Jealous? Me? Never...

So things have been going pretty well with NRA Guy lately. I haven't been seeing anyone else in a few weeks, but I hadn't quite gotten around to specifically telling NRA Guy about that. Being that he’s male and will eventually, inevitably lapse into utter laziness, I figured this was the best way to draw out his attentive affection and attempts to impress me for as long as possible. I assume he really had to know he was the only one, considering I’ve either been with him or in contact with him every single day for a while now.

He made me a lovely dinner on Christmas, and when he asked me that night if there were any other guys, I told him the truth. We ended up taking things up a notch.

The next night, he came over for dinner at my place. Already a few times he had assumed I’d be available for another evening or started to make plans without asking me. (Honestly, every time he did it, that switch flipped on in my brain that said, “RUN!” But I’ve put the brakes on, told myself he’s a nice guy, a good guy who I should really give a chance.)

Okay, so he’s already making plans for the two of us without asking me. He’s already been asking if we can spend my birthday next month together. He was insistent on spending Christmas evening with me. But he hasn’t mentioned doing anything on New Year’s Eve once.

Last night, he mentioned hanging out with his buddy to usher in 2007. He didn’t give details, but it seemed clear there was no room for me in the plans. I haven’t met any of his friends yet, but he’s been talking about making that happen, and I know they know about me (well, at least one of them for sure, who participated in the leaving of a drunken voicemail a couple of weekends ago).

I had to wonder why he was being so vague about his plans on New Year’s, one of the nights where, as my roommate put it, having a pretty girl to kiss is one of the main objectives. But I wasn’t going to let it get me totally down.

Later in the evening, NRA Guy started a conversation in the worst possible way, automatically putting me on the defense.

NRA: I have to tell you something. You’re going to be so mad at me.

Belle: What? What did you do?

NRA: Just don’t be mad at me okay?

Belle: (Look indicating I wouldn’t participate in such a ridiculous promise.)

NRA: Okay… I really don’t want to tell you this….

Belle: (Look indicating he had no other option.)

NRA: Okay… (In a rush) One of our friends is coming to visit for a while, and I’m the only one with a spare room, and she’s going to stay with me for three weeks. She’s just a friend and we’ve never had sex, and I’m the only one with a spare room…. Are you okay with that? Are you mad?

Belle: (Temporarily relieved) No, that’s fine. Why would I be mad? What’s her name?

Okay, so it wasn’t until a bit later that I thought about it and realized that this only-a-friend-I’ve-never-had-sex-with (which, if you believe Harry in When Harry Met Sally, is really only because he hasn’t had the opportunity to have sex with her) might have secured an invite to this covert New Year’s Eve operation from which I’m excluded. And that she might just be the reason I’ve not been cordially invited.

I have to admit that all this is speculation on my part, as I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask when she’ll be arriving and departing. But that hasn’t stopped this feeling of overwhelming icky-ness that sort of resembles a combination of jealousy (not my favorite) and rejection (also not a fan).

So, like I said, these feelings could be products of my overactive imagination (and utter failure to avoid utter girliness in this arena), but that doesn't make me feel better.

I just talked to him, and I think I'm going to go over in a bit. Perhaps I can manage to find out what the deal is with everything without seeming like an overt bitch. Wish me luck.

The New Yorker: Kicking a Virtual Addiction

If we’re talking chronologically, the story of The New Yorker probably should’ve come first. I responded to his ad way back on July 8^th (well before I posted my first ad). It caught my attention because it posed several random questions, which I, of course, love, and because those questions were fairly good ones. (I won’t post them here because he still uses some of them.)

I added a couple questions of my own in my response and included my AIM and a photo. He didn’t reply to the message, but contacted me on AIM. We chatted occasionally after that initial contact, but I found him a little too detached and didn’t think much of our communication (I was put out initially that he didn’t bother responding to my questions, which I thought were damn good and merited reciprocation at the very least).

Then, in late July or early August, he told me a few things that made him much more interesting all of a sudden. The first was something to the effect of “girls your age don’t try to get to know me/understand me.” (He’s a good bit older.) Of course, I love a challenge, and I took it up. (Well played, NY, Well played.) He didn’t like to talk about himself, he’d told me, thereby making “getting to know him” nearly impossible for someone who doesn’t want to spend countless hours prying the tiniest bits of information from while trying not to be obvious about prying information.

Then he told me about The Pretend Girlfriend. Another girl in D.C., about my age (younger?), who he’d been talking with “in a variety of forums for several months.” Those things made him more interesting (why? Because I’m a little twisted, I suppose), but the kicker was when he revealed he wasn’t living in D.C. at all but in NYC*. (Why is he posting on the D.C. craigslist? you ask. He doesn’t like the women in NYC, he claims, and he doesn’t get as many responses. His big plan is to move back to the District, but I think he’s afraid and doubt it will happen.) With this little revelation of unavailability, The Profile became an uncannily remarkable description of The New Yorker, and I suddenly couldn’t get him off my mind. Pretty soon we were in near-daily contact through e-mail, on AIM, or on the phone, and I’d become his other Pretend Girlfriend.

But his unwillingness to offer any topics of conversation that we hadn’t visited a thousand times already eventually got to me. I did the unthinkable: I made a demand of him. I asked that he not discuss three things he used as conversational crutches when I wasn’t providing topics for our multi-platform conversations.

The New Yorker’s response to that? He just didn’t call me. Or e-mail me. Or anything. And it drove me fucking nuts. I’d deleted his number from my phone to stop myself from calling him, but that only worked temporarily (it came in and out of the address book at least a dozen times through all this).

No matter how much I tried to focus on anything but The New Yorker, stupid little things throughout the day would remind me of something that had come up in one of our conversations (or several of them, as he tended to dwell on things), and I’d be thinking about him all over again. It was like when you do cocaine and then you don’t have it for a while. You’ll be going along with your life, doing something mundane and totally unrelated to anything coke, when suddenly you get a whiff of that bittersweet smell, and you can think of nothing else. No matter how bad you know it is for you, how shitty you know it makes you feel the next day, it’s all you want. Yeah, The New Yorker. I knew it was bad when I could equate him to a narcotic.

So, I did what I always did with him; I got trashed and called him. For some reason, he was quite literally the only person under the sun who I’ve ever drunk dialed with any regularity. I do not and have not done this with any other person. The New Yorker, of course, being a very strange bastard, liked it when I drunk dialed. He seemed more alert and willing to talk then than he was at pretty much any other time, no matter how late it was. (He claimed I sounded “soft and girly” when I was drunk. This conclusion annoyed me.)

Anyhow, I vaguely remember telling him he wasn’t allowed to just stop talking to me. That I didn’t find that acceptable. He laughed. He always fucking laughed when I was being serious.

After the drunken talk, I tried to bring it up when we were chatting on AIM one day. I think I said something like the way we communicate has changed. He said the conversation was a turnoff, and that was the end of it.

That night, I called a girlfriend, and we crafted a plan for me to get rid of this guy. I wrote this long ass e-mail intended for Dear John purposes because I was tired of wanting (read: needing) to talk to him, and I thought that, as with any narcotic, getting him out of my system would require detox (in this case, cessation of all communication). He’d told me numerous times before that if a girl doesn’t express interest, he’s not going to pursue her. I thought I could just stop making the effort and he’d leave me alone. I signed it as his ex-pretend girlfriend, and told him two things I wanted him to know if I never had contact with him again.

