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.

The Mexican: Fajitas, Fornication, and the Great Flight

The Mexican first e-mailed me asking if I wanted to come over the same night to watch a movie and smoke. I was out (yes, with another CL guy), and I didn’t get the message until late. But when I responded that I was sorry I'd missed the chance, he wrote back and asked me out for drinks and herbage the following day, a Monday. I agreed, and we met at a bar near his apartment. We had a good time chatting and got really comfortable really quickly when we went back to his place.

Because it was so late when the movie we watched ended (and, more importantly, because I had no cash for a cab home), I ended up accepting his offer that I stay the night. I made out with the guy, but I wouldn’t even let his hands roam on top of my clothes. While respecting my wishes for the most part, he, unfortunately, didn’t make a very good bed buddy. I don’t sleep well with others anyway, but this guy was tossing and turning spastically throughout the night. When he wasn’t flipping about, he was rubbing my feet with his and/or trying to make out with me. Between that and watching out for his occasionally-roaming hands, I got no sleep whatsoever.

The next day at work was, to say the least, absolutely horrible. In addition to the lack of sleep and the proverbial fan-hitting shit at work, I was pissed off that The Mexican never responded to my flirty e-mail I’d sent that morning. We’d exchanged about 30 messages the day before, and he’d told me he didn’t have much to do at work because Congress was in recess. So his not responding only sent me over the edge that day. He finally texted me the following night, asking what I was doing, but it was quite obviously a booty call-timed text, and that pissed me off even more. He went out of town a few days later, and I didn’t hear from him for a while.

He timed his contact so that when he finally did get back in touch with me, my anger had abated. After several weeks of sporadic contact and a few tentative plans that never panned out, The Mexican and I finally made arrangements to see each other. He was to make me dinner at his place. I was to bring some DVD selections. I threw a bottle of wine in my bag for good measure and headed out the door (only a few minutes late). Either my eyes or my directions failed me because I soon found myself in Georgetown, and that was not at all the route I should’ve taken. (What? You’re surprised I get lost driving in the District after being here 8 months? Don’t be. I sometimes get lost on the way to the gas station.) Long story short, I ended up getting to his place more than an hour late after parking all kinds of illegal. He was pretty gracious about it, though, so the night began and progressed fairly smoothly.

He made some delicious fajitas, and we settled down to watch one of my favorite movies. It wasn’t long before my shoes were off and he was rubbing my feet. We killed a couple bottles of wine, and I was pretty buzzed. He said I could stay the night again.

Belle: I would, but I don’t want to…
The Mexican: What, have sex?
Belle: Yeah.
The Mexican: That’s cool, as long as I know now… So, what, are you just not sexual or something?

And that’s when I laughed and drunkenly told him about The Resolution. He thought it insane, I’m sure, but we soon ended up in his bed. Things got a little heated, and we lost the clothes soon thereafter. Realizing his Little Mexican was at full attention and remembering what happened after he’d kept me up all night the last time, I felt I was faced with two feasible options if I wanted even the slightest opportunity to nod off: fellatio or fornication. Being that my confidence is low in my skills in the former (yeah, I just said that. I have no shame), I chose the latter.

So after about 10 months without sex, I ended up caving to a guy I’d met only once before. (Take note guys: two pseudo-dates + dinner = you in Belle’s pants!) And, to make it all even more bittersweet, the sex was less than mediocre. It wasn’t the worst I’ve ever had, but it certainly was nothing to brag about. When he got up to dispose of the condom, I suddenly felt amazingly sober. I got dressed and was practically heading for the door before he made it back from the bathroom. I told him I needed to move my car before it got towed (I did), and he didn’t make much effort to protest.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d left all my DVDs at his place*. I was kicking myself already. Now I’d have to see him again or lose some of my favorite movies. I considered the sex and The Great Flight an act of sabotage on my part. If a guy vamped like that on me, I’d never want to see him again. And I figured my doing so had pretty much guaranteed the same reaction from him.

Amazingly, he’d e-mailed me by the time I got to work the next morning asking if I’d made it home okay. I told him I had and that I’d left my DVDs there. He said he’d keep them safe until next time.

I met up with The Mexican about a week later. I’d asked if he wanted to go to a movie, but he said he’d had a long night and just wanted to stay in. I went over after work, and he made dinner again.

That night, I got the feeling he had a girlfriend he wasn’t telling me about. Lots of little things that really mean nothing on their own, plus a vibe I was getting that I’ve experienced before gave me a suspicion I couldn’t shake. Before we went to bed, I asked him about it, and he denied it. But, really, if a guy is cheating on his girlfriend, why would he have a problem lying to my face about it?

Of course, I had sex with him again, but I made sure to collect my DVDs in advance this time. Not surprisingly, I haven’t heard from him since.

* It either says something about me or about my friends that almost all of them were much more concerned that I'd left my DVDs at his place than they were that I'd broken The Resolution. God, I love you guys.

The Chef: At your convenience? I think not

The Roommate, who was at the time living vicariously through my adventures in CL dating (more to come about her own foray into the deep, dark web) actually found The Chef’s ad and insisted I reply to him. His ad sounded pretty good, so I have to give her credit.

We exchanged a series of wonderful e-mails, asking one another a ton of random questions. He was good at the game, seemed to have a great (sarcastic) sense of humor, and, after all, he was a chef.

We met outside the Dupont Metro one evening. He got bonus points for making out at after a long, torturous day at work and even managing to maintain a decent, witty conversation.

We went to the Circle for a bit of people-watching. He told me about his love for Halloween (he actually went one year as a piece of bubble gum stuck to the bottom of a flip-flop. Gross, but pretty original, no?), some little-known (or at least not known to me) historical facts about the District, and how he came to be a chef. There’s really no telling what I divulged to him, but the conversation was engaging, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as I was. Pretty soon, the brass band that often graces the Circle sent out a few notes, and we decided to grab an iced coffee and position ourselves for a better listen. We spent a while bobbing our heads to the beat and enjoying watching the group work the crowd (nothing like having cute little kiddies out there getting down with the band to keep the dollars pouring into that conspicuously-placed five-gallon bucket). He explained some things to me about the way brass bands work and how much he loved the music.

