As you can see I was compelled to publish something else last night besides Boobday. I’d been thinking about it for a while and it needed attention. I feel moderately better at least.
Lots of gorgeousness this week, so be sure to spread the love and the word. This wouldn’t happen without all your support, after all.
Thank you to the women who contribute and participate each week. I’m not the best blogger out there as far as tweeting links and commenting, but know I love each and every one of you and think you’re all brilliant. Maybe one day I’ll be able to reach the enviable blogger levels of Molly and Rebel and Kayla, but for now you’ll just have to put up with me the way I am.
I have another non-date with the man from the diner Friday morning tonight. He is the dark horse in this at the moment. I worked late last night and never bothered to call Trey, the guy from the gym, despite having plans with him. He didn’t call me either. Instead I slept.
It was between blogs – my old old one and this one. I shuttered it because I felt stifled and like it didn’t fit me anymore, but the urge to write didn’t disappear. I don’t feel that differently about this space now, but the difference is I’m not going to jump the gun and quit because I know I’ll be back… I’m just wondering when.
I’m actually crafting this week’s Boobday on Thursday morning. There are 3 strange men in my house currently setting up some furniture for me (can’t beat a couch that won’t hurt my back anymore and a bed that won’t scream when I move in it for $25/mo).
I’m still not feeling “well.” Physically my back has been in utter agony for a couple of months. It’s not new, but the increase in pain is. I’ve joined a new gym that opens in a few weeks and in the mean time I’m doing Pilates like a mad woman to strengthen my core. But that aside, I’m just down in general and I may or may not write about it (it’s possible I’ll write about it next so that means this post will be old news).
In any case, I am dedicated to hosting this space and that won’t be going away even if I do recede a bit from the rest.
I’m glad its over, but I dont regret it. I feel more connected than ever to this little community of ours.
I’m wishing everyone a wonderful time in London this weekend!! Of course I wish I was packing tonight to leave on my Transatlantic flight tomorrow like some of you are, but I’ll be doing just that one year from now, so no need for tears of longing right now.
And I’ll probably be glad that February is over, too.
On the night of our second date when I asked him if he’d like to come up to my apartment and have a glass of wine Rex paused before answering.
“I’d like to talk to you about that, actually.” I waited as the city skyline shrunk behind us and lights blurred by. “I’ve been thinking and… I don’t want to be a part of your ‘story’.”
I sat there dumbfounded. What?? And what did that even mean??
We’d been texting all day every day for a week; he’d call me in the mornings on his way to and from work; send me sexy pics. We’d just had a terrific date and my offer for him to come up was just to talk more. I wasn’t ready to have sex with him.
What ensued was a long talk outside my building where I tried — and probably ultimately failed — to convince him of my sincerity about finding a beautiful relationship. My penchant for large penises loomed large in our discussion on his end and he was very clear that he didn’t want to be “one of many” with proof of my seeing other men on the internet for all to see.
We parted that night with a sweet kiss and a hug and then I shut my front door and cried.
I was serious about opening up, loving someone, bringing someone into my life and this man didn’t believe me.
I knew before we sat in his fancy car that night that it would be a struggle for any man to date me while knowing about the blog and I had given it much thought. How could I keep writing and be myself while also protecting my privacy and that of the man who was involved with me?
I found the solution: Just like how I am discreet in real life about my dating affairs, so would I be discreet on the blog. In other words, I wouldn’t write about anyone else I was dating while we were.
He worried that it might not be authentic for me to do so, but nothing could have been further from the truth. In fact, it felt exceedingly authentic. I wanted to make this as normal a dating experience as possible for the both of us.
We kept chatting for two more weeks, met up once more, and then we had pot roast, a meal I find generally distasteful; it’s dry, uninspiring, and not the least bit nostalgic. He loved it — practically licked his plate — and then told me he wasn’t feeling it for me.
I cried that night, too.
And then he disappeared for the weekend which gave me the opportunity to clear my head and figure out my next move. He was tremendously polite and whenever I’d text he’d reply, but I felt like I was keeping myself on his radar. When I finally heard back from him it was from my initiation, but then I let it alone. I wanted to see what he would do without my constant arm waving.
By the following Thursday (a week after I’d made him dinner) our conversations were pleasant but lasted only 5 or so lines a piece. Friday he was silent and so was I. And Saturday and Sunday until 9 days later when I texted him this:
So, not to state the obvious or anything, but it’s been a week since we chatted. Fair to say we’re not exploring options with one another anymore?? Or am I somehow mistaken?
Three days later — today — and I haven’t heard back. I think it’s safe to say we are no longer dating and I am now released from my self-imposed censoring. I will begin again to track and share my life until the cycle starts anew with someone else. If it ever does.
What started out as something promising — checked nearly every box I had — has now devolved to a man in his 50s ghosting me.
I don’t regret one second of this little exercise, though; I learned a lot from this affair of two spirits.
I learned to allow someone else’s inertia to reveal their feelings; to believe someone when they say they don’t want me — a lesson that was nearly impossible for me to grok with The Neighbor because he never left me alone. I learned that sometimes people’s desire for politeness over conflict will keep you spiraling a drain; I learned that when things are tough you can determine a lot about a person and how they communicate about it. And I learned that no matter how skilled I am in the kitchen I will never, ever like motherfucking pot roast.
So a friend from California is staying at an Airbnb here in town and we were chillin’ and drinking and were trying to figure out who Katelyn the renter was and did she actually live in the condo or not.
We looked at books, pictures, in her closet. We found her rolled up dollar bill for cocaine and her ciggie stash in the kitchen drawer.
Finally we thought to look for a vibrator and we got pay dirt in her bedside table.
Miss Katelyn not only has a fancy dildo/vibrator, but she also has half a dozen varieties of condoms.
Verdict??: She definitely lives here and SHES A MOTHERFUCKING BADASS.