The Dissimulator, Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

Check Out Part One: An Introduction
A few months into their relationship, The Dissimulator bought Nancy an "engagement" ring.* One day, she took it off at their apartment and set it on the coffee table. When she looked for it a short while later, it was gone. She and her beau were the only two in the house. The ring was never seen again. The Dissimulator later blamed a repairman sent by the management company for stealing the ring. He, of course, never lodged a complaint or asked the company to investigate.

As Christmas and finals neared, I wondered (loudly and often, in the general direction of Naïve Nancy) why we never saw The Dissimulator do any work for the online classes in which he claimed he was enrolled. Naïve Nancy, arguably unconcerned with her own studies, ignored me and busied herself making a wish list at Victoria's Secret. The Dissimulator told her he'd ordered everything on it.

When the three of us exchanged gifts, I left with an armload of booty from the two of them. In the end, Nancy got a whopping three presents from The Dissimulator, none of which were from her wish list (and none of which were thoughtful, useful, cool, funny, or any of the other things that make gifts good). "The management office wouldn't accept the packages. We'll have to go to Crap City to pick them up." Never happened. (He, by the way, got several really nice and thoughtful gifts from Nancy. And I got several nice and thoughtful gifts from him.)

When I returned from a long, torturous winter break at the Southern Homestead, I found an entirely changed scene. Naïve Nancy had lost her job and officially moved back into our dorm room (which really cramped my style after months of solo-living). The Dissimulator had given up his off-campus apartment to move into a dorm and start taking classes at our esteemed institute of higher learning. Odd, I remember thinking (and saying, many times). Didn't The Dissimulator say he's been in college for two years? Only freshmen are required to live on campus. Why would he give up an apartment to live in a crappy dorm?

My theories were twofold. 1.) He'd never been to college (or was still classified as a freshman) and had to live in the dorm to attend classes. 2.) He was really, really sick of playing house with Naïve Nancy.

By the spring semester, I'd managed to forge a few more friendships, to diversify my platonic relationship portfolio, if you will. It was a good damn thing, too. The Dissimulator and Naïve Nancy were having relationship problems all over the place. She'd become incredibly needy, and he'd become suddenly aloof. Emotional matters, financial matters, physical matters... everything was causing problems. I needed S P A C E.

With space came a little perspective, I suppose. The Dissimulator and I had a huge falling out. I don't remember the catalyst of the argument, but I do think I had more than a little to do with starting it. Naïve Nancy just sat and watched the two of us hurl various forms of verbal assault at one another with all the force we could muster. I called The Dissimulator out about his little habit of spewing forth lies whenever he opened his mouth. That did it; he was about to launch missile one, aimed at destroying my friendship with Nancy.

"You said Nancy was immature!" The Dissimulator shouted, pointing his chubby finger at me.

In a sense, he was telling the truth. A short while after Nancy had moved back into the dorm, our phone had rung in the middle of the night. I’d answered. It was The Dissimulator. He was in the parking lot, and he was upset. Would I please come talk to him? Still groggy, I'd gone to meet him. We'd talked for a bit, and he'd asked my opinion of his relationship with Nancy, telling me his friends thought she wasn't right for him. As delicately as I could, I told him I thought the pair was a bit immature to handle the sort of relationship they were pursuing.

I looked over at my shell-shocked roommate. Nancy, I'll talk to you about that later. Right now, I need to deal with him.

And I did talk to her later. I told her what I'd said to him. It was how I felt, and it wasn't intentionally mean or hurtful, but I’m sure it was hurtful nonetheless. Most importantly, though, it was the truth, something all of us needed a whole lot more of at the time. But the Dissimulator’s attack was well-aimed; my relationship with Nancy was never the same.

After our fight, The Dissimulator and I were pretty much sworn enemies, but I hadn't seen the worst of what he had to offer.

Several weeks later, I returned from class one morning to find a sobbing message from The Moms on the machine. "Belle," *sob* *sob* "Call me as soon as you get this." *sob* Click.

Panic set in. Someone was dead. I just knew it. Younger Brother? Older Brother? Who could it be? I dialed shakily and nearly burst into tears when I heard The Moms' first sob. What is it? Who's hurt? What's wrong?

The Moms finally managed to gasp out that she'd gotten a letter. It was from someone who claimed to live in my dorm but who remained anonymous because "she" was speaking for many girls. They were worried about me, the letter claimed. I was an alcoholic. I was skipping classes all the time and in danger of flunking out of school. I was threatening murder and suicide. I had gotten a reputation as a slut. I *gasp* dated black boys. To prove how right they were about all they said, they'd printed out a few select passages from my livejournal account, which detailed, among other things, getting drunk at a party and a date with a sweet, funny, intelligent, gorgeous guy who also happened to be black.

Already firming up my belief that the truth is best, even when it is more painful, I reassured my mother that the things she'd read were not true. The Moms, I drink sometimes, but I'm not an alcoholic. I can't remember the last time I drank. The same bottle of Boone’s** has been sitting in my fridge for two weeks unopened. I do not drink every day. I am not failing classes. I have A's or B's in everything, just like high school. I do occasionally miss my 9 o'clock class, but there's no attendance policy and the lecture notes are online. Who can digest philosophy at 9 a.m. anyway? I'm not suicidal, nor am I full of homicidal rage. I am still a virgin. Hardly anyone on this campus even knows who I am; I have no reputation. Okay, I have gone out with a really nice guy a few times. He is black.... The Moms?.... The Moms?... The Moms!.... Yeah, I know. I'm glad they sent you the letter and not Dad.... Yeah, I know better than to tell him. .... Yeah, the brothers either. ... Are you okay now? I promise I'm fine.... Hey, The Moms? Can you send me that letter?

It wasn't the worst thing he could've done, but it definitely seemed horrible at the time. He nearly gave The Moms a heart attack, which wasn't nice at all. But I was smart enough to know I'd gotten off light. If the address listed in the student directory had been that of my father, that letter would have assuredly led to my being shunned by a good portion of my wonderful family.*** It might have led to violence on the part of my hot-headed brothers.

The ironic part of all this, which I can only laugh about now, is that The Dissimulator was Indian, and Naïve Nancy's (Caucasian) parents were as incredibly bigoted as my father and brothers. As a result, they didn't even know he existed, and if she'd had her way, they never would have.

I could never prove he sent the letter, but Naïve Nancy told me years later that she believed, looking back, it was him.

