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Playbook Pages {the NonDate}

16 Sep

Me: “Oh, hi… I’m meeting someone here.”
Hostess: “Oh, okay… Do you want to look at the bar?”
Oh shit. I have no idea what this guy looks like…
Me: “Um I better text him really quick.”
Of course she think I’m on a blind date now…
Hmmm plaid shirt…plaid shirt…
Me: “I guess he’s outside. Thanks!”
Ha! Funny guy huh? Plaid shirt…plaid… Oh! Oh crap. He IS cute in real life.

As a favor to my sister’s boyfriend, I had agreed to let his friend crash on my couch for a night or two while in for an interview. In an effort not to have a stranger stay on my couch, I had agreed to meet this friend for a drink the night “crashing” was to take place.

Now, to be honest, I wasn’t totally caught-off guard by the hotness. In another attempt to make this stranger not a stranger we had become friends on Facebook. I am I VERY thorough FB stalker, so I already thought that he had cute potential.

Ok fine. I had already told my roommate that I wanted to do him… IF he ended up being as cute as his FB implied.

And boy, oh boy, was he ever.

We both ordered drinks and decided to share nachos. We chatted about the city and about our jobs. We talked about Oregon {we’re both from there}: how much I missed it, how much he wouldn’t. We talked about school and living in random cities, making friends, going out. We talked about our families and our backgrounds, about working during college and working after college. We talked about music and raves, drugs and Ken Kesey. And we laughed. We laughed a lot, actually.

his and hers...

At one point we stumbled upon the inevitable couple/dating talk. Somehow we got on the topic of fighting or fighting in public and the conversation went something like this:
me: Yeah, it’s always awkward when there is that couple at the table who is clearly fighting.
Him: something something something something
me: or even worse when YOU are in the couple that is fighting….
Him: yeah and you have to act like nothing is really wrong but when you get home it all comes out.
Me: yeah at least it all comes out eventually.
Him: and then you have crazy hate sex.
Me: {trying to fight the excitement in my voice and keep it from my face} yes!
Him: and then after I want to just watch a movie and love you all night.
Me: {more excitement} Definitely.

Ummm… Did he just describe my perfect date?

Him: Can you imagine how much hate sex Barack and Michelle have?
Me: {laughing uncontrollably}
Him: I’m serious! She’s like, “stop giving me that dumb grin!”
Me: and he’s like, “stop walking away from me woman!”
Him: The Secret Service guys probably have to hear so much of the sex because they are standing outside of the door.
Me: {more uncontrollable laughter}
Him: I’m serious! They should write a book.
End Scene.

By the end of the non-date I was starting to wish it was a real date. If it HAD been a first date, it would’ve been a good one. We hailed cabs and made plans to meet-up the next day so that he could “crash.” But as I rode away with that dopey first-date grin on my face, I couldn’t help but hope that something more would maybe come out of my future time with NonDate.


My House Guest {the final night}

15 Aug

It was our last night together, and I needed a new plan. HottieFireman was leaving the next day to go home, and I was determined to accomplish my goal.

After 4 days of being rejected, I realized that I had been breaking all of my own rules. Not only did I tell him that I wanted him, but I threw myself at him…EVEN after he told me he didn’t want me. Now that kind of attention can be flattering–in small doses; in large doses {like 4 days}, it can be repulsive.

By telling him that I still wanted him after he rejected me, I broke another rule: I gave him all the power. He may have had it the whole time, but by pointing it out, I was just asking him to run wild with it. 

So, the new plan meant I needed to put my head back on my shoulders and approach him the same way I would anyone else I wanted to sleep with: I would act like I could care less. The second part of the plan would be to get him drunk. Drunky, drunk, drunk {Yes, I realize I sound slightly rape-ish here, but after 4 days, I had to pull all of my cards}.

Step 1: Finish a bottle of vodka at the apartment. Check. Step 2: Meet work friends out on the town. More drinks. Check. Step 3: Flirt with every thing that moves and has a penis. Check. Step 4: Ignore HottieFireman. Check.

I could tell the plan was working because he couldn’t keep his hands away from my ass. That and the fact that he was acting like a big drunk frat boy. So much so that my friend pulled me aside to ask if this was REALLY the guy I was having trouble nailing. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel… or some sexual version of that saying.

Soon enough, we were in cab heading back to my apartment. We stumbled up the stairs, grabbing each other for balance as much as for pleasure. He already had my dress unzipped and was starting to pull it off of my shoulders by the time I was fumbling with my keys to get the front door open. He picked me up and threw me onto my bed. If only I had known, as we were pulling each other’s clothes off, that it would be the last “normal” thing that would happen.

The next 15-20 minutes weren’t a blur as most of my sexual experiences are–probably because the passion disappeared before it had a chance to blind or deafen me as it usually does. Instead, I remember every word he said, every aggressive push of his hand, every quizzical look that crossed my face.

I can honestly say, after all of my MANY sexual experiences, that I have never been talked to in that way. I’ve never heard the words dirty slut uttered more times through gritted teeth. And I’ve never felt more like a doll or an object placed there for someone’s enjoyment. Dirty talk I’m used to, but this was different. He was saying things to me, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything back. He was touching me, but I wasn’t allowed to touch back. I might as well have been a prostitute… and a cheap one at that, because {get ready for this}… he STILL DIDN”T HAVE SEX WITH ME. After far too many minutes of this strange, forceful, and disconnected sexual behavior, all he did was jack himself off, make a huge mess and walk out of the room without saying another word.

Weirdest. Sexual. Experience. Of my LIFE. {It even tops the time that guy asked me to slap him and then put that knife in my wall.}

I just laid there in shock. Then I turned on the light and looked in the mirror. I had to see myself to make sure I was still real, to make sure this was really my life. What the hell?! I actually laughed out loud for a moment, because the whole thing seemed so strange.