He responded to my long ass e-mail with the following:

I like talking to you. You have a good mind. I'll keep talking to you.

And that was it. Communication did not cease. In fact, things soon went back to pretty much where they were before I developed expectations (with the exception of me shunning the Pretend Girlfriend title).

We went back to near daily contact. I felt compelled to tell him things (really personal things), and I found myself unhappy when we didn’t talk for a day or so.

At the beginning, I had felt downright fucking giddy over talking to him. All my friends knew him by name, not by his moniker like most of the guys I’d actually gone out with. By the end of it, not one of those friends liked him. I should’ve listened to them sooner, but something kept me going back. By the time of the pseudo-breakup, talking to him had become tedious; it was a chore. I can’t say I didn’t want to talk with him. I definitely did. There was something at the beginning of our communication that appealed to me greatly, and I suppose I kept holding on hoping to get it back (addiction, Belle, addiction).

I kept going back even though I knew things that should’ve made me run like hell. Things about his living arrangements, employment status, and mental health issues (among others) that would be enough to send any sane girl running. But I kept going back for more.

By this point, he had figured out how to push quite a few of my buttons, and he did so with increasing regularity. It amused him and, of course, absolutely infuriated me. I found myself angry nearly every single day because of something he'd said. I became increasingly bitchy and irritable with him, and all that anger and resentment and unhappiness started overflowing into the rest of my life. I didn’t like the person I was becoming, and most of it could be traced back to him.

Then, I met The Pretend Girlfriend (more on that later), and it didn’t take me long to realize that I didn’t want to associate with someone who would associate with someone like her. And that, friends, is what finally gave me what I needed to tell The New Yorker to take a hike. I knew I had to do it on his terms, in a way he would understand, so I merely told him on AIM one day that he bored me and I was over it. Pretty harsh treatment, considering I’d actually found myself caring about this guy I’d never met, but I had to do it for my sanity.

We’ve had minimal contact on Instant Messenger since I let him go (two instances, both very brief with me being very cold). I’ve deleted all his contact information from every source (although I really have it all memorized, at least I don’t have to look at it and be reminded as much).

I actually went up to NYC this weekend for the first time since living in D.C. If it had been several weeks ago, I would’ve done whatever necessary to meet him. As it was, I was free of that desire and had a lovely time with only minimal, fleeting thoughts of him at all.

* I really think that if The New Yorker were in D.C. all along, our conversations would never have progressed beyond the occasional IM, and he wouldn’t have warranted an entry here at all. It’s also probable that if we had met, he wouldn’t have liked me for wearing long skirts or saying “hell,” and I wouldn’t have liked him for bitching at me for wearing long skirts or saying “hell”… or for whatever reason, and communication would have soon faltered or ceased (like it has with so many others).

Five Strikes & Four Pointers: Can’t I just send SWB this link??

The original agenda with Star Wars Boy was to hit up the Zoo, then grab dinner somewhere, and go watch his favorite show ever, but we had amended it earlier in the week because I’m opposed to avoidable exposure to cold weather. Instead of the Zoo, we opted for the National Gallery.

On Friday afternoon SWB asked when I would be over on Saturday, and I gave him a time. He mentioned that he’d told his friends he would watch a freakin’ basketball game with them, but immediately said he shouldn’t even have mentioned it because he’d made plans with me first. Of course, him mentioning it at all ended up seeming like he wanted me to tell him forget about the museum and I’d just come over later. No. Freakin’. Way.

Anyway, on Saturday I rushed from NRA Guy’s place to mine to get ready for my date with SWB. I managed to find a decent parking spot without even having to look and actually arrived at SWB’s on time. We hit up the East building and had fun just goofing around. He decided on a French café for dinner, partially because he’s obsessed with all things French and partially, I’m sure, because it’s merely a couple blocks from his place. (I’m not complaining. At least we finally went out to eat.)

Strike one of this date came when SWB stepped out of the Metro car we were on, leaving me behind stuck in a mass of shove-y people. He was halfway up one of the escalators by the time he turned to find me. I was just stepping onto another one. Not only did I have NRA Guy with his fantastic manners and hyper-awareness of me to compare SWB with, there was also a couple who had been on the platform with us earlier and standing near us on the train on the escalator next to me. They were both looking right at me, making me feel self-conscious about this boy leaving me behind.

When we got to the restaurant, I made him order for me, mainly because every time I try to pronounce something French it comes out in a ridiculously comical (and oh-so-sad) Spanish accent. He ordered some yummy potato dish for me and mussels for himself.

After dinner, we went to the liquor store, and I purchased a couple bottles of wine, as he’d taken care of dinner. We went back to his house, and he started kissing me. I tried to get into it, but he tasted like the mussels he’d eaten (strike two: that’s completely repulsive). Strike three came when I realized this guy was a tongue thruster. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s all-tongue, all the time.

So, basically, I was trying not to gag while he rolled his mussel-ly tongue around every crevice of my mouth. (Yeah, I think I threw up a little as I typed that just then. Sorry for the graphic description.) I tried to vary the kissing up (that’s the key people; it’s imperative that you change up what you’re doing, no matter what your style is) because I was so not into him licking my teeth and whatever else he was doing in there. But he was having none of it. After a while of attempting to communicate my desires (nonverbally, of course; I had an extra tongue in my mouth), I just gave up and did the kissing equivalent of going limp during sex; I stopped reciprocating the kiss whatsoever.

Meanwhile, he was pretty much ready to have sex right then. I so was not. (As much as I want to count that as a strike, I can’t and won’t because I know pretty much all guys are ready to have sex pretty much all the time.) He actually pulled me over on top of him, which I thought showed incredible laziness on his part. I like to be on top sometimes, but if he can’t even handle propping himself on his elbow while we’re making out, I’m thinking it’s indicative that his preferred style of lovemaking includes minimal effort on his part, like oh-so-many other things about him.

It was around 8 p.m. at this point. I was sober and was in no way ready to crawl under his Star Wars blanket to let him dock his Nebulon-B Frigate* in my, um, port. I’d already decided I wasn’t having sex with SWB (or NRA Guy… or anyone, for that matter) while dating multiple people. That has potential to get messy really quickly. Plus, it’s pretty freakin’ slutty.

Anyway, I extrapolated myself from his roaming paws, probably none-too-gracefully, but I really didn’t care at that point. I told him I was going to pour myself some wine. He begrudgingly agreed to join me, all the while trying to talk me out of watching his favorite show ever, since it would require him to pay attention, thereby eliminating his ability to put his sad, sad moves on me. I insisted, as that was the plan and he had me intrigued about the show. So we found ourselves back in our familiar arrangement on the couch and watching a… what? A space Western? Yeah. That’s right. (It was actually pretty good, I must admit.)

Later, we found ourselves in his room. I, having consumed a fair amount of wine, was in no shape to drive myself home, as he pointed out. Since he didn’t actually offer that I stay with him (strike four), I had to ask if I could and if he would loan me a T-shirt to sleep in.

In the interest of not being labeled a tease, I’d told SWB much earlier that I thought it was too soon for us to have sex. He was disappointed, and I believe he was still attempting to change my mind throughout the evening, in his own strange way. But when it was time to get into bed, he asked if we were really going to sleep. When I replied with an affirmative, he promptly laid down (taking every single pillow, I might add. I definitely called him on that shit, though), passed out, and commenced with the most raucous snoring I’ve ever witnessed. I’d been warned about the snoring, but holy freakin’ hell. That was ridiculous!