Stay Tuned for Part Three: The Money & The Illness

* The ring was a cluster of sapphires and small diamonds. As far as I know, it was not accompanied by a proposal. While I’m all about shirking tradition and doing things your own way, it never seemed like a real engagement to me.
** Yeah, I said Boone’s! That’s barely even alcohol!
*** There are many good damn reasons I left the Southern Homestead and surrounding areas. Sadly, the family accounts for the vast majority of them.

The Dissimulator, Part One: An Introduction

When I struck out for my freshman year of college, I knew exactly one person who would attend the same university. Being that (1) he was male, (2) freshmen were required to live in dorms, and (3) we went to school in the Bible Belt, there wasn't an option of making a go as roomies our first year.

My former boss and self-described Adoptive Mom* made the trek with me from the Southern Homestead to The Black Hole. We spent much of the six-hour ride guessing what my roommate would be like based on the only bit of personal information I'd been given, her name.

We came up with a ton of life stories for the girl (most of them clichés, I admit). One minute she was pearl-wearing Daddy’s girl who would remain sweet and charming until exactly the moment her parents' taillights disappeared, then morph into a slutty, alcoholic bitch. The next she was a recluse who never uttered more than a few monosyllables and listened to nothing but death metal and polka. She had a Mohawk, tons of piercings, and tattoos. She was a suck-up who would follow me around campus and offer to write all my papers. She already had two kids and was going to try to keep them in the dorm with us. She only ate garlic and raw onions. She was a bully and a thief. She insisted on wearing only pink and decorating everything with sequins and glitter.

Naïve Nancy turned out to be none of those things, thankfully. As people go, she was pretty decent, if a little annoying and somewhat dense at times. Her judgment needed a bit of honing, but whose doesn't at 18? Mine certainly did (and, arguably, still does). I can't say we immediately hit it off, but we did become pretty good friends fairly quickly.

But this story isn't completely about Naïve Nancy. It's mainly about her lovely boyfriend, The Dissimulator.**

First, a little back story:*** Naïve Nancy met The Dissimulator the summer before she left for school. Her parents, feeling that she wasn't ready to leave home,**** didn't support her desire to attend our fine, fine university. They would have preferred that she live at home and attend a community college.

Naïve Nancy’s BFF at the time, Sickly Sugar, convinced Naïve Nancy she had to come with her. Then she made it her mission to convince The Dissimulator he had to help Naïve Nancy with tuition and books and furnishing and stocking her dorm room, etc. and whatnot. The Dissimulator agreed to do those things.

At the time, he and Naïve Nancy were not actually dating. Sometime during the three-hour drive from their town to our dorm, he'd pretty much changed their status from "up-the-air" to "exclusive." (Really, it was more like "haven't yet kissed" to "gettin' laid tonight!" I suppose throwing down a lot of cash can do that for some people.)

Enter Belle: The Dissimulator was a charismatic guy. We became friends more easily than Naïve Nancy and I formed any kind of bond. It wasn't too long before Sickly Sugar found the walk from her dorm to ours too much effort, and their friendship was downgraded, which gave the friendship between Nancy and me just the kick in the ass it needed to blossom.

The Dissimulator started the fall semester by coming to visit Nancy every weekend and sometimes during the week. The three of us usually hung out until he had to leave the dorm at curfew, then they'd go to some hotel in town. Several weeks of this routine apparently wore him out. He rented an apartment and moved to The Black Hole. Naïve Nancy unofficially moved out of the dorm and into his place.

Long before the move, though, I'd noticed something fishy about The Dissimulator. He had this habit of talking about money. Specifically, how he had so much of it. Odd, I remember thinking. Don't the people who actually have money also have the good sense to keep their traps shut about it?

I'd been to his parent's home. While the structure was nice and on a fairly grand scale, the place was ill-decorated and unkempt. Who lives in a plantation-style "mansion" and hangs family portraits in plastic frames from the dollar store? Why are there no carpets in the house? Don't rich people always have fancy ancient carpets? And antiques? Where's the furniture that doesn't look like it came in a box that said “Assembly Required”? And why has The Dissimulator been driving around this dumpy Impala for weeks? Didn’t he say his Maxima just needed some repairs? What the hell gives?

Nevertheless, I remained friends The Dissimulator. Nancy had taken a job in a town about 20 miles away that kept her out late four nights a week. Being that The Dissimulator wasn't a student and wasn't working and spent all his time with Nancy and me, he had no other friends in town. Being that I'd skipped all the "go-on-ahead-and-make-yourself-some-friends-now-darlin'" gatherings, didn't have a fake ID, rarely spoke to classmates, and spent most of my free time with Nancy and The Dissimulator, I had only a handful of acquaintances. When Nancy was at work, The Dissimulator and I spent a great deal of time hanging out with one another.*****

Even still, I tried to tell Naïve Nancy when I started to see things were legitimately amiss with the guy. One day, The Dissimulator told Nancy he'd purchased a purple iMac for her. He claimed it would arrive in two weeks. It never did. After some serious prompting from yours truly, Naïve Nancy inquired about the MIA iMac. Each time, she received some excuse ("Back ordered." “Still backordered.” "Apparently purple is really popular." "The driver dropped it at the wrong address." and on and on), until she finally gave up and dropped the subject entirely.

Even though I thought his buying her a computer was a bit excessive, I found the blatant lie about doing so outrageous. It wasn't even a good lie. It's not like you'd really pay for a computer but not care that it was never delivered and just give up on it. I mean, you're destined to be found out in that situation. Who would lie about something like that? Who would stay with someone who lied about something like that?

But, I was guilty, too. I didn't run from these crazy people and their crazy ways. Apparently, I had a lesson to learn.

Stay Tuned for Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

* When a person you've only known for two years is more willing to see you off to college than your own parents, who've ostensibly known you your entire life, that person has every right to claim such a title. In fact, the "adoptive" part was dropped soon thereafter. She's been known as Mom since, but that’s too confusing for the blog. [Up]
** Since Pathologically Lying Manipulative Asshole Con Man Fucking Compulsively Lying Liar Guy is incredibly long, I opted for the slightly less burdensome moniker. [Up]
*** This is information to which I was not privy until much later in the game. [Up]
**** By the end of the year, I was in total agreement with her parents in this respect. [Up]
***** Eventually, there were rumors that The Dissimulator and I had something going on. I assure you, we never even flirted with the idea of flirting with one another, much less taking things further. [Up]

And... I'm back

So it seems, in this case "On Hiatus Indefinitely" means about a week. Who would've figured? (I find it funny that my declared hiatus didn't last as long as my last unexplained break...)

The thing is, I like writing and, until I get my act together and start working on a book or something, this is the only forum in which I do that.

So, I'm back. And I'm pretty damn happy about that.

