It feels good to be sad about a boy. 

I guess that makes me a raging masochist. 

But to be able to remember.

To remember the nights he stared into my eyes like I was the raddest girl in Portlandia.

To mourn that loss. 

To actually have a fucking loss to mourn. 

Of course I still wanted him. 

I wanted just to SEE him. 

But if I couldn't hug him I could at least hold onto my pain.

I could marvel at that. 

See part of what makes love so brilliant isn't just the joy that embodies it but the pain.

Great love is like great sex. 

There are moments where it's almost too much.

Where it frightens you.

Where it pushes you past your breaking point and you don't think you can take anymore. 

But you do. 

And it's lovely. 

To say the least. 

I'd made several more dates because the Motel Dandy had made his way back from whence he came.

(Which is a shame because we really almost had something there. Just nothing that wasn't-- too hard --to release).

I couldn't help myself. 

#sorrynotsorry

So I'd have more dates. 

Because more dates meant I was putting myself back out there.

It meant I might be one Jameson away from my next orgasm. 

But. 

I.

  Didn't.

            Want.

                     To.

The thought of enduring one more mediocre date or one more disappointing roll in the 12 count scratchy sheets made me want to run screaming into the sunlight. 

(Because screaming into the night feels a little melodramatic).

I didn't want to move on. 

I didn't want to stop checking my phone hopefully in the morning. 

I wanted to still believe. 

And I wanted to be alone. 

I wanted to be free to miss him. 

Every day. 

Because I did. 

And I wanted to hope. 

However falsely. 

I preferred misguided hope to the cynical acceptance I'd been shrouded in.

I wanted a part of me to still be that hopeless romantic who dominated my twenties. 

Back when love was forever & ever kiss hug kiss hug heart heart.

So. 

This sucks. 

I miss him. 

He's having a massive surgery with a  long recovery.

And he wants to heal in solitude. 

And there's nothing I can do. 

And even if my brain can accept "he just wasn't the one, Reese."

That still doesn't change the fact that as of May 2015  H E  W A S.

I don't want someone new until I'm finished harmonizing with my sadness. 

And I don't want to pretend I'm fine so people can stop worrying about me. 

I miss my lover. 

And I need to feel sad. 

Because then it's still real. 

Then it's not entirely over. 

And I would love for love to be real again.

Wouldn't that be something?

Just like a fairytale.  

When the Motel Bed is Harder than your Date

You know how in every horror movie the slut is always the first to die?

You'd think as women we'd take that as a clue that slutty behavior is never rewarded. 

It always results in Death. 

Or just sheer disappointment and embarrassment. 

Which is pretty much the same thing. 

I decided to be a slut. 

Nay, I embraced it with the kind of style and grace, as though the film crew was behind me capturing my every move. 

I was going to get laid. 

I needed to get laid. 

After the emotional roller coaster mind fuck disappointment traumatic news of the week-month-or two-I was ready for something different. 

Someone different. 

I just wanted someone else's tongue down my throat, let's be real. 

Cue Tinder. 

*Violins swell*Trumpets blare*

*Crescendo*Decrescendo*

(God, I'm a nerd).

And oh yo oh yo check this: tall, lanky, artsy nerd in town for just the week. 

Swipe right. 

And match!

Ding ding ding ding ding!

We have a penis!!

We were both so stoked to meet each other we changed our plans around so we could meet at 5.

Nobody has a date at 5:00pm on a Saturday except for maybe your Grandma. 

I lived with my Grandma for a few years and I remember someone knocking on the door around 7 once and she frowned, "Who could be knocking at this hour? Don't get the door."

But we didn't care!

I think somehow we both knew we were gonna want more than just a couple hours to spend together. 

And that was fucking adorable. 

We decided to meet at this Mexican dive that always has a line because the food is so damn delicious. 

And as I walked up I saw him already in line, head floating above everyone else's.

God, tall men are sexy. 

My greatest love in my twenties was 5'6".

I don't know what the hell I was thinking. 

So we talk and eat and drink. 

And it's merry. 

(Cuz tomorrow we're gonna die, again, the clues were smacking me in the face).

And he is far more charming than I was expecting. 

And I suddenly start to feel.....I can't even say it because it's so out of character for me.....because I never give any fucks on any of these stupid dates.....but I felt, dare I say, NERVOUS.

I even told him just that. 

"Your eyes are so intense, the way you're looking at me....it's unnerving."

He blinked his pale blue eyes peering back at me through his thick round spectacles. 

'Would it help if I kissed you?'

I never, ever EVER want a guy to ask if he can kiss me but there was something so adorable and confident in the way he just assumed the thing I needed to calm my nerves wasn't another sangria but simply his mouth upon mine. 

Mmmhmm.

Yep. 

'Better?' He asked after, my eyes still slowly opening. 

"Yes. Definitely better."