I’m just going to count the whole night in his bed as strike five. There was the snoring. Add to that the Star Wars blanket, the lack of a top sheet (gross), the lack of cuddling/spooning (and him sleeping with his back to me), his tendency to wake up when I’d finally drifted off to sleep to ask, “are you sleeping?” and wake me up, the lights from his computer shining brightly in my eyes, and the unusually high temperature of the room. It was miserable. I was miserable. The snatches of sleep I did manage were from pure exhaustion rather than any sense of being comfortable.

The next morning was… awkward. I tried to make it as comfortable for both of us as I could, but he just kept following me around looking at me like, “What next?” I had plans with the roommate for the afternoon, so I wasn’t around for too long, but I tried to make sure we parted well.

The next two days we had limited and extremely awkward interaction on AIM while at work (usually, we have a great rapport). The next day was better, but then he left for a weeklong pleasure venture with his buddies. (Before signing off the last day, I told him farewell and to take advantage of the red light district. I bet that confused the hell out of him.)

And that’s where we are now. He’s off gallivanting in a country much more liberal and less puritanical than ours, and I’m about 17/1,036 way into his favorite book ever.

After I left his place, I wanted so badly to tell him a few things that would help him out, not just with me, but I feel would be lessons that could serve him well throughout life.

1. Pay more attention to the woman you’re with. Don’t leave her in the Metro. If you’re lucky enough to get her into your bed, don’t leave her pillow-less while you have three under your head. Don’t make her carry two bottles of wine through the liquor store when you’re empty-handed. Hell. Go wild, occasionally pull out her chair at dinner or open a door for her or something.
2. Kissing should be fun and interesting; you have to vary it up. Tongue is great. Sometimes. So are gentle nibbles and light pecks. None of these things make for excellent kissing on their own. If you just keep doing the same thing over and over, she’s going to be reaching for the remote rather than the nearest zipper.
3. Wash your freakin’ sheets. I really have no proof that your sheets are unwashed, but your bed being unmade every time I’ve come over leads me to believe as much is true. (That and that most guys are disgusting slobs who don’t even wash their sheets after hours-long, sweaty sex, let alone on a regular basis when they aren’t getting action.) Oh, and get a top sheet. And ditch the Star Wars blanket. You said it’s really comfy, but I’m here to tell you it isn’t.
4. Make a freakin’ decision. If a girl asks you to make a plan, just do it. You’re an intelligent guy with good taste and the capacity to find things to do. Just because you’re perfectly content sitting in your basement apartment in all your free time, you shouldn’t assume she is, too. If you want a girlfriend, or at least the opportunity to get laid, you’re going to have to do a little work for it. Or pay. (But there are no clean bill of health guarantees with the D.C. professionals, so I’m not recommending it.) After you succeed in impressing her and keeping her around for a bit, then you can revert to sitting around all the time and deal with the fighting that ensues.

* If you follow that Wiki link, you’ll see that the Dreadnaught is classified as a “heavy cruiser,” ranking toward the top in the measurements. I really have no idea how to accurately classify his, um, spaceship, as it’s currently unexplored territory, but I thought I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, the description says they had “a laughably low sublight speed” and “were ridiculously crew-intensive vessels.” The first quote there just amuses me. The second seems like it would be eerily accurate if I ever got around to doing any, ahem, work on SWB’s spaceship.

NRA Guy: Romancing Belle

Have I mentioned I don’t (and really can’t) lie? The weekend before NRA Guy and I met, he called me at 5 in the morning. I didn’t wake for the call, and it took me a long time to figure out who it was from. NRA Guy and I hadn’t yet spoken on the phone, and he didn’t identify himself in his (rather sweet and apologetic) message. Internet boys typically don’t make it into my cell until they become tangible, so I had to pull out the planner (yes, it’s paper!) and rifle through it to determine it was NRA Guy. After Booty-Call Bob*, I’m inclined to drop any guy who calls at inappropriate hours before we meet. But this call and message indicated that 1.) an insane amount of alcohol had been consumed, 2.) he’s a sweet guy who was thinking about me, and 3.) he didn’t appear to be looking for a late night hookup. I justified that it was really early, not so much late (if the morning news is on, people, it’s definitely earlier than it is late) and didn’t immediately write him off. He called again later to apologize some more and confirm plans for that Tuesday. I told him he got one more chance with the ill-timed phone calls and gave him endless shit for the first.

Anyhow, back to my unwillingness/inability to lie. While we were talking (and as I was getting ready for another date), NRA Guy asked how many guys had taken me out that weekend. (It was just one, Star Wars Boy, but I’d been out with him Friday and was on my way to meet him again.) I first tried the old answer-a-question-with-a-question routine (“Why would you ask a question like that?”), but that only lead to him calling me out on it. So I told him the truth, and thus sparked his sense of adventure through competition, it seems. His competitive nature coupled with this bit of knowledge has worked out nicely for me so far.

I broke one of my own rules (they’re really more like guidelines, anyway) and let NRA guy pick me up at my place for our first date. I’ve questioned my sanity on this decision, particularly since it was with NRA Guy. As the moniker might indicate, he’s a gun guy. I knew this before I agreed to go out with him. I knew he has a veritable arsenal in his apartment, which includes such star performers as an AK-47 and an M16. Yet, despite this knowledge, I still gave him directions to my townhouse. Ill-advised? Certainly. No one ever said I have the best judgment.

Anyhow, despite all odds (a demanding boss, rush hour traffic, and the like), NRA Guy showed up on time, scoring immediate points in my book. (Yes, I know I’m sometimes late. That doesn’t mean I can’t put marks in the loss/gain category for similar behavior. After all, I’m not judging me. I’m sure these guys keep their own tallies for that.) We joked and chatted comfortably en route to the restaurant (he’d suggested three places and let me make the final choice).

Despite being born and raised very much a Yankee boy, he behaved very much like the ideal Southern gentleman, opening doors for me, helping me with my coat, etc. I must say, it felt nice to be treated like a lady. Unfortunately, he tends to make jokes slighting women, which also made me think of Southern guys (but not the idealized gentlemen, more like your average redneck Joe). All these jokes were followed quickly with disclaimers, which became a bit tedious. He asked about his competition during the meal, but I told him he really didn’t want to know. He agreed, and we moved on.

Our next several dates consisted of me meeting him at his house for dinner. He cooked me several meals, always making sure to ask me out again before I left.

-- Before I get into the other positives, I’m going to throw out the negs right here even though it kind of breaks the flow of this post. I can’t have you all thinking this boy is completely wonderful and I’m deeply in love or something ridiculous like that. So, here goes:
He’s a bit pouty. This is generally something he does to be endearing, and I’m sure it’s worked for him before (for instance, with his mother), but I find it to be a bit of a turn-off. He often asks if or assumes that I’m mad. At least he’s aware of the possibility, but he’s much too hyper-sensitive about this. I’m guessing he’s had some really hard-to-please girlfriends in the past who kept him in the doghouse all the time. Since I really don’t think I’m that unreasonable, this habit somewhat annoys and slightly offends me (annoys because I’m constantly having to reassure him that I’m not mad; offends because I’m not the other girls and don’t want to be lumped in with them). He’s a Republican (although we haven’t really talked politics more than me asking pointblank why he identifies Red). I suppose the big one is that he’s constantly talking about the future. It’s somewhat thrilling, but it’s also intimidating and honestly more than a bit frightening to me, Belle-the-Commitment-Phobe.--

When it comes to the good, lots of little things stand out with NRA Guy. When he takes me to my car, he makes sure I’m safely in and it starts okay before he drives away. He actually opens doors for me. He’s extremely complimentary and tells me how much he enjoys spending time with me. He wants to make sure I’m comfortable at all times. He asks about my day and shows what appears to be genuine interest in my response. He wants me to meet his friends.