On hiatus, indefinitely

When I was but a wee lass, I began collecting masks of all shapes and sizes. Hundreds of them adorned the walls of my room, and they were as important to me as inanimate objects can be to pre-pubescent young girls. My first research paper, "Clowns, Masks, and Mardi Gras," was inspired by my collection. (Fifth grade. 20 pages. Public school, Bitches.)

Then, one day, I was over it. I sold all my masks, and I never looked back.

That tendency within me is still strong. I abandon most things right about the time they start getting interesting. The masks. That "underground" comic in sixth grade. The poetry (thank FSM). The acting. The lj. The xanga. That column I started. The painting. The knitting.

What I began here will be no different. Perhaps I'll return one day, but I'm making no promises. I started this blog when I was still more entertained than disenchanted by my exploits in Internet dating. It was fun while it was, but it's something else now. And it's not what I'm looking for at the moment. I'm not sure exactly what I am seeking, but I know it doesn't involve computer monitors or guys (tangible or not).

Lesson One: Pay Attention to Your Date

Roommate keeps jokingly saying I should have a workshop on dating for guys.
1.) Nothing whatsoever qualifies me to a.) say what would make a guy appealing to a girl * or b.) speak to what women want from men on a universal scale,** and 2.) I suck at public speaking. So while I don't plan on renting out an auditorium and billing myself as a professional giver of advice, I am going to delineate the finer points of The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be right here on ye olde blog.

Lesson One: Pay attention to your date (and show her you're doing so).***

Seems simple enough, right? Too bad a good number of guys appear clueless about showing they are conscious of and conscientious about the women they are with. Let's take a look at a few examples gleaned from actual dating situations, shall we?

The Scenario: Guy and Girl are at the liquor store. Girl carries two bottles. Guy remains empty-handed.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is empty-handed!
The Solution: Guy offers to carry at least one bottle, if not both.

The Scenario: Girl is cold.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Girl is cold!
The Solution: a.) Guy gives Girl jacket/sweatshirt/blanket/hand warmers/gloves/etc.; b.) If possible (and appropriate), Guy offers to change venue/adjust thermostat/build fire/etc.; c.) Guy gives Girl warm embrace.****

The Scenario: Girl is cold. Guy hands her jacket. Girl, having a purse and a bag and a coffee and who-knows-what-else in her hands, looks to Guy. Guy stands there. Girl puts purse, et al, down in parking lot/on sidewalk/in grass so she can put on jacket.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is empty-handed! Girl's purse is on the dirty, oily asphalt! *****
The Solution: Guy sees Girl has stuff in hands. Assuming he hasn't just tossed a poncho over her head, Guy offers to hold Girl's things while she puts on jacket. (Bonus points if Guy does not balk at holding Girl's purse for 3.6 seconds while she puts on said jacket.)

The Scenario: Guy and Girl exit Metro train. Guy is in the lead. Girl's travel is impeded by foot traffic from every direction. Guy is nearing the top of escalator before Girl steps onto it.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is no longer with Girl!
The Solution: When stepping off the Metro train, Guy glances behind him to make sure Girl is with him. If she is not by his side, he waits for her before stepping onto escalator.

The Scenario: Guy and Girl are entering/exiting establishment. Guy enters/exits first. Guy lets door close behind him.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Girl feels as if she might as well not be with Guy. Any random stranger can let a door slam in Girl's face as she walks in/out behind him. Many random strangers are more considerate of Girl's presence than Guy and hold said door until she passes through.
The Solution: Guy holds door for Girl, whether so she can enter first (the hold) or just so she doesn't have to re-open it (the prop).

I could go on and on, but I'm hoping you get the general idea. It's not rocket science. Pay attention to Girl and to your surroundings. Anticipate what actions on your part might help Girl out in some way. Do (at least some of) those things.

I'm guessing at least one person reading this is screaming at his/her monitor: "It's 2007! Gender roles have been redefined! Guys don't have to do that stuff anymore!"

Well, I agree with you. Partially. You're right in that Guys don't have to do anything to show they're paying attention to the girls they're with, as is evidenced by the ridiculous number of guys still getting dates/laid despite their lack of attentiveness.

Moreover, ladies don't need guys to do any of this stuff for us. If we're at the liquor store alone, we'll carry two or three (or four or six...) bottles without thinking twice about it. If we were Girl Scouts, we'll always come prepared for the weather. If not, we'll beg, steal, borrow, or flash our boobs for a sweatshirt when we're too cold to deal. We'll put the coffee on the Beamer next to us in the parking lot, set the bag on the ground, and place the precious purse between our knees****** as we add a layer of outerwear. Assuming we aren't tourists, we know how to navigate the freakin' Metro, dammit. We'll open the door for ourselves without giving it a second thought (and maybe even do the prop for the dude behind us, if we're feeling benevolent).

The point is not that we need a guy to do any of this stuff. The point is that his doing these little things that are a step above Average Male Dater's******* Modus operandi shows that Guy is paying attention to Girl.

Stay tuned for the next installment of The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be: Taking the "Gentleman" Act Too Far

* Because I'm completely schizophrenic in this respect; two guys who seem to behave in the same manner and/or have the same characteristics will not necessarily pull the same level of interest from me. [up]
** If I started speaking for all women, I'd probably be tarred and feathered by a good many of my "sisters" before the close of the business day. I don't pretend to know what every woman wants. Hell, I barely even know what I want from one minute to the next. [up]
*** This should go both ways, Ladies, but I'm working under the assumption that The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be is for men (or, errr, would be for men, if it were to be). [up]
**** Option c should only be employed if a.) Girl is a willing recipient of long embrace from Guy, or b.) the lives of Guy and Girl literally depend on it.[up]
***** Gentlemen, for many women the purse is sacrosanct. Such a trespass on your part might never be forgotten or forgiven.[up]
****** We probably won't put the purse between our knees if we're on a date and Guy is not holding it for us, namely because doing so will make us look incredibly goofy.[up]
******* Average Male Dater, here, refers more to those in their 20s than guys with a bit more age and/or experience. And just because I said "Average" doesn't mean I think all males in their 20s fall into this category. And just because I said it refers more to guys in their 20s doesn't mean guys who don't fall into that age group are all completely innocent of infractions of inattention.[up]

The Artist: How would it be with you in my life?

"Your eyes are like each morning's sunrise...
Your lips are so wonderful...
I love you...
I miss you...
I want to spend every possible moment with you...
I know I don't express it when we talk, but I really love you..."

The voicemail was from The Artist. I haven't seen him in something like a year and a half. We've been in relatively predictable contact since then, one of us calling the other about every two months at least, although sometimes more often.

