Incest

I've alluded to yet another gym employee that I've started "hanging out" with, so I figured now would be as good a time as any to introduce you--dear blog reader--to George. (Again, not his real name, but appropriate given he's from Atlanta, Georgia.)

George is what Miss Independent would call a "bro," except his southern roots make him a little more than that. Adopted by the Western culture, he has several tattoos and piercings, drives a 4runner, and works as a bartender on Mill Avenue over the weekends. His teeth are as straight and white as they come, and his eyes are big and blue. Immediately Miss Ind. picked him out as my type, but the truth was his personality made that so.

After feeling used and abused by a lot of other penises, *cough* McClimber, Boulder, Alejandro, David, and others that still haven't made the blog, etc. *cough*, what I wanted more than anything was a guy who could be a friend: someone who would spend platonic time with me, enjoy it, and not need more. George may be defying the odds with his timing and conduct.

That southern part of him made all the difference I needed. He seemed perfectly content just talking with me, climbing with me, and hanging with me. He paid for my lunch before I even ordered, and was actually excited to experience karaoke with me when he discovered I was a fan. To top it off, when we had the WORST date ever--ever, he behaved like something out of a chick flick.

(Let's sum up that bad date by saying he held back my hair several times.)

I titled this post "Incest"--not as some rude, obscure criticism of his southern upbringing, nor as a reference to a morally reprehensible secret affair of his--but as a comment on my own habits within the rock-climbing community: George makes the fourth employee of this one rock-climbing gym to know my kiss. (For those of you keeping count, there is one employee I still have not mentioned--Red--for the simple fact that our date was back in September and was the only date we have had or will have. We remain friends.) Let me state for the record that I find this behavior to be both risky and excessive. As my brother would put it, "LT, don't tempt fate."

Incest is a bad idea, no matter to which context it belongs. My only safety is in each of their word to not tell anyone. I've made both Boulder and George promise not to share. Even McClimber has sworn to keep our first day of "friendship" confidential. They don't understand why, but they're content believing it's simply for basic privacy.

Who knows how long I have before the proverbial shit hits the fan? Especially if I continue spending time with them. (Did I mention Boulder and I have since met for lunch, exchanged countless sexts--i.e. 'sexual texts,' and fooled around a little just this last Monday afternoon?)

Ah, yes.

George was crazy enough to swear up and down that he had a blast on our karaoke fiasco of a drunken date, and actually agreed to another date! We cooked dinner together, watched the better part of the classic move Legend, kissed a little, drank zero alcohol, and passed out. He even dropped me off at the airport the next morning (dark and early), guarded my car for a week, and offered to pick me up when I returned. Did I mention he kissed me goodbye at the airport?

We also agreed upon our next date for after I came back home: tonight I'm having him over for dinner. It's my turn to cook since the Thai food was mostly his doing.

Still no idea what I'm making. God knows that could easily be another disaster...

Anyway, the point is George seems pretty healthy so far. McClimber, it turned out, was far more abusive than positive, so I have since stopped speaking with him completely, despite seeing him at the gym and having consistent nightmares and whatnot. Boulder wasn't actively destructive like McClimber, but my reason for keeping him around came to not much beyond boredom and loneliness. That wasn't fair to him or me. So, I have since told Boulder we are not hanging out anymore for a while... yes, a while at least. I'm pretty sure he didn't care.

And George? Now, at this moment, he is the only one there I am currently focusing on romantically, but the irony of all ironies is that I'm not interested in romance. I'm not interested in dating. I'm not interested in fooling around. I'm not interested in commitment.

So what the hell am I doing exactly?

The truth is I'm not crazy about George. I adore him, find him attractive, enjoy his company, think he's a fantastic catch, but... I'm not crazy about him. I'm not interested.

Or, maybe, I'm not interested in disappointment. I'm not interested in hurting. I'm not interested in losing time or energy or effort or faith. I'm not interested in being wrong, again, about someone.

I'm not interested in being interested.

I guess what I'm "doing exactly" is playing with fucking fire. I was right to stop talking with McClimber, and right to stop seeing Boulder, and now I must be careful with George. Incest can, after all, produce some hideous offspring. I must stay protected. Tread softly.

When you're 20-something you don't have much beyond your relationships and dreams.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams"
--W. B. Yeats

... Please... tread softly...

I'll keep you posted.

The Last Hurrah

Once McClimber and I decided officially that we were over for good, he expressed interest in maintaining a friendship.