When I told him I wanted to go camping but it was too cold, he took it upon himself to give me what I wanted. I walked into his apartment Friday night to find a candlelight dinner (I was incredibly impressed, I must say). After we ate, he took me to his spare bedroom, where he’d set up a big tent and brought in greenery to make it feel more like the outdoors. We spent the night drinking wine, playing cards, talking and cuddling in our own little private campground.

Sometime during the night, he asked me if I would consider exclusivity, but I let him conclude it was too soon. It had only been a couple weeks and a handful of dates, after all. Oh, and I was going to meet Star Wars Boy the next afternoon. Before I arrived at NRA Guy’s house that night, I was leaning toward SWB. Then I got romanced and sweet-talked and just generally given a good many of the things that would make a softer girl swoon, and, suddenly, NRA Guy was back in the game and swiftly approaching the lead. SWB was going to have to step it up if he wanted to compete.

The morning after our camp-in, NRA Guy made me breakfast, not complaining once about his throbbing headache until after he presented my omelet. I felt bad that he was feeling bad, but I had little time to dawdle if I wanted to get to SWB’s place on time. I hated to do it, but I had to eat and run. It didn’t make anything better that NRA Guy knew I was going to meet someone else and had been trying to convince me since the night before to blow this other guy off. But I pressed onward.

I left NRA Guy’s house with a new dilemma: How was I going to inform SWB he wasn’t the only one in the running and get him to step up the game without seeming like an utter bitch or a total tramp?

* I recently called Booty-Call Bob by mistake and left him a long apologetic voicemail for being late. He shares the same (real) name with a guy I was supposed to meet that day, and I hadn’t deleted BCB’s number from my cell. I got a confused text message in response and explained (much) later that I meant to call someone else. He hasn’t bothered me since.

Update: Star Wars Boy

Okay, you guys have spoken. This is what you said (from a variety of sources):

"Belle, it's just a comforter. Seriously... Get over it."

"C'mon, trying to get you to play video games is a con? You used to play GTA. All he did was try to get you to participate in something he enjoys." (Busted. I'm a big ol' hypocrite.)

"It's really just dinner. Try to make it happen again. Try to get him to come over. If these things prove difficult, then you may have a problem."

"The blanket is the antithesis of all things manly. He should know, like all good nerds, that you have to follow a few rules if you're ever going to get laid. Hiding the geek gear is part of the deal."

"You're not marrying him. You're just having fun. I say just enjoy what you do, and if what you don't enjoy outweighs it, then it's time to end it. I mean, where do you get just cutting him off 'cause he's not perfect? You've had enough bad dates with bad guys to know that having some friends isn't a bad thing."

"When it comes to the time of 'doing the deed' I think you should stop and exclaim that you simply cannot 'do this' under a Star Wars blanket."

(and from one friend who can legitimately speak to the subject):

Here's my take on the Star Wars issue:

I dated a guy in HS who was way into Star Wars...in that he still slept in a bunk bed...and on the top bed was his collection of Star Wars figures. (So I have experience...experience screwing under a veritable canopy of Luke, Leia and Darth Vader.) Looking back, I can see how that could be very offputting for some...but for me, it was something I found cute about him (one of his little quirks)...yes he was way into Star wars and played video games and was a huge movie buff...all somewhat nerdy qualities...but I honestly came to really like that about him...it made him him.

Ok so enough about my ex...how does that apply to you:

On one hand, I'm sure my ex has since figured out that maybe while those things were fine in HS, it doesn't really create the atmosphere of a lady trap as an adult...so in that respect, I could see how that is geeky and immature and a turn off.

On the other hand, 1) The Star Wars trilogy (I speak of the original, not the new crapola) is a quality American classic - way better than if he was into Star Trek...so it's not the worst vice...nor are video games, which you've played.
2) Perhaps he knows it's kinda dorky, but enjoys the throwback...I'm sure if anyone saw the My Little Pony and giant Meowth (Pokemon) stuffed animal on my dresser in my last apt., they might be like WTF?? But they had back stories to my youth and I didn't really give a shit. And it wasn't any reflection of my sexual prowess...GRRR Baby.
3) I'd much rather do it under a Star Wars comforter than on a silk vibrating heart shaped bed....i.e. being super experienced and suave isn't always a great thing (Think clean sexual bill of health)...so it
isn't the worst in the world that he wasn't all super intent on making it sex-appropriate (perhaps even more noble that he didn't).

My take: I realize there are other cons...but if the pros seem pretty good, embrace it as a quirk...one that makes him who he is. While my HS boyfriend was immature (and I'll admit that got old), the fact that the popular wrestling jock was kind of a secret nerd was really appealing to me...as
I'm a nerd too (and have been known to watch Star Wars upon returning home from bars). C'mon, it's kinda cute and endearing. Treat it as something to tease him playfully about right before he rams his cock into you..."The force is strong with this one..haha..Dork.......Uhhhh."

I agree with the direction it seems you're slanting - make the point about dinner (he may not realize it, esp. if he's immature/innocent) but give him a chance...cause you could end up really liking him (The pros sounded pretty good, girl.)

So I'm going to try to pull something together for us to do on my turf next weekend. You'd better believe it's going to involve going out to dinner. Other than that, I'm going to try to stop running from something real before something real even develops and give the boy a shot.

Star Wars Boy: A few less parts adolescence, please

I met Star Wars Boy at Kramer’s one Friday night for our first date. We browsed through the titles, using them as jumping-off points for various conversations. (Note: Don’t end up stuck in the Self-Help/Sex Advice section of a bookstore on a first date unless you’re really adept at making cunning little jokes and you never get embarrassed.) At one point, he showed me a how-to book on blogging, and, without thinking who I was talking to, I jokingly said I needed it. He asked if I had a blog, I confirmed, and the conversation was dropped before the question of content arose (thank the gods… I lack the skills necessary for tweaking the truth for my advantage, and revealing the content of this little site probably wouldn’t thrill most of my dates). I have a sneaking suspicion he might’ve guessed about the subject matter though. He looked at me at one point later in the night and said, “Do not write about me.” (Sorry, SWB.)

Anyhow, we ended up grabbing a coffee and eventually going back to his place to partake and watch some Mr. Show and Wonder Showzen. The boy has an insane collection of DVDs and excellent taste in movies and shows, I must say. I ended up hanging out pretty late and crashing with a friend in the neighborhood.

Since then, we’ve had three dates. The short-and-sweet versions:

Date 2: I met him in Chinatown to see Little Miss Sunshine (Fantastic!). We grabbed some empanadas on the way back to his place to partake and watch a DVD.

Date 3: I went to his apartment. We partook then went to see Stranger than Fiction. Despite being in Chinatown and hungry just after the movie, we went all the way back to his place to partake, order Chinese in, and watch a DVD. (That’s right, kids, we traveled away from Chinatown to order in Chinese. I’m not really sure what that was all about, but are we seeing a pattern here?)

Date 4: I met him at his place after work (this, friends, is getting old. It’s at least an hour on the Metro to his place. I would drive if parking near his house were in any way reasonable, but it is no such thing). We went to a few of the galleries for First Friday.

