Sex & The Twin City

Remember when I mentioned that there is no room for harboring jealousy? I had a couple beers with a girlfriend from out of town on Saturday. After about three hours of heavy talking, she had convinced me of Britton.

“A guy doesn’t just ‘come back’without a good reason,” she told me. “And based on the numerous dates and chemistry, it’s obvious where he’s planning on going.”

Perhaps she’s right.

“So then tell him,” she went on, “something like, ‘hey, I think I could consider being serious with you.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“He will look at me with a blank face,” I said with a laugh. “We’re talking about dudes here, not girls. Girls would get that saying something like that should have a response. You can’t expect so much with guys.”

“No, he will.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you’ll have given him some warmth from your cold heart.”

It’s a lot to take it, I thought, especially seeing as this conversation wouldn’t happen for another week or so at the very earliest.

I got home from a birthday party that evening for another friend. I sat in the car and, having deactivated my Facebook account, had no real way of reminiscing over his photos.

Maybe it was the margaritas. Maybe it was the apparent loneliness you feel at 10pm on a Saturday in the middle of the woods.

“I miss your face,” I sent him over SnapChat.

After no response, and not really caring to do the math as to what time it was there--he was probably out touring anyway--I went to sleep.

That night, I woke up three different times and looked at my phone for notification on the home screen of his response. Nothing.

When I finally got up on Sunday, I had a Snap from another friend. His response was sitting underneath hers, waiting. He had sent it right as I was going to bed.

“Haha. Yeah? How was your week?”

Not what I was looking for.

We didn’t talk much, but that was okay. I needed to move on anyway and add a few bricks to the walls around me while I was at it.

I got a text:

“I’m excited to tell you all of my stories when I get back.”

I didn’t think anything of it. Instead, I snapped a scene from Downton Abbey giving a nod to Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies.

He responded: “Downton Abby, huh?”

I laughed. Of all the guys, Britton is a guy’s guy. He’s the kind who would have been the nice, funny guy in a fraternity. And maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, but he could play the part.

“How’d you know?”

“I watched it until the 4th season. It’s an interesting show, I have to admit.”

“I’m trying to finish it off so I can move on to other shows. I considered watching Star Wars while you were away so I wouldn’t be the worst person ever anymore, but then I thought, ‘What’s the fun in that?’”

“What do you think about watching Star Wars on Saturday if I won’t be in family hot water?”

“I think that sounds lovely. I’ll be sure to bring my pocket protectors and head gear.”

“And I’ll be sure to not bring out my card collection. We’ll just watch the movie.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’ve a card collection? I’m about 87% positive you’re nerdier than I am, and it’s starting to feel like a competition.”

After a little more banter, he sent me texts of his swank hotel room for the last two days... with a giant tub.

“That tub though!”

“I know, right?!”

At this point, I hope he has time to enjoy that and let me know how it goes.

So maybe the beer-drinking girlfriend was right. I’d of been the last lady he saw before his trip and the first to see him after. If that doesn’t mean something, I’m a bad judge of dating.

If girlfriends are some of the most important people in a female’s life, then listening has to be one of the biggest pieces to these relationships.

It’s comedic how little people listen to women. It’s quite literally the butt of a number of jokes. But this isn’t about this feminist cause. Rather, it’s a blog about dating and here lately, ears have become a big component.

###

Caleb and I went on our first date three weeks ago today. I had walked to a nearby pub for drinks with plans on being home no later than 8:45pm. He had told me that there was a game he wanted to watch that started at 8:30, so he would need to leave prior to that. That gave us almost two hours, and really, who wants to go on a first date much longer than that?

The conversation poured (not just flowed). It was like meeting a long-lost friend after three years on a deserted island in the Pacific; it was as if good conversation prior was a ghost recollection of something or another.

Patio patrons had mostly left in groups leaving us alone with a waitress watching over us. I glanced at the clock: 11:11pm.

It was time to get home.

He drove me back to my car a handful of blocks away and again, we sat and talked. Music, friends, stories, books. We were creating a world of beauty and peace in his new truck where the only thing flat was the basketball at my feet.

He went for a kiss. What started off sweet and innocent ended as a passionate force. Yet, oddly enough, it wouldn’t take much--a new conversation starter--and his ear nibbling would be interrupted by further conversation.

