#youngermen

[umudummuymussun]

It is so sad that the law congresses are still dominated by men. One day insallah i will be up on the stage and wear a lady suit while that fatty suit men are suprised 😀😀😀😀😀

[interstalking-blog]

Tinder'd Part II or "Scent of a 28 Year Old"

   Here's what you missed last week:

He responded to my voicemail... WITH A TEXT.

“If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll give him what he wants!  Fuck that!”  I said to anyone who would still speak to me after the nine days of hell I’d put them through.  I didn’t text Special Ed back.  He hadn’t asked any questions.  His text had even said “Happy Friday.”  WTF is that?  “Happy Friday” is merely a lame way to open an email to a client.     

I posted a rare Instagram the night after the text blow off of a full moon with the caption, “Moon, it’s all your fault.”  Lo and behold, Ed was following me on Instagram (I used it so infrequently I hadn’t noticed).  He liked my picture.  And promptly started drunk texting me. 

When Special Ed told me how much he missed me, I didn’t really believe him since he’d been avoiding me for a week and a half.  “What do you miss?”  I asked in earnest.  Below is the communication breakdown that then occurred. 

Me: What do you miss exactly?

Ed: Your company. 

Exactly?

Well…

I miss your humor and conversation. 

Me: That’s nice Ed.  My company misses your company too.  

Ed: Nice?

Well, I could be more explicit but that isn’t polite.

Me: I mean that was a nice thing to say.  I meant that was really nice and made me feel happy. 

Ed: I miss the way you make love to me to be exact.  

Me: You’re drunk.  :)

Ed: Totally

Wasted

Me: I wasn’t looking for explicit but that’s ok.  

Ed: Ok.

I’m explicit. 

Me: Girls really like hearing nice things about their personalities!  :)

I already know about my ass.  Ha ha.  :)

Ed: Duh.

This conversation needs to be restarted.  Sorry if I offended you.  

Me: You didn’t offend me at all!

Text is an extremely insufficient form of communication. 

Ed: Yeah.  I’m drunk too.  Anyway, sleep & be well.         

Me: When are you coming back? 

You should know any woman who is offended by someone using the words “make love” is not normal. 

Ed: The 27th but I’m leaving the 30th for California.  That’s cool but I don’t care if she is offended.  Will I want to fuck you suffice?  I think it is okay. 

Me: I just think it’s really cute when a guy says that. 

Ed: I want to fuck you

Me: I mean I think the other thing is cute!

Ed: Cool.  You learn something new every day.

Oh…

Me: Can you call me?  

Ed: No.  I’m at my friend’s. 

Me: Texting is really confusing. 

E: I’m really drunk too.  I totally missed your point in the fucking conversation.  Anyway, good night. 

Me: Yeah, that’s why I’d rather hear your actual voice. 

Ed: Well sweet dreams. 

Me: You too.  I want to fuck you too if it helps.  :)

Ed: It kinda does… Ha be well.  Talk soon. 

Sweet dreams

I cringe today at my "please still like me" play at making him feel comfortable with his attempted sexting.  

The next morning “You’re awesome” was replaced by “Sorry for all the texts!  I was drunk and kinda rude.”  It was like nothing he said he meant anything – including when he missed me and liked my company.  When did a late night whispered phone call in the bathroom or on the front porch become so rude and unacceptable?  Seriously, Millennials?

In line with the disclaimer text, the day I’d been waiting for, when Special Ed finally returned to the metro area, the day when all of this was supposed to become clear and my summer returned to free and breezy order, came and went with no mention of him being back in town.  I must mention, because digital life factors so large in this story, that I'd followed and unfollowed (when I realized he was liking all these buxom babe pictures and not talking to me) Ed on Instagram during those few days.  I broke down the day after his alleged return with an “Are you back?” text that was ignored.  That night I tortured one of my friends over margaritas (though managed to shut up during the movie) and composed the voicemail I’d leave for him the next morning.  

I happen to have my phone script. 