This is the secret to every good date:

(Are you listening, men? Cuz I'm giving the secret away right here.....

The secret to a good date is when the guy kisses you in the middle of it.

If he has to wait til the end of the date to kiss you, it wasn't a great date. 

It might be a good date or an ok date or decent enough for you to agree to let him pay for your burger again, but the only way a first date is GREAT is when he has to kiss you sooner than later. 

So. Fucking. HOT.

So we mosey on to the next venue. 

A favorite bar of mine. 

I may or may not have canoodled with another boy the last time I was there. 

The bar used to be a brothel. 

I can't help it. 

It just speaks to the inner slut within. 

(It also makes one of my favorite cocktails, with fig bourbon. It's to die. Again with the death. Mother fucker, I should have read the signs).

So we drink and we talk and he stares at me with his seductive eyes. 

And I inform him that he can't come to my place. 

(It's a fucking disaster. I'm working on it. Whatever. Moving on). 

And since he's crashing on a friend's couch the remaining few days he's in town we can't go to his place. 

What to do......what.....to.......do......

'We could get a motel,' he casually suggests. 

"We could?" I exclaim in a way that's probably more on par with the level of excitement I'd express if someone told me they were taking me to Disneyland.

But I'm just an enthusiastic woman. 

Especially where sex is involved. 

(Oh did I say sex? Don't worry, this story definitely stays PG, just wait. Don't worry, Mom).

So we find a motel nearby and head on our merry little way.

(Ominous music plays in the background).

We get to my car and start making out and good lord, his kisses are like little start buttons on my body. 

If we would have paused there--

We could have had a hot makeout sesh, like horny teenagers breaking curfew, and it would have been lovely and adorable. 

But since my romantic comedy wasn't written by Cameron Crowe, we didn't stop there. 

Instead we headed to the oh so classy motel to enact a scene that audiences would laugh at for decades to come. 

Come. 

Ha. 

I don't want to talk about it. 

So we check into the room, both admit we've never done this before & giggle as we scan the room. 

Turn down the bed, the only thing they clean is the sheets, echoes through my mind, the text I'd read minutes before we got there. 

Sluts should always have more experienced slutty friends to help them through the slutdom.

I throw down the comforter and hop on the bed. 

(Again my level of excitement is always too closely resembling a five year old about to put on her first tiara, I really need to chill the fuck out).

But he crawls over me and starts kissing me again with those intoxicating kisses that stir up every cell dancing in my body. 

'Are you gonna do what I tell you?' He whispers in my ear. 

Oh. My. GOD. 

How fucking hot is that?

Yes. Fuck yes. 

And things progress and I am like tearing at the sheets.

'You can't have me yet,' he whispers in my other ear. 

OHMYGOD.

My romantic comedy is having its soft porn moment (But don't worry, I told you it stays PG)--

Because shortly thereafter when all signs point to go time, he suddenly says, 'I don't think I can do this' and I reach down to get a read (like a doctor taking a pulse) and sure enough, NOTHING.

No pulse. 

It's fucking dead. 

Now, can we just take a moment and go back to the fact that I am chomping at the bit, salivating, ready to fucking break through a wall to get pounded and my co star is *cough* ahem--FEELING ABSOLUTELY NO HARD ON WHATSOEVER?!?!

How?

What?

I can't.

I don't even....

DO YOU LIKE FUCKING WOMEN???

DO YOU???

Before you ask, no he wasn't drunk. 

It was much more fun than that. 

He was feeling "too emotional." 

Recent breakup. 

First attempt at coitus. 

Blah. Blah. Blah. 

Jesus, I thought, is he gonna want to be held?

I'm not a heartless bitch so we talked and I was a sweetheart and he thanked me for "being so cool about this."

Of course internally I was playing out a scene where I stabbed him repeatedly. 

But you know. 

Always a lady. 

Even when slutting it up. 

Class. 

All the way. 

I graciously left while he stayed so he could "think things through"

--forehead bang against the wall, bang, bang, why does this happen to me, bang--And as I sighed a quiet sigh of relief while the door clicked behind me, I looked up and saw a greasy old guy leaning against the rail. 

He leered. 

Oh god, I thought. I have to walk past him to get to my car. 

'Hey there,' he tried to say charmingly. 

I bet he thinks I'm a prostitute, I thought.

Because this night wasn't already intensely disappointing let's have a creepy witness.

"Hello," I smiled back broadly because why the fuck not. 

Let him think I'm a hooker. 

I'd be a damn good one. 

I saw. I came. I conquered. 

Well. 

I saw anyway. 

And that. 

I guess that was something. 

At least I enjoyed kissing someone new. 

But no more sex on the first date. 

Men SUCK at it. 

'It's too much pressure,' one of my guy friends told me. 'I won't do them anymore.'

One night stands. 

And neither will I, sir. 

Neither will I. 

Because I'm not here for a damn cuddle. 

Come on. 

Seriously.