For some reason I told him about The Resolution. One of the random questions he’d asked was if I kept my New Year’s resolutions, and I hadn’t thought it necessary to go into too much detail via e-mail. But I was having such a nice time with him that my overwhelming compulsion to tell the truth won out. I just couldn’t not tell the guy. Looking back, I think this might’ve been what put the brakes on in something that otherwise had been coasting along at a pleasantly agreeable rate.

When we hugged goodnight, he said we’d have to get together again. I agreed and went on my way.

The next day I forwarded him a message about kickball (we’d discussed his love for the game the night before) one of my friends sent me and said I’d had fun with him the night before. He replied to that one, but suddenly he was so “busy at work” that our e-mail and chat correspondence dropped to almost nil. We still discussed going out again a couple weeks later. He asked that I pick a place, and I did, but the day before we were supposed to meet I asked if I could postpone. The Roommate and I had just moved that weekend, and we could barely walk in the house because of all the boxes everywhere. I had to clear my schedule to get things done around there to regain some sense of sanity.

After that, though, the e-mails from The Chef went to nil and we stopped chatting altogether. It was mostly on his end, but I’d been on several more dates by then and my interest had waned as well.

Almost exactly a month after I’d last heard from The Chef, a tragedy occurred in the kitchen of Casa de la Belle. While she was preparing dinner, The Roommate let out a shriek the likes of which I can’t remember hearing outside a horror movie. I jumped up and ran over to see what was wrong, afraid she’d chopped off a thumb or something. The cry was one of utter devastation and remorse, and it was all because of a broken knife. Yep, that’s right. A broken knife. Before having lived (and cooked) with The Roommate, I would’ve thought this reaction a bit over the top. But the knife was the only one she used, really. She “traded” someone in a hostel for it while she was backpacking in Europe (this might be her only devious act ever, so I won’t alert the authorities), and it was a top-grade Italian chef’s knife that cut and chopped and diced and sliced with the greatest of ease.

Anyhow, the result of the knife breaking is that The Roommate threatened to boycott the kitchen altogether and leave the cooking to me until she found a suitable replacement. This, friends, is completely unacceptable. Initially, I did a search for the brand of knife, but their site didn’t have the type she needed and didn’t cater to my needs for U.S. currency conversions. I couldn’t find the brand on eBay or anywhere else. Being that I’ve been spoiled in my current living situation with nightly dinners that consist of more than three or four rotating staples, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of reverting to eating out all the time or subsisting on the three or four dishes I can cook with relative competence. I went into emergency mode. I did what I always do if I can when I need advice about something; I consulted the expert. In this case, that meant asking The Chef.

I sent an e-mail and heard nothing back. This was Sept. 27. On Oct. 15, The Chef IMed me through gmail chat. It surprised me. I expressed as much. He was cordial and flirty, revealing that he’d gotten another chef position with less stress and better hours and that his roommate had gone and joined the Air Force, so he’d essentially had a ton of down time lately. Then he fished for an invitation to the Halloween party I’m attending this weekend (he loves Halloween). I considered inviting him. We had, after all, had fun together, and he’d seemed like a really cool guy. But then I thought about it, and he’s the one who bagged me. He’s the one who suddenly became busy, didn’t return my e-mail. Why should he get what he wants when it’s convenient for him? That’s no longer the way Belle operates.

Mission Impossible? Reviving the dead art of dating

Looking back at all these dates I’ve had in the past few months (No worries: more war stories will follow), I have to admit I’m suddenly in mourning. It seems the art of dating seems to have all but gone the way of the dodo*.

With a couple notable exceptions, the guys I’ve been out with lack even the most basic grasp of the concept of a proper date. I’m not asking for the clichéd five-star dinner followed by dancing and a moonlit walk along the Potomac. I do realize it’s 2006, everyone is busy, I’ve met this (these) guy(s) through a Web site, we really know nothing of one another, and that hardly anyone can be expected to willingly devote the time and energy it takes to plan a three-course, formal date for a total stranger. That cliché is not at all what I’m mourning.

All I really want is the basic premise of an actual date. Two people agree to said meeting. Someone (preferably the guy, although that, perhaps, is an antiquated notion to most) selects a destination. The two agree on a meeting place and time on a specific day. Each party prepares for the date, preferably by showering and putting on some clean and presentable clothes (there’s typically no need for a three-piece suit, but can anyone do better than a rumpled T-shirt these days?), and leave their respective locations with ample time to arrive at the destination at the agreed upon hour (and, yes, that should take into account the possibility-– nay, the reasonable expectation-- of Metro and/or traffic delays. These things are a daily occurrence in our grand city, and it won’t hurt anyone to arrive somewhere a few minutes ahead of schedule).

The two greet one another with smiles and a handshake, perhaps even a hug, if so inclined. During the date, they discuss a variety of pleasant topics and do their best to engage one another, maybe learn some things about one another (it is, after all, quite similar to an interview, no?). When they depart, they once again shake hands (or hug). Perhaps there is talk of another meeting or plans are made, perhaps not. They go their separate ways.

Rather than resembling anything like the scenario I just described, the vast majority of the so-called dates I’ve been on have started with the guy insisting that I find a place for us to go. Almost none of them has been willing to devote any portion of a weekend day to meeting me (no matter how insistent they’ve been about meeting or for how long and how I try to impress upon them that my weekdays usually pretty full). Most of them want me to travel to meet them on their home turf (especially, it seems, if they live beyond Metro access. What’s with that?).

Most dress down as much as possible for our meeting, making it feel less a like date than a chance encounter on his laundry day. Several have launched into telling me all about their terrible days almost immediately upon arrival. A few have even gone into detail about past relationships, flings, and/or one-night-stands within an hour or so of first setting eyes on me.

Perhaps, friends, the reason most of these men are on Craigslist is that they lack any understanding of the art of dating. (And, yes, I’ll argue dating is--or should be-- an art. It takes effort, skill, and hard work. Some people do it beautifully, others not so well. It’s subject to interpretation and criticism, and the same exact actions can yield different results for different players, or even for the same players at different times. If you’ve ever created anything, you know that’s pretty much how it works. And dating—not the we’re-already-in-a-relationship type of dating, but the kind prior to any such commitment—is, in that dying ideal, a step toward the creation of a relationship.)