"I'm going to need time," I said. Time to pretend you don't exist. Time to forget you. Time to fool around with other people. Time to move on. Because the time would come when McClimber would suddenly be spending an awful lot of time with another girl, and I needed to be the friend who had no problem with such a thing.

I'm not a glutton for punishment.

A month seemed like a generous amount of space for me to take, in my opinion, and it turned out Boulder jumped me up to ready-in-two-weeks. Two weeks of not seeing McClimber, talking to him, texting him, checking his facebook--nothing--and I felt I had successfully achieved "out of sight, out of mind." Ready for friendship.

So I contacted him.

We began talking and it seemed as though he was genuinely interested in being a friend. He asked what was happening in life and actually listened to the answers. It was easy to find stories to swap and laughs to share. So far, so good.

But then I saw him.

The gym is an unavoidable place for run-ins. McClimber was working out with his shirt off, as he often does, and it seemed he had lost another five pounds. The guy can't possibly get leaner. It didn't phase me at first.

He was hesitant around me. I wasn't sure why until I asked if he wanted to grab a smoothie with me after climbing.

"Yeah sure. Sounds good," he said.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Yeah." --cue long pause-- "I've been having lots of dreams about you."

ARGHHHH!!!!

Suddenly the change in his behavior made sense, and suddenly I felt it too--like someone had reached inside my chest, sped up my heart, and squeezed my lungs. Only feet away from the front of the gym--feet away from two other gym employees who had taken me out on a date, Boulder not included--and inches away from each other, shirtless McClimber confessed he was still extremely attracted to me. I still wanted to be friends and to hang out but... this was going to be a problem.

The end of the night came and I told McClimber I was ready for a smoothie. He agreed and went upstairs to get his shirt and shoes and stuff. I followed him, bored and hungry at this point, and then I saw Boulder upstairs too. He and I hadn't really spoken much since we hung out, and I assumed he was bored with me after satisfying some curiosity, but when I turned to leave with McClimber he called me back.

"Go say goodbye," McClimber said, as we both looked at Boulder waiting, his arms outstretched for me.

As Boulder and I pulled away from our hug he asked, "So when are we hanging out again?"

McClimber was too far away to hear.

"Whenever you'd like," I said. I mean it too. He wasn't bored with me yet after all...

Finally McClimber and I made it to the smoothie place and all of his facial expressions became familiar again: frustration being his favorite look. He rolled his eyes at me. Laughed to himself.

"What?!" I asked, finally.

He rolled his eyes again. "It's just... You're here giving me those looks of yours..."

Suddenly I realized he is frustrated--sexually frustrated.

"Are you dating anyone?" he asked, like it's any of his business.

"No. But I've gone on a couple dates, yes." Four dates in one week with four different men, to be exact. One of those men being Boulder, and a second man being another employee at the climbing gym. (I'm not proud--no judging.)

"Oh Tessie," he shook his head.

"You?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Nope. Just lots of climbing. I haven't had time for a girl."

If I said that didn't give me a huge sense of relief, I might be totally lying.

We left and I offered to drive him home rather than make him ride his bike. We got to his house and I decided to come inside, without his asking. We continued talking a little bit more and I lifted up the very bottom of my shirt to explain some story I was telling (don't ask what story--I certainly don't remember and I'm sure lifting my shirt was not actually a necessary part of the telling). McClimber rolled his eyes again and threw a look of exasperation my way.

"Tess, why are you showing me your stomach when you know I'm dying to kiss you?"

I pulled my shirt back down. He really wasn't kidding about being attracted to me.

I apologized and got to rambling about how excited I was that we were going to be friends. I told him all of the fun things we could do because we miraculously have a ton of interests in common. As I went on and on, he walked back to his room and started undressing because he was meeting up with a friend after I left. Time to get out of his gym clothes. I foolishly followed him and continued talking, and not even a minute later he stripped down to his boxer-briefs.

The hallway outside of his bedroom is narrow, and I was leaning against the wall opposite his door. He turned the light off in his room, so only the light from the kitchen barely illuminated the tight space we now occupied, and unabashedly pressed his boxers-only body against mine and the wall.

I froze.

Wow had I missed him.

He began kissing my neck. I still couldn't move. Trapped between him and the wall in this narrow hallway, and trapped between doing what I know is smart and giving in to the way it felt, I really couldn't move. But when he went to kiss my mouth, I pulled away.

What do I want??? What do I really want right now?