Hi Ed, it’s Me.  Since you won’t answer your phone or respond to me it’s pretty obvious that we aren’t going to see each other anymore.  But it would be so much nicer if you would tell me honestly why because I don’t know what happened with you over the last couple weeks to change everything.  A week ago you were texting me you missed me and by yesterday you wouldn’t even acknowledge that you had gotten back in town.  So, your messages have been pretty confusing since you’ve been gone and I was really hoping things would get cleared up one way or another when you got back.  But, if you aren’t willing to do that, I’ll just say it for you because this definitely isn’t working for me.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t say this – I’m pretty disappointed, because I thought you were way cooler than treating someone who has been nice to you like this.  

There were actually several drafts before this was settled on. 

In my mind Ed had  gone "too fast" with one of the amazing women in Detroit (I know - I used to be one) and didn't know how to tell me he was inviting her to the West Coast.  It was obvious that fitting both of us and all of our stuff in his Nissan Versa was impractical, never mind that Ed was ill-equipped to manage two women at once (see above aborted sext).  

I felt refreshingly light after leaving the voicemail and went to meet some friends at the pool.  It was obvious to me that Ed didn’t want to ever talk to me again, and I’d said my piece and moved on.  Imagine my surprise when I got a yet another enlightening text message that afternoon apologizing for missing my call, including some bullshit about how Ed’d been out of town and was leaving for the West Coast (tell someone who doesn’t know!), and would "give me a shout" later.  These were the times when his dyslexia really seemed apparent.  

“Great”, I thought, “Now I’m just waiting for him to call me again!”  That he did, the following morning.  The first notable words out of my mouth were, “You need to listen to the words that are comin’ out of your mouth” (zing!), but the biggest thing I’ll take from the conversation was this quote: “I realized I couldn’t give you the kind of commitment you wanted, or what you deserved, and I didn’t know what to say to you, so I just stopped talking to you.”   

Another girl would have been easier to swallow, and made more sense.   

I didn’t remember ever talking about what I wanted or deserved.  I thought I at least deserved the guy I’d been sleeping with, who’d been inviting me on his vacation, to tell me that he was freaking out and couldn’t see me anymore.  That one seemed obvious to me, but I guess it wasn’t until I word processed it into the voicemail I left on his turned off iPhone.   

I experienced my first heartbreak in years that day, and into the following weeks when I really expected to hear from him.  And did not.  I held this moment close to me: Ed and I were laying on the floor listening to records.  He was drunk and being emotionally open (his words).  I could never forget, later, that he told me he tended to get dumped and then HE dumped ME.  But there was this.  I was leaning over him and he said “I like listening to music with you.”  As if it was such a revelation.  That moment was pure.  What kind of girls had he been dating anyway?  Did they not have records???

I took my own road trip (Ed was shocked when I told him I had this plan – I suspect he thought I’d booked my ticket to nowhere with him already) to try and forget Ed.  I overposted on Facebook until I finally deleted Ed from my friends list to stop my own insanity.  This was after enduring his Dalai Lama repost a couple days after our affair-ending conversation.  It mentioned misconceived projections and slavery to emotion, and the concept of creating your own problems.  “Seriously, he better realize that he’s projecting on ME!” I thought (slave to anger).  I also read into his hashtagging of Wilco lyrics on Instagram.  Said lyrics were about a guy who had to drive far away and sleep on a mountaintop to forget some chick.  WTF.  I couldn’t believe he never contacted me.  I had loved him, and set him free, and he had never come back to me.  The final straw was when he added a new Facebook friend.  I just knew he was on Tinder.

Having a great time on Facebook!   

I went on dates, met younger men, and tried Tinder out again (after a few months).  First, because my friend had seen Ed on it.  I had to see for myself.  After I saw and “noped” Ed, I met a forty-four-year-old divorced Dad.  I considered that an accomplishment for a 24-hour stint and chatted with him on and off until he finally blew off the time we were actually going to get together several weeks later.  I’ve since deleted his number from my phone.  

The second time, I got together with a college friend who was Tindering.  He convinced me to get back on Tinder at the bar and we dared each other to say yes to every single person we encountered.  I ended up with 87 matches, my first sex propositions, and a message that said simply “I want to fill that pussy”.  I deleted my account again, while my friend was texting me, “Is Tinder broken?  It’s not letting me swipe!  Is it working for you?”   