When we finished with our pseudo-sophisticated endeavor, we found ourselves asking ‘what now?’ We agreed that neither of us was particularly hungry at the moment but that we’d want dinner later. I said we could hang at his place for a while on the condition that we go out to dinner a bit later. That never happened. I can’t say it was totally his fault, we just got involved in conversation and it got too late to go anywhere. But, still, this not gracing a restaurant after four dates seems strange to me. Suddenly I’ve got all sorts of questions. Is he ashamed to be seen in public with me? Is he trying to hide the fact that he’s been blacklisted from every restaurant in Northwest? Is there a girlfriend I don’t know about? Does he have a phobia of restaurant booths? Is he repulsed by my eating habits so much that he's only willing to eat with me if he doens't have to look at me while doing it? Does the site of those little paper napkin rings trigger psychotic episodes linked to a mysterious and terrible childhood trauma? Why in the hell won’t this guy take me to a freakin’ restaurant?

Anyway, four dates into it, I feel it’s time to make a pro/con list about Star Wars Boy, so here it is.

Yay!

Boo!

- Incredibly intelligent and would totally kick ass on a trivia team… - Nerdy - Excellent taste in movies and T.V. shows - Very liberal - Good kisser - Partakes (and has a source. And a vaporizer. That’s nice.) - Reads - He read to me (It was really sweet) - Tells me stories on demand - Thinks for himself - … and thinks a lot like me!

- … Which sometimes makes me feel stupid in comparison. - Nerdy - Lies to his parents. (I think lying is cowardly. He’s an adult; he should man up. I told him as much.) - Tongue-thruster - Tried to get me to play video games. (I really don’t care if he plays. But trying to get me to? C’mon…) - Has an actual Star Wars blanket on his bed. (I couldn’t possibly make this stuff up.) - I have a feeling he’d put up with me telling him what to do if we were together. I don’t want to sign up to mother someone. - Prefers cold weather to hot and doesn’t like the beach or boating

Okay, I suppose before I move along, you’ll want to know about the Star Wars blanket. First, I must say SWB’s apartment looks like some fresh-out-of-the-dorm college sophomores live there. There’s nothing on the walls. There’s no table for which to eat upon. There are two televisions in the living room, one for gaming and the other for watching. (“This way we can watch and play football at the same time!” Great. That’s my absolute dream-come-true.)

And then there’s his bedroom. The rest of the house I could probably forgive, as it’s a shared space, and it isn’t absolutely filthy or trashy. The apartment itself is nice, just undecorated. But the bedroom… oh, the bedroom. First off, it’s tiny. Two huge, overflowing bookshelves (again, yay!), his bed, and a large computer desk take up most of the room. The rest is hidden under mounds of clothes and things. I’ve lived in tiny rooms before. You find ways to make things disappear before you invite a potential romantic interest over. Or at least I did. He doesn’t have a dresser, but a disintegrating plastic storage bin that’s falling apart and spewing forth clothes from every imaginable angle.

But the big deal, of course, is that the boy actually has a Star Wars blanket on his bed. This isn’t a throw or a pillow or something. It’s his comforter. I was pretty much horrified by it the first time I saw it, but I didn’t say anything immediately. I decided later that it was forgivable if there was an insanely good reason for him having it. The next time I went over, I asked as soon as we went to his room if there was a story behind it. He said yes and launched into a long explanatory tale. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say there’s really no story behind it. Not one that can explain a 25-year-old having a Star Wars blanket on his bed, anyway.

Before the last time I came over, SWB had hinted at the possibility of me spending the night. I think he would’ve offered as much if it had come to that, but I was called to assist a friend in need in the early morning hours. I have to say, the thought of sleeping under that blanket is less than appealing for me. And you can forget doing the deed in that bed. I really just don’t see it happening.

Considering all the ranting I’ve just done about the Star Wars blanket, you’d think I wanted to mold SWB into the guy I want him to be (or just make him change his bedding), which brings up the final detraction of note. I do not, in fact, want to wake up one day and realize I’m trying to change and/or controlling the person I’m dating. I had to list as a con that I think Star Wars Boy might be accepting of a girlfriend who took the mothering role. I can see myself quickly becoming the nagging girlfriend in such a situation. The visions in my head aren’t pretty.

There’s a possibility he’s not someone who’d let his girl run all over him, but I think he’d kind of be okay with it. I’ll give you a couple examples of what I mean. When I smoke, I try not to just throw the butts down on the ground. I typically hold on to them until I can dispose properly. I also take my trash out of movie theatres and throw it away. On date two, Star Wars Boy told me I was much more conscientious about litter than he. On date three, he asked if I wanted him to stop throwing his butts down outside. I told him he could do whatever he wanted, that I’m not his mother and won’t be instructing him in such ways.

But when I thought about it later, I realized I’d already played the part of the mothering, nagging girlfriend at least once, regarding some minute matter of décor in his apartment. What was probably just as horrifying as my display of such unappealing behavior is that he accepted my instruction with no qualms or questioning whatsoever. Not even so much as a raised eyebrow.

If I ever did manage to get past the whole comforter conundrum and found myself in a more serious relationship with Star Wars Boy, I have a feeling I’d be dictating his every move in no time. From what I’ve seen so far, I think he’d put up with it without much fuss. The scenario is not a thought I relish.

Consultations with my best advice-giving friends after date three yielded the following pieces of wisdom (delivered to you in three distinct nutshells):

1. Cut him some slack: He sounds like, well, a normal boy, Belle. He seems to have no major deal-breaking issues… which is, of course, the ultimate deal-breaker for you. Do something different; give him a chance.

2. Cut him: You have every right to be selective. You don’t want to have to mother anyone. Tell him you’d nag him to death and you’d end up hating one another. Honesty is always the best policy.

3. Just don’t mislead him: There’s no harm in dating him. You enjoy his company, and he obviously enjoys yours. Just don’t let him think that you’re getting into a serious relationship. Aren’t most guys looking for some fun without all the serious bits anyway? If you aren’t serious, you won’t have to nag him all the time.

So… things with Star Wars Boy stand where they stand, I suppose. I’m indecisive, but I will continue to accept when he asks me out and take the situation for what it is. I have a feeling he could want to head down a more serious path relatively quickly if we continue to see one another. That scares me, but doesn’t it always?

In the mean time, does anyone have any advice about tactfully informing him that his Star Wars blanket kills my libido, or should I just keep things from progressing to the point at which it will actually matter?

Poppin’ the CL Cherry: Abstinence Boy may never be the same

The first time I chatted with Abstinence Boy, he displayed enough humor to keep me interested for a couple of hours. A cursory glance at his Myspace page revealed he was a Fox News fan, which obviously put him right on over in the Conservative camp. Since I’d really just wanted someone to chat with, I didn’t mention it to him or think much of it for the moment. Before I signed off, he asked if I wanted to meet him for happy hour later in the week. Even though he’d chatted with a few people from CL, he confessed, he was scared and had never met anyone in person that he’d found online. He was asking me to pop his CL dating cherry, and I was flattered. How could I refuse?

Before we made any actual plans, I informed him of my tendency to lean Left, and we discussed very briefly, among other things, his stance on abortion (No. Never, never, never!), his religion (Catholic and “trying to be better”), and his vice (“just drinking,” which, in my experience, isn’t so much a vice as it is a Catholic way of life). I didn’t comment on abortion, but I told him I’m not into religion, divulged some of my vices, and gave him ample opportunity to back out. I even told him I was doing as much. He still wanted to meet me, despite all my warnings, and the date was set.

