Playbook Pages {I just want to be…friends}

I’ll be right back.

It was literally moments after he came, but I was scrambling out of bed and heading to the bathroom feeling as bored and frustrated–exasperated?–as I have every other time we’ve slept together. When I get in the bathroom I have one of those movie moments where I stare at myself in the mirror with one of those super disappointed looks on my face and shake my head. A shudder runs through my body as the last 15 minutes comes back in flashes. How can he enjoy it so much when I hate it so much?

And that’s when it hits me, a different kind of flash–a strong realization: I am such a hypocrite! Here I am going on and on about bad sex and how annoying and frustrating it is… yet I keep having it! Well, hello, Red! Why don’t you heed your own advice: STOP. It takes two to tango, and if you’re unhappy but refuse to change anything then the only person to blame is yourself!

Well crap. Now what do I do? This is usually why I keep my sex and dating separate. The guys I like to date are the not the same ones I want to sleep with; the ones I like to sleep with I would never date.

In college this predicament actually worked in my favor. My schedule was busy enough that the guys who took me on dates never saw me often enough to feel attached or entitled. We were always “just starting to date.” I had a movie guy, a dinner guy, a day-date guy. These guys were basically just friends, but they picked me up at my apartment, paid for everything and usually kissed me goodnight.

Then there were the boys I slept with–my hook-ups and business partners. I had bar hook-ups, fraternity hook-ups and class hook-ups. We’d get drunk, have fun, never make it awkward and NEVER go on an actual date. My business partners were like more organized versions of a “fuck buddy;” we had regular meetings that were never broken. It was always just sex, but we communicated well and respected each other. One time I kept the same business partner for over a year and a half.

So why, may I ask, are things so complicated now? I still have business partners, but it seems like the guys in the dating pool are confused about their place. Apparently so am I. They keep wanting to sleep with me and I keep letting them. I really like 30-Something and feel like he’s a friend, but now that we’ve done it… how do we go back? Is that even possible?

ToDo List {sexylongboarderboy}

Well, hello, SexyLongBoarderBoy!

Look at you with your longboard… Walking around with no shirt on, then putting your shirt on. It’s all just so cute.

Even your ridiculous white watch is cute.

You are what I think of when I hear the phrase “boys of summer,” with your jet black hair and your tan skin.

Overall, SexyLongBoarderBoy, I’d like to do you.

My House Guest {the final night}

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 {the morning after}

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}

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.

This Morning {NOT the morning after…yet}

I’m so anxious right now. I’m sitting at my desk and my eyes are darting around. I can’t focus on the TV in front of me or the news wires flashing in the corner of my computer screen. All I can think about is getting off of work and seeing my big Fireman.

I don’t even think I was this anxious for the end of my day when I had an actual boyfriend. The worst part is that I still don’t even know if anything is going to happen! Thus, the nervousness. I will literally be rushing home to sit and become even more anxious… I’ll just be next to him though, so maybe it will feel worth it.

I can’t believe I, of all people, am nervous to make a move on someone. But this certainly wasn’t the situation I saw myself dealing with.

I HATE curveballs, and us not sleeping together (or even sleeping in the same ROOM, for that matter) on his first night in town was definitely a curveball.  Of course my roommate had to move out right before he got here– and leave her bed! Now, I’m determined to make it happen tonight. Even if I have to climb into my roommate’s old bed, too. Lol.

The funny thing is, I know for a fact that he’s a total man-whore at home, and he knows I’m a total woman-whore here, so there shouldn’t be any problem. There shouldn’t even be a debate. Or time for a second-thought… Right?

UGH. Why am I even thinking about this so much? It’s not a big deal. It’s just sex… Right?

Maybe it’s not just sex with him, and that’s the problem. I never expected my feelings to be this strong for him again–maybe even stronger than they’ve ever been.

BLEAHH! Whatever. I’m doing it tonight. And by “it,” let’s be clear here… I mean him.

NiceGuy complex…

We all know a genuinely nice guy who has been dumped by a genuinely bitchy girl. But we all probably also know a nice guy who has been dumped by a genuinely nice girl. Either way, the nice guy always claims he was dumped for being “too nice.”

According to the nice guy, he was dumped because he was too much of a gentleman, or because he didn’t want to take advantage of her, or because refused to treat her like an object or she wanted an ass-hole. Having lots of friends who are nice people, these are phrases I’ve heard often. But after hearing these stories enough times, one has to wonder: What if you ARE a genuinely nice guy, but you actually got dumped for sucking at something else in life that was really important to the other person? Nice guys can have flaws too…

For instance, maybe you’re great at holding doors and buying flowers but you suck at fixing leaky pipes or putting up shelves. Well, sure, that’s not everything in the world, but what if the girl’s grandpa was a carpenter so being handy is very important to her? You suck at being handy, so she dumps you. You’re still a very nice guy, but that’s not the reason you got dumped.

For someone like me, being good at a lot of things could be considered turn-ons to me. Fix a pipe or hang some level shelves? Great. Put up a sheet of drywall? Sexy. Writing, playing or singing me music while putting up the drywall? Even better. But some things, to me, are just crucial–I will not compromise. Being good in bed is one of these things.

Now people have given me their various judgments for my having no qualms with this requirement. They’ve called me a slut, or a whore, or a nympho, and some of them have probably really felt that way. But if you ask me, I call it being honest.

