Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Men Are Assholes, and They Don’t Know What They Want

This comes with a warning: Never date a writer … or a reality star.

I have been single for a long time. My longest relationship lasted exactly one year. I moved in to his house on June 21, 1993, and I moved out on June 21, 1994. He was a raging alcoholic. 

With the exception of that year, I have lived alone for more than a quarter century, which is amazing since I am only twenty-nine. You just tasted part of your lunch from yesterday didn’t you?

As you know, living in a garage-level (I still refuse to call it a basement) apartment in DC was not attractive to potential suitors, and apparently living in a luxury apartment in Rockville didn’t quite do the trick either although …

There was the six-week relationship in Rockville with the Jewish boy who wasn’t “out” and never invited me to spend time with him and his friends although I included him in everything. After giving this potential relationship my all, I knew I couldn’t give anymore when we were at the movies, and he saw a cousin of his. He screamed then pointed at me and yelled, “Stay here.” Then with arms flailing and his feet not touching the ground, he ran out to their car to chit chat while I waited on the sidewalk. When he was done kibitzing, he returned to me, and I refused to speak to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“You pointed at me and told me to stay as if I were a dog.”

“Oh, well they don’t know I’m gay.”

“Seriously? The way you ran to their car? There were squirrels in the trees pointing at you and yelling fag.”

Then, I imitated him running to the car, to the horror of him and the amusement of everyone in line for the movie. Needless to say, we did not pick out china patterns after that, nor did we see the movie.

Prior to that, I dated the forty-year-old virgin. Well, not quite dated. We would go out several times a year because he thought I was funny and would laugh at everything I said. I kind of like having an audience. But, there is no future in a relationship based on a Jew being a ham. Did I mention he was a virgin? Do the math.

Soon after arriving in Washington in 1997, I met Frankenstein at the Pride Festival (he was incapable of human emotion). We dated for eight months. He would travel all the time and never invite me to accompany him, usually on the weekends, yet I stuck it out because I was desperate to be in a relationship, until a friend asked one night, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” I broke up with him the next day.

There was my other Jewish boyfriend, the one my mother adored. He dumped me on my birthday in 1999 because he didn’t want to be attached on New Year’s Eve.

With such a lovely dating history, I made up my mind at that point to quit actively seeking love, and I also realized I was happier when single.

Over the next decade, there was the guy who wanted to spend time with me – in my apartment, but not in public. The Jew who freaked out at six weeks when my friends invited us to dinner. He and apartment boyfriend hooked up after that when they discovered their mutual love of bondage.

There was the one who declared after I found out he was dating someone else that he could not see me exclusively because if he did he would fall in love with me, and he swore he wouldn’t fall in love again. He and the other guy he was dating recently celebrated eight lovely years together. Funny, I was dating him five years ago.

My favorite was the one in witness protection. He couldn’t remember how to spell his first name, and his condo looked staged. There were no pictures of family or friends, just pictures that came with the frames. He also couldn’t remember his age or where he worked. However, he was the best of all of them in bed and still is.

I resigned myself to believe my mother was right when she declared I would die alone. When I left the drunk to live on my own again, she said, “You are better off living by yourself.” I wanted to say make up your mind. But my living alone saved her from explaining who my roommate was to all her friends, who, ironically, knew I was gay.

Over the last year, I went on two dates. Yes, two dates. I also had dinner with the virgin and the guy in witness protection, who is still the best one in bed and a great conversationalist even though I know nothing of his life prior to 2003. Hey, a guy has to eat.

I figured that moving into a trailer park was not going to help me hook Mr. Right. What gay man wants to date trailer trash? Boy was I in for a surprise – or wasn’t I?

Twenty some years ago, I walked into the Oar House in Norfolk, Virginia, and my friend Joe Moore, the best looking guy in Norfolk (may he rest in peace), said to Christopher Lance (may he also rest in peace),“Watch out for that one; he’s husband shopping.” If you watched porn in the 1980s, you know who Christopher Lance was. His real name was Bobby Slack. We dated for a bit. And now you know who said that about me and to whom.