I met The Artist through mutual friends four or five years ago. Our contact was just that of acquaintances -- sporadic & completely unpredictable -- for a year or two. I'm not sure why or when we exchanged numbers, but I found myself using his one semester when I took a class that led me to his town once a week.

Before that, we'd only ever been together with a ton of others around. I had liked the boy from the first time we hung out, I picked up on some signs that he might feel the same, and I wanted to see where a little one-on-one time might take us. My feelings weren't like a full-blown crush with constantly distracting butterflies. It was more a steady sort of attraction that wasn't so much me lusting after him or being enamored of his high-capacity brain and asshole attitude, which is usually the case when I really like a guy. This was something different. All those Tuesday visits that semester amounted to exactly squat in the romantic realm. I figured he just wasn't into me.

A few months before I vacated The Black Hole*, something did happen. The Artist showed up at my house with a birthday present. He ended up staying the night.

I left The Black Hole soon thereafter, and I've seen The Artist once since. He and some friends came to Transitory Town to catch a concert while I was there. Everything was fine at first. He was really affectionate, I was having a good time, and it felt good to be with him again. But things suddenly got weird toward the end of the night, and we ended up sleeping in different rooms. I left confused about the whole situation and haven't seen him since.

Like I said, we keep in touch, but I just assumed he wasn't that into me. We might as well live in two different worlds, anyway. He's still in school, still down near The Southern Homestead, still spends more time fucked up than not.

When we talked a few weeks ago, The Artist mentioned coming up for an extended visit this summer. I agreed, but I have some reservations.

There's the whole imposing-on-Roommate factor. There's also the fact that we're in such different places in our lives right now, in terms of geography and pretty much everything else. Part of me would like to think his coming here might help him distance himself from the negative influences in his life. Rationally, though, I know he'll be going right back into the same life when he leaves here and that, most likely, nothing will change.

The Artist did say he had other people with whom he could stay during the visit. That makes me feel a little less hesitant about the proposal, but it doesn't alleviate all my worries. Considering I actually have harbored feelings for him on some level, I don't know about re-opening those gates and dealing with the aftermath.

The voicemail caught me off guard. Then again, when wouldn't a voicemail with a profession of love do just that? I haven't acknowledged or returned the call yet. I really don't know what I'll say.

* Is my unbridled affection for my college town apparent?

The Drummer's Kid's Llama Did What?!?!?!

If you know me, you already know about music and me. If you don't, I'm about to tell you.

It's like this. I like music. All kinds of music. I probably couldn't deliver a note in tune if I devoted the rest of my life to the endeavor, but I sing my heart out when I'm alone or around the unfortunate people with whom I'm comfortable enough to do so. Those who've been lucky enough to witness my astounding vocal abilities have been treated to everything from Flaming Lips to Jars of Clay to Culture Club to the freakin' theme song from Sanford & Son to Three 6 Mafia to Jack Johnson to Hank Williams, Jr. to Joy Division to random hymns* to A Perfect Circle to the abominably catchy tune from those Outback commercials (sorry, Roommate!).

Now, all that said, if at any given point while I was trying to shatter glass with these ditties, you were to ask me the title of the song or the artist or the album title or anything of that nature, I'd likely not be able to tell you. Don't even get me started on what year the song was released or how the band chose its name or any other music-related minutiae; I'm happily oblivious.

Everyone reading this who considers her/himself a serious music aficionado just cringed or flinched or spit at the monitor and vowed to never return to this site. That's all fine. I understand you're really passionate about your music. I admire that passion and give you all a huge thumbs-up. It's great that you found something that's so important to you. Way to go, you! Seriously.

Thing is, I'm never gonna be that girl. I've had friends try to turn me onto their favorite bands. It's always appreciated. To an extent.

I'll gladly listen to your old favorites and your new favorites and any others you want to send my way. And, most likely, I'll even enjoy doing so. But when you start quizzing me on where the band members met or why the drummer is singing lead these days or what exotic animal actually inspired that chorus or whatever the hell else you might find so freakin' important, I'm lost... Actually, as I said before, I'm lost when it comes to remembering artists' names and song titles. The rest of it, you can absolutely forget.

Yeah, yeah... dating...

SWB recently told me he had known from the beginning that his friend's (recently-kaput) relationship wouldn't last because the girl wasn't obsessive about music, which he said was "pretty much a requirement for admission to (his) circle."

Ouch.

If it wasn't completely obvious before, this tidbit was pretty much a red-lettered announcement sent certified mail screaming, "I only dated you because I thought there was a possibility you'd have sex with me. By the time I agreed to go out with you, I'd lowered my standards so far that pretty much anyone with a vagina would have sufficed."

Hey, I got it! I'd gotten it a while back. It's okay. Really. (Mainly because I didn't have sex with him. Way to go, me! Seriously.)

What's not okay is that these music-obsessed guys keep coming. No, actually that part is okay. It's when they start giving me tons of shit for not having this interest in common with them** that I start to find my patience dissipating. It's not as if I mislead them and pretend to know more about or that I have more of an interest in music. Perhaps it's because they don't realize how important it is to them that the person they're dating be really, really, really into music.***

So take witness to this decree, to be adopted as Belle's SOP henceforth. When the music thing comes up, I'm using a new tactic. I used to spew some generic line about liking all kinds of music. Now I'm just going to give whoever is asking some version of this spiel. If they don't like it, they can go hang out with SWB and all the other music lovers out there arguing about the greatest bassist of all time. I'll happily continue belting my out-of-tune rendition of whatever comes to mind and save myself the trouble of trying to impress them with my inevitably faulty memory.

* The hymns and worship songs are holdovers from a time when Belle was pure and holy and striving wholeheartedly for a close, personal relationship with a specific higher power, who shall remain nameless.
** Meanwhile, am I hassling them for not being obsessed with knitting or making mosaics or painting or whatever-the-hell obsession I'm entertaining this week? No. I'm not. (Of course, I realize this is a pretty weak line, considering my "passions" however deep, are short-lived and soon forgotten. Give a girl a break though, wouldja? Variety is the spice of life... or something...)
*** Or perhaps it's because they've devoted so much time to their precious music that they haven't gotten their rocks off since Jesus was a baby.****
**** I really, really, really tried to refrain from such a lame and bitter stab, but obviously I couldn't resist.

The Slow Reach: Crazy? Maybe, but...

WARNING: Performing The Slow Reach in the presence of characters less chivalrous than Quicksylver or HIN might actually result in you having to pay for something. Be prepared for this possibility before engaging in The Slow Reach.