Now, I’m not one to pass a chance at a self-deprecatory side note, but, I must say, for my part I do put some effort into these so-called dates. I dress the part, make sure I’m reasonably well-groomed, and, if I can’t revisit my daily cleansing regimen (if, for instance, we’re meeting just after I get off work), at least freshen up my makeup, brush my teeth, and dab on some fresh perfume. I do my best to arrive on time. I behave pleasantly and do my best to remain attentive. I try not to whine to this near-perfect stranger about the latest office drama or anything else he’d likely find exceedingly tedious.

But so far, the “dates” I’ve landed, with the exception of two, from this whole CL venture, did not meet those basic requirements. The two guys who did pretty much follow the pattern, now that I’m thinking about it, were with guys a bit my senior. I think both were in their early- to mid- thirties. Neither had a problem planning the evening or arriving on time (gasp! Even early!). Each kept his end of the conversation light and respectful, made sure I got home safely, and never once made an off-color remark or said anything laced with sexual innuendo. But, then, there’ve also been several who were around the same age and didn’t do so well for themselves, so I’m not claiming guys in their 30s actually know what dating is… more like noting that these two had that (and nothing else, really) in common.

So my question is, what happened to dating? Seriously, I don't think I'm too far off in saying that it wasn't so long ago when people took dating to be a normal step prior to the formation of a relationship. It was like a series of long interviews, fun (presumably) included.

Actually, I first noticed this my freshman year in college. I had been on several dates with a guy in one of my classes. We only saw each other on weekends (aside from the class, of course) and didn't talk on the phone except to make plans. We were actually dating, in the we're-trying-it-out-before-committing-to-anything sense of the term. This went on for probably a little over a month before I was informed by another girl at dinner one night (with him by my side, no less) that we were dating, the in-a-relationship kind of dating. I nearly choked when she said this (it was really posed in the form of a question, but the meaning was quite clear and it still freaked me out beyond belief). Before that, I had no idea that more than three or so dates constituted a relationship. At the time, the word made me break out in hives (I'm still a little itchy from typing it just now).

Perhaps the next time I post an ad, that's what I'll ask for. Actual dating. Not going out once or twice on some sorry excuse for a date then jumping into the sack and trying to figure out what the hell's going on between the two of you from there. See, I've been there. Where I haven't been is on a series of decent dates, especially not with the same guy. Not since, at least, that guy I dated my freshman year. He knew what dating was. But maybe that's really only because he was still in the closet. Are gay boys better daters than breeders now? I wonder...

Belle's mission, should she choose to accept: To resurrect the art of dating using only her charm, wit and the CL personals.

* I’ll concede that my experiences are nearly entirely through CL meetings and that this site may just be a magnet for guys who are dating doofuses. I won’t go so far as to say that dating is completely dead. I hear things that indicate otherwise. I’m just saying I haven’t been a first-hand participant in the phenomenon.

Frank & The Fiancée: Hands off my man

This entry will be an exception to my rule not to use names or other identifying information. I feel it’s warranted. The e-mails below are posted in chronological order and have not been edited except to remove the names of everyone but Frank.

Subject: Hello, I am also 420 friendly and quitting smoking.

From: Frank Black
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello luv. I just came by your profile on craigslist. I liked what I read, and I would like to hear more about you and to get to know you. I do have pics if you are interested, but I do expect some in return. Drop me a line. A little about myself, I stand in at 6'3, I weigh 235lbs solid, I do work out, regularly. I have brown eyes, and my hair is locked. I love the outdoors, sports (watching and playing). I love to read/write, I am also a movie/music/book junkie. I look forward to hearing back from you.

(I also received this same message in response to my initial ad. I didn’t respond the first time ‘round. I shouldn’t’ve responded the next time ‘round. I would not have if I'd realized he'd sent the thing before. I don't respond to form letters when I spot them.)

To: Frank Black
From: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello, Frank is it?

Thanks for responding. Here's a pic. I'd write more, but I'm at work and need to get some things done pretty quickly here. How are you today?

Belle

*Pic was attached*

To: Belle
From: Frank Black
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello Belle,

Thanks for the pic, you are beautiful. I like alot. I am sending you a pic as promised. It is not the best pic, but you can see what I look like. I would love to hear more about you when you get a chance.

The following message omits a canned response I’d begun sending to everyone who responded to my second ad. It helped me weed through guys at a rapid rate. I took it out of this post because it made it too damn long and had nothing to do with Frank, as he never responded.

To: Frank Black
From: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hey Frank,

How about that pic??

Subject: me
From: frank black
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Tell me what you think.

*Pic was attached*

Honestly, I though Frank looked perhaps a little crazy and not quite my type (which is why I deleted his response and our first two e-mails). Needless to say, I didn’t respond. When I arrived at work, I had the following message in my inbox.

Subject: Frank
From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

Hi Belle,

I saw that my fiancee communicated with you today about pic through his myspace account, can you please refrain from communicating with him as we are scheduled to be married in 5 weeks.

Thanks in advance,

The Fiancée

Ummmmm...Wow.

Subject: Frank
From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

The Fiancée,
Wow. Sure thing. Thanks for telling me. Frank Black, is it? I won't be talking to him any more. Good luck.
Belle

(I then forwarded the above message to both Frank and The Fiancée with the following addition.)

Oh, wanted to make sure you got this, too, Frank. I hate drama, and I'd never get involved with someone who already has commitments.

From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

Thanks so much ---! yes his name is frank black, just be on the lookout

From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

thanks ---, I forwarded this to him as well!!!!

Note The Fiancée’s reference to contact through Myspace. Since this was a craigslist posting (and because he’d responded to both of my ads), I have to assume he’s been contacting women both on Myspace and on Craigslist, and probably for quite some time and pretty frequently.

I’m glad she was polite to me and didn’t automatically go on the attack. She could've gone all Springer on me and made my life hell. So, like I said, I'm really happy she didn't automatically assume I was a bitch intentionally trying to steal her man.

But five weeks before the big day and he's trolling for women? I'd've dumped his ass without hesitation. If I'd been in the same situation, my e-mail would've read something like this:

Subject: Frank
To: The Other Woman
CC: Frank
BCC: Everyone in Frank's address book; Frank's employer and coworkers; Everyone in my address book; Anyone else I could think of

Hi The Other Woman,

I just saw that my fiancé, Frank Black, has contacted you. We were to be married in five weeks, so I'm glad I found this out before I made that mistake. Anyhow, I just thought you should know that, in addition to being a liar and a cheater, Frank's got a much smaller penis than he'd like you to believe. Unfortunatly, he can't really work it either. He also has --insert incurable STD(s) here--. He still sucks his thumb at night, and he almost never brushes his teeth. Anyhow, I just thought I'd let you know!