As I have always said, I apparently was not a good shopper.

A part of me always thought that my living situations, apartment dwelling to be exact, were handicapping my prospects. With that in mind, mobile home living was not going to improve the situation, but I am happiest when I am single, so I didn’t care.

So, here is how it all happened. I was on a dating sight (I keep putting myself out there), and no, not Manhunt or M4M or Adam4Adam or FuckeMeTonight (actually that one is made-up, but feel free to steal it if you want to). I saw this profile a while ago, but for some reason, I decided to send a note one day, and it went like this.

“I’ll bet everyone tells you how hot you are.”

The following day, I got “Actually, no. Do you really live in a mobile home? And do you really own two AMCs and a Rambler?”

There was a link to my blog on the site. Well, I figured that would be the end of it, and honesty was the best policy.

“Yes, I live in a mobile home, and I drive two AMCs and have a Rambler in restoration.”

And the response was:

“Cool. It is on my bucket list to live in a mobile home, and a few weeks ago, I went to look at an AMC Matador wagon.”

Opportunity only knocks once, so I responded:

“Do you want to do dinner some time? Here is my number 1-800-CYNICAL.”

He called, and we talked. More importantly, he made me laugh. We then talked daily for the week leading up to the date, and he impressed me by not doing the one thing that drives me crazy – sexting.

I found out he only dates guys who own dogs because only they understand about caring for something and about how one needs to be home for the dog at certain times. Yes, he has a dog.

I don’t like being teased. Guys tend to “sext” a lot before a date, and then the date happens, and nothing happens. Besides, at my age, I have had enough sex. I need someone I can talk to and spend time, without looking at my watch.

The date night arrived. It was great. And in case you are wondering. He did not look like his pictures. He looked even hotter in person. That is a surprise I can live with.

We had been dating for more than a month, when I met his crazy family at the fancy restaurant with the two different colored napkins.

If had known that all I needed to do to find romance was become a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park, honey, I would have done this twenty years ago!

Until …

A little history and some psychology for you. At six weeks into a relationship, one knows if he is falling for someone or not. It is usually at this point that several things happen. One of the guys admits he is falling in love. One of the guys dumps the other one because he is afraid of falling in love. One of the guys fakes depression to sort of get out of the relationship without having the balls to admit he just doesn’t want to continue.

I dumped my first boyfriend. I was twenty-five, and I freaked out at six weeks into the relationship and was afraid of falling in love (although I didn't understand that at the time). However, I did it in person, not over the phone or with a letter (this was pre-internet). We have since reconnected on Facebook, we are both still single, and I haven't aged a bit.

In the above relationships, two of them ended right at the six week mark, and in all three, the other party went into a depression, then either disappeared or wouldn’t admit they wanted to end it. I gave each a chance, and in the end, I had to be the man with the balls in the relationship.

To all you guys reading this. If you are done or you don’t want to continue, have the fucking balls to come out and say so. Yes, you will break someone’s heart, but that is better than making someone think he did something wrong or terrible. People deserve honesty.

And bitch, if you are going to date a writer, you really need to watch what you do.

So, here is what happened with Mr. Wrong. Yes, we will call him Mr. Wrong.

After the dinner with his family, he asked why I looked uncomfortable for about five minutes at the table. I didn’t recall looking uncomfortable. I was listening to the conversation, and since he worked for his sister, they started talking about work. What could I add? Politely, I listened. However, he dwelled on that five minutes for more than I thought was necessary. I didn’t tell him that. I let it go. It wasn’t that important to me nor worth discussing.

I had a good time, and that was all that needed to be said. Why analyze the evening?

Now, I may jump around here a few times, so bear with me, I have a lot of points to make.

The one relationship where I lived with my partner for a year was filled with arguing, screaming and drama, which is why it didn’t last. His other relationships lasted a minimum of five years because apparently that is what made them tick.

I refuse to be in a relationship filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics and most of all, drama. I grew up in a house filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics, hitting, and drama. I also grew up around alcohol and drug abuse. I avoid these things in my life. When dating someone, I won’t engage in ridiculous arguments over ridiculous things.