My buddy Quicksylver and blogger homeimprovementninja recently revealed their frustration with women they've dated (or are still dating, HIN? Hope not!) who don't even do The Slow Reach* when the bill comes. You all know what I'm talking about. It's that move you make toward your purse or wallet when you're sure the other party is going to pick up the check. You do it even if you know with utter certainty that person is not going to let you pay.

So, you may ask, what's the point? The point, dear friends, is you are making the offer. You are letting the other party know you don't expect him (or her) to pay for everything. You're saying you're willing to pick up the check every now and then. And, perhaps more importantly, you're giving the person who is actually picking up the check the chance to puff out his (or her) chest a little for having done so.

The guys have weighed in on the subject, and they say it is not a meaningless gesture.

Over a few games of pool** Friday night, Quicksylver and I discussed Go-Go Girl and The Penny Pincher, which brought us to the matter of a girl Quick dated for about three months last year. He says the girl never did one Slow Reach the entire time the two dated. After a while, this brought about resentment on his end and played a role in their split.

Of course, he said, he wouldn't have let her pay for any of the stuff anyway. He just wanted to get the offer so he could tell her no and feel more manly (or something along those lines). HIN expressed a similar sentiment in his comment on The Penny Pincher.

The desire to see The Slow Reach poses a conundrum for these guys. They can't go asking their dates to offer to pay for the check if they're just going to turn around and decline to let them do any such thing. The whole thing might sound a little crazy (and it might actually be a little crazy), but I'm siding with the guys on this one.

I have a few reasons for advocating The Slow Reach.

1. These days, assuming a guy will pay for everything makes the woman with him look like a gold digger or a wannabe princess. These things just aren't attractive.

2. If the guy actually is paying for everything, the least his lady can do is let him have the bonus of being able to tell her he's got it. (You should always thank him, too, but that doesn't provide the same ego boost.)

3. Having a penis no longer means you're the only breadwinner in a relationship. (I'm sure there are situations in which it makes sense for the guy to always pay, but I'm not going to hurt my head trying to come up with valid scenarios.) For most of us, assuming the guy will always pay for things is just holding onto an antiquated idea of how life does or should work. Sure (some) women like to be treated and (some) men like the feeling of having treated a woman, but that doesn't mean we should take for granted that a given situation will play that way.

4. Most females have 76 flavors of crazy for every new day.*** The guys in our lives have to put up with our nonsense and humor us at every turn. Even if the logic is loopy and you don't understand why they want to see it, The Slow Reach is the very least we can do in return for them sticking it out through all our insanity.

* Quicksylver gets credit for the phrase.
** "A few" meaning eight. Seven of which were counted in Belle's favor. Sorry, Quick. ;-)
*** I feel I can say this with authority because I am female and because I've witnessed enough females to know we're all somewhat "off."

Being a Dirty Boy Trumps Being a Nice Guy

I met This Guy Saturday morning for yet another pseudo-date*. After me having a life interfered with his resistance to making plans the last time he asked me out, he wised up and asked me to reserve the day for him well in advance.

I have to give him props for stepping up to make plans for the day. He remembered I'd mentioned the regatta, so that was our first destination. We watched the races for a while, chatting and joking. He kindly lent me his hat and gloves, but the cold eventually drove me to request we proceed to Phase Two.

We headed down to the Tidal Basin to check out the sad, sad remains of the recently astounding cherry blossoms, wandered over to the Jefferson Memorial, caught some Flamenco dancing, then hopped on the Metro again. Phase Three commenced in the early afternoon. We picked up some movie** tickets in Cleveland Park*** before grabbing a bite to eat.

The day was good overall. I made it home feeling sort of exhausted but content.

Still no attempts at a kiss from This Guy, which I decided early in the day was actually preferred. See, there's an issue I hadn't noticed before. Perhaps I missed it because we've only met up for evening outings before.

This Guy seems to have some serious issues with dental hygiene. As in, when I noticed his teeth, I had to assume he's not a regular brusher. Yeah, um, gross.

He also failed (again) to wash his hands before our meal until after I mentioned it. Hygiene is important, people. There's just no excuse for any of this.

Travel Buddy said, "Never go out with This Guy again." When I began a weak assertion that he's nice and that I don't want to be mean to him, Travel Buddy interrupted. "Bad oral hygiene trumps being a nice guy."

He's right. Ick, ick, ick.


* I say "pseudo" because of the platonic nature of all our outings.
** My Grindhouse review: Mind-bogglingly stupendous. Deliciously awful. Freakin' fan-tastic. Don't go if you aren't prepared to be entertained by ridiculously cheesy and unbelievable movies.
*** If you've never caught a movie at Uptown Theater, get your rear end down there pronto.

The Penny Pincher: Not just for classifieds anymore

A good friend, Go-Go Girl, has been out several times with a guy we'll call The Penny Pincher. Not 20 minutes into their first date, he asked how much she pulls in annually. When Go-Go told me this, my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe the audacity of this dude! I wouldn't even ask my friends their salaries, much less someone I'd just begun dating. Go-Go said she'd raised her eyebrow at the question (and declined to disclose the info), but that she really didn't think he'd meant anything by it because it made sense in the conversation they were having. Yielding to her judgment, I let the subject drop.

They've been out several times since then, I assume going Dutch each time.* Go-Go mentioned on at least one occasion that Penny Pincher is extremely conscientious about expenditures, even going so far as to call him thrifty,** but I'd nearly forgotten about his first faux pas. The boy is engaging and attractive and sometimes makes Go-Go glow, so he was racking up points in my super-secret spreadsheet rundown.

When I inquired about their most recent outing, Go-Go disclosed some information that took Penny Pincher's spreadsheet balance deep into the red. While she told me the day was lovely in nearly every way, there was one major downside. Let me preface with this: Go-Go is not a wealthy person. She's not struggling financially, but she hauls her caring soul to a non-profit every work day and brings home what you'd imagine someone working*** at such an establishment would make.

So the two spent the day together, participating in various free activities before deciding to get a bite to eat. Go-Go Girl ordered a burger and water (for a grand pre-tax/pre-tip total of about $8). Penny Pincher ordered a seafood platter (about $16) and two beers (about $10). The two split an appetizer (about $8). When the waiter brought the bill, the two continued talking, each putting a card on the table. When the waiter picked up the check and cards, Penny Pincher told him to split it. In Half. So Go-Go Girl ended up paying about $25 (with tax and tip) for a meal that should've cost her around $15 total. Penny Pincher never missed a beat.