Thanks,
Belle

Essentially, I'd tell every embarrassing thing I knew about the guy and then make up a few kickers of my own to add. If I had any compromising photos, I'd include those as well. And I'd probably post it on Craigslist for the next several weeks, no matter how many times it got flagged and removed. Maybe even make posters and hang them up around the neighborhood.

I didn’t hear from Frank or The Fiancée again. I only hope she came to her senses and didn’t marry the asshole.

I couldn't have said it better myself

In an e-mail from my good friend, LADirtyDisco:

That’s the only good thing about meeting and dating lots of total weirdos. At some point you get numb to the disappointment and you’re just like, “EH.”

No-Drama Boy: Look, kiddies! Belle’s a bitch!

I met No-Drama Boy at Brickskeller one Sunday evening. He was tall (yay!), decent looking, soft spoken and had a sarcastic wit. All plusses in my book. We had a couple drinks and did the typical first meeting/date talking. At one point, I asked him to tell me about his worst date. He said he hadn’t had any terrible ones, but one girl he went out with was really put out by him not wanting to answer one of her questions. Of course, I had to know what the question was. He didn’t want to tell me, but I assured him I wouldn’t make him answer it and convinced him to tell me. He said the question she’d asked was his last name. Okay, I don’t want to give my full name to the people I meet online until I’m comfortable doing so. Not everyone gets to that point, so I could kind of see his point. Girls can turn out to be psycho stalkers, too.

A bit later we headed down to Dupont Circle to do a bit of people watching. We sat in the Circle, talking and snuggling close on the bench. He was pretty touchy-feely, and all my anti-PDA mentality went right out the window. After several rounds of random questions, we started walking back toward his car. I even let him hold my hand.

He kissed me goodnight and held me for a while before leaving. It felt nice to be in his arms, even if we were right out on P Street in plain view of any random passersby. We’d made tentative plans to go out that Tuesday after work. I told him to shoot me an e-mail the next day telling me where we’d go, but he said he’d just pick me up at my office, that I should e-mail him directions. Sure, I’d made out with the guy, but I wasn’t quite comfortable enough with this (last-nameless) relative stranger to agree to get into his car and go to an undetermined destination with him. I insisted that he send me some kind of a plan on Monday (a day in advance) so I could meet him wherever we were going (I always make sure to tell a friend or two where I’m going and with whom, etc.). We parted ways, I and I went back to my apartment giddy and giggling.

The next night, he called me. He was very sweet. “Just calling to see if you’re having a good day and to say I had a nice time last night.” I was just arriving at the Mall for Screen on the Green, and I’d been rushing around all afternoon getting things ready. I’d gotten about 10 friends in on it, and I was in the middle of lugging a huge cooler and picnic goods out there, trying to find a good spot, and trying to coordinate 9 other people meeting up in the dark. I was flustered and rushed. When he asked me again for my work address, the ensuing dialogue went something like this:

Belle: I told you to pick a place and let me know where so I could meet you there.

NDB: Well, I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t care. I just want to see you again. We’ll figure it out when I pick you up from work.

Belle: (in the bitchiest tone imaginable) I find that unacceptable. Get back to me when you decide on something.

The friends who were with me only heard my end of the conversation, of course, but even they raised their eyebrows. As soon as we settled down on the grass, one of them asked who I had been talking to. I told them and relayed the conversation. They immediately said I was harsh, rude, and a slew of other undesirable things (when the other friends arrived, they were also horrified by my behavior). Of course, the truth is, it was a horribly bitchy thing to do. He’d really been nothing but nice and sweet. If I’d suggested a specific place and said I’d meet him there, he probably would’ve agreed.

I eventually got to feeling bad about it, and I tried to call NDB back about halfway through the film. Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer. I left him a message apologizing for my actions and telling him I didn’t blame him for not answering. Not surprisingly, I heard nothing back from him. The next day, I sent him the following message:

Hey NDB,

I'm still feeling like a bitch here, so I thought I'd drop you a note and explain myself. First, I'll say I shouldn't have hung up on you. That was rude on my part, and there's no excuse for it. But I have to say when I asked you to tell me where you wanted to go by yesterday, I did so for several reasons. And when you said you didn't know or care where we were going... that we would just figure it out when you got here, it sounded a bit as if you're of the "whatever I, NDB, say goes" mindset. Personally, I'm not of that mindset; I don't take orders well. I also think it's much too soon to assume I'm willing to go to some unknown destination in your car with you.

So, again, I'm sorry for hanging up on you. But I was serious about having a day's notice of arrangements before I would go out again.

- Belle

NDB’s response:

When I said that, I meant "WE can decide when we meet up" as in we'll make that decision together. Just like you not taking orders well, I also don't. So "Get back to me when you decide on something" just isn't going to work, sorry. Remember we were talking about drama in life, and I'm definately willing to sacrifice happiness to not have drama in life? Well, this is one of the cases.

I wish you the best with everything.

--NDB

Belle’s response:

Cool. Best to you, too.

- Belle

So, in a nutshell, the first good date I had, I blew it. Not surprising, considering my track record.

Smell that? I think it's addiction

Things were slowing down with all the guys who’d contacted me from the first ad, and the truth is I’d become a little addicted to the whole thing. Since I’d had mainly undesirable results from the first, I decided to post another, more specific ad and see what came of it.

My post:

You:

Straight, SINGLE, male, 24-30, 6 ft or taller, employed, able to maintain your own in conversation (intelligent or otherwise), open-minded, more liberal than conservative, fun, and looking for someone to spend time with and cultivate a friendship (with potential for more).

Me:

Straight, single, white, female, 24, 5'8", thick (with NO self-esteem/image issues), fun, friendly, outgoing, too honest for my own damn good, professionally employed, 420-friendly, a smoker who is quitting (but does NOT want to be hassled about progress or lack thereof) and looking for someone to spend time with and cultivate a friendship (with potential for dating/ltr).

We could get together for drinks or people-watching or a movie or something else, if you're so inclined.

Your pic gets mine.

If you're just looking for sex, don't bother responding.

I got fewer responses on the whole to this post, down from more than a hundred responses to around 60 this time. I also weeded through responses with quite a bit more scrutiny. I wasn’t looking for a repeat of my time with Ice Cream Guy. The entries that follow will chronicle the ensuing events.