I was tricked into thinking Tinder was okay by this article for a moment: http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/10/how-tinder-solved-online-dating-for-women.html

Oh yeah!  I did like that I only had to deal with guys I had designated as at least superficially attractive.  I DID think it was sort of like a cyber bar in that there were no profiles to be read and judged.  But here’s the rub: like all online dating and in life, to get to the wheat, you have to deal with all kinds of chaff.  And that chaff finds its way to your face no matter how hard you try not to look at it.  In the online dating world, everything that happens in real life happens twelve times faster.  I.e. - twelve times more profane encounters than normal.   

The third and final try on Tinder (and admittedly all tries after the time I met Ed were really meant to try and encounter Ed again) was the night the forty-four-year-old divorced Dad had blown off our plans to get a drink.  I was feeling disproportionately disappointed.  I’d been excited to meet someone older for a change.  This time brought a potential “match” whose photo featured his erect penis prominently – like a selfie where the dick was in the foreground and the guy took a backseat.  There’s no way (that I know) to report someone you aren’t chatting with.  How many girls had to see that?  Account deleted permanently.  Fantasies of matching with Ed again dashed.  

I’ve given up on all forms of online and mobile dating, as this instantly gratifying aspect of Tinder seems to have infected my once favorite site, OkCupid.  The last time I spent a hopeful week on it, I got more than one message from young (like, really young) guys wondering if I wanted to meet them that night if I was “feeling adventurous” or asking me if I like younger men.  "Um, yeah, I do, actually" I did NOT respond to any of them.  They had no idea what adventurous is to me, I'm fairly certain.

As for Special Ed, my long maintained obsession with him came to an end when I, motivated by a discussion about unconditional love, decided to send him an “I’ve been thinking of you lately, hope you are well!” text.  First of all, I’m so much cooler than this.  Second of all, the exclamation point was a total lie.  Third of all, I had long before changed his name in my phone to “Hashtags Wilco Lyrics”.  I was convinced that Ed had found someone and I was reaching out into the world for more rejection.  The moment I set down my phone, I knocked over a wine glass that shattered into a million pieces I was still finding in my flokati rug weeks later.  The universe was angry with me, and Ed did not respond.  I’d gotten what I’d asked for (ultimately, the hot moment with a young one) had hung on for too long. 

That Ed was that kind of guy, to not even fake that he hoped I was well too, was the bitter pill to swallow.  I had to bury the disabled child-helping sweetheart that liked listening to music with me and smelled amazing, in addition to all the imaginary beautiful photos he was going to take of me.  The dirty mouth Ed seemed more like the truth.  Now I think when I do eventually run into him, he’ll just look really short.

It’s worth re-reading the Dalai Lama’s words, graciously shared on Special Ed's Facebook wall. 

Everyone wants a happy life without difficulties or suffering. We create many of the problems we face. No one intentionally creates problems, but we tend to be slaves to powerful emotions like anger, hatred and attachment that are based on misconceived projections about people and things. We need to find ways of reducing these emotions by eliminating the ignorance that underlies them and applying opposing forces.

Add to the powerful forces mentioned above: lust, the need to be adored, and the intoxicating waves of Kiehl’s Original Musk.  I'll leave the Wilco lyrics to any sap that wants to look them up.  

By the way Ed, why are you still following me on Instagram?

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[interstalking-blog]

Tinder'd Part I or "Cowgirl in the Sand"

I’ve lived a very celibate life these last few years, finding my inability to separate physical attractions and attachments from my actual feelings got in the way of real relationships.  I love hot dudes and it is a problem.  In trying to find an appropriate partner (with no idea how to do so) I was miserable and I was single anyway.  I had gotten seriously close to having sex for the first time in months with a guy I was dating and thankfully ended up not breaking the seal with him (see “face raped” below).  But, I was still disappointed about the lack of sex.  I was hung up on a younger guy (a lot younger) I’d had a brief, makeout-y flirtation with, and I realized I might just have to have sex with some younger guys.  Just for sex.  Because I needed it, and I was clearly obsessed with making out with them, and they weren’t right for boyfriends, and they were plentiful in my life unlike older boyfriend-material guys.  I uttered this out loud: “I cannot live without physical intimacy anymore.  I have to relax my strict standards for sexual intercourse or I’m going to hate myself and everyone around me.”  Maybe I just added the last part about hating myself and everyone else for this writing but it was understood. 