It started in March, really, when I got back from visiting Ransom in Virginia. I had received a phone call from my boss while on vacation informing me that one of my close clients had suffered a stroke and was in a medically-induced coma without a good prognosis.

By the time I had arrived home, the funeral was the following day. I spent much of the afternoon in weird moments of disbelief and sadness. It was a Thursday--girls night. I met Sookie at a local, upscale Asian restaurant for comfort food. Our waiter came over and we ordered wine, lots of wine. He asked the occasion. I was short with him-”One of my clients just died suddenly.”

I don’t remember his response. I’m sure my rebuttal wasn’t polite. After all, I was exhausted.

Sookie and I would continue to go to this restaurant monthly and sure enough, this same guy would be there to take our order. He was cute, I thought. But he was also young. Had to be. After all, he was a waiter.

About a month ago, I was having a bad day at work, and to make it up to me, Case offered for us to go over to the Asian restaurant (after all, it’s one of my favorites). Excitedly, I agreed. You’ll never guess who our waiter was, however, this time, he was a bit cold.

Three days later (yes, days), one of my close friends wanted to go over to the restaurant for a lady date. She made reservations, and when I arrived, I realized that sure enough, he was our waiter. We had a few glasses of wine when she called me out for my flirtation.

“He’s cute,” I told her.

“Then give him your number.” I don’t do that, I explained. “Then I will.”

A few minutes later, we were out the door in a cloud of giggles.

“Whiskey sour, please,” she said with a quick smile that was met with a nod. She hoisted herself up in the tall bar seat that faced numerous shelves of libations mixed with trinkets and what nots usually of the owl variety.

Upon glancing around, there wasn’t anyone around that she knew or who piqued her interest. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you have a tab?”

“Oh, no. Just this,” she said fumbling around her wallet for her credit card and handing it to the bartender, smiled.

She looked down at the cherry and orange garnish, using the straw to stir before taking a sip.

The breath on her neck and ear came first, familiar.

“Look who I found,” he said. “Drinking her...” A pause. “Whiskey sour, I presume.”

“Seth.”

“You know I prefer another name.”

She took another drink. The breath was hot causing the smallest of hairs to dance in unison with his exhales. She shook her head.

“Not anymore,” she said matter of fact and continued her gaze straight ahead.

“Come now, be a good girl,” he said, placing his arm around her.

She cradled the cup with both hands and watched out of the corner of her eyes as couples began to leave the bar. Pinball songs played underneath the sound of Radiohead bleeding from the speakers. Another taste of sweet alcohol.

“You don’t have that control anymore.”

His hand moved to her chair back as he leaned back. She took another drink and slowly swung her legs, crossed, to face him. He smirked.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Where have you been?” He looked blankly at her. “You’re not strong enough to tame this free spirit. And we were fooling each other to think you could.”

“Work has been crazy with this whole political doubling down.”

She shook her head. “It will always be busy. There will always be something, Seth. We’ve talked about balance. And now I need to find someone who can stand the call.”

She took down the last few gulps of her cocktail, placed the empty glass on the bar, and rose to leave. He stood against her and bent down, whispering in her ear.

“One more time. I’ll make it up to you if you’re a good girl,” he said and kissed her ear.

“I think I’ve learned anything you could possibly show me. And those baby blues and smooth voice won’t help you now.”

Ransom: Did you see the newest GoT yet?

Ransom: Such a wicked little show ;)

6.57am

Me: Not yet. Don't tell me. I'm hoping to tomorrow. Why wicked? Are you spoiling it for me?!

8.21am

Ransom: Just watch it. ;)

Me: You and your winky faces.

Ransom: I'm playful and mysterious.

Dating Rule #11: Allow silence. Silence can be a good thing.

I’ve been a fan of the “silence is golden” mantra for a while now. We like the thrill of the chase as human beings. This may be because our imaginations tend to be wilder than reality.

It’s no wonder, then, that when I grow quiet, the more attention I receive from *most* men. There are a select few who get antsy, upset… Unsure of themselves. They are too worried of ego to get past it. And there are others who are far too busy to bother. Fair enough.

But *most* try to figure out what’s wrong.