The Dom: Beware the most innocuous invitations

Most of the people in my department eat lunch together in the lovely cafeteria our building offers. We’re joined daily by various employees from other departments within the company who, I suppose, find agreeable the humor and ramblings of the other IT representatives. I’m still amazed by their willing presence, but I digress.

One of said employees, henceforth to be known as The Dom, is a loud, fairly jovial, and somewhat domineering character who joins the crew only on occasion. For several months, I didn’t even know her name. But it happened on a few occasions that she and I found ourselves on the same train in the morning or afternoon, and thus struck up the kind of acquaintanceship that occurs when you only encounter one another during the most brain-dead parts of the day. For the most part, we discussed inane matters with a liberal dash of absurdity.

One evening on our way home, I mentioned my recent foray into online dating. She, apparently, was seasoned in the whole business. She mentioned several sites I’d never heard of, CollarMe, among them, and told me she’d met her current lover through an ad she’d placed outlining her dominant desires. According to The Dom, he’s submissive and married; his wife supposedly knows about the arrangement and takes no issue.

A couple weeks after our little discussion, The Dom came up to my cube one Friday and asked if I wanted to meet up for drinks the next day. I was surprised by the invitation, but a little break from the norm would do me good, I thought. We agreed to meet around noon (“It’s more fun to get drunk during the day,” I said.) and exchanged numbers. The next morning, I was dealing with a rather substantial hangover, but I managed to rally myself in time to call her before the appointed time. She was running late, which was fine by me as it gave me time to wash away the stale smoke and alcohol vapors lingering from the night before.

After meeting up, we went to some Mexican joint for a few (really) strong margaritas (and, of course, the standard chips and salsa, which turned out to be the only fare I consumed all day). By the time we left, all traces of my hangover had vanished, and I had a substantial buzz. So much so that I thought little of it when she leaned across the table to peak down my shirt, trailing her finger briefly on my chest. “What do you have holding those things up?!?” she’d inquired of my strapless bra. It was a sign of things to come, but I hadn’t the wherewithal to notice or care.

We headed toward Adams Morgan, where she also happens to reside, and to a great little dive with only one other patron and non-functional jukeboxes on the tables. We got into deep discussions about a good many things, most of which I cannot remember and the rest of which I choose not to divulge here. We consumed a great many beers and, after our near-solitude was disturbed by a rowdy bunch, found ourselves stumbling onto the street in the red-orange sun of the late afternoon.

Next stop: liquor store. No more than half a block after leaving the bodega with a huge bottle of cheap-ass wine, The Dom tripped on the curb and fell face first on the sidewalk, shattering the Rosé we’d just acquired. After making sure she and her appendages were fully functional, it was back to the shop for another bottle.

Finally we made it safely to her house (which I wouldn’t be able to find again if you paid me). On entering, I was ushered into her bedroom and immediately noticed her pipe lying on a table. Of course, she said when I mentioned it, that was the purpose of us coming there. Being that I’m very interested in all things green, and despite that sober Belle knows drunken Belle should not partake, I was quite happy that we’d be smoking. I hadn’t found a hookup since moving to D.C. and was relying solely on chance encounters with the glorious sticky. Anyhow, alcohol and marijuana, my dear friends, are not the most compatible intoxicants, and I was soon pretty out of my head.

I’m not sure exactly what talk lead to her pulling out her collection of dildos and demonstrating (in the air!!!) how she used them on her submissive bedfellow. Or how I came to hold the largest of those dildos and comment on its weight and length and girth. And I’m even less sure what lead to me letting her kiss me. (I’ve kissed women before. In the grand scheme of things, it’s no biggie.)

What I am sure of is that she began trying to plan a ménage a trios involving me, her, and (of course) her submissive and married screw pal. Even in my highly inebriated state, I found this proposition disagreeable on several levels.

1. There was The Resolution to consider (which I tried to explain to her in my drunken rambling, but I’m pretty sure she dismissed it in her drunken ranting).
2. The idea of a submissive guy didn’t appeal to me. Nor did a submissive guy who is married and has kids (which is why, supposedly, he’s still married) and who lets The Dom strap it on and take him in public parks and such during their lunch hours.
3. If I ever have any sort of lesbian experience, I’d like to at least find the woman attractive. I could not say this about The Dom.
4. Jumping back into a sex life with a threesome of any sort, much less my first, (even if the other partners were more appealing) was not an attractive proposition.
5. The inevitable awkwardness that would follow such an encounter is not something I’d want to deal with at work. Who knows what this woman tells the people she works with on a daily basis? After all, she revealed her kinks to me even though I was a relative stranger.

(I could probably go on, but I think I’ve given sufficient reason for my unwillingness to participate.)

Sometime in the midst of all the presenting of dildos, making out, and propositioning, I got a call from a friend inviting me to game night that evening. I accepted the invitation and fully intended to get back to Dupont in time to meet up with the friends and join in their games. Immediately when I hung up, The Dom asked to tag along. I explained that the friend had expressly said only our Core group of friends was to be there (she had) and that meant no outsiders (it did). The Dom would have nothing of it. When I left her apartment, she came with me. I found myself on a D.C. Metro bus for the first time, drunk, and with a co-worker demanding sexual favors at my side. I knew I couldn’t impose her on The Core, so I directed our steps toward my apartment. When she realized we weren’t going to meet my friends, she was, of course, offended.

Somehow while we were at my place, The Dom ended up painting my toes and literally begging (on her hands and knees, no less) me to participate in the aforementioned threesome. If it weren’t for the timely return of my wonderful roommate, I have no idea what I would’ve done to get her out of the house. As it happened, when he returned, he quickly perceived that I was ready to be rid of my company and offered to escort us to her bus stop. She demanded that I walk with her alone. I refused, telling her I don’t go anywhere at night alone in the District because I’ve promised the parental units as much (I have). She took offense to this, too, and set out on her own.

At that point, I was just glad to be rid of her. By the following Monday, I was mortified that I’d gotten so drunk and allowed so much to happen with a woman I’ll likely encounter at least weekly for the remainder of my stint at this company. So I did what all people with a burgeoning shame do; I avoided her for the next week solid.

Slowly, over time, I got to the point where I don’t feel myself burning red when she enters the lunchroom. And the other day, I even managed to exchange a bit of small talk with her without throwing up in my mouth at all.