When I heard him get out of the shower and walk down the hall, I slipped into the bathroom. When I got in the shower, I just stood there, too mentally exhausted to attempt basic hygiene. I felt drained and gross and used. Slowly I pushed my hands over my hair, smoothing the hot water through it, attempting to rinse out the cum, attempting to rinse away what had just happened.

When I got out of the shower he was lying in my bed as if nothing was wrong. I told him I was pissed. I was pissed that we STILL hadn’t had sex. I told him I got nothing out of his little escapade and wasn’t impressed. He said it had been a “test,” to see if I really could be submissive, to see if I really could step out of my bossy-pants, controlling role. I said that if that was the test, I clearly passed. Suddenly he didn’t have anything to say. He realized I was right and that his bullshit argument that I was too much of a man-eater, too sexually aggressive, for him didn’t hold up.

But then I realized it didn’t matter how many tests I passed or how many of his qualifications I met, we would never end up together because he didn’t love me back. When he finally said it, I let myself cry over him one last time. And as I cried, I gave into him. I let him hold me and comfort me as the friend he so desperately claimed he wanted to be.

I cried for our winding history–for the first time I saw him in the baseball dugout and for the times we swam in the lake. I cried for the hours-long phone calls and for all of the plans we had made. I cried because I loved him and because I knew, for the first time in our 5 year friendship, that we wouldn’t fully recover. I cried for the fact that we would never be the same.

This Morning {step 1}

13 Aug

Breathe in… Breathe out.

I swear it feels like my heart hurts… but maybe it’s just my lungs. My sternum and diaphragm feel tight and rigid. Breathing takes actual effort. I feel like I pulled a muscle somewhere in my neck, and my sore throat makes it painful to talk. Maybe I’m getting sick…but I think it’s just from crying. My whole face feels like its been punched and bruised, but it’s probably just the swelling around my eyes. Keeping my eyes open at my desk actually takes effort, too; they are so puffy that they just feel better closed.

I look around my newsroom and take a deep breath… In and then out.

The pain shoots through my chest… Maybe it’s just my lungs, but I swear it feels like my heart.

This Morning {the morning after}

10 Aug

Well, my eyes look about as red and puffy as I thought they would. My hair looks a little better though… go figs.

I don’t know why he insists on torturing me, but I want him next to me so badly that I push the feeling that this is all fake back, far into my head. I’ll deal with that when his hand isn’t on my waist pulling me closer to him and I can’t feel his breath on my neck.

Ugh. Torture.

As I try to relax into the wall of his body, I try to ignore images and sounds flooding back from last night.
me: So, are you EVER going to kiss me?
him: {silence… I can’t look at him.} No.
me: Wow. Really?
him: Really.

My only other thought, as I’m curled into his trying to dodge the light of day, is that I wish I could do this every morning. I wish I could have this man next to me all the time.

You know... like this. But more terrible and painful.


This, apparently, is my wake-up call; not a figurative one {though that’s probably well on its way, too}, but a literal one. This big man coming into my room and climbing into bed next to me certainly woke me up; whether or not it will make me get out of bed is another story.

I have a headache… probably from the whopping 3 drinks at the Comedy Cellar; the extreme lack of food consumed yesterday; and the fact that I spent a combined total of about 2 hours crying last night. Oh, yes. I cried. I cried standing up, I cried sitting down, I cried on him, I cried next to him, I cried under him, I cried into my pillow and into the phone to my sister.

Hopefully, I’m done with that… but the lump in my throat tells me otherwise. So does the dull ache in my heart.

My House Guest {wild pitch}

9 Aug

Ummmm. What the fuck is going on? I not to toot my own horn, but what IS this? It shouldn’t be this hard!

Tonight after I got off of work we smoked on the fire escape and talked about him moving here, which made me happy. Then we sat on the couch and I ate the dinner he made earlier and saved for me and discussed some other things that didn’t make me as happy: his ex girlfriend from Staten Island; the girl he’s going to meet tomorrow–his pen pal–who used to have a thing for him; the fact that he should’ve hooked me up with the Fireman from the station down the street.

No warning.

Again, I say What the fuck is going on?!

Is this some sort of weird test? Considering he’s not a 16-year-old girl, my guess is that it isn’t.

Then we just sat there… saying hardly anything… for like an hour… barely touching; I felt like I was in middle school.

I have fond memories of gazing longingly into each others’ eyes while he held me up in the lake. But maybe that’s just because he took fucking forever to kiss me!

Judging from the aforementioned topics, I feel like he’s totally not interested in me. To which I ask {the usual girl questions… Gah! Kill me.}: Why the phone calls every single day? Why fly all the way out here? Why ask me about moving to Seattle {where he wants to move} and working at a smaller market? Why grab me and kiss me goodnight… again?

Is he really just trying to keep the game going? Maybe this really IS a payback trip. OMG. If I’m getting played right now I’ll die from laughing too hard… at myself. Talk about Karma.

I’ll know tomorrow for 2 reasons. He/We’re supposed to hang out with the pen pal tomorrow. Even though she has a boyfriend, I’ll see how they interact. If they make more plans to hangout later this week… I’ll know.
And we’re finally getting drunk tomorrow night {NO MORE BOXING to be tip-top for}. If he still doesn’t kiss me when we’re drunk… I’ll know.

Fuck it. I’m just going to jump on him when we’re drunk and see what happens. No harm, no foul. Although, that’s what I said I was going to do tonight, too.

Tonight wasn’t even a curveball… it was a fucking wild pitch.