I arrived a few minutes before Abstinence Boy and took a seat at the bar. The most appealing thing on the drink menu was a Bloody Mary. I hadn’t had one in a good while, and I supposed I’d need some kind of liquor in me for whatever might come. I ordered, and he arrived. After our initial greetings, his first comment was, “Look at that T.V. in the middle (It was tuned to Fox, of course; he’d picked the place.), that’s Fair and Balanced.” He laughed, and I stopped sipping my Bloody Mary occasionally and started inhaling it like my life depended on it.

An hour later I realized we’d been talking mainly about work. (Abstinence Boy works for a government department that is so painfully Bush it hurts me to leave it out here.) I can bitch about my boss with the best of them, but I hate that kind of conversation on dates. I’d had enough of it, and I banned all work talk from that point on. I suppose that’s when things got a bit more interesting.

We started talking about abstinence education, sex education, and contraceptives, and I asked his stance on the subjects. “My religion comes first,” Abstinence Boy told me. So, what, I’m to assume this guy has never had sex? No, he’d told me that much wasn’t true. My second Bloody Mary long gone, I signaled for another, and turned to call Abstinence Boy on his utter bullshit.

Belle: So you’ve never used a condom? Never slept with a girl on birth control? How many kids do you have running around out there?
AB: Oh, well, um, no. I mean, yeah, you’ve got to protect yourself.
Belle: So what did you mean when you said your religion comes first? You’re Catholic, right? Premarital sex and contraceptives aren’t supported by your religion.
AB: Yeah, but, um… you have to protect yourself. I don’t have any kids.
Belle: Mmmhmmm. So what about when you’re married? Do you believe in birth control then?
AB: What do you mean?
Belle: From what I understand, the Catholic Church doesn’t support the use of any contraceptives, right? So when you’re married and you no longer have to worry about protecting yourself, will you just stop using any contraceptives and let God give you as many children as he sees fit?
AB: Well, no. I mean, you have to be able to support yourself and your family financially.
Belle: Interesting. Where’s that in the Bible? I don’t recall hearing about that exception.
AB: I guess I’m a liberal Catholic.
Belle: So you just choose the parts that are convenient for you to believe in?
AB: (laughs)

A bit later, I said something to this effect: If I ever lose my mind and decide I want children, I’ll adopt. At least that way you’re giving a kid who’s already here a chance. Abstinence Boy’s very excited response? “Exactly! So you’re pro-life?”

Belle: Why would you think that?
AB: Because of what you said about adoption.
Belle: (Long, hard laugh)
AB: (Quizzical look)
Belle: Look, I’m not going to get into the discussion of whether life begins at conception because I’m sure we’d be sitting her all night. I’m very much pro-choice. It’s not my place to decide what’s best for someone else.
AB: Hmmm…. I know this is bad, but when I vote, I vote down the line based on candidates’ stances on abortion.
Belle: (Finishes drink, orders another) So, what’s your stance on homosexuality and gay marriage?
AB: Ah, um, well, I… uh…. Are you really going to make me go there?
Belle: Yes. I am.
AB: Well, um, uh… This is important to you?
Belle: Yes. Have you ever voted for a constitutional ban on gay marriage or civil unions? Or would you?
AB: No. No, I haven’t.
Belle: Good.
AB: I know a guy who is gay, but, um, you know, I don’t believe it’s right. The Bible says homosexuality is a sin.
Belle: Doesn’t the Bible also say that all sins carry the same weight in God’s eyes?
AB: Yeah… yeah, it does.
Belle: So, really, according to your religion, that friend of yours who is going to become a priest? You told me he stole cable. He broke one of the 10 Commandments right there. I mean, sin can’t get much more obvious than that. That sin is the same to God as having gay sex, right?
AB: Well, um, yeah…
Belle: So your friend, who will one day have his own congregation, he’s just as much a sinner as any homosexual. Right?
AB: Well, um… I guess.
Belle: Right. Aside from the religious aspect of it though, banning gay marriage is a really obvious violation of civil rights. Basically these amendments are writing discrimination right into state constitutions. And if Bush and his cronies have their way, we’ll be writing it into the U.S. Constitution. I just can’t believe this is even an issue in 2006.
AB: Yeah, well, um…

Okay, I’ll stop with the recitation of dialogue now. Yes, the conversation was that transition-less. And, yes, I attacked this poor boy about all these things. He barely got to put a word in. Nearly as soon as I finished my little tirade, I apologized for going off, and we finished our drinks while making semi-awkward conversation.

He IMed me the next day and told me the night was “interesting.” I agreed. If you want to call my practically yelling at this guy about a number of taboo topics, then it was interesting. I asked if he would ever go out with someone he’d met online after our encounter. He said yes, which surprised me. As did his asking if I’d go out with him again. Perhaps Abstinence Boy gets off on a girl who isn’t afraid to call him on his ill-conceived religious fallback reasoning and tell him she disagrees with pretty much everything he claims to believe in.

The Aussie: Everything’s dandy until you find yourself with no way out

Since last Wednesday, I’ve had four dates with four different guys. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, the dates with these guys were actually decent, which makes it that much harder for me to entertain you. I’ll do my best though. (Bear with me, I’m supposed to meet up with a Republican, Catholic, anti-abortion guy next week. He promises to make for a much more entertaining post, I’m sure.)

I met The Aussie for a few beers at the Front Page Wednesday evening. We’d bonded over appreciation of good beer, our mutual disdain for discussing politics, and the fact that the two of us were members of the small rank of people in the D.C. area who weren’t watching the election coverage last Tuesday. (Admittedly, he has far less reason to be interested in the whole American political system than I do, considering he’s only here temporarily for work. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled with the outcome, I just didn’t see the need to spend hours watching the coverage; the print and Web stories the next day told me all I wanted to know and more.)

Anyhow, we met for a beer (mmm… beer) then headed to another locale for dinner. During the course of the meal, he asked about the people I’d met through Craigslist. I’m not sure why I thought it’d be a good idea to divulge the details of my worst dates, but I certainly did just that. I suppose I was trying to be entertaining. Perhaps he was entertained, but he seemed, from that point on, concerned that I’d be telling everyone what a horrible date he was. (Considering that I chronicle my dates here, I suppose he wasn’t far off in his concern.)

When he poured his beer too fast and it overflowed, he quipped, “Now you can tell your friends about this horrible date with a guy who spilled his beer everywhere.” I tried to assure him that I was having a lovely time and wouldn’t do such a thing. (Me, discuss a date’s shortcomings? Never!) “No, it’s okay. You can even embellish it… tell them I poured it all over you. I’d back up your story.” Ah, The Aussie has a good sense of humor to accompany that sexy, Down Under accent.

At one point, we started talking about scars, and I asked him to tell me the story of one of them. He told me of a horrible crash in his adolescence that put the driver in a coma and gave her permanent, if relatively minor, brain damage. No scars from that one, but a much cooler story than any of the ones that left their permanent imprint. He’s quite the daredevil, this one.

He also said he doesn’t see himself in the States for more than a few years at most. He’s moved around quite a bit, and travels a great deal for work and for play. He sounds like an adventurous guy who’d be fun to hang out with, but no one to grow too attached to.