Have you ever had moments in your life when you ask yourself those questions? McClimber didn't want to date me, care for me, love me--he wanted to screw me. It's crass to say, but honest too. I knew that. I knew that then, frankly he told me so more or less, but the problem was I couldn't decide how important all that was. A part of me--a loud part--wanted to kiss him back anyway.

The Last Hurrah is a common, almost essential part of the dating process. It's the encounter post-break-up when you're still not sure if you don't want what you had. The allure is stronger, and the desire for familiarity is suddenly coated in the desire for the unattainable. What could be harder to resist than that?

Did McClimber and I resist the temptation for a final hurrah?

A good author never tells.

Keep you posted.

Waiting...

There's this fantasy I have: I'm attending a family dinner--dressed well, clean, potentially in heels and earrings--and the doorbell rings.

I've just been chatting with someone about my recent relationship, a lovely look of melancholy on my face, describing briefly how it ended merely a day or two ago. At the ring, I set down my wineglass and offer to see who could possibly be at the door. Heels click across the wood floor, laughter echoes behind me from the kitchen, and a small door lamp illuminates the familiar figure beyond the beveled leaded glass of the sidelight window. My breath catches in my throat and my chest tightens as I turn the handle and pull back the door.

There he is.

The now-ex stands with white knuckles around a bouquet of flowers and bags under his agape and waiting eyes. His free arm hangs at his side as though failing hope for another embrace drags it down. He hasn't fallen apart by any means, but something meaningful has happened to him.

I ask, "What are you doing here?"

"Here," he hands me the flowers, "These are for you."

"McClimber, what are you doing here?" I ask him again. He looks away, searching for words and courage.

I come outside and close the door behind me. The noises from my family inside cease, and night's twinkling silence takes its place. "Tess," he starts, "I've... I've been thinking... Listen, I don't want to go back to life without you in it."

I'm finally beginning to accept that he is in fact here, asking if I'll let him care for me again.

"I messed up," he continues, "I was scared. I don't want to be scared anymore." My eyes water as a wave of unimagined relief washes over me.

He came back.

This fantasy of mine, colorfully articulated for dramatic effect, is filled with details that change for every new failed relationship, but remains essentially the same nonetheless. The basic premise is always: girl gets left, girl begins to let go, boy comes back like the frickin' prodigal boyfriend.

I've become strong enough, finally, to give things a chance. I fight for a try--a real try--to create and nurture a connection between myself and another person. This is why I've been in so many damn relationships this year. The problem has been I am the only one willing to try. So, inevitably, I am left because the other has given up.

There was a time when I would have criticized this fantasy and called it a childish and disgustingly inappropriate desire, but these days I understand it with more compassion.

When I was a little girl my father left my mother for another woman. He left us. Sure he was there Wednesday nights and every other weekend, but he left. Do I blame my father or hold any of this against him? Hell no. Why would I? I love my life. BUT the fact still remains--one of the first things I learned as a little girl was how a man leaves.

Oh I know I'm getting all dramatic on you, but hear me out.

The thing is I developed this fantasy that one day one of those men who made a false promise would come back and hand over his white flag. I'm waiting for the guy who will stick around and grant me a sense of temporary permanence.

McClimber was my most recent relationship, and it was a flimsy one at best. We started at a sprint and burned out in a similar fashion without beginning to know each other. But there was potential. There were these little things he did that put him a couple notches above the rest--particularly Alejandro.

One night several weeks ago I felt the oncoming rush of senseless feminine emotional insanity. McClimber could tell I was angry, but didn't seem up for a conversation about it. More than anything he was frustrated, and even more frustrated that I couldn't talk to him about it. When he left me in the dark bedroom to go play video games with his roommates for a couple hours, my feelings of cheapness and vulnerability sky-rocketed. Suddenly the tears flowed like the Mississippi as I sobbed to my girlfriend about the indifference McClimber afforded me in the face of metaphoric and literal nakedness. Didn't he understand I was worth the effort he wasn't showing?

As I wiped my face with a roll of toilet paper, I thought this was surely the end. This was the same way Alejandro ended, and these were the same feelings. This was the point where my efforts weren't going to make any damn difference. This was when I had to face that McClimber didn't really give a shit.

Suddenly, in the middle of a loud irrational complaint, the door opened. From the light of the hallway he entered the room, closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed behind me. He wrapped his arms around me.

"I don't know what to do. I wish there was something I could do to make it better."

"You came back," I said in relieved disbelief.

And that was all I needed.