That happened to me over the last few days.

I hadn’t bothered to text Britton since the fling last Tuesday. Really, I was much too busy and it wasn’t great—the sex I mean. The back and forth afterwards was nothing short of lovely though.

I wasn’t thinking of seeing him again. I was going to let things fade out—I’m pretty good at that.

And then, a text. I don’t tend to text first unless I’m looking for something or I’m super interested. Silence helps solidify mystery and intrigue.

Silence is golden.

But responses are respectful.

We set up a time to hang out at his place a bit this evening. I suppose if it’s not great then, it’s time to move on.

Dating Rule #10: Regret nothing. Everything is either a lesson or an experience. Or both.

This weekend was spent moving—always an emotional time for me as I leave behind all of my memories from so many amazing points in my life. I’m staying in the vicinity, but leaving my townhouse behind.

There are so many amazing memories. Like the day I met Ransom when we went back to my then new townhouse to talk, make out. Or the times when I would binge watch television from my computer with the fireplace going.

Cuddles on the couch with so many different important people in my life.

How many times I’ve had sex on that couch…

Regardless, it’s time to move on. Onwards and upwards and all of that.

I was going to have Sookie help me on Saturday afternoon but my emotions couldn’t handle the packing process. It was too much. I sat around and sulked as the ghosts of fonder times danced around me.

Sunday, I knew I needed someone who would keep me focused, someone who would help and make it a little less difficult. Bring on Case, the ex-counselor. If anyone could keep me calm, I thought he could.

He comes over at about 9:30 that morning. I’m already emotionally exhausted and I’ve not even really started. I’ve been walking on eggshells—I’m scared of forgetting things.

Case mentioned it first after my second or third time in tears.

“I know I’m just getting to know you but, are you scared of leaving here because you’re afraid without the trigger of this place, you’ll forget the memories you’ve had?”

I looked at him, sniffling, before breaking down again.

I’ve always been told that my memory is terrible. It’s something I have just accepted at this point, and writing as my memory.

“You have to accept,” he went on, “that you’re going to forget things, and that it’s okay. When you do remember, though, think of how sweeter that’s going to be for you.”

I worry about the times where that important events have zero recollection in my mind. People who were once supposedly big in my life have been entirely wiped out.

I stopped crying banking on memories that I will never forget—a house I’ll never lose—being in my future. If sweet memories fail to be made, I’ll be all but devastated.

He met my brother and father yesterday evening as we dropped off most of my belongings. I was giving him the talk I’ve given so many before him when he stopped me.

“Do you want them to like me or hate me?” I laughed.

“It would make it easier if they like you,” I said.

“Done.”

Sure. Okay, whatever. After a little over an hour, I watched his accent, demeanor, everything switch to mimic that of my family. It was absolutely… Fascinating.

When we were on our way to dinner afterwards, he spit out the old accent and became the guy I knew again.

Dinner was lovely—sushi and deep conversation about the meaning of commitment and what it’s like to be over-committed. Is it just as bad as a fear of commitment?

By the time we got back to my old, barren townhouse it was after 8:30pm. We sat and talked, as we have so often before, on the ragged couch. He came over, kissed me soft and sweet. We went up the stairs to my bedroom littered with empty clothes hangers and picture frames from long ago on the floor.

He wanted to show me something—a talent. In my head, I thought, “Sure, that’s what they all say.”

Seven or ten minutes later, I laid in a ball of bliss, him rubbing my back, with a very sore thumb.

“What happened to my thumb?” I couldn’t remember.

“You must have hit it on the side table or bed rail… Did you break it?”

It felt similar to a break but I couldn’t tell. The endorphins were too much for me then. He asked if I needed ice. I didn’t know. So he kissed it sweetly and inspected it thoroughly before we went to sleep.

It’s not broken—definitely bruised—perhaps to the bone. At least I won’t be needing a cast and a good excuse (because receiving literally the best oral in the whole world isn’t a valid excuse in this society).

I woke up happy. I got ready with him beside me happy. I drove to work happy. I sat down at my desk happy.

I logged onto Facebook happy. Until I saw Ransom.

Fuck. Ransom.

He wouldn’t be upset with me. We’re not together. But I swore to myself that these “distractions” wouldn’t be emotional or mental. They’re physical needs. Nothing more, I told myself.