When Go-Go told me this (and after I balked at her not chiming in to clarify what she would be paying), I pointed out that there's no way Penny Pincher didn't notice she'd essentially paid for a quarter of his meal, one of his beers, and the tip and tax on both. From what she'd told me, he's much too conscientious about money in general to have let something like that go unnoticed. She agreed that there's little chance it was oversight on his part.

Charming behavior, indeed. But wait, there's more! The two decided to go back to her place after dinner for ice cream and a movie. Penny Pincher didn't even feign a reach toward his wallet when it came time to pony up for either, so Go-Go ended up paying for the rental and the snacks, too.

I'll throw the guy one bone.**** Until relatively recently, he'd been living on his savings while looking for a job. I've been there myself (minus the savings), and I know what a strain it can be to get yourself out of the hole when you first start working. Thing is, though, I wasn't going out on dates while I was financially strapped. I'd argue that, as a female, it is more socially acceptable (historically anyway) for me to let or even expect***** a guy to pay than vice versa.

Note: I am not saying this guy had an obligation to pay for Go-Go's meal or her portion of any other part of their date. But it doesn't sit well with me that he's so comfortable letting her pick up the tab, especially this early on. Perhaps she set the standard on their first date when she paid for his drink. Perhaps he's just a miserly mooch who wants to protect his pennies in any way possible. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for his behavior to come.

I'm waiting until their next date to see if Penny Pincher offers any sort of redemption (which would likely consist of at least picking up the tab next time, or it wouldn't count in his favor on the spreadsheet). If he doesn't, I'm going to have to start my "Drop Penny Pincher" petition.

Or I could just sit the lad down and have a nice heart-to-heart with him. Perhaps he’s under some misguided direction. Hear that, Go-Go? What do you think?


* The assumption is based on the fact that Go-Go Girl actually feels bad if a date pays for her part. It also excludes her first date with Penny Pincher. Having several gift cards for the joint and being much too benevolent, Go-Go offered to pay for Penny Pincher's coffee on this outing. The boy did not decline. As far as I know, he didn’t reciprocate the action on subsequent dates either.
** I would've opted for "tight" or perhaps a more colorful adjective, but that's just me.
*** Not, of course, if you're imagining someone like Lawrence Small. Think more along the lines of her bringing home a just a portion of the 48 grand that pair of chairs cost the SOB.
**** But I'm going to revoke it immediately. It's just not my style to give anyone a real chance in this forum.
***** I don't expect guys to pay for me on dates. I usually split the tab or pay for at least part of a date. If a guy is insistent, I've given up on fighting, but I always at least offer. Sincerely.

Sometimes, you just need a reminder that you were right all along

Roommate was in and out the door in a flash last night. She had semi-last minute dinner plans with Psychic Garbage Man. I was chatting with NRA Guy* during her lightning fast invasion and retreat, and I mentioned she'd abandoned me for the evening. I declined his initial invitation to his house, but we ended up agreeing to go out for sushi.

When we got to the restaurant, I had an attack of paranoia. I didn't want to go in for fear Roommate and her guy would be in there. The basis of the fear was twofold, one being that I jokingly told roommate I was going to stalk the two of them, and two being that I had a hunch Roommate would completely disapprove of my being anywhere with NRA. Of course, all this unnecessary freaking out on my part meant I had to give some sort of explanation to NRA. Obviously, he didn't like what he heard. I wouldn't have either, I'm sure. But the truth is that my friends (and even many of the random people who've stumbled across this site) are against my having anything to do with the boy. And not without reason, one could argue.

I finally retrieved a bit of sense from the recesses of my brain, and we went in. (Roommate and PGM were not present, of course.) We had a decent dinner, if a bit awkward. NRA peppered the conversation with anecdotes that illustrated what he must have wanted me to view as his unfailing honesty. Was I supposed to swoon and think he'd completely changed his lying ways in the whole six and a half weeks since I dumped him? Fear not. I did no such thing.

When we returned to my place, I couldn't help but try to assess what was going on and establish some guidelines for moving forward. I didn't consider the outing a date (which I felt I needed to clarify, since he's been telling me constantly that he misses me and since he insisted on paying for dinner). I told him what I'd tried to tell him when we broke up... that I can't just forgive and forget on command. That I have to have time to heal and work through things when I feel like someone I've let into my life has crossed me in a way that matters. That I wouldn't say we couldn't leave the future open, but that I still need space.

He seemed frustrated when I affirmed that this meant we couldn't hang out. I explained that hanging out with my friends was obviously not an option, hanging out with his friends would likely be just as awkward,*** and any time spent alone would feel too much like a date. He reiterated that he wasn't going to wait for me**** or keep pursuing me, and I told him that I didn't expect him to.

I said I didn't want to completely lose contact, but he seemed frustrated at this. Of course, he wouldn't voice his frustration. I asked him to talk to me, and he said he had nothing to say at the moment. Not wanting to rehash the BS electronic drama that followed our last face-to-face, I mentioned his tendency to try to discuss everything through IM or text or letters... anything but in person. He assured me he wasn't going to go there. (This point was pretty much moot when I noticed later in the evening that his away message was changed to something like, "Best Buddy, you were absolutely right. I will never doubt your advice again." I can't prove this was directed toward me, but I find it pretty unbelievable that he was referring to anything else.)

Overall, I think the outing was a good move. I've been feeling a bit down lately and finding myself missing NRA at the most inopportune times.***** This reiterated that he's not mature enough to handle a relationship.

I know guys and girls function differently when it comes to emotional dealings, but I'm just not going to be convinced that a relationship consisting of one-sided conversations has any chance of surviving. His argument that he needs to think about things is valid, but I could claim the same thing. I didn't go into the evening knowing how I would feel at the end of it or what I would say. I didn't even think up a spiel during dinner. It wasn't easy for me to say the things I did, but I sucked it up and did it.



* We've been in fairly regular contact since he sent the card.
** When she was leaving the house, Roommate said Psychic Garbage Man hadn't told her where they were going. I couldn't resist the urge to tease that he feared I would follow them.
*** They're his friends, after all. I hold no delusions that they would take my side in any part of the matter. If they did, what good would they be as his friends?
**** I didn't mention that I already knew he wasn't exactly 'waiting for' me.
***** Which, of course, can be described as any time...

An Exercise in Restraint

If you read my thoughts here and don't know me in life, you might be under the impression that I'm a hard-boiled bitch in all situations. It's just simply not the case.

From this morning...