A few weeks later McClimber and I did in fact stop seeing each other, but that night was the first and last time I cried during our relationship. That simple, unexpected reassurance was in fact all I needed.

When we were officially said and done though, the doorbell didn't ring. No one came to the door with flowers and said "I need you." No one asked me to care for him again. No one said, "Hey Tess, I was scared--let's give it another try."

I said, "We're not seeing each other," and McClimber said "Let's take a step back." Then he ran for the door to never return.

That's the reality.

But is the fantasy so bad?

As long as I know it's a fantasy, and not the reality, I can understand something about myself I didn't before: I'm waiting to love someone.

McClimber wasn't the guy--and love was never part of the equation--but I guess it's possible someone will stick around. Someone will be ready. For some reason I am waiting for the man who will let me, simply, love him.

I can wait for that. It doesn't rule my life or consume my thoughts--it's merely a gentle breeze blowing through the back of my mind. So I'll keep on going and enjoying every day. There are always those men a girl can just have "fun" with too.

But when it comes to love, I'll be waiting...

Because life isn't about the ones that go, but about the ones that come back.

Out of the Blue

"Hmmm I think he's hot," Miss Independent said.

"Really?" I answered.

"Yeah. There's just something really attractive about him."

"... Well, ok, you can have him."

And that was how it all started.

McClimber didn't register anywhere on my radar when I first met him. He was just one of the roommates living with Miss Independent's Ex (mentioned in previous blog posts), and another climber at the rock climbing gym we regularly attended. The first time we met I didn't give him a second thought--it was the first time I was meeting the Ex, so that was clearly the more important issue. McClimber watched as Miss Ind. and I struggled with a particularly difficult ascent. When we asked for the beta (i.e. the most effective sequence of moves), he proceeded to tie himself in to demonstrate. Without skipping a beat, he approached the wall and began climbing. His phone rang. He answered it. Then he proceeded to finish the entire ascent while on the cellphone.

That was McClimber--this glasses-wearing, narrow-mouthed, dorky, freckled guy, who awkwardly and unapologetically flowed through life. He embraced his own self-effacing humor, periodically making fun of himself and others, and never seemed riled by anything: especially not a climb.

I didn't know much about him, but Miss Ind. kept in touch so I learned vicariously through her. He spoke and behaved as though he were climbing Casanova, and spouted ill-informed opinions wholeheartedly without hesitation. He was passionate with a laid-back disposition, and arrogant without overcompensating for insecurity. But the more important facts were that McClimber had a real thing for Miss Ind., and thought I was hot too.

One night, after a chat with Miss Ind. about her disappointing Ex, I saw McClimber was on Facebook and decided to send an instant message. Although he flirted with me, he did make clear that he thought Miss Ind. truly was different, and that he was different from most guys as well. He was looking for something real and was just nervous because he had his heart broken into a million pieces by his Ex... blah blah blah

Despite his personality quirks, I decided that perhaps he was sincere when it came to my girl. Perhaps this geeky guy had character and integrity somewhere beyond his funny walk and unintentionally baggy clothes.

Of course, the very next day, Miss Ind. informed me she was no longer interested in McClimber at all, but still completely and irrevocably in love with her Ex (still McClimber's roommate. *sigh*). That late-night and somewhat serious IM conversation between McClimber and I gave him the liberty to speak comfortably with me when Miss Ind. and I would run into him at the gym. He would ask why she didn't answer any of his texts anymore. He would ask if everything was alright.

I would make up an excuse, like a good friend does.

Time passed and Miss Ind.'s 20-something birthday came around. She and I went out for sushi and one drink, ended up bar hopping for four drinks, and embarked on a serious bout of drunkenness. Our last stop was an Irish Pub within walking distance of her house. Another drink in, she decided it was a great idea to invite her Ex, McClimber, and their other two roommates to come out with us. Four boys and us? Yup, sounds about right.

Only McClimber responded though: "The other guys are busy and I'm not sure I can either..." he texted. I asked Miss Ind. for his number--time for hot intervention.

"McClimber, you need to see 'friendly Tess' in action. Come out," I texted.

Thirty seconds later he sent Miss Ind. a text saying he was on his way.

Friendly Tess is, unfortunately, an appropriate nickname for my drunken alter-ego. I tend to do relatively inappropriate things in an inebriated or slightly inebriated state. Once McClimber got there, I didn't care that he struck me as goofy when we met--he was a man who found me attractive that Miss Ind. no longer wanted. That's all that mattered.