And here I am telling a (married) man how much I like him, even proposing to him as a second wife in his non-Mormon life in my stupor.

What am I doing? Unhappiness.

Am I cheating on the feelings, the deep yearning, I have for Ransom?

Or was the ex right on Friday night: perhaps these feelings don’t come from a place of desire but of a place of stubborn commitment.

“You don’t have to do something just because you once said you would, he said.” He was right. And though I felt relief that night, now all I feel is… guilt.

And that was never, ever a part of the plan.

So here goes backing myself up from a potentially healthy relationship in fear of ruining (or ceasing?) feelings for Ransom.

Welcome to my wild ride.

Dating Rule #9: Never get your hopes up (unless you’ve heard actual reciprocation—and not just thought).

Case had been telling me over and over again how one day when life is a little calmer on my end, we would be together. He meant to say that one day I’ll spend more than once a week with him.

Yesterday was the designated day in which he came over to talk. I enjoy our talks. They last forever and tend to do more than scratch the surface of our daily lives. It’s not something you see often.

As we sat on the couch, me without a drink (which is odd these days), I leaned over and kissed him—he never initiates, he told me. He doesn’t want to over step a boundary, set off a trigger that I didn’t know existed.

Unfortunately, he’s not the greatest kisser. He hesitates, holds back, which lends itself to a little awkwardness. Everything else though—not too bad.

We made out on the couch for a good hour or two, not even removing any clothes (unless you count shoes, a coat, and a bra). And his hands and arms were gentle but firm. He paid attention to detail. And he listened, which, if you don’t know already, is the biggest turn on in all the land.

I hesitated to let him leave, and if it weren’t a work night, I probably wouldn’t have.

A day that was riddled with depression and anxiety was calm. His spirit grants me such.

I woke up this morning alone and inspired. The cloud of depression is but a vapor today.

There is a small music festival going on late next month that includes numerous bands that Ransom and I listened to, post lyrics of, and talk about: Better than Ezra, Gin Blossoms, O.A.R to name a few. I’m pretty sure at this point I’ll be going alone not by force but because I would only want to go with a girlfriend.

Did I mention Sookie bailed on me for Dave Matthews in Charlotte on one of those days?

Regardless, I decided to be straightforwarded. I texted Ransom: You should go with me, accompanied by a link.

“I should.” He said. But he couldn’t. He was working that weekend.

“Don’t you have nurses to cover for you in instances such as these?”

Nothing.

And then.

“That’d be nice.”

It’s a rule that I have a hard time following with Ransom. So many others I keep my emotions in check—it takes me a long time to build something like that up. But a single three-word text can cause stories to conjure in my head and emotions to flood in my blood stream all over again.

Dating Advice #8: When you respect yourself, others will fall in line.

As women, we’re taught from a very early age to be submissive, to trust the man (in hetero relationships), and to keep our mouths shut.

Ah, misogyny.

I got a text this morning from Seth testing the waters: “Good morning!” I took a breather. I didn’t want to be passive aggressive, but he needed to know that his behavior was not allowed with me.

“Good morning” I sent about 10 minutes later.

He knew that I wasn’t happy with him. And he showed it.

Finally an apology. Many of them, in fact. I told him that he should have let me know earlier. He responded with not wanting to disappoint. His not letting me know disappointed me further.

“If you would have told me earlier, I could have moved things around. Now we will not see one another for at least a week if not longer,” I told him. He apologized again.

“If it ever happens again, I’ll let you know earlier,” he said.

That’s what I wanted. An apology with a note to self to not pull shit like that again.

Respect yourself. And others will respect you for it.

And, on a good note, he took responsibility and I didn’t have to give him the dreaded, “This isn’t going to work out,” conversation. But he knew it was a close call.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it. Very much.”

Dating Rule #7: Above all else, have respect in yourself.

Yesterday evening had me going to Greensboro for an errand out of which I ended up feeling myself slump into another bout of depression.

After Christmas with Ransom, these swings have become far more frequent and deeper than before. I can feel them coming on and regardless of how quickly or slowly, there isn’t any way of stopping them.