I signed on to Tinder at a friend’s urging and was appalled that the members seemed to consist of shirtless nineteen year olds.  I felt gross looking at them.  Tinder was clearly not meant for my generation and I deemed it “what is wrong with Millennials and this country”.  I didn’t delete it off my phone though.  It was too fun to show people.   

A couple days later one of my oldest friends was in town from San Francisco and casually mentioned Tinder.  “You actually do that?”  I was shocked.  “My roommate and I just sit in the kitchen and ‘nope’ people,” she explained.  For those that don’t know, Tinder is a mobile app that shows you a stream of photos of available users in a radius you select.  You select “Like” or “Nope” depending on how attractive you find their initial picture and your common Facebook friends and interests (which makes it very easy to interstalk them). 

Mandy Stadtmiller wrote a great article on it for xojane.com you can read here: http://www.xojane.com/sex/7-days-of-tinder 

There’s no profile reading, height, marital status, or questionnaires.  The most a user can add is a couple sentences describing their philosophy (though people have added their heights to this description).  If you and a member of your selected gender of interest both like each other, you can message.  But you never know who doesn’t like you (which is blissful, because once you “like” them and they “nope” you, you’ve already forgotten – no unanswered message is in your outbox).  Mostly you’ll never talk to any of your “matches”, making Tinder an addictive game you play at stoplights, feeling simultaneously bad about yourself and full of ego.  When I originally tried it (in the stone age days of Tinder, May), you weren’t able to select a potential match age range, making the slew of college boys particularly shame-inducing.  Though I did get a weird thrill out of pseudo-rejecting them. 

My friend and I proceeded to spend the next hour or so compulsively Tindering even though she was supposed to leave and get up at 5am for work.  “Yup.”  “Nope.”  We mumbled to each other as we stared at our phone screens from our sunken in spots on the couch, matching with many of the same guys. 

“Hmmm, he’s interesting… she said at a particular picture.”  It was one of those profiles where every picture could be a different guy.  He almost seemed foreign.  We both matched with him instantly (which means the guy is on Tinder a lot as he’d already “liked” both of us.).  I then realized he and I had a friend in common – a friend in Detroit I actually stood up in a wedding with.  Kind of a random connection, the kind I relish in my life in Denver.  “I’m going to write that guy!  He knows one of my friends from Detroit!”  I love being spontaneous.    

Detroit is my urban spiritual home (see future post about me and Detroit).  Mentioning Detroit is like sharing that you’ve been raised in the same commune as me, or have the same allergy to freshly cut grass.  It’s a very specific feeling I get from Michiganders from the metro Detroit area.  It’s a kinship and an immediate trust.  There really is something in the water there.  I sent my one and only message to the interesting/foreign guy.  “Hey, are you from Michigan?” …and promptly forgot about it. 

That Sunday I got a message from him while at brunch.  We confirmed the common friend over the next couple days’ sparse communication.  When we chatted a bit more mid week, I suggested we become Facebook friends so we could really talk because I wanted to get off Tinder.  We IM’ed for a while that night and exchanged numbers.  He was a Special Ed. Teacher.  I’d never dated a Special Ed. Teacher (or any kind of teacher that I can remember).  I’d caught the last guy I’d dated making out with another girl at an event he’d told me to come meet him at.  He claimed he was “face raped”.  “Special Ed” seemed safe.

I was incongruously nervous to meet him that Friday night.  For one thing, as I mentioned above, Tinder does NOT tell you how tall people are which makes it great for guys under 5’9”.  I had interstalked Special Ed enough to know he was not going to be as tall as me, though I remained hopeful he’d at least hover slightly below me so things didn’t feel awkward.  He seemed sensitive, artistic, and serious via his photography blogs (previous career and current hobby).  He had very striking black hair and pale white skin.  I’ve always liked that Transylvanian look. 

