Early afternoon lunch.

Hold me.  I need a fucking hug.

He texted me every day for two weeks.  Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.

I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together.  He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out.  Saturday it was.

No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town.  He’d be happy to figure something out.  Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me.  Of course he’s certain I look cute every day.  Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty!  Morning darlin, he said practically every morning.  What are you wearing today?  And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.

And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:

Early afternoon lunch

No punctuation.  No context.  No more anything.

I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope.  By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:

I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…

*More silence*

All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope.  And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable.  May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life.  Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.

Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?

 

February Photofest

Idiot men are not men I care to know.

Elliot is not an idiot.

He’s empathetic, progressive and stable. He has a degree in English, but works in a field where he only has to write reports, not prose. He’s tall, 6’7″, and married with a baby about the same age as mine and he and his wife have been married for 15 years and he’s only now close to 40.

Their openness evolved over many years of curious crushes on close friends and different sexual cravings. He can’t imagine ever being monogamous again, is thoughtful and particular. And he likes me. Like, likes me likes me.

His lips are pillowy soft and his embrace strong, his sense of humor wry and dirty, he’s sweet and has already made lists of things for us to do together. Can I be this excited about a married man??

I think I can. How could I not?

Some men took issue in my last post where I said I was “tired of idiot men and their bullshit.” They said that my assessment somehow preceded me and soured the milk before I ever brought it to my lips. That it was a reflection on my own narrow views of men and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The judgment comes after they’re idiot men with loads of bullshit.

I’m hard to impress, yes, but that’s because I’m a highly sensitive, intelligent woman – not because I’m an asshole who hates men and if only I were more lenient or transparent with my needs they’d pass muster.

Idiot men say inappropriate things, have no cultural sensitivities and are rigid. They’re bigots and bad in bed, judgmental and irritating.

I have no time for men who reveal these things to me within a first date or two. That leaves me nothing to work with and why should I bother when there are men like Elliot just waiting their turn in the sun?

I walk around with an open heart and mind and see nothing wrong until I do. I don’t fabricate someone’s idiocy, but I’m entitled to recognize it and certainly allowed to reject it.

I don’t owe an idiot anything, but someone like Elliot deserves a lot.

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