I don’t blame him. I think he broke the ice castle I’d surrounded myself in and then, as should anyone who is working to become a MD, he left. I’ve had to learn how to cope without the glass protection.

Regardless, driving down I-40 home, I knew it was coming on. The slow slide started with a simple turning down of the volume on my favorite Pandora station quickly followed by my desire to sing along waning.

I’d be okay though, I told myself. After all, Seth is coming over when I get home around 7pm and I anticipate a fun time.

When I arrived, I sent him a quick text to let him know I was home. He sent something flirty back. I responded with equal vigor but I knew, he wasn’t coming over.

You see, Seth works in the non-profit sector of news. It had been a long month of fundraising and now, thankfully, it was over. But it wasn’t. Now came the post-mortem rituals and responsibilities.

I learned this all on a voicemail when I woke up at 1:30am that he had left at 9:30pm, shortly after I had determined that sleeping would feel better than staying awake to fight my depressed demons.

He had just gotten off work. He could come over if I wanted. Call or text him back and let him know.

I appreciated the gesture—to call and let me know that he was still available despite the hour. But I wouldn’t be honest if I would have said I didn’t care.

I cared a lot. Not because of him, per se. The truth is, Ransom has my heart. The rest are all distractions including Seth.

What made me care what his clear disrespect for me, for my time. When it came to him and his time, he needed me to understand that things are difficult for him at work, that he’s busy and can’t see me all the time. Fair enough. I get it. I have others.

But how dare he tell me that he will be coming over and then just… Not. Not show up, not call to let me know, not text to say that work has gotten crazy. I could have manipulated my schedule around if I had known earlier—like yesterday morning—that things weren’t going as planned.

And the whole anticipated excuse that he didn’t know or didn’t have time? I call bullshit.

So, as I laid in bed last night after listening to the 15 excuses he had lined up perfectly in my voicemail, I decided one of two things (if not both) need to happen. First, he needs a lesson in etiquette. Secondly, I’m over it, we’re done.

I respect other people and their time. I expect the same from others of mine. If you let someone, anyone, tear away at your self-respect, you’re not doing yourself or anyone else a favor.

Dating Rule #6: Don’t expect anything.

I’ve gotten used to going out every day, trying my hand at being some semblance of extroverted. To be honest, it’s fun.

It was no surprise that when my weekly friend-date canceled last night, I’d contact someone who would be available—Britton.

After a handful of texts, we’d agreed to meet at his house before heading over to our second (and not so painful) round of trivia and beers.

I arrived pretty excited (seeing as the day consisted of editing, reworking, and a sexual harassment situation over lunch). He asked me about it. I was brief and he seemed caring. We sat there awkwardly. Something had to give—this was getting ridiculous.

The thing is, I’m not used to people not talking around me. I’m a good listener and skilled at putting people at ease (I was a journalist in a former life). So what was it about Britton that caused him to freeze around me?

Whatever, I thought, I’ll just make out with him.

I leaned over and kissed him. And then climbed on his lap and kissed him more. A handful of minutes passed—I was growing bored with the lack of… Buildup? Is that even a thing? Apparently.

Just when I was about to give up, head home, and forget all about this one, he surprised me, threw me across the couch and gave me the buildup I wanted. Until it died again. Too long? Probably.

So he asked if we should move to the bedroom. It was stll sunny out—a different kind of fling, for sure. Before we moved, he wanted to be open about one thing: “I’m not ready to be exclusive with you.”

“Good,” I said. “But I practice safely.”

“Done.”

And with that he carried me to the back (which I totally found charming as shit).

As much as I wanted it to be good, it wasn’t. In fact, it wasn’t good at all. I’d imagined girls who would lay there, as my buddies would tell me, and not do anything. Though he did something, it was all lackluster. I was over it after 10 minutes. Maybe less.

He’s a good looking guy. I expected more. And I was wrong. Bummer.

Dating Rule #5: Say what you mean when you mean it. Don’t say what you don’t mean when you don’t mean it. And don’t just say nothing at all.

Ransom... I saved his introduction for last because, of all the ones I’ve met, dated, had sex with, teased, ghosted, and so forth, Ransom is the one who I can’t ever seem to totally disconnect myself from.

In fear of creating a post much too long, I shall try to keep our story short.