For example, when Mr. Wrong kept asking about the five minutes of silence from me at the dinner, I just said, I was listening because that was what I was doing. Some men would have responded, “Why are you making such a big deal out of this. What is your problem?” And looking back, I really think he wanted me to make this five minutes of listening at the table into some dramatic moment.

At another point in the conversation at the dinner, he asked me about the BMWs at the auto show I attended that afternoon. My response was, “I didn’t look at the BMWs. They all look alike to me. I like cars with character.” I did see the looks from everyone at the table when I said that.

For the record, I have never driven a BMW, Mercedes, or Audi. Surprisingly, I don’t feel deprived.

Unlike me, Mr. Wrong had been in long-term relationships – three of them, two for three years and one for ten. He never talked much about the first one, but apparently number two was his supervisor at work who seduced him on a business trip. They stayed together in a tumultuous relationship that ended when Mr. Wrong found out the man was engaging in scat with other men. This should have been red flag number one for me.

I had to ask him if he kissed Mr. Scat Supervisor and how long it had been since he had. Who wants to kiss a shitty mouth?

The ten-year relationship, which ended three years ago, was with a nasty drunk, according to Mr. Wrong, who was the good guy in the house (they always are and we all know there are two sides to everything). Ten years with a nasty drunk – makes you wonder.

This should have been red flag number two. Mr. Wrong obviously thrived on drama. But even a drama queen has his limits, and the relationship ended when the police had to be called to break up an argument.

I am not saying I am perfect, far from it. I know my flaws and that I can be difficult. I like being in control, I am set in my ways, I act like Joan Crawford when it comes to keeping my house, and I am not easily impressed. I also don’t bring a lot of excitement to a relationship. I just want someone with whom I can enjoy spending time, engaging in conversation, and laughing a lot. I am not going to stir up drama for the sake of stirring up drama.

Now, we also need to look at one other aspect of Mr. Wrong’s prior life. He not only lived on the A list, he lived beyond his means on the A list in two major Midwest cities. He drove the fanciest cars, lived in the biggest houses and wore only designer clothes. The exact opposite of me. And you know that none of those things matter to trailer trash like me.

However, three years ago, Mr. Wrong lost his job in the recession, then his house, moved into an apartment in a new city for a new job, and lost that one as well, and if I counted correctly, lost another one in there somewhere. His ex of ten years somehow also ended up in that new city with a new boyfriend with whom he is still partnered.

As I mentioned, Mr. Wrong works for his sister, and she gave him a small cottage to live in, while he figures out his next move. He has been figuring it out for more than two years. I’ll never forget my first visit to the cottage. I thought it was adorable, but I did notice the remnants of the prior life, mainly the huge artwork on the walls, and the closet filled with more clothes than the wardrobe department on the set of Dynasty. He had more than twenty designer suits, dress shirts out the ass, shoes, shoes and more shoes. I told him when I walked in there, I felt as if I should act like Ethel Mertz at Gimbels Basement, clawing through the racks.

There was a list of goals in the closet including buy a Porsche and be in a long-term relationship. Yes, I thought for a minute I might just be a goal. Another red flag? It was in the back of my mind.

I have to say something about expensive artwork. Why is it always so fucking huge? Who has walls that big? Also, why is it usually so ugly? Just because something costs a lot, doesn’t make it pretty.

As a Jew, I was taught art is what matches your couch.

I did not comment on his artwork, well not exactly. There was this painting in his bedroom of a woman’s eyes that took up the whole wall. He told me the artist picks someone in the background in a famous painting and creates a painting from some aspect of that person’s face. Whatever, I felt as if she was staring at us all night. The damn thing was ten feet wide and four feet high. Seriously!

But none of this difference in priorities bothered me because he appeared not to be bothered by it.

From the day after the first date, he would text me thirty to forty times a day. I am not exaggerating. It was actually fifty to sixty, but I didn’t think you would believe me. We would talk for an hour every night. He told me at one point he was starting to really like me, and that was before the second date.

By the third date he texted he missed me. That should have been a red flag.