The Cyclops: Morning! :-)
Belle: Mornin'
Belle: How are you?
The Cyclops: Alright for a Wednesday. And you?
Belle: Pretty good so far
The Cyclops: I know I asked you out for Saturday, but I need to change it to Friday, if you're available.
Belle: Actually, I'm not sure about going out again.
The Cyclops: Awww. It was the eye, wasn't it. ;-)
Belle: lol. No. I had a nice time, but I don't think I can see it going anywhere really.
Belle: I won't make up excuses.
Belle: Then you'll just bash me to the next girl you take out. ;)
The Cyclops: I won't bash you. Anything I could have done differently? I like to learn from my mistakes.
Belle: No, no mistakes. I just didn't really feel any sparks, if such things exist.
The Cyclops: Alrighty then. Well, thanks for going out with me the one time. :-)
The Cyclops: Good luck with your search.
Belle: Thanks for taking me! I had fun.
Belle: Likewise
The Cyclops: :-)

At least this one could spell...

Girls hatin' girls: Is he really worth it?

I found myself in a situation recently that had multiple layers of drama. I'm going to skip all the parts not essential to the theme I want to discuss here.

I accompanied Ms. Potato to a cookout at her new friends' on a Saturday night. We arrived to find the couple who owned the house, three of their female friends, and one male friend. We weren't there very long before I noticed that the females seemed quite dramatic. I assumed they would be a catty, vindictive bunch and made a mental note to watch my step around them.

The alcohol was flowing in the way that only drinking games can make alcohol flow, and tensions were soon high. One of the girls (we'll call her Latina*) had been "seeing" the only unmarried guy at the party, The Player, for a whopping five days. When we got there, both Latina and The Player were a bit tipsy, and everyone's consumption only increased from there.

Apparently, Ms. Potato's very arrival was enough to spark the drama. While she had never met The Player, he had already heard about her from an acquaintance who wasn't present for the shindig in question. As soon as the two were introduced, he began shamelessly flirting with her. Meanwhile, Latina and the other girls (save me, since I was known only as Ms. Potato's friend) were huddled up bitching about the whole situation. The Player kept up his shameless display, totally ignoring Latina and repeatedly asking for Ms. Potato's number. She kept declining to provide it.** However, being a bit of a flirt herself, she didn't quite avoid him as much as everyone would have preferred.

The night included Latina crying, passing out, being woken up, bitching and crying more... it just went on and on. The hostess of the party was angered by her friend's upset state, but she directed her anger at Ms. Potato rather than The Player. The same was true of the other girls present. I felt the negativity by proxy at first, and later was told outright that Ms. Potato needed to stop (meanwhile being instructed not to say anything to Ms. Potato. WTF? Am I supposed to communicate this message via ESP?).

All these people were supposedly adults. The Player was in his thirties. Everyone else in question aged in the mid-to-late twenties. I felt like I was surrounded by middle schoolers.

In all honesty, I'm certain I would've been pretty pissed if I were in Latina's situation. I probably wouldn't want to speak to the girl again. My bias toward women is quick to come into play if I feel I've been slighted at the outset or too early on in the game. And I hold grudges. I won't deny it.

By the same token, though, I would like to think I would have handled myself with a great deal more dignity than the Latina mustered. If a guy I was seeing showed me utter disrespect by trying to pick up another woman right in front of me, I hope I'd have the sense to drop his ass instantly. If that meant having an argument with him on the scene, so be it. We would be finished at that point anyway, and at least the people who witnessed the disrespect would know I had enough courage to stand up for myself in such a crappy situation. Even if I opted for a quieter out, I would find a way to remove myself from the situation and be rid of him forever.

The Latina did neither. She cried and whined and bitched and moaned about him not paying attention to her and who knows what the fuck else. But she still left with him. And I have little faith in her having actually cut him off after his ridiculous and unacceptable behavior.

Why is it that so many women can't seem to overcome such catty hatred for one another? Why are we so quick to jump on other women and hold grudges against them for venturing into what we perceive as our territory while simultaneously forgiving the very men who had the commitment to us in the first place? Is the sex really that good? Do we really need it that much?

I've long been baffled by this tendency to blame the "other woman" and harbor a deep, lasting hatred toward her while taking the man back and offering him utter forgiveness. Unless there are other factors at play (ie. the "other woman" is your good friend or sister), the man is the one who has broken a commitment, right? He's the one who is out trying to or succeeding in bagging other women while you're sitting around feeling hurt and neglected. And yet so many women place all their feelings of anger right there in the other woman's lap.

I'm not advocating becoming best friends with the mistress or anything of that nature (although I have heard of such things happening), I can't understand why this trend occurs. Or why, for that matter, you'd be so upset over some royal douche bag you've been seeing for all of five days. Shouldn't you be glad you found out he's an asshole player with absolutely no intention of treating you well early on than, say, nine months from now when you've seriously invested yourself in him?

And, then, too, the residual anger from the other girls is disturbing to a degree. Again, I can't say I'm innocent. If I find someone hurting a friend in a given situation, I'm not above disliking that person for their behavior. But I can also say I sometimes muster the courage to tell my friends when I think they're being idiots and drama queens. Even if I don't quite find that voice when a particular situation calls for it, I do my best not to feed into their ridiculous behavior.

Like I said, this group was high-drama from the outset, and I typically prefer not to roll in such a fashion, but I felt the events of the night were a prime example of a trend I've abhorred for a very long time.

I tried to imagine the situation in reverse. What if Latina was hitting on a Random Dude at the party? I imagine The Player would have shrugged his shoulders and let it go (they'd only been seeing each other five days, remember?). Barring that, he might've said something to her or to Random Dude. I can't imagine a situation in which The Player would've spent the majority of the night talking shit with the rest of the guys about Random Dude without taking some kind of action.

I also can't imagine a situation in which the other guys at the party would've had more than a passing interest in whatever the hell was going on with Latina, The Player and the random dude. (And, even then, I think their only interest would be in the possibility of a physical fight, not the other BS drama going on.)

Ladies, we are victims and perpetrators of hating our own gender. At least when it comes to "protecting" the men we consider our investments. We need to step back and evaluate such situations with a rational outlook before acting out our catty, passive aggressive, and, ultimately, unproductive tactics of revenge.

* This is basically all I know about her, since she gave me the cold shoulder every time I tried to strike up a conversation.
** Ms. Potato has been dating The Pilot for two years. She repeatedly told The Player she has a boyfriend, to no avail.

Allergies acting up? Yeah, well I'm allergic to your bad taste

When I walked out of my house for my date with The Cyclops* Friday evening, I took one look at him and nearly turned around to walk back inside. The guy had flames on his shirt. Seriously. Flames.** But I was there with a mission (to harvest blog material, remember?), and I decided not to give up so soon. If nothing else, this guy seemed promising for entertaining writing. I braced myself for being seen with him in public and got into his car.