I felt that I was doing the weirdest thing ever meeting someone from a site that allowed me to know nothing about him (especially a site with a sleazy hookup reputation, for example: Grindr), and that he’d likely be one of my online dates who really likes me because I’m so strongly friend vibing on him.  Then again, I’ll pretty much meet anyone from Detroit, and I can never remember anything I’ve read in an online dating profile, so what’s the difference? 

We talked on the phone the night of our meeting and the conversation was energetic and fun.  He did mention an eighties themed ski party (Millennial alert!), but that was the only thing I could possibly pick apart and find wrong with him.  On to the bar I went. 

I spotted him immediately and my first gut feeling was “shit” about his size.  He just looked so small next to the bar.  A guy really needs to impress me to recover from that.  He did.  I sized him up as we walked outside together, and while he was definitely shorter than me, he had that attractively not tall build that wasn’t too small or too big, and would have been seriously hot in a six foot package.  But was really good at five eight and a half too, to be honest.  The conversation was great and I was won over very quickly when I tried to convince him of how cool the old amusement park (wooden roller coaster style) by my house is.  He smiled at me for a second and said, “you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”  He was upbeat and confident, everything you want a guy who is younger and shorter than you to be.

We had beers and kept walking to more bars and after the second one we were holding hands and he told me I was beautiful.  At the third one he had his arm around me.  On the way to the fourth one I asked him what he does when a student gets violent and when he demonstrated on me we ended up making out.  We even talked about wanting to have kids (not necessarily with each other).  On our first date.  On my first date with a twenty-eight-year-old.  That came up.  Did I mention he was twenty-eight?    

I laughed “I’m not going to your house”, when he suggested we go drink wine at his place as we needed to leave the fourth (same as the first) bar and then I hypocritically asked him to drive me home.

I’m sure I said something about just wanting to hang out a little longer when I invited him inside because my intentions really were that he wouldn’t sleep over because I hadn’t done something like that… in a really long time.  We put on a Neil Young record and lay on my bed because (as I explained to Special Ed) I was just too tired to sit up anymore. And with every intention of not doing “that” we both professed our very strong liking of each other and after a while gave in during “Cowgirl in the Sand”.  I allowed myself to be seduced by his eager attentions, his hairless body, and the scent of his Kiehl’s Original Musk.  It was all very romantic and the best date I’d been on since I met my long term Detroit boyfriend in 2005.  And that guy I did NOT sleep with on the first date.  But I was a lot less hard up then, because it was a lot easier to meet available (and age-appropriate) guys. 

Red flag alert: After he apologized for “forcing the issue” regarding the physical connection I was dying for, Ed admitted the following pillow talk… “that’s my problem, I go too fast.”  The foolhardy young, I thought.  How delightful.      

The next day I took the “we’ll see if I ever hear from him again” road, but he’d already texted me when I woke up.  And he was moving that day on very little sleep after being with me (people in their twenties are so dedicated to getting lucky!).  That night he was already texting me that he wished he was with me.  Sunday afternoon he was asking me if I had his belt when I was at drinks with friends.  It was Memorial Day weekend, and my horoscope said that I very well might meet my soul mate.  If warning bells aren’t sounding for you yet, this is when they should.  A woman my age knows these things.  It feels wonderful when a guy you’ve known for 48 hours and already made sweet love with misses you, but it’s never good.

I was starved for the kind of text messages I was getting from Special Ed and willfully joined in the fun.  At the start I was bemused by his attention.  I felt like the sophisticated older woman and I had a younger man who was infatuated with me.  I could handle it.  I could guide him into a true adulthood and I could be okay with the fact that he was always going to make less money than me because he was helping disabled children and took really gorgeous photos of me in our spare time.  I could look just as young as him with botox every six months.  He’d be off earlier from work and would watch our kids that we were going to have as long as I could remain in control of the situation since I was obviously slightly out of his league in a few ways other than height.  Every time I got freaked out (as I am commitment-phobicly wont to do with anyone who really likes me), I would settle into how cute it was that he was so into me.  He was too young to know better; it was so… sincere.  His bedroom dirty talk was an intriguing contradiction to his dependably sweet nature.  Most of the time, I had this song in my head.