On New Year’s Eve, the third holiday in a row I spent alone this year, he had a preplanned trip to a ski resort in California. This was the weekend after our first date (yes, I am still jumping around, but I have to make some more points). I decided not to text or talk to anyone as I was a little down. Everyone I knew was out of town, and here I was alone on New Year’s Eve – again!

He texted me about five times, and I was getting a little sick of it. So, I texted back that I was going to bed, and I would talk to him in the morning because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Then he called. I didn’t answer. Then he called again. I finally answered because it was the only way to make him stop. I didn’t want to shut off my phone because if there were an emergency, I would have to wait for it to boot up.

During that conversation, he informed me that he was an “overcommunicator”and that I should not shut him out as he will worry and we should talk out anything or feelings we have. We had not been on our second date yet.

This should have been red flag number … OK, I lost count here.

The texting and talking continued for six weeks solid. Then one day it stopped. It didn’t slow down; honey, it stopped. And it stopped when he was supposedly on the road to his former Midwest City for a dental appointment because he loved his dentist and didn’t want to switch. I wondered if she would address his slight bad breath problem?

I thought he had an accident or was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. I texted him mid-day asking if he was OK. No response. Then I called. No response.

Then he texted, “At the gym, will chat latter.”

What the fuck?

We didn’t chat. I called again two hours later. I got a text. “I don't want to talk or text anyone. I am down on my luck, and I don’t know where to turn. I have to figure out my next move. My luck is running out.”

I responded, “Remember when on New Year’s Eve, you told me not to shut you out? Well, you shouldn’t do that to me. I am here to listen.”

He responded, “Thanks. I didn’t want to burden you.”

And, I never heard from him again … until ...

After two days of silence, I sent the following. “Dear Mr. Wrong. This is so typical. Six weeks into a relationship, the guy gets depressed then dumps me. I can see the writing on the wall. I will save you the trouble. Good bye, good luck, I am done. Milton.”

He responded, “Wow … ok, this is for the best. It was never about you. Have a good life.”

If he really did want to continue seeing me, he would have called to talk me out of it, but the son of a bitch did not have the balls to call me on the phone and just say, “I really don’t want to do this anymore” or “I want to move on” or “You suck in bed, and I need more.” I know I am lousy in bed, so this wouldn't have been a good argument.

This pussy took the coward’s way out and forced my hand.

Now, you can imagine all the crap that went through my head. First of course, was what did I do?

I really hate being fucked with. Don’t tell me you miss me and you are really beginning to like me and come on super strong with constant communications every day if you have no intention of following through for the long haul. Fuck with someone else. I don't like being test-driven.

If he was so worried about his finances, why was he taking ski trips all over the country? We have excellent skiing right next door to us. Did I tell you one of those trips was with his ex and his new partner? He invited me to go, but it was mid-week, and I cannot take three days off from work with only a day’s notice.

So, my thought was that although he says living in a trailer is on his bucket list, he just couldn’t see himself with trailer trash as a partner, especially one who was not impressed with who has what and what they can or cannot afford.

Then I noticed he changed his online profile pics on the dating site the next day. That is when I realized what was really going on.

His goal was to be in a long-term relationship again, but what he wants is another drama-filled screamfest with the police being called out once a week, and I’ll bet he wants that with someone who can keep him in a lifestyle in which he wants to become accustomed.

He can’t handle a healthy relationship. Few, if any, men can. I refuse to become a nasty drunk or take a dump in another man’s mouth in order to find love. Believe me, there was a time I would have done anything, but never anything involving the urinary or digestive tract.

The real problem is I will never know what really happened because he refused to talk on the phone, but frankly, I don't care anymore. I will wonder from time to time, but I won't care.

I have always thought I was flawed because no one has ever fallen in love with me or to be more exact, no one has ever allowed himself to fall in love with me. However, this six week affair affirmed something I have known for a long time.

Men are assholes, and they don’t know what they want ... and somehow, I figure I, too, fit into that equation.

And yes, I do hope he reads this.

If you are husband shopping, follow me, get on my email list, share me with your friends but don't tell me you miss me.

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