After dinner, I followed The Aussie to his place for an herbal nightcap. We hung out for a while, me sitting on his bed, him sitting in his desk chair (at least he didn’t presume that me coming to his house meant I would sleep with him), talking of trivial things, as you tend to do in such situations. Finally, I noted his intensifying languor and collected myself for the drive home, he walked me out and gave me a kiss on the cheek, telling me to be safe and give him a call.*

This, folks, is what became (in retrospect) the most entertaining part of the night. I’d printed directions to get to the meeting place, and I managed to get back there from his house with no problem. I hadn’t printed return directions, though, so I was retracing my route by reversing the directions and trying to gain clues from my surroundings. This did not work. For some reason, no matter what I did (left, right, or straight at the major intersection), I kept getting put back out on one of two roads (both of which lead right back to the same intersection). I tried veering to the left at a fork, and veering to the right. Each lead me back to the intersection. I was stuck going, quite literally, in circles, no matter how much I tried to vary my course. (Thinking of it now, this is a pretty good analogy for my dating life, isn’t it?)

I couldn’t call The Aussie so soon after leaving his house. One, there was the issue of me coming across as a dumb girl who can’t find her way home, which, really, I could’ve dealt with if I’d had no other option. More importantly, though, there was the probability that he had already passed out and would not answer my call. If he awoke the next morning to a missed call from my number mere minutes after I left his house, all bets would have been entirely off.

Long story short, at least half an hour later I turned onto a completely unfamiliar street just to extract myself from the never-ending loop from hell, pulled into a parking lot, and called my friend in LA nearly in tears. Thank the gods for good friends, three-hour time differences and Mapquest. She looked up directions and got my close-to-hyperventilating ass home. (This is why I’m getting a GPS from Santa, kiddies.)

* I fully intend to devote an entire post to ranting about this trend with the boys I’ve met in D.C. Don’t guys ever take the initiative to call girls anymore? Lazy assholes.

The Perv: A legion of 10,000, you say? Bring it.

The Perv responded to my latest ad (I’m skipping ahead for this one) on Halloween. He didn’t offer much info, and I got an overall creepy vibe from him, much of which I attributed to him sharing a first name with this guy and my overactive imagination. (I should trust my gut more.) The Perv asked me out (well, more accurately, asked me to come to his house) in his first or second e-mail and in almost every one thereafter. These were one- or two-line messages, for the most part, and, like I said, he’d creeped me out, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why. He was pressing for a meeting yesterday or today.

I finally told him I wasn’t inclined to go out with guys who wouldn’t tell me anything about themselves. He wrote back that he had a boat, a house, two cars, a dog and a cat, and that he has “it goin’ on.”

--- Let me pause at this point to say it’s pretty much a given that anyone who uses that phrase to describe himself does not, in fact, “have it goin’ on.” ---

Attached at the bottom of his next message, which just asked when we could meet for a drink, perhaps him cooking dinner for me (another supposed chef), there was a photo attached. In the picture, The Perv is standing in a shower, drinking a beer (Q: Who drinks beer in the shower while having his picture taken? A: A perv. Q: And, if you’re going to go to all that trouble, why would you be drinking shitty beer? A: Because you’re a perv with shite taste in beer, which only reinforces your pervi-ness*). The picture is from his pelvis up, so none of his nether regions are visible (yes, there is something redeeming in this, after all; I didn’t have to see a picture of this perv’s penis!).

Anyhow, when I saw the photo, I responded with this:

Did you just send me a picture of you in the shower drinking a beer?
No. We will never meet. Don't send me any more messages.

Perhaps I didn’t express what I was really feeling well enough, which was not that the beer offended me, but that I couldn’t fathom why The Perv thought it appropriate to send me this particular photo while asking me out. If, say, one of my friends from college sent me a similar photo, I probably would’ve laughed and made endless fun of him for the rest of our lives. But this guy on the Internet sending it to me gave me one crystal-clear message: RUN! (Unfortunately, my knee-jerk reaction was to erase all traces of The Perv, so I deleted his wonderful photo, or I definitely would’ve posted it here so you could laugh along with me.)

This is what he sent in return:

yes i was in shower and it was a g rated picture, how old are you?
think about your age and look at picture, all you can see is a beer.
be an adult, stop with the mommie shit, u wanna see how bad this gets?

Did you catch that threat at the end? So we went from “I wanna put you on the moon” (yes, he actually wrote that. It baffled me, in so many ways) to “u wanna see how bad this gets?” in a matter of a couple hours. (I didn’t respond to this message. We do not negotiate with terrorists.)

A few hours later, he sent this:

If you get this message i sent your email too 10000 perverts, time for you to grow the fuck up.

NEWS BULLETIN: Perverts have a network, kiddies! Apparently, they’ve got mailing lists and newsletters and monthly support meetings and spring retreats. Oh, wait…

I wasn’t too worried. I use a junk account that doesn’t have my name or anything remotely close to identifying me for most of my Internet dealings. I do so for this specific reason. Yeah, so aside from a little early-morning shower plotting on the off chance that my inbox was deluged with messages from perverts, I didn’t think much about it. Has my e-mail been accosted by 10,000 perverts? No. Just the one.

But the plot? It’s grand, if I do say so myself. If I do start getting messages, I’ll wait three months (thanks, JW!) and then use The Perv’s e-mail address (which is connected to a name, though I can’t be certain it’s a real one) to sign up for every conservative, religious group I can find. Mailing lists, newsletters, prayer chains, you name it. Then I’ll tap into my gay friends’ collective pool of knowledge (or willingness to help me get revenge) and sign him up for every gay mailing list and dildo-touting Web site I can find. (Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s into that sort of thing, but I’m fairly certain the religious stuff would be about the right equivalent for him.) And if I could somehow be certain that this particular perv is in fact the same guy I found an address and phone number for this morning, I'd put him on the Focus on the Family and American Family Association mailing lists, along with any others I could come up with, so he'd have to deal with that garbage, too.

In the meantime, someone has suggested I report his ass to MSN for e-mail abuse. This was, after all, a threat. Thoughts on that, anyone?

* I make no claims that this is a logical argument, kids.

Booty-Call Bob*: What, exactly, are your intentions, Sir?

I responded to Booty-Call Bob’s ad, which listed random things about the man himself (and, by now, we all know how I’m attracted to randomness). When he wrote back, he said mine was the best response he’d received by far (thank you, thank you). We started e-mailing one another regularly throughout the work days, talked of meeting very early on, and exchanged numbers. Work called him out of town on-and-off for several weeks, and, on the rare occasion he was in town during that time, I already had plans, so the meeting was postponed indefinitely.

Late one Friday night, as I was chilling at a new “buddy’s” house, my phone started ringing. It was Booty-Call Bob. After racking my brain to figure out who, exactly, was calling me at the forbidden hour, I finally realized who it was (his real name is identical to another guy I’d actually been out with once, and I first guessed incorrectly). I ignored his call, for several reasons.

1. We’d never spoken on the phone before.
2. I’m not inclined to take calls from people I don’t know in the middle of the night unless I’m drunk or sleeping. (I was neither.)
3. A call at 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning is the epitome of a booty call. (He hadn’t earned the right to a booty call, friends.)
4. I was at another dude’s house and having a lovely time. Accepting the call wouldn’t have been kosher behavior.

That call was immediately followed by a text message, to which I did not respond. The text was followed a few minutes later by another call. And then another call. And then another text.