The Deserter: Left at the Turnstile

Okay, so The Deserter had me from the first few lines of the first e-mail. Read it for yourself.

So, you were brave enough to post a Craig's list personal ad ....

... and let me guess: you got about 37 responses from guys looking to cheat on their wives, 22 who were "single, lonely, and desperate" ... and about 2 guys who said "Hi, I'm fresh out of my 3rd jail sentence for not paying child support because I needed the money to fund my Cocaine addiction. But now that I'm out of jail and rehab, i'd love to take you out for taco's sometime.... i can't really afford more since I havent been employed in 6 years. Care to join ?? You'll have to pay this time .." .... or something to that effect :)

Don't worry, im in category "D" - "None of the Above"

What I am:

- 25 years old.
- Straight
- Intelligent, funny, sarcastic in that dry-yet-charming way (you couldn't tell ?? :) )
- ... and yes, don't worry - I've been told i'm pretty easy to look at for an extended period of time

Ooh! He’s witty. And his e-mail went on to display relative intelligence, a good attitude, and seemingly functional social skills. The list goes on. We exchanged about 30 e-mails over the next couple weeks, generating and responding to random questions, telling one another anecdotes and sharing random tidbits unsolicited. During that time, he pretty much proved the self-description above was accurate. I was very excited about meeting this guy. If I hadn’t been in the midst of the dread apartment search, I would’ve done so sooner.

We finally met each other outside the Metro entrance and proceeded to Zaytinya. As I was going up the escalator and checking a voicemail I thought was from him, I spotted him chatting away on his mobile. My first impression of The Deserter proved that he was, in fact, easy on the eyes. He was a little shorter than I’d prefer, but we can’t always get the full tall dark and handsome package, can we? Anyhow, we made our way to the last two seats at the bar and each ordered a glass of wine.

From that point out, it was like I was talking to a friend. Not in the it’s so comfortable upon first meeting that something’s just destined to blossom from it. It was more that I could already feel myself placed into the friends and nothing more category. It’s an unusual feeling for a girl to get lumped there. I hear guys complaining about it all the time (usually the nice guys), but it’s not something you’re really accustomed to as a girl. I mean, most guys think like Harry Burns. Straight men always want to have sex with the women in their lives, right?

Not The Deserter. It didn’t take me long at all to tell he wasn’t remotely interested in me. We still had a decent conversation, interrupted only a few times as he compulsively checked his Blackberry. Somehow he slipped the bartender the money for our wine, and the next thing I knew we were heading out the door.

When we got to the Metro, something was wrong with my SmartTrip, and I couldn’t get through the turnstile. The station master lady was over helping a group of helpless tourists, and The Deserter was already on his mobile on the other side of the gates. I motioned that I had to wait. He looked at me, gave a little wave and vanished. Geez. I knew he wasn’t interested, but did he seriously leave me at the turnstile without so much as a proper good evening? Oh, yes, he very much did.

Ouch.

The Profile: The Guys Who Attract Me Always Suck (or Is It the Other Way Around?)

I’ve been discussing The Profile with several of you a good bit lately. What it basically boils down to is the type of guy who can attract and hold my attention for any period of time (though that time is almost certainly not lengthy, even if he manages this). Before I describe it here, I want to take a moment to explain something. I do not consciously seek out guys who fit The Profile. I don’t tick off this mental checklist in hopes of finding someone who fits my criteria. The Profile only came into existence when I started noticing a couple trends in the guys I liked (who were and are never good for me. Probably not for anyone, for that matter), and once I started thinking back to others I’d been attracted to, I noticed that the trends weren’t few or far between. And they aren’t good. At least not in the quest for… well, whatever I’m searching for.

Anyway, I look at The Profile as a negative thing. I thought identifying the qualities all these bad-for-me guys had in common would help me refrain from making the same mistake again (and again). Alas, I’m stubborn in my attractions. And no amount of level-headedness on the part of my brain can convince the crazy, falling-for-him part of me to stop, evaluate the situation and run quickly in the other direction before I get too involved. It just doesn’t freakin’ work that way. Oh, how I wish it did.

So, The Profile. He is:

- Extremely intelligent (so far, so good, right? Um… read on.),

- To the extent that he’s socially inept (usually not just kind of a social doofus, but someone who my friends do or will loathe. Along with everyone else in the vicinity of this guy. Yeah, that’s the guy I go for), and

- Seems to be stunted in his career goals/development (probably from a fear of failure-- since he’s so damn smart, he couldn’t live with himself if he wasn’t the best at, well, everything),

- Quite arrogant (some are outright assholes), but not completely unwarranted in his arrogance (he is, after all, incredibly intelligent, remember?),

- Older than me (we’re not talking by months or a couple years, here),

- Dealing (or not dealing, as is sometimes the case) with a psychological issue or several (sometimes the likes of which, in a less PC environment, would’ve had him branded as “crazy” in no time), and

- Unavailable, typically emotionally, but sometimes geographically (and it’s inevitable there’ll be a married one in there one of these days if I don’t break this horrible pattern of fixation).

After recent conversations and reflections on this trend, I just had to get it out for some reason. I’m not the only girl who does this. Hell, guys do it, too. I might be one of a much smaller subset of the population who has analyzed my ‘type’ to this extent (and who has chosen not to focus on the physical ‘type’).

I know part of this whole attraction stems from the fear-of-commitment that’s so ingrained in me. What I don’t understand is why, knowing this and trying to be open and like guys who don’t fit The Profile, I continue falling only for guys who do. Like I said, logical Belle has no control whatsoever over falling-for-him Belle.

The Nice Guy: A persisting dilemma

The next date was with a rather polite and well-behaved fellow with whom I’d discussed beer and travel and photos and work and a smattering of other nonessentials when I initially agreed to the date. He was so polite and well-behaved, in fact, I’m just going to call him The Nice Guy. He was also so good at keeping me engaged in entertaining exchanges that it wasn't until around e-mail 11 when I finally asked his name. I’d say I believe he’d intentionally withheld it because he’s Indian and the name gives that away, but he’d told me that when he sent his picture (somewhere around e-mail 4), even though he could pass for Caucasian if he really wanted to. It wasn’t until we’d picked a day and activity for a date (by then, we were somewhere around e-mail 24) that I thought to ask his age and marital status, among other things. 34. Single. No kids (although, he revealed, he does sometimes behave like one. No problems with that here, I told him, as long as he wasn’t looking for a mommy).

