Why am I lucky?
For the past few years of dating, I have not been stood up once. I've been a lot more picky about who I set up dates with, and the result has been a lot more quality and a lot less headache.
One dude snuck in under the radar though, which sucks ass, and not in a good way.
C is the guy I've been seeing for about a month now. It's been super casual. In fact, so casual that its very nature is why this entry merited the MOMAD label. He was my fuck buddy. In fact, on our first date, what started out as a 1 pm lunch date turned into me not getting home until the next morning.
Whew. Hormones.
So basically we just meet at "our" hotel these days and keep things casual. He knows I'm still dating other guys (FYI -- dating around is not sleeping around. I do one guy at a time thank you very fucking much), and seemed cool being friends with benefits.
Fast forward to now. What was supposed to be a night of hot post-Christmas sex has turned intome sitting at Starbucks the day after Christmas, pissed off.
Here's how it went down:
I hadn't heard from him since Friday, so I went to double check with him that we were still on for today. I got a reply to my text that read, "How r u looking 4". Odd. He and I are the type to obnoxiously spell everything out. After that, I sent one more text and didn't get a reply.
Like a moron, I still went. I showed up and asked the front desk man if C had made the reservation he said he would.
No reservation.
I sat down in the lobby and called C, left a voicemail. Checked my email. Checked my texts.
Nada.
I left him an email, a real simple job. Something along the lines of "I made it, and am waiting in the lobby. I plan on leaving at 6 if I don't hear from you before then".
That could be read as pretty bitchy, but I don't particularly care. I spent too many years being nice and accommodating to the douche nozzles I dated. Fuck that noise. Fuck it with a rusty foot-long railroad spike. In the ass.
I waited until 10 to six, by that time having spent just shy of an hour in the lobby. The front desk man was morbidly curious, coming by to check on the poor just-stood-up chick sitting in the lobby fucking around on her phone.
Dressed up? Check.
Nice hotel? Check.
Playing Sudoku on my phone? Well, that wasn't how I envisioned my night going.
I went down to my car, threw on a pair of sneakers and changed my nice blouse for a t-shirt. I bundled up (it's fucking cold) and got in my car. As I pulled out of the hotel driveway, I swear to God I saw his car parked just down the street.
Ever the fucking optimist, I actually turned around and went back to the hotel to see if maybe I'd somehow missed connections. The doorman looked down on me with all the pity he could muster and informed me no one had come in.
I left again, pissed off. Then I found a Starbucks. Now you're all caught up.
Oh! I almost forgot...when I left the second time, the car that I thought was his was gone. No clue.
I'm a fucking idiot. I knew what I was getting into up front, and I'm glad that the crazy switch was flipped before this went on too much longer.
The dude told me on our second date that he was bi-polar. Not only did he tell me that, he disappeared for about a week at the beginning of December, telling me he'd had a "bad period" and that his paranoia had been in overdrive.
From the moment that little over-share hit my ears, my gut was screaming RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!1!1!111111!
My vagina, slut that she is, overrode my head and said, "but crazy sex is fucking awesome sex!"
My head responded with, "yeah, but we've been the crazy sex route before. After awhile, all that's left is the crazy."
And my vagina responded with, "shut up, for real. You know we haven't been laid in a long time. Do this for me. Please? Please?! PLEASE? OHMYGODPLEASEHE'SSOHOTANDIWANTHIM! Please?"
And my head, ironically the pussy in this little skit, caved.
I fucked him every which way to Sunday. I saw, I conquered, and man I fucking CAME.
Boo on the crazy. Boo, I say.
Imagine me in Starbucks, wagging my finger in admonition at my vagina.
"You don't get to make decisions for us anymore, 'Gina," I'm telling her. "If you pull this crap again, we're becoming a nun."
That ought to teach my whore of a vagina.
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