Dirty Little Secret

attachment-1-3 Five months ago my relationship of 3 1/2 years  ended.  He was 16 years younger than me, but a great love (a blog for another day).  When it ended, I took inventory.  What is it I really want?  What I found is my dirty little secret.  I want to share my life with someone. I would like to get married again and have it stick. We aren’t really supposed to say this out loud. It’s supposed to be diagonal snaps and I don’t need no man. And I don’t. I can do alone. I’ve done alone like it was my job. I’ve been more lonely with my husband a breath away. I don’t need a man. But I want one. A good one. A partner in crime and life. A yin to my yang. The cheese to my macaroni. In order to do this, I have to put myself out there, and I am, as this blog is archiving, warts and all. These are the things I want, but I won’t settle again. I won’t be content with just half a relationship. I won’t be with someone just for the sake of having someone. This is how I know. This is the worst first date ever. For anyone. In all of history.

He was a friend of my friend’s boyfriend.  I’ll call him Mr. Neanderthal, Thal for short. Whit asked if she could give him my contact info.  She had vouched for him, so okay. I was out of the country at the time, and we started e-mailing. We got to know each other some. He was leaving for work the day after I got back to the US, so we set a blind date for the same night I flew in. How I wish I was creative enough to make all this up, but I’m not. Sadly, the following is absolutely true.

I was to pick him up at his apartment. It’s important to note that in corresponding he had said he was 6’4″. He opened the door, stuck his tongue down my throat, and apologized- “the doctor said I was supposed to be taller”.  5’9″-ish tops. Pants on fire right out of the box. His shirt was dirty and his apartment looked like the outtakes to ‘Hoarders’. He pulled me inside. In my mind–oh fuuuccckkkk. He told me-of this I swear- “I eat pussy like a termite, I’ll put you on that table and show you”. Threw up a little.  I mumbled, “Termite? I think you are doing it wrong”. He said, “Do you want to make love first or go get a drink?” Who says that?? A DRINK, please sweet, eight pound baby Jesus.

I drove to a restaurant close by. I knew within one nanosecond that this was going to call for a fake sick defense. I don’t know why, but it seemed necessary to be polite, a friend of a friend and all. On the drive, he told me how he’d been fired from his last couple of jobs because he was “so good” that his bosses were jealous. My eyes are rolling, still, as I write this.

Thal and I sat at our table. He told me, “Just so you know, my dick is like a Michelob Ultra can with a big, fat strawberry on top.”  Noted. Gag. I excused myself to the ladies’ room where I texted my girlfriend “Nope”, and my last known location. I stayed in there excessively long. I went back to the table and began a performance that would make Merle Streep weep.


I told Thal that I was sick – I was in Central America just that morning. Plausible. I was dying. To add credence, I dashed to the restroom again without a word. I took a little bow in the mirror. You got this. Splashed a little water on my face – the appearance of a cold sweat. Brava.

I went to the table. Thal had sushi for us. WTF? It was time to turn up the volume. He picked up a California roll and tried to feed it to me (are you fucking kidding me?). I started gagging and again run to the ladies room. More cold water (method acting!). I stayed there for at least 15 minutes. When I went back, I told Thal, I absolutely must go. Right now. He told me to come back to his apartment. “I’ll take care of you”, he said. Ugh, no. I’m going home, thank you. He said, “If you lie down for a little bit you might feel better and we can have sex”. Not in this lifetime, dude. Or the next, or the one after. He pouted, but we left.

I drove, and he talked. I’m was very focused on, one, my performance, and two, getting out of that fresh new hell. He pleaded for me to stay. We can “make love”, his words, not mine.  I said, “No. I must get home…very sick”. He got agitated and told me, ” You just have to lie still for five minutes”. That’s all he needed. Like this was a selling point. If I was stranded in the Sahara for weeks, dying of thirst, and if he was the very last sip of water on heaven and earth, I would die happily. Not. Going. To. Happen.

We (finally!) got back to his apartment. I stopped and he asked if he could come around for a hug. Fuck, if it would make this abomination end faster, I thought, fine. He came over and opened my door. He placed his elbows on my thighs and leaned in, forcing all his considerable weight to my legs. I sucked in my breath.  He said — I’m not making this up — “I was wondering what sound you would make when I entered you’. I was really getting sick by this time. I hug patted and made tracks out of there. Super fast. By the time I was out of the parking lot, he had left a voicemail saying he would give me another chance. And an e-mail. And a Facebook message. Another chance…to visit the gaping, flaming gates to hell? I’ll take a hard pass.

There is a difference between being alone and being lonely. I’m not lonely. I’m going to do this dance and see what happens. It can’t be forced, or coerced. Maybe I’ll find my love of a lifetime. Maybe I’ll find more blog posts. I’m the flypaper of dating, and you, kind reader, with me, will see what sticks. My dirty little secret is, I want a life with someone, my lesson from the above example, and a couple of crashed and burned marriages, is I’m my own advocate.  Be that.  Be fearless. Be myself. Those that love me, will, and those that don’t, won’t matter, I’m taking stock in myself, in my own companionship.  I’m singularly not lonely.

Go forth and conquer.