***Cue the things I'm not proud of... ***

It didn't take long for me to really catch his attention. (Grabbing a guy's thigh under the table is a good trick...)

ANYWAY, the skinny is that somehow Miss Ind. and I ended up at McClimber's place, where the Ex and the other two roommates were playing beer pong with the Ex's date (ouch!). I kept trying to tell Miss Ind. that I needed to leave ASAP, before I did anything stupid, and she was not listening/off in her own world. So I contacted a friend from work and asked him to pick me up.

As he and I texted, McClimber led me to the front door--conveniently the front door is protected from view by lots of greenery.

"What's your address?" I asked.

"Why?" McClimber said. "Are you asking someone to pick you up?"

"Yes."

He told me his address. "What are the cross-streets?" I asked. Now he had me up against the door.

"Farmer and University," he said. He leaned closer and kissed my neck. My eyes widened. I tried to concentrate and to text the cross-streets.

Then McClimber lifted his face toward mine and kissed my lips. Suddenly the muscles in my shoulders loosened and fell forward into his hands.

"Those aren't your cross-streets are they?" I asked, my heart pounding.

He chuckled, "How did you know?"

He kissed me again, then opened the door. Right around then, my guardian angel on the other side of the phone texted back, "I'm on my way."

As it turned out, McClimber's most redeemable physical qualities were the ones you wouldn't see right away. That freckled skin, for example, was addicting to the touch. His narrow mouth wasn't really all that narrow, it just seemed so because of his dramatic Johnny-Depp-esk cheek bones. Those tragic glasses were actually hiding a pair of the most incredible blue eyes with heavy lashes I had ever seen. And, to top it off, his unintentionally baggy clothes masked the climber's physique hidden beneath them.

"God I hope this isn't just because you're tipsy," he said. "I've liked you since that night we talked online. My god you're incredible..."

But my guardian angel did come...

McClimber walked me outside and kissed me goodbye. When I was getting ready to sleep later that night I thought about how surprised I was by everything. Even more surprising, I saw McClimber the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next... it was as though once he kissed me we couldn't stop.

McClimber was completely and totally out of the blue.

It's about damn time I had some fun.

Second Thoughts

Don't spit where you eat.

That's not exactly the saying, but it's close enough. This author update delves deep into the drama of a new job. Repressed sexual frustration finally surfaces and smothers itself all over unsuspecting coworkers... Damn.

Is the benefit worth the risk?

This is the question seldom asked when it's actually vital to do so. Your coworker is attractive, charming, slick, can sex you with his eyes, etc., and the farthest thoughts from your mind are the consequences. Yet you know that when co-workers date it almost always ends badly. You even have personal experience in this mistake.

One night off you and MidWest flirt with the idea of hanging out. But, luckily, you're exhausted and didn't drink tonight (despite the protests of others), so your judgment is relatively clear. You both decided it's too late to meet up, and Sleep is the responsible choice.

"You home yet?" he asks.

"JUST. Why?"

"Oh I was having second thoughts," he says.

Second thoughts... Second thoughts are where the trouble starts. No dating anyone at work, I decided. But those second thoughts invade my better judgment when MidWest wraps his arms around me or shyly confesses "You're sexy."

The best part is his hesitation: he still isn't sure he believes you like him. But you have to hide your nerves too--what if he doesn't really like you? You've been wrong before. It's impossible to know. And the biggest problem is assessing the real risks involved when you're so unsure of the benefits. What exactly does MidWest want? What exactly do you want?

Breathe. Time will tell.

Except when you spit where you eat you have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No room for poor decisions... Less room to breathe. Less time to make up your mind.

MidWest isn't your boss, he isn't dating anyone, and he specifically is not dating your boss's sister (tell you that story in the next blog). So... there he is, telling you he really wants to hang out, and hesitating... Hesitating...

It's those second thoughts. Damn second thoughts.

And when we're sitting inches from each other? Talking, hanging out, looking at each other, wondering...

That second before you make contact is your last chance; last chance for second thoughts. Because the moment you touch, the moment that line is crossed, you experience the only thing more dangerous than second thoughts:

No thoughts at all.

Keep you posted...

Truly Frightening

Cold cement below your feet is splattered with some unrecognizable dark liquid. You inch slowly forward, senses fully alert, palms holding a cold sweat, and heart pounding so loud you're sure the person next to you will hear. Something surely will jump out at you, might grab you, might scream, might pretend to threaten your life with a chainsaw or other torturous contraption. You just know it. You just know that when you take this next step it's there. It's there. It's coming. You close in on the corner. Waiting. Here it comes.