We met for drinks at The Brickskeller after a tough day of apartment-hunting with the new roommie before heading to a little murder mystery. We sampled a few beers, and I fell in love. With the bar, that is, not the date. (And to think, I’d been living a mere block from this gem for months and never so much as cast a second glance at the entrance!) Not that the date wasn’t pleasant. It was entirely enjoyable. He was entirely enjoyable. Completely attentive, intelligent, complimentary, able to maintain a decent conversation, a perfect gentleman (with an accent slight enough to be intriguing without hindering conversation). All the good qualities girls everywhere are supposed to be looking for.

We left Brickskeller and got to the Kennedy Center just in time to grab a couple more beers before the first act of Shear Madness. The play was engaging (of course, as it’s designed that way) and gave us a good deal to talk about during the intermission and the short drive back toward my place. (By the way, I’d definitely recommend it!) Sounds like a nearly perfect evening, right? It was.

But there was one major problem. For this girl, The Nice Guy was pretty much too nice. Among my many and varied hang-ups lies a very pervasive one dealing with nice guys. I have this fear that, if given the opportunity, I’d take a nice guy and do the worst thing possible: make him into a jaded, bitter asshole. I’ve encountered a handful of nice guys in my time, and I try to keep a respectful distance because I know without knowing why I know that I’d ruin him. There is an overabundance of jaded, bitter assholes out there, and I don't want to add to that growing population. I’d hate to deprive some girl who truly wants and deserves a nice guy the opportunity to have one. It’s quite a conundrum, though. The major problem facing nice guys, from what I understand, is that most girls aren’t really interested.

Obviously, I’m no exception in this regard. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t put up with a guy who constantly berated me or physically assaulted me, but I definitely need someone who’s not afraid to challenge me. It’s important that the person I’m with be there to keep me in line sometimes, keep me on my toes at the very least. And he should expect the same from me. Have I mentioned before that I can be a real bitch? I need someone who knows when it's appropriate to be at least a bit of an ass who can balance that.

Anyhow, The Nice Guy dropped me off in close proximity to my house (that’s right, I don’t even trust “nice guys” I meet on the Internet with my exact address), and I thanked him for a lovely evening. Exactly two e-mails later and our contact officially ceased. It’s just as well. He deserves someone nicer, and I hope he’s found her.

--

Because of The Nice Guy, I ended up reading Bringing Down the House. It's a pretty good read, for those of you interested.

Fabric Softener Guy: Have you had your Snuggle today?

Fabric Softener Guy and I had an excellent rapport in e-mail, exchanging interesting anecdotes and asking each other random questions, which I love. We decided to meet up for happy hour after work one day. As I was walking out the door, a co-worker offered to give me a ride to meet him so I wouldn’t have to Metro. While we were on the way to the arranged meeting point, he called and changed the location.

FSG: *sigh* Do you know where Siné is?
Me: Where? How do you spell that?
FSG: *sigh* S-I-N-E
Me: (To the coworker driving me) Do you know where Siné is?
FSG: I know where it is. *sigh* I’m asking you.

I was a little put off by his tone on the phone (and all the sighing. What’s up with that?), and complications arose when my phone died and I had to call him back from the co-worker’s phone. I wasn’t even there, and already the date wasn’t looking promising. But this time, I was leaving after an hour. No matter what. I’d told my roommate to call the police if I didn’t return at a predetermined time, and that allowed me one hour in FSG’s presence before I had to trip off to the Metro and get my booty home.

When the coworker dropped me off, I spotted him and immediately made a mental note to kick my own ass a little when I had the time. I’m already 5’8” (and a half, if you want to get technical) and I’d worn some stacked wedges to work that day. I hadn’t though to ask FSG his height, and I stood towering over him as we made our hellos. Siné was packed, and we ended up going somewhere else, which turned out to be the first good thing about the date.

The second good thing about the date was him relating -- in an entertaining manner (bonus points) -- the story of how he pissed off a diplomat that day by telling the guy the truth (double bonus points!). Our online rapport transferred easily into the waking world (he likes to bitch just as much as I do), and we had no trouble talking with one another about a variety of topics. Before I knew it, I was already late getting home. Since my phone was completely dead, I had to ask to use his to call the roommate and let her know I hadn’t been abducted and would be later than planned. He laughed when I asked for it and informed me that the best way to put a limit on my dates was to meet near an area with some shopping, have my friend shop while I’m on the date and meet her afterward. “That’s why I picked this place, actually. There are lots of things nearby.” (I made a mental note, but I haven’t yet used this technique. Seems like a good one though.)

Some tidbits from the date that stick out in my memory follow.

Fabric Softener Guy’s moniker is derived from the following exchange:

FSG: Fabric softener is very important.
Me: I really never used it until recently. Sometimes I forget to even put it in there.
FSG: (Deadpan) Well, at least you’re in the process of being converted. I can’t date girls who don’t use fabric softener. I can’t even be friends with people who don’t.
Me: (Laughs) What?? What does someone else using fabric softener have to do with you being friends with them? (Laughs some more)
FSG: Well, let’s say you and I start dating, and somewhere, sometime down the road you do my laundry for me. And you don’t use fabric softener. That’s it; we’re over. I’m a sensitive guy. I have to have fabric softener.
Me: (Stops laughing) What makes you assume that I’d be doing your laundry even if we were dating?
FSG: It could happen.
Me: No. It wouldn’t.
FSG: (Changes subject)

______________

I’m a klutz, and I’ve learned to handle most of my embarrassing missteps with a grace I (obviously) lack in everything else. I’m not sure how to interpret it, but about half an hour into the date, I knocked our salt shaker off the table and it shattered on the floor, spilling salt everywhere. The people at the table next to us immediately handed me their salt shaker, and I tossed some salt over my left shoulder, mainly to appease them. The people at the other table got a big kick out of it. FSG didn’t seem to notice anything that’d happened.

______________

FSG: I’m the guy every girl wants to be friends with. I don’t want any more female friends.
Me: Fair enough.

______________

FSG: I’m ready to find someone I can think about settling down with. I’m not looking to get married right now, but I’m thinking about that kind of thing.
…
Me: I don’t really want to get married.
FSG: If you don’t want to get married, you shouldn’t be dating.
Me: What makes you say that? People can date without the ultimate goal of marriage.
FSG: No. Why do you even want to date if you don’t want to marry?
Me: To find companionship. Meet people. Have something to do.
FSG: No. You shouldn’t be dating.