All this pretty much infuriated me. Yeah, I’d been corresponding with this guy for several weeks. And, yeah, we had a good little banter going on (he’s a witty and sarcastic prick. We got along well). But what the hell did he think he was going to accomplish by calling and texting me a total of five times in 10 minutes in the middle of the night? I knew chances were high that he was smashed, but I still didn’t like it one bit. By this time, the dude I was hanging out with had witnessed me silencing my phone several times and had probably seen my jaw tighten with each new ring. He was giving me strange sideways glances, and I felt I had to say something. Rather than get into explaining the whole thing, I just told him that the person who was calling didn’t have sufficient friend privileges for me to answer a call this late. He thought that amusing, and the night progressed without further interruption.

When I checked my inbox the next day, there were two e-mails from Booty-Call Bob, both timed within 10 minutes of his texts/calls from the night before. That really did it. I responded to the e-mail with a terse, “Just got your missed calls and messages. What’s up?” He wrote back a couple hours later with this: “Haha yeah I was being an idiot. Sorry to bug ya at such a late hour. Few too many drinks I feel...”

Looking back through my e-mails, I was surprised (and quite dismayed) to find that I’d accepted this half-assed apology/excuse and continued to correspond with Booty-Call Bob, albeit with less frequency. I’d even talked with him about meeting up for drinks. This was one of many times, looking back at our correspondence, that we discussed meeting, and it never panned out. One reason is that he’s repeatedly insisted I come meet him out in Bumfuck, Va. (read: beyond the Metro) to go to a bar (read: either drive home drunk or stay the night with Booty-Call Bob). Another is that the only time Booty-Call Bob seems to want to talk to me is when he’s smashed and (all signs point to) looking for a fitting tail for the end of his evening.

A couple weekends ago, Booty-Call Bob started texting me during the forbidden hour, this time persistently requesting that I drive on over to the bar he was at (again, in Bumfuck, Va.) and hang out with him. When I informed him his request was ridiculous and that I didn’t appreciate him contacting me like I was at his disposal for a booty call, he feigned innocence and again asked me out for sometime later in the week. Of course, he informed me, I’d have to come to him. All attempts at contact stopped on the part of both parties that night. Perhaps, upon reviewing our text conversation at a more sober hour, Booty-Call Rob realized he’d been busted.

I know I’m no saint in the casual sex department. I’ve had my share in the past, and I’ll likely have more. I’ve had arrangements that worked, arrangements that didn’t, arrangements that weren’t arrangements at all but repeated encounters of the drunken (and sometimes regrettable) variety. But, excuse me, Sir, if I gave you my number so you could call me for a date, that’s what you should use it for. Not to call me for some ass and then claim that isn’t why you were calling at all.

* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)

Pushy Pete: Five Easy Steps to Ensure You will Not Meet Belle

I’m honestly not sure how Pushy Pete and I began talking, exactly. I think he posted a “bored, wanna chat?” one night when I was drunk and home too early, and I responded. I only have one e-mail exchange with him, so I’m thinking this must be the case.

Consider what follows to be the Pushy Pete Guide to Ensuring Belle Won’t Meet You.

1. Get really comfortable really quickly.

Almost immediately when we started chatting, Pushy Pete said he felt incredibly relaxed with me and that we would be good friends for a long time. I felt no such thing. I’m honest with all the people I meet online (okay, maybe the other night I did tell one guy I give excellent blowjobs, but I saw no harm considering he’s on the opposite end of the country and that’s exactly what he wanted needed to hear), just like I’m honest with all the people I meet in life. Pushy Pete got my utter honesty, but I’m no fool; I don’t expect that any given virtual acquaintance is telling me the truth and nothing but, even when they insist that’s exactly what they’re doing. That’d just be ridiculously naïve.

2. Put a great deal more stock into our relationship than I do.

Unlike most guys I talk to who demand photos pretty much immediately and want increasingly more thereafter, Pushy Pete waited a long time to suggest the photo exchange and didn’t ask for more than one. He was, he insisted, more interested in me as a friend than in me as a potential lover. He acted like it, too, for the most part.

I’m not sure how long we were talking before he asked for my number, but we spoke on the phone a few times. He talked freely about pretty much anything and everything, all the while reminding me how comfortable he was and that he found it very easy to talk to me. And that we were, according to him, friends and would be such for a long time, no matter what I thought about it.

I didn’t mind killing time talking to him, but I didn’t make any such assumption of friendship. I don’t have online friends. Acquaintances, sure, but my friends are not people I know only virtually. I don’t use the term ‘friend’ freely; it has meaning in my life. And that meaning does not encompass someone with whom I share no past that doesn’t involve a phone or a computer screen.

3. Make demands of me. Repeatedly.

Pretty soon, Pushy Pete was pushing for a little get together. At this point, he was definitely flirting with me and wanted to take me out. I politely (and repeatedly) reminded him that he was the one who set the just-friends status, and that was perfectly fine with me. He slowly backed off the date invitations, but not the invitations in general. Unlike some of the other guys I’d met within a few days of beginning to talk with them, Pushy Pete gave me an uneasy feeling that lead me to back out of meeting him a couple times.

One afternoon, he’d pretty much convinced me to come into the District that night to meet him for drinks, despite it being a weeknight and me being unsure of my best transportation options (moving to Virginia made going out a pain in my ass). As I was trying to figure how to get there, he was on IM hounding me to give him a specific time. Finally, I told him I wasn’t coming. He’d pushed just a little too far, and I suddenly remembered I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. Meeting him was pretty high on the list of things I would rather eat live beetles than do.

4. Assume that telling me to do something I don’t want to do will result in me doing it.

When I backed out, he asked why. That damn Southern politeness overruled the overwhelming desire to tell him exactly what I thought, and I simply told him transportation was an issue (yes, EG, my townhouse is “inconveniently located.” Bite me). This, of course, prompted him to tell me he’d pick me up.

The conversation that followed had this flavor, if not these exact words:

PushyPete: I’ll pick you up and bring you home.
Belle: No, you won’t. I told you I think it’s a terrible idea to drink and drive.* Plus, I don’t feel comfortable getting in your car. I don’t even know you.
PushyPete: Get over it.
Belle: Um, No.
PushyPete: Um, yes.
Belle: Your telling me to ‘get over it’ shows a complete disregard for my need to feel safe and in control at all times. I will not be going anywhere with you. I have the right to say where I’ll go and with whom and how I’ll get there. You are not in a position to make those decisions or demands of me.
PushyPete: You’re right. I’m sorry. (Blah, blah, blah. Apologies. Whining. Blah, blah, blah.)

After this, Pushy Pete asked when I would meet him and apologized profusely for “messing up” with me. I told him if I did meet him, it’d have to be during the day, in an extremely public place, and not until I felt completely comfortable doing so. He laid off asking me out for a while, although we continued to chat online, and he called a few times (none of which I answered or returned).

5. Let me know it’s probably not just me who thinks you’re a knave.

Several weeks later, though, he was at it again. This time asking that I meet him and a bunch of his (male) friends out in Dupont one night. When I refused, he pressured me to tell him when we could meet. I told him he sent up major red flags and that I probably would never meet him. His response? He asked me to tell him what he’d done wrong so he wouldn’t send up red flags with other girls. My thought? Creep-y.

* Yes, I know. You know I drove after having too much wine with The Mexican. It’s still not a good idea, obviously, to drink and drive, and I do avoid such situations (as both passenger and driver) as much as possible. That night, I was stupid in more than one way.