Here it comes...

AHHHHH!!

And that's when you jump toward the friend standing next to you, who convinced you to attend this haunted house in the first place. If you were moderately attracted to this "friend" before, now you're two seconds away from finding an even darker corner and ripping some clothes off. What is it about being terrified that arouses us? And what's the difference between sexy-scary and truly frightening?

Haunted Houses, scary movies, and even creepy carnivals make great dates for a reason. Just think of all the similarities between Scary and Sexy:
1.) sweating
2.) alert senses
3.) things that go bump in the night...
4.) blood rushing
5.) carnal, instinctual behavior
and the list goes on!
Heightened adrenaline encourages borderline insane behavior. Something about it is thrilling. Something about it is exciting. And something about it is distinctly erotic. (Iconic example: Vampires.) It's no wonder the Halloween costume trend has been somewhere between terrifying and scandalous. It's one day out of the year when propriety has no place. The tradition of dressing up is an excuse to indulge in an unapologetic expression of two of the most primal functions of human existence: procreation and death.

But when things are truly frightening it changes everything. You feel nauseous, despondent, and paralyzed. Not only do you feel the opposite of sexy in moments like these, but the thought of being touched is generally lost somewhere far, far away. In some extreme cases the thought of being touched aggravates the existing problem. So this begs the question: what is truly frightening? And what's the real difference?

Slasher movies mimic the sensation of fear, just as romantic movies mimic the sensation of love--but real love is far more than a sensation, just as real fear is more. Sexy-scary, or the sensation of fear, is as shallow as infatuation and lust. True fear (just like true love) isn't an emotion, but something much deeper. I suppose genuine fear is one of those sentiments that is both universal and extremely personal. It is at the core of who we are and who we want to be; this great obstacle binding us to somewhere on the wrong side of the finish line.

Halloween laughs at frightening things and evokes the sensation without any actual danger. Suddenly a "fun" holiday is born. But no one dresses up as Failure, or Loneliness, Isolation, or Brutal Violence and Pain. Indifference and Abandonment weren't popular costumes last I checked either. Things we truly fear, things that pull us far within ourselves and deplete our power are not as easy to laugh at or twist into something exciting.

But what if we could laugh at it all?

The only thing to fear is fear itself.

True fear is our worst enemy: an Achilles heel of the human race. But fear in and of itself is nothing. Nothing at all. Perhaps we should laugh at such a preposterous notion. Perhaps we would be better if we could realize reality contains only everything else.

In the meantime, we can revel in the tradition of converting "fear" into an active energy. Adrenaline pumping, awareness heightening, and heart pounding sensations are much more useful than paralytic self-abomination. Sexy-scary is a healthier habit. Ridiculous amounts of candy aside, Halloween in general may be healthier than we thought after all. It turns a light on in the dark, illuminates those creepy demons, and in the process eradicates darkness itself. Don't you see?

Bad things do happen, and we are better off being aware of them, but awareness does not have to mean fear. True fear produces nothing positive.

Sexy-scary, on the other hand, could mean a great make-out session with your Haunted House partner in a dark corner.

Just one word of advice with that one though: make sure whoever you feel up (or let feel you up) isn't wearing a mask. Now THAT could be truly frightening...

Another One Bites the Dust

It always amuses me that people think they have unlimited chances.

Haven't you heard Shakespeare's quote "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"???

Buck-up buckaroo--you're in for a rude awakening.

Yes, even a girl who suggests "friends with benefits" has standards. Recent events, in fact, have raised those standards through the roof. While you had a chance to get what you wanted, you blew it entirely and will never get it back. Doubt it? Try me.

Here's the gist of recent events:

Alejandro offered to be the "booty call." Only, when the call was made, he managed to be unavailable. After a couple attempts and waiting for rain in a drought, I made plans with David instead. (David is a previously mentioned self-proclaimed admirer of this author.) After spending some time with David, I realized I felt guilty.

Guilty? For what exactly?

Clearly Alejandro had no claim on me--he had made no attempt whatsoever to be with me--so why did I feel guilty for spending time with another man? Eventually I arrived at the conclusion that I had attempted to be with Alejandro and that I was still harboring hope for a commitment that did not (and would not) exist. This meant I also was no longer suited for the arrangement I had offered to Alejandro at that baseball game two weeks before. Clearly it is not my personality to embark on such care-free endeavors.