______________

FSG: I got these shoes at Marshall’s.
Me: Ooh. I love Marshall’s. (Hey, I’m a bargain queen. Quit being snobby bitches unless you’re going to buy me a designer wardrobe.)
FSG: You just won yourself a second date.

______________

Okay, now, before you think that all sounds terrible (which, I’m sure it does) and wonder why I hung around at all, let me just say, this was not a bad date. In fact, it was a good one. I just didn’t bore you with the inane pieces of the conversation in which we were perfectly agreeable, which was the majority of the night, I assure you. Why would you want to read that?

Anyhow, FSG and I still talk (bitch is more like it) on occasion. We never had that second date officially (although we have hung out since). We each got bogged down at work and with our own social lives for a while (this guy goes on more first dates than I do) before we caught back up with one another. In the interim, he’d done a 180 from both his I’m-ready-to-settle-down stance and his I-can’t-handle-one-more-friend-girl stance. He’s out on the party scene, playing the field, and he said we should be friends (this time, it’s definitely because of The Resolution, which is fine with me.

I don’t know if I could keep up the fabric softener routine much longer anyway.

The Resolution: Three-Quarters of the Way There

Today I’m taking a break from discussing CL guys to talk about The Resolution.

I usually don’t make New Year’s resolutions. Why go into a new year setting yourself up for failure? I mean, looking at it, they rarely ever work out, right? No more smoking. Going to the gym daily. Eating healthier. Not talking about people behind their backs. – Most are forgotten by the time Co-Dependent Hell Day hits, if not sooner.

So I’m not sure what it was, exactly, that prompted me to make The Resolution, but I did it. I decided that in 2006 I wouldn’t have sex with anyone unless I was in a relationship. It’d be no biggie if I was like some of my friends who seem as comfortable floating into and out of relationships as they are choosing a restaurant for dinner. “I’ll have the steak, medium-rare. Oh, did you see my new boyfriend? We met last night.” But I’m not one of those girls.

In fact, I have a pretty severe (self-diagnosed) commitment phobia. (And not just in the relationship arena… I need a new cell phone and am paying out the ass for a ridiculous plan, but I haven’t mustered the courage to sign a new contract because they want one for two years, and that sounds like eternity to me. I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but I’ve stuck with piercings because of the sheer permanence of ink on your skin. The list goes on.)

So I suppose last year I felt like it was time to grow up and face this fear head-on (at least in the relationship department). Knowing that, in the past, I’ve primarily been interested in unavailable men (I didn't write this, but I could've.) and never interested in those who are interested in me for anything that remotely hints at becoming serious, I decided to try to trick myself into being open to the possibility of a relationship. Considering how horny I tend to be, The Resolution seemed like a perfect way to do just that. I thought it was a brilliant plan. Turns out that what it’s effectively done is make me celibate. I’m still only interested in unavailable guys and not interested in those who express anything resembling a real interest in me. And I still haven’t gotten laid this year.

Being the forthright person that I am and knowing that many (if not most) of the men cruising through craigslist personals probably are, in fact, looking to get laid (if not immediately, then at least soon), I tend to reveal this information fairly early on in CL exchanges. The responses have been varied, but they tend to group the guys into one of the following categories.

1. The See-Ya Guy - He makes no excuses or pretenses. Once he hears he has no shot at getting laid, all communication ceases and he disappears like a vapor.
2. The Prove-Ya Wrong Guy – He’s game for at least one date. He plays it smooth and tries to see what he can get despite The Resolution. He’s looking for the validation of making me cave. Once he sees that I’m serious, he’s fast on The See-Ya Guy’s heels.
3. The Let’s-Be-Friends Guy – He continues to talk to me, first establishing clearly that he’s not interested in a relationship. Usually he also makes it clear that he's ‘on call’ if (or when, depending on how little faith he has that I can actually hold out) I decide to break the pledge. He maintains periodic contact so I won’t forget him if/when that time of desperation should arise. (I’ve made quite a few new friends. *smile*)
4. The Your-Resolution-Is-Stupid-And-I’m-Pissed-Off-Because-I’m-Not-Getting-Laid Guy – He’s pretty up front about hating The Resolution. It’s been too long since he’s had sex, and he thinks I’m a bitch for not having sex despite having the opportunity when he’s trying to have sex and failing miserably. (Really, it’s obvious. Even skanky, undesirable girls can get laid when they put their minds to it a helluva lot easier than straight guys can. This pisses guys off to no end.) He might also be The You-Should-Screw-The-Next-Willing-Guy-You-Encounter Guy. The name pretty much says it all, although I don’t understand why he’s so adamant that I go have sex whether or not it’s with him. I suppose it’s a brotherhood thing. Perhaps he figures the good karma of convincing me to sleep with some other poor slob who can’t get laid will eventually come back to him or something along those lines.

Notice anything missing from that? What about The I’m-Not-Opposed-To-Dating-Without-Jumping-Right-Into-The-Sack Guy*? Where’d he go? I know, I know. What do I expect meeting these guys on the Internet? What do I think they’re really there for? Still. It’s a Catch-22, isn’t it? They don’t want slutty girls, but they don’t want someone who’s holding out and I’m not even talking for marriage or engagement or anything like that, mind you… just for something along the lines of, “If I’m fucking you, I won’t be fucking anyone else”… is that really so much to ask??

Okay, so I got off on a tangent. Pardon me for that.

Ultimately, I’m really fine with being single. I’d like to meet someone to share my time with, but I’m not just hell-bent on it. I don’t want to get married, so this isn’t some cover-up for an attempt to get a huge rock or anything. It’s actually just what I said it was: me trying to convince myself to be open to the possibility of a relationship. It’s always good to try new things, right? And all bets are off come January 1 anyway, so it's really a small matter now that we're in month 10.

* Not to be confused with The I’m-Ready-To-Get-Married-And-Start-A-Family Guy. This guy really scares me. I’m a commitment-phobe, remember? He’s typically around my age or younger. (Single guys a bit older usually aren’t interested in getting married at all.) His determination to find a woman to be his bride doesn’t appeal to me in any way. In fact, it kind of creeps me out and makes me a little sad. I always wish him the best of luck, though.