We met on a whim--he was in town from medical school in another state and had contacted my cousin to hang out as all of his friends were no longer in the area. She obliged, invited him, me, and Sookie out to a wine festival in the area.

“Alcohol?” I asked. “Yea, I’m there.”

When I first saw Ransom, I thought, “Not interested.” Sookie agreed. He wasn’t my type. 

(For the record, if I ever had a type, it would include a beard, glasses, nice arms, and a sense of ruggedness.)

Ransom had none of this. But what he lacked in physical manliness, he gained in personality. After driving for about 10 minutes, he turned to my cousin, both sitting in the backseat, to say, “So, is this the cousin you’re trying to hook me up with?”

It was a friendship destined to happen.

Not 50 feet from the entrance of the festival, we found a lovely shady area with a decent winery just in front of us. My cousin proceeded to purchase a case of their dry, red variety and we all proceeded to drink. Sookie went to work sober and we drank enough for her.

By the time the festival was over, we were hammered, without a car, and sucking face (and probably dry humping) all the while my cousin sat pickled and laughing at us two in victory.

We managed to find someone to come get us and take us back to my house where my cousin proceeded to sleep on the couch while we went upstairs to make out and nap--I had self-respect!--before meeting Sookie at the bar that evening.

I was in love immediately.

He wasn’t up for long distance... Or a relationship for that matter while in medical school. I didn’t blame him.

And after a summer of hanging out, pizza runs, sex, and sweet moments of intimacy, he went back to school and I went back to dating around.

A couple boyfriends and friends with benefits later, he met someone. I was happy for him. She was beautiful and in his field. He had moved to the beaches of Virginia for residency and he seemed happy. And really, when you love someone, that’s all you ever really want, right?

We texted periodically. Last summer I was concerned with my then boyfriend. Our sex life had all but dried up and I was convinced I was asexual.

“You’re definitely not asexual,” he said. “I’ve first hand experience in that. It may be that you’re in a relationship with someone you’re not supposed to be with.”

We talked candidly. After all, if anyone would know, it would be him. After all, he’s a doctor.

Off and on I asked him relationship advice. He would come back with something nice and sweet. Until he dropped the bombshell:

“She broke up with me.” “When?” “January.”

Nine months or more prior.

“When are you coming into town?” said the girl with a boyfriend she never had sex with.

“Christmas.”

“I hope to see you then.”

Platonic. Until my ex and I had a discussion. I needed to put out or we needed to open up the relationship. We went with the latter.

Christmas came and with it, Ransom. He came in with a smile and a cheerful disposition I’m drawn to. He hugged me and I crumbled. The issues I’d had with my ex (who wasn’t an ex just yet) fell to our feet.

He was right. I was with the wrong person.

We went to a field to look up at the moon and the ring around it. We talked, held each other, and breathed. We went home and played board games. And before we knew it, we were showering together and making out naked on my bed like we had first met.

I didn’t want to have sex. I wasn’t ready. It would mean something and I didn’t want anything to mean something.

“If you don’t want to, I understand,” he said. “But know that I want to.”

“If I do, I’ll want more from you than you would be willing to give.”

He said nothing. It was, after all, my choice. And we did.

It was incredible. As always.

And it solidified in me the concept of “The One,” if there ever was such a thing.

He left that night and was back in Virginia before I had lunch. I never mentioned any of this to him. Instead, I opted for insomnia (~20 hours accumulative over the course of January and half of February) and almost losing my job.

But I would see him in March. And I would tell him everything. And that would be it! It would be incredible.

March came with Sookie running her first half marathon. I asked Ransom if I could stay with him (since it was about 30 minutes out) and save on the hotel. He obliged and away I went, hopeful and in love.

In the course of five days, we had managed to make one another sore from the amount of sex we had. And as we lay on the couch Sunday afternoon naked, he on my chest, I tried as best I could to tell him how I felt.

“I hope you come home.”

“Home?... Oh, like to Winston?”

“Yea.”

“I’m not coming home,” he said with a laugh. “There’s nothing for me there... Oh,” he said as he squeezed me concerned. “Don’t take that personally.”

Too late. I was having a hard time catching my breath.

“Are you mad at me?”

