Dating is the cruelest of sports: An open letter to the man who ghosted

I am crushed that I am reduced to emailing you what I am about to say, but I feel I need to nonetheless.

I am torn between two warring thoughts about what has happened between us.

On the one hand, I think you are cruel to treat me this way; on the other, perhaps I am a roaring asshole and deserve it.

I have poured over ever sentence, every touch between us that night in an attempt to figure out what I did to cause you to react in such a way to me.  Should I have not blown you under the bridge?  Been so eager to accept your invitation to brunch?  Was it because I wanted to hear you cum?  Because I wrapped my hands around your beautiful neck?  Or perhaps it was when I urged you to suck harder on my nipples.  No, maybe it’s because I used my vibrator?

Or, what my darkest voice suggests to me, it’s simply because I am a person of no value and so of course the beautiful, young man who had spent an evening (plus nearly 4 weeks) whispering sweet nothings into my ear would toss me aside like yesterday’s garbage, today’s biggest regret, because I am worthless.  That is what the dark voice in me says.

This is what I am wrestling with, because surely that can’t be true, and no one could possibly deserve to be tossed aside like that, right?  You have decided to do this; I didn’t bring it upon myself.  For only a matter of hours before you thought I was incredible and told me so. We made plans for Saturday and even Sunday morning.  You talked about taking me camping some time and teaching me to appreciate whiskey.

If I did misstep then why wouldn’t you say, Hy, you hurt my feelings or I didn’t like that so much.  Or even, Hy, I’ve had a change of heart.  At the very least, Hey, I need to talk.  That’s the man I thought you were.

When I have suddenly pulled way from someone it was because the sex was horrendously bad (I remember you saying it was the best – or did I imagine that in my own repulsive brain??) or because he assaulted me (I watched you closely as you closed your eyes and moaned and gripped me tightly, but perhaps you didn’t want to do the things we did) and even then the next day when that sad man would text me and notice a shift in me I would tell him I was no longer interested.  I was humane.

Why, why would you turn away from me like you have in such a heartless manner and leave me to spin in emotional turmoil flipping between rage and sorrow and worry??  Rage at your treatment of me, my sorrow – and humiliation – at being so soundly rejected, and worry that you might be hurt.

I mean, what if you’re in a coma and I would seem like a terrible fool for assuming you’ve done anything to me.  But I am a realist and the most reasonable way to approach this is to assume the answer is the simplest and that is that you have had a change of heart, not that you are injured.

August, I know we only knew each other for a handful of weeks, but I trusted you.  I breathed your breath and tasted your skin and I let myself go with you in both mind and body, beneath you and atop of you, and you have disappeared on me.  Not only that, but I spent hours upon hours of my valuable time writing to you and thinking of you.  How is it that I now find myself in this position?  Why would you do this?

I don’t expect an answer — seeing as you have made what seems to be your final move here with me — but I wanted you to know how it has affected me, someone you held close and who trusted you.  I was so filled with hope about you.

If I did something to hurt you I am eternally sorry, truly; you were like a beautiful beast crossing my path even if for a short time and my days were filled with excitement and hope because of you.  I’m only sorry it’s ending in so much pain and confusion.

– Hy

And yet, as horrible as it may sound, I hope you actually are hurt rather than the alternative because I don’t want any of this to be happening right now.  I wanted to know you for a very long time.  x

The king is dead.

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.

Starting again.

 

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