We chatted easily on our way to play trivia*** at a nearby bar. Nearly as soon as we sat down, he asked if he was what I'd expected. Opting out of the likely too obvious, "Well, I didn't expect you to have such terrible taste in clothes," I told him I rarely have expectations. For some reason, he seemed satisfied with that not-quite-complimentary response.

I mentioned before that I only accepted this date to harvest blog material. The Cyclops isn't someone in whom I would normally be interested. He's a number of years older, which isn't really a problem for me, as I tend to like older guys. But he's still technically married. He claims they've been separated for three years and they've just stalled on the final technicality of pushing the paperwork through. While I don't necessarily think he's outright lying, I'm wary of the whole situation. Oh, and he has a 7-year-old. I love kids, don't get me wrong, but I think putting myself into that situation is a bad idea. I could go on listing all the other reasons I wrinkled my nose at him (and/or the idea of him), but at this point, I'd just feel like I'm bashing for the sake of bashing.

Anyway, we had a fine time at the bar. Thankfully, I didn't fall madly, deeply in love or feel any sparks flying, but it wasn't terrible, either. The only thing that really annoyed me was that he decided to inform me I was tipsy when I was on my third beer. He says he doesn't drink much, so maybe the assumption was based on his tolerance, but I wasn't even a little buzzed and pretty much resented the hell out of the comment. When a "24" Topics round came up,**** we decided we'd had enough trivia (and he didn't want his standing to suffer), so we left.

Back at my place, he offered to walk me to my door. Then he pulled the age-old loo trick, and I had to let him in. Sneaky bastards and their devious bathroom plots. Anyway, when we got in, Roommate mentioned Trivial Pursuit, and here I was stuck with The Cyclops playing trivia, yet again, until about three in the morning. (I seriously think Roommate did this on purpose. I'm pretty sure she just wanted ammunition so she could make fun of me for the rest of my life for going out with a bald guy with flames on his shirt. Thanks, Roommate! I'll be sure to return the favor at the first available opportunity. :-p )

When I realized The Cyclops wasn't going anywhere, I uncorked a bottle of wine and began to steel myself for the rest of the evening. Ah, wine, my deepest love.

The situation got a little hilarious when The Cyclops had a negative reaction to my cat. Despite being allergic, he proceeded to pet the cat when we walked in the door (because that's exactly what people with allergies should do). A bit later, he started complaining about his eye and rubbing it furiously. (I shouldn't have had to tell a 34-year-old man to go wash his hands after petting an animal he knows will cause an allergic reaction. *Sigh* I shouldn't have to do a lot of things.) His eye was red and swollen shut, which kind of made it hard not to laugh at him, especially considering his being so serious about the game.

When the game was finally over, Roommate disappeared, and The Cyclops started rubbing my shoulders. I let him for a while, then stopped him, telling him I'm a brat and would let him keep that up for a long, long time and give him nothing in return. Maybe bratiness turns him on because that's when he moved in for a kiss. He was a pretty good kisser, actually, but he made these little moaning noises the whole time, which totally turned me off. What the hell is up with that? I can't say I've never tossed in a moan or two before, but, damn, it's usually in bed or when I know I'm on the way there. Somehow it seemed weird and inappropriate coming from him.

I walked him to the door and bid him goodnight. He asked me out again for next weekend, but I stalled, saying I'd have to check on some things that are "in the works."

Married guy with kid + Flaming shirt + Swollen eye x Kissing moans = Belle saying, "No thanks" to round two


* I have to give credit to the guy for "choosing" his own moniker. Not that he knew it would actually be used here or anything.
** He kept mentioning later in the evening how much he loved that shirt. Ick.
*** I suck at all things trivia, but I'm a pretty good loser most of the time. Remarkably, I stayed out of the last spots the whole time we were at the bar and considered myself in pretty decent standing for a person lacking any skill at retrieving random bits of info from my memory.
**** Neither of us watch the show.

Hey Monkey Boy, Begging is so unattractive

The Marmoset is obsessed with cuddling. We've been chatting infrequently* for months, and it's always a topic of conversation. Promising that he wants nothing more than to lie close to another warm body, he's been trying to get me to cuddle with him since our first or second conversation. While I have to admit I've entertained the idea for a few less-than-lucid moments here and there, I've always declined.

Something about the whole situation just hasn't felt right to me. The photo the boy sent me oh-so-many months ago depicts a really cute guy. I mean, he's not smoking hot, make-you-weak-in-the-knees gorgeous, but he definitely could turn some heads and, at the very least, looks pretty cuddle-worthy. What's the problem with that, you ask? Well, if a boy that cute is actively seeking a girl with whom he can cuddle (and promising there's nothing more to it), why hasn't he found one in all these months? Why's he still hitting me up? Seems like an attractive guy with purely innocent intentions could find a girl somewhere in the vicinity who's just as much in need of a cuddle as he is. So I'm thinking there must be something wrong with him. Right?

The other day when I signed into the nearly defunct gmail account Marmoset uses to message me, he said hi immediately. We hadn't talked since I cut NRA, so I filled him in with the necessary details when the subject arose. He immediately brought up the cuddling and started touting the finer points of spooning. "We're meant to cuddle." "It's such a comfort." "I need to spoon and relax." "There's nothing like feeling each other's warmth and soft skin." And on and on.**

I was chatting with Travel Buddy at the same time, and I mentioned to him the cuddle-consumed guy in the other window. When I told him I thought the obsession was a bit strange, Travel Buddy asked why and said there's nothing wrong with a cuddle. Always easily swayed by suggestion, I thought perhaps he was right. After all, what's the harm in a carefree cuddle with a cute boy?

As soon as I started to entertain the idea, Marmoset swept in with the demands. It had to be that night. He really needed it. I had to say yes. The demands made me back off a bit, so he changed tactics. Suddenly, he was making promises. He would only stay for a short while. He'd leave as soon as he relaxed so I could get some sleep. The promises quickly degenerated into begging. Please! He really needed it. Please, please, please!

When the begging commenced, it didn't take long for him to go from a cute boy with cuddle potential to a lout with who-knows-what kind of intentions. I suddenly remembered my cute-boy-without-a-cuddle-buddy equals creepy-stalker-type-guy-you-should-avoid theory, and I booked it out of that chat session with a quickness.




* When I started dating NRA, communication with Marmoset became more and more sporadic until it all but ceased.
** Meanwhile, I'm countering him at every turn. "I don't sleep well with others." "How am I to rest if I'm busy comforting you?" "It's too hot to cuddle." "Are you a serial killer?"