Pity.

So, driving home from David's, I decided Alejandro needed to either step up or step out.

What I discovered was that he was already gone.

That baseball game was the last time I saw him, and two days after David was the last time I heard from him (about a week ago). Looks like Alejandro wasn't interested in being with any part of me. Talk about a blow to your pride.

But then, adding salt on the wound, David disappeared as well. He had sworn up and down he was crazy for me before we hung out, but then after we did--and the chase was over--he disappeared. Normally David would be given a chance to pipe up and explain himself. Normally David would be given some time to grow some balls (something that I already know is quite difficult for him). Unfortunately, timing is everything. After Alejandro's disappearing act I only had about enough patience for one day of deaf ears.

So they're out.

And will they think they have a second chance? Or third? Just because I'm nice and forgiving and understanding? HA. Forgive--yes. Forget--never. They already had all the chances they earned. Plus some. It's time for me to move on and never look back.

Friends with Benefits?

I finally said yes to a date with Alejandro.

But that was six weeks ago. What's happened since then is a decent story, a bit of a mystery, and not something I'm interested in reporting here at the moment. Although, there is one aspect to my current Latino predicament worth considering morally, socially, and personally for a moment: the nature of meaningless sex.

One of my very best girlfriends, Miss Independent, has been engaging in "meaningless" sex with an ex boyfriend for a few weeks, since they were so good at it while they were together. It seemed to make sense to continue the enjoyable part of the relationship, once everything else had tumbled downhill.

This was the theory I applied to my own situation.

Alejandro and I did not work out due to timing. (Timing--i.e. I broke things off because he couldn't meet my needs, and he did not fight to stay in the relationship because of my neediness.) The first time we hung out post-split was just last week, 7th row at a baseball game, first base side. After the unexpectedly amazing blended margarita--generally speaking I'm an on-the-rocks gal--and after discussing our "timing" issue a little more thoroughly, I came to a solid conclusion about where things should go next.

"Well, just because we're not dating doesn't mean we have to stop having fun... I liked the fun... What do you think?" I offered. He was shocked.

True, I'm a self-respecting and demanding girl, so offering to have fun without dating was a bit of a shock, and certainly a first.

"Girls don't usually make offers like that," he said.

"I'm not most girls."

His body language completely changed. He leaned in and put a hand on my knee. "So, when are we going to start having this fun?" he asked.

"Whenever you'd like."

He laughed. "If it were up to me, I'd say let's leave now." (Alejandro, as it turns out, is not a big fan of baseball anyway.)

I kept my eyes on his, gave a half smile with one raised eyebrow, then threw my purse over my shoulder and stood up.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

Turns out our team lost the game anyway.

And that's how I took on my first ever no-strings romantic endeavor. There are rules to these types of arrangements though; five basic rules.

1.) Always use protection, no matter what.

You're not there to prove your loyalty or feign monogamy or increase intimacy. You're there for a purpose, and there is no reason to ignore the safety etiquette. It's a matter of respect from one human being to another.

2.) There is one need this other person satisfies, so don't call to satisfy any other need.

Need a shoulder to cry on? Someone to talk to? A date for a family or friend function? A ride? An extra jersey for Sunday's game-day celebration? CALL SOMEONE ELSE. If you are alright excluding this person from every other part of your life, then go ahead and make a "meaningless fun" pact.

3.) Date other people.

It is essential you separate this arrangement from your actual romantic life. Obviously, if things start to heat up with the other person you're dating, you need to boot your booty call. Don't let your booty call ever get in the way of a chance at the real thing. Ever. That's a baaaadddd sign. If your booty call is the one you want to share intimate dinners and deep dark secrets with, then I suggest you stop everything now. Because, let's face it, he's not gonna buy the Popsicle stand once you've supplied your frozen desserts for free.

4.) Shhhhhhh...

Want to maintain any sense of self-worth and dignity through this? I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I know what you're thinking, "But you're blogging about yours!" Yes, I run a huge risk of sacrificing my dignity with this public confession, but I hope to serve the greater good with what I've learned. (And, for the record, I never said Alejandro and I had sex.) The reason for secrecy's imperativeness comes down to the world of distortion you welcome with the inevitable judgements from others. Society isn't ready to accept this type of arrangement. As a nation, we're flat-out PRUDE. And, as a woman, you must be particularly careful because you are very likely to be reprimanded for this arrangement, while the man is more likely to be rewarded. There are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part we know how the Slut/Stud imperative works in this country. The last thing anyone needs is to feel like shit about him/herself, so shhhhhhh...