I shook my head no. I wasn’t. Not yet. At the moment I was confused about what I had done wrong and how to move forward from here. After all, I was naked.

I cried when he left for work. I swore I wouldn’t ever allow myself to get back to where I was in that moment again. I’d wall myself up and allow no one in.

But I had to try one more time.

A few mornings later, I was packing my things as he slept. I considered leaving without saying goodbye and never speaking to him again out of pure embarrassment. He came out as I was finishing up cleaning his kitchen.

“Wow. You’re packed. How long have you been up?”

“A couple of hours.”

The day before was a beautiful afternoon of listening to music and sharing intimate stories from our childhood and teenage lives. But that seemed worlds away now. We were awkward and distant.

I sat beside him on the couch finishing my chai tea latte. And as I got up after some fun jabs at one another, I turned to him. This was my chance.

“You know. As much of an ass as you are sometimes, I want you to know that I still like you a lot.”

He looked at me for a second. Come on. Say it, I thought.

“Thank you.”

Like a reflex.

And that was the moment my heart withered.

I went home stunned. I just wanted to be alone. But I was scared to be alone at the same time.

I hated that I didn’t tell him how I felt. I hated that I didn’t tell him that I was mad at him for leading me on, for hurting me, for not always being there when I wanted him to be. I hated that I couldn’t tell him that I would do anything for him. And I hated that I didn’t, and still don’t, know if I would ever tell him.

So, if you ever feel something, tell someone. Have the courage to tell him. I’m still working on this myself.

We still talk. Ransom is still a big part of my life. In fact, we spoke today over some silly meme I’d found. And a part of me will always believe that of all the boys I’ll ever mention on here, he’s the one to come back to. He’s the one who’s worth it.

Dating Rule #4: Always be open to new experiences… Or, at least try.

Case is an interesting character. He married his high school sweetheart at the tender age of 19 and has been with her ever since. (Just wait a minute.) Well, unless you count those few times when they split for a handful of months or so and got back together.

Regardless, he’s married. She’s a lesbian. And this is why they consider polyamory a norm within their relationship.

It was complicated. But they’re open. And no, if I date him, I don’t have to date her. And no, it’s not cheating.

He’s an absolutely lovely person—willing to wait, ask, care for the ones he likes.

So we have seen each other three times since this began.

For some reason, as we strolled the downtown streets of Winston weeks ago, I told him about Ransom, my emotional baggage in the form of an average guy who seemingly does no wrong (and thus I continue to “pine”). He too had a Ransom, he told me. She was the poly-unicorn and had left them in October.

“I see,” I told him.

“I know what you’re going through.”

But the difference was that he wanted—even needed—to get over her. I, on the other hand, don’t. I’m merely looking for short term distractions, easy throw aways, a good time.

But as we continued to talk, it became clear that despite his wife and despite my adoration for another, we’re meant in some fashion to be in each other’s lives.

So here we are.

I just wish he was a better kisser.

Rule #3: Always know what you want.

I met Seth in the most un-romantic way possible—Tinder. He managed to spark reality in the sentiment I’ve received since the first time I went on a physical date with someone I met online: you look like your picture.

Duh?

But it isn’t so common, they told me. I hadn’t realized this until I met Seth who happens to look nothing like his picture.

In his picture, he’s smiling with sunglasses. He looks like the dark-haired Ivy-league type. Collar shirts. Khakis. Boat shoes. I thought he’d be a fun one to pick with or, at the very least, get a meal or two out of while riding around in his presumable Range Rover that his dad bought him when he graduated with his MBA.

Wrong.

So many wrongs.

His most prominent feature are his piercing blue eyes that he manages very well. Come at him with anger and it melts away with those bad boys. No wonder he’d covered them up in a picture.

After a week or so of harmless flirting via text, we decided to meet one Saturday in late March at a community flea market event. Eight hours, one word puzzle purchased, four whiskey sours, several rounds of pinball, one long conversation in a garden, and another round of drinks later, we were heavily making out against my car in a dark parking lot next to where we first said hello.

His innocence was a lie. He held his own. And his confidence was down-right sexy.

He had dinner plans with friends, he told me, and I had an evening in reading and writing.

We didn’t last long—not 10 minutes after we parted, my phone rings. It’s Seth.