If you have a low-sex drive, but you’re the nicest guy in the world, I will dump you. Well, sex isn’t everything to me, you might say in your sweet, genuinely nice guy tone of voice with your sweet, genuinely nice guy smile. Well, darling nice guy, though it’s not everything, it’s still a pretty big something to me. Dumped.

If your sexual style doesn’t match mine, but you’re the nicest guy in the world, I will dump you. I’ll try anything you want! You’ll say in your sweet, genuinely nice guy tone of voice with your sweet, genuinely nice guy smile. Sorry, dearest, but giving someone a play-by-play instruction manual just doesn’t do it for me. Dumped.

So, nice guys… here’s my two-cents: You’ve ridden the PoorNiceGuy Train for a while now. Get off of the train. Please remember that 1) nobody likes a victim and 2) everybody has flaws… and that’s OK. But to some people, there is a lot more to life {and a relationship} than being nice.

Playbook Pages {work crush}

I really wasn’t sure how the night was going to go. After the exchange of a few very cheesy text messages (not my style), my hopes were not super high. But, with the craving for a margarita creeping up and the possibility of going back to sleep slipping away, I figured I had little to lose. Running my usual 15-minutes late, I walked swiftly down 2nd Ave toward the Mexican restaurant. As a I walked, I continued to talk myself out of caring about the casual meeting. Thus, when the front of the restaurant came into sight, I felt taken aback.

There he was. Leaning up against the construction outside of the restaurant in all of his WorkCrush glory. Big tan arms coming out of his t-shirt sleeves, big man-legs filling his jeans, all propped-up by navy Chucks. Cute cute cute. I instantly got a HUGE smile on my face and that fluttery feeling flooded my stomach. Whoa there. Get a hold of yourself. This is nothing, remember?

Over drinks and food we talked about work and our career paths; we talked about our families and being away from home; we talked about music and playing instruments; we covered some serious topics (he used to be 300 lbs); we laughed about stupid stuff. Overall, it was going well.

Looking at the time I reluctantly reminded him that I needed to get back into bed to sleep before my overnight shift. He offered to walk me home. On the way he pointed out the bubble trolley thing that goes over the East River to Roosevelt Island; he said it was his favorite random thing to do–I admitted I’d never been on it. With the promise of just a 30-minute detour, I agreed to ride it. The view was nice, but when we got off, I didn’t feel like getting right back on. We ventured onto a very deserted Roosevelt Island and sat by the river.

I don’t really know how it happened, but before I knew it we were making out furiously on the grass. My shoes were off, my headband thrown somewhere behind me, my dress being scandalously pushed up my legs. Then he was on top of me, my legs wrapped around his body. Then I was on top of him, both of us sitting-up, while he pulled my hips into his waist. When we finally stopped for air I noticed a few things that somehow hadn’t mattered in the moment: it was raining, I was bleeding, and it was late.

Once settled at my desk and finally feeling calm, I began to notice the toll the night had taken on my appearance: the smudges of dirt on my forearms and legs, the scrapes on the tops of my feet, the grass stains on the back of my dress.

Maybe was just the lasting effect of the tequila, but–as I sat firmly in my office chair–I still felt a little like I was floating.

 

This Morning {still at work}

Morning…breakfast and a “squeeze”? 🙂

I look at the text on my phone, hit the button that makes the screen go black (what is that button called?), and put it back on my desk. It’s 8 a.m.  and I’m in the home-stretch of the end of my overnight shift at work. I pick up the phone again and re-read the message. Really, 30-something? I expected more from you.

Not served here...

Since when did it become OK to start blatantly asking me to sleep with you? Unless we are in a bar or you are my fuck-buddy {see playbook pages: business partners coming soon}, you should never directly ask if I want to have sex with you. Because, really, if you have to ask… the answer is probably no.

I thought Out-of-Town-DC-Friend was bad enough–but he’s young and was wasted at the time. 30-something is sober… because it’s freaking 8 in the morning! Which brings me to my next question…

In what world does it seem logical to ask me to “bone” right after I get off of an 8+ hour shift at work? First RealEstate Reginald and now 30-Something? This was even worse considering it’s an overnight shift. Are you TRYING to annoy me–in all of my Sunday morning, post-work, exhausted glory?

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

Sorry… I’m actually super tired from work.  I type back.
No worries. Feel better. If anything changes either this morning, or later this evening, am here.

Ha. Yeah. I bet you are.

I Need to Stop Hanging Out with Guys Who Suck in Bed {part deux}

I’ve realized that I only the get the urge to go running on weeks when I’ve had bad sex.

I’m lying in bed after a very bizarre, half-upside-down 69-ish thing with just the 6 {…or maybe the 9?} and about 42-seconds of the kind of slow, boring sex that makes me want to pick up a magazine. All I can think, while listening to his deep, relaxed breathing next to me, is that I wish I had my running shoes.

Every muscle in my body is antsy. I want to run–hard. I want to run until I’m totally out of breath, until every muscle feels tense and on-fire. I want to run until my body feels so pushed to the limit that the only option is to be pulled into a melting puddle of jellied-muscles. Either that, or explode.

But no. I don’t have my running shoes. Instead, I’m lying in bed, wanting to scream or jump up and down or jump through the glass of the panoramic window or scale a building or go to a boxing class. ANYTHING to relieve this aggression.

I really need to stop hanging out with people who suck in bed.