I’d been dealing with guys that would text me for a month about the weather and then cancel our first date, twitter stalk me after one of the worst nights of my life (this included the guy telling me how bad my company website photo was – and it was a mercy date!), and claim to be face raped by the girls they made out with in front of me.  I was ready for nice. 

So, I fulfilled my lifelong dating prophecy of always getting hurt by the guys I think I’m settling just a teeny bit for.  And therefore open my heart to, and also take for granted because I think they like me more than I like them. 

You know when you start hanging out with someone, and it all happens really fast because you tell yourself it’s okay that you’re having a ton of sex with this person you just met (and of course, it is okay, the questions is whether you can handle it), but then you get too comfortable and do something to freak the person out?

Like, maybe it comes up that your Dad died five months ago or maybe you answer the phone once when you’re drunk and brushing your teeth, and other than that you are totally cool and awesome and not crazy at all, but you know these little misfires screwed everything up?

And you just like, assumed that the person who was infatuated with glamorous first date you and you in bed is going to totally love real you too?

But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t love real you.  And you’ll never really know why. 

Special Ed had lots of plans for the summer because he wasn’t working.  The plans started with a camping trip, then a trip home to the D (Detroit), then an open-ended road trip he started inviting me on by about a week into knowing each other.  As in “you’re welcome to join me on the West Coast in July”.  I would say something demurely vague like “we’ll see; that sounds like a last minute decision”… “I already have so many travel plans in July”… or, the more promising “I do really want to go to Portland”.  One night Special Ed and I rode bikes around and got rained on.  With my hood up, on a couple margaritas and a Pacifico, I almost got hit by a car as I charged ahead across the busy boulevard a block from my apartment.  Then, we had a weird, awkward late night conversation.  We covered so many bases of awkward things you aren’t supposed to talk to new boyfriends about I can’t even publicly speak about them.  I felt the coolness of him turning over in bed with his back to me.  “Sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better,” I sighed when I realized I’d lost his attention.  But the next day, I still got the “You’re awesome” text.  “Wow, he really is whipped,” I thought.  Special Ed was the kind of guy who would kiss you in the parking lot after dinner, when you’re unlocking your bike.      

A misunderstanding happened before Special Ed left town.  This involved me being drunk and misinterpreting a text message, (oh, and answering my phone while brushing my teeth as previously mentioned).  The misunderstanding had to do with whether or not he was coming over after not seeing each other for several days, and ended up with him coming over and having a bunch of sex with me.  In addition to… being weird about the possibility of me driving him to the airport (“I don’t know if that’s appropriate”), and, a couple days later not responding to my text for hours when I honestly admitted my not feeling great that day had to do with things I was dealing with regarding my deceased Dad.  And that was how it was left as he flew away back to the D. 

Special Ed's vacation communication consisted of text only - a lot on the first day, nothing for a couple days, just one initiated by me after four days, a couple lame ones initiated by him after six days.  After nine days, a great therapy session motivated me to call him (in the “good” part of our brief affair, Special Ed would call unlike most of the guys I've dated recently).  After all, I wasn’t even sure of the day he was getting back!  My therapist and I agreed that he was being kind of shitty, but I was giving him his space and waiting to see and that was very mature of me.  I figured – this will all come out in the wash when he returns.  I don’t even know how much I like this guy anymore!  I wasn’t interested in waiting around for him if this is what he was like on vacation.  I thought I’d tell him (when he got back) – if we aren’t going to talk, or I’m not going to come see you when you’re away, just call me if you are still thinking about me when you get back.   I don’t want to do this for my summer.      

When I got his voicemail I knew he just wasn’t answering.  Then the inevitable happened.  He responded to my voicemail.  WITH A TEXT. 

To be continued in Tinder'd Part II - "Scent of a 28 Year Old".

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