“I know you’re worked up and we had drinks,” he said. “I want to make sure you make it home okay.”

It took a while for us to hang up. Oh, technology.

Since our first date, we’ve hung out a total of four times. Each time we dive more and more deep into something that neither of us care to identify.

If I were honest, I would mention that I can’t explain exactly what makes him all that intriguing to me. After all, he’s not necessarily my type. But here we are.

I assume for him, it all boils down to something he said after a long night of sex: “You know what you want, and you aren’t afraid to ask for it.”

Dating Rule #2: You can learn a lot about someone by just saying no.

Britton had texted me earlier in the week inviting me to a baseball game at the same time I wanted to go to a movie at RiverRun Film Festival. Alas, I thought, it was Thirsty Thursday and beer would be $1 a pint…

Should be an entertaining evening especially since the alternative was watching a love story by myself in a cold, dark theater.

I met him at his place, within walking distance to the stadium. We held hands for the first couple of blocks—shit got awkward.

I’m a huge romantic but he… Nah, nope. Not a stitch.

Eight beers between the two of us and a cup of fries for me, giggles and cuddles abounded (we both blamed the latter on the chill in the air).

Things I liked about the date:

·         He’s funny. Really, really funny. In a witty, smart way—like I prefer it.

·         His gentlemanly manners were a nice touch.

·         The atmosphere was always relaxed despite the awkward lulls in conversation.

·         Nice venue of dates—memorable.

·         We competed over stupid shit—like who could drink a beer faster.

Things I didn’t like about the date:

·         Lulls in conversation.

·         My ADD.

·         The mere fact that I had zero cash as thus, he had to buy the first round of drinks (after insisting on buying the tickets). See Dating Rule #1.

·         The ending...?

Our home team lost by a run, and we headed back to his place.

A nice make out and heavy petting session ensued with his roommate upstairs playing video games. After a while, he asked if I would like to go into the other room (that wasn’t as open as the secondary living room couch) to which I declined.

Moment killer? Like Round-Up on weeds.

But in proper gentleman fashion, he kissed me goodnight and asked me to text him when I got home.

I sent him the sleepy smiley an hour late. Haven’t heard from him since.

The adage remains despite recent weeks (with the passage of the House Bill Two [HB2]): the South is big on hospitality.

(Of course, this is only the case if you’re white, straight, and “look Christian,” but regardless, that’s for another time and another blog.)

If Britton was from the South, which he’s most definitely not, you would think that the Southern hospitality ran deep. He’s the perfect gentleman: he’s got the door, the bill, and your hand when you want.

But he’s not intimidated by independence.

Dating Rule #1: Always buy your own things. Just trust me on this.

I’ve a conscious habit of paying for my own things, as I believe women should—or at the very least, offer. This has nothing to do with pay inequality and MRA movement but everything to do with my not wanting to feel like I owe anything at all to the other person if, by the end, I wasn’t as interested as I once felt.

No party, no foul, right?

Either way, our first date was at a local wine bar. I was there early (on purpose) to do a little therapeutic writing and to get my own wine—it’s awkward to insist on buying your own when the other party is also there.

We sat outside and talked about sports, drinks, work, and most other benign topics of mutual interest for about an hour.

Getting to know Britton:

·         He has been known to travel for winter sports.

·         Works in the finance field.

·         Charm stemming from a fabulous sense of humor.

·         Most definitely of Scottish descent (because that totally matters).

·         Non-practicing Catholic.

·         Extroverted.

·         Photogenic.

Second date lead us (my idea) to a local show with one of my favorite local bands. Holy Ghost Tent Revival was once a rag-time style, upbeat, big band style 7-piece band hailing from Greensboro and now traveling around the country. But with some members leaving for “normal” jobs (and a ton of other influences—musical and otherwise), the band has transformed into one less of dance and more of 60’s or 70’s rock with a somber touch.

Needless to say, the date was amazing despite my disappointment on the music performed.

When the first date ended with a hug after he walked me back to my car, the second ended with a moderately brief make out session—quite nice, actually—in his apartment. In typical gentleman fashion, he did not push, prod, or pressure in any way.

Instead, I left feeling pretty good about it. It wasn’t long until a third date was confirmed…