.

5.) Always be honest with yourself.

This is the ultimate rule of engaging in meaningless fun. You must never pretend things are really okay if they are not. The moment any of the above rules are broken you must get out. This arrangement lives on the edge of a perilous cliff, and you can't mess around with such things and expect no consequences. The reason these arrangements receive criticism stems from the participants' inability to follow this one final rule.

.

Miss Independent's situation breaks almost all of these rules despite her best efforts. She is stronger than most, but even she walked into a trap. Because of a recent, total breakdown from my independent friend (who never cries), I realized engaging in such an arrangement with Alejandro came with its unavoidable demise attached.

I don't have the connection or history with Alejandro that Miss Independent has with her ex. For her, the waters were so murky it hurt. (A lot.) Currently I'm enjoying the Latino Lover in my back pocket, but if you play in the waters long enough they too get murky, no matter how clear they were to start.

As Jordin Sparks appropriately said, "Why does Love have to be like a battlefield?... You better go and get your armor." On a battlefield, one must remember: know thy enemy, and know thyself. For me this means I have to recognize I will almost inevitably develop feelings for Alejandro if things continue. Sure I'm safe now, but my enemy in this case is my desire to care and my desire to love. Therefore I must prepare my armor: self-awareness and self-preservation. When things begin to get deep, I must get out. No exceptions. It's all any of us can do.

He decided we were friends, which adds a complicated layer to the supposed fun-only relationship. Does that make us friends with benefits? Ugh, what an ugly term. And, if so, is it really a benefit?

Only if you've got your armor.

Because, if you want more, and you're not suited up, you'll be singing a different tune--try Leona Lewis's "Bleeding Love."

And, please, don't forget it.

Nana Na Na, Nana Na Na, Hey Hey Hey...

One question has been relentlessly on my mind: When is it the time to drop a guy, and when do you give him another chance to come around? My intuition--and He's Just Not That Into You experience--tells me you simply don't give a guy a second chance. If he really wants one, then he won't need it in the first place. Guys don't do "noble" things like back off if a friend is interested in you too, or hesitate if they're not sure you reciprocate. Men are simple: if he likes you, he'll go for it. If he doesn't go for it, he doesn't like you.

This is the rule.

The thing is, there are exceptions to every rule.

Have I encountered such an exception? Probably not. Except every time I begin to explain the situation to a man he says, "Yeah well, Tess, it's his brother." Does this mean there is actually a code of honor among men I have to take into consideration before dropping them both and moving on? Which brings me back to my original question: when do you let go, and when should you stick with it little longer?

David cancelled on me virtually last minute last night do to "family stuff." Somehow I managed to not care very much. The night was instead spent with potato chips, gummie candies, television flipping between Erin Brockovich and Wanted, and a self-imposed 9:00 bed time. It worked for me.

David, technically, has cancelled on me a few times now. He's the perpetual empty threat. He'll swear up and down he wants to see me, but then back out when I actually give him a shot. I can't read his mind and I don't feel like trying. There's frankly too much mystery surrounding it all for me to be interested in investing. Therefore, dropping him makes the most sense. BUT, since I'm not invested, I'm also not at risk of being hurt at all by not dropping him. So, does this mean I keep my options open in case he finally decides to bite the bullet?

Alejandro, on the other hand, is a lot less ambiguous than David. He asked again "what are you doing tonight?"--a third invitation from him. That's impressive. Again, out of respect for my girlfriend, I didn't commit to anything. But, in a moment of weakness, mentioned I'd be free on Friday. At least that way it buys me enough time to really figure out what I'm going to do about him. He is the only one living up to the "rule" in a positive way anyway...

The pub brothers, Rugby and Jimmy, are a whole different problem. I gave Rugby a chance after Jimmy and I decided to be friends, and he blew it. Or, perhaps, he wasn't interested in taking the chance I gave him. So that's that, right? And, because they're brothers, I drop them both? Give up? Take the likely hint and be done? (Why do I frown when I think of walking away this time?)

There is no sense worrying about it now though. I'll see them tonight, and report back tomorrow. I can only deal with a reality, not my foolish hypothetical scenarios.

The point is, it's difficult to accept the rule, and even more difficult to identify the exception. Once we can do both, perhaps we'll be masters of love. In the meantime, we're bumbling idiots who are simply hoping to get lucky (no pun intended?).

Wish me luck then.

I'll keep you posted...