Let the audience note that I paid for tinder plus so I could rewind my swipe for this one.
I had seen Rodeo recently at a country bar and I decided that anyone who can throw a girl around like that, A) Must be a gentleman. B) Must be fantastic in the sack.
Oh Hayley, you optimistic asshole.
Or as my roommate would say, “You doing some squats? Takin’ a big ol’ shit on yourself?” She’s delightful for neither chastizing me for my self deprication, nor encouraging it.
So, I messaged him, told him where I’d seen him and he wanted to know why I didn’t go dance with him.
*Insert abhord laughter*
No. No to country music, no to two stepping. No to the whole dang shebongle.
The only time I danced to country music was with my ex. He used to make me feel special in those moments. Delicate. He’d smile wide as I tripped and tried to follow his lead, contstantly bumping into his chest and fumbling trying to match his stride.
No, I wasn’t going to dance country with another man.
He asked me out for a drink almost immediately, we exchanged numbers and set a date.
I remember thinking, this is good. Decent. A good start. Get him to take you on a date, drinks, figure out you need.
I was beyond nervous, I hadn’t been on a first date in almost five years.
Enough with this bullshit, I hate this prick.
He stood me up.
He got stuck working late, asked to meet me later in the night. My roommate, bless her, had opted to wait with me, we had gone for dinner, had a few drinks.
A few drinks turned into a few more, turned into four bottles of wine, three location changes, add a few more friends.
I was sloshed.
He messaged me to say he went back to his place, was soaked from the rain, blah, blah. Told me I could come hangout if I wanted to.
I had just spent the five nights prior getting drunk, calling my ex, sobbing into the phone, begging him for us to get back together, try again. Anything. Lots of drunken injuries, tumbles on pavement, rolled ankles, smudged mascara. I’ll call those, the Dark Weeks.
So, I went. Told my friends I was going home and instead headed over to his place.
We barely talked, he made a half-hearted attempt at conversation while I played with his cats as he asked me something about what I was looking for.
“I came over at 1:00am…what do you think I’m looking for?”
The emotionally devestated, so the more gutteral answer was, “Comfort. Reassurance that I’m not worthless. For someone to tell me that I’m beautiful, not ‘hot’ or ‘fuckable’, to feel needed.” However, that’s not how this game is played.
We fucked. I think I almost gave him an asthma attack. He didn’t have the stamina to go again and there was none of that ‘whipping around the dancefloor’ incorporated into his bedroom performance.
Overall rating: 5.5/10
Dick size: 5.5/10
I hauled ass out of his place, come still dripped down my jean shorts.
I must have blown his mind because he went on a bender of messaging me. Every morning I woke up to texts, nicknames, wanted to know what I was doing, when I was free. Calling me everything from darling, wild, city slick and his favourite, trouble.
I’ve been sleeping with him on and off for three months or so. I’m not even really sure why.
Sometimes we would be in the middle of fucking and he’d say stuff like, “Yeah, that’s how we military guys do it.”My mind immediately wandering to a homo-erotic scene where his military friends, all shy and in camo are in the shower and—maybe we don’t need to go there.
Several things just generally annoyed me about him.
He was just a pent up farmer with low self esteem who couldn’t take a joke. All he would ever talk about in between rounds was his company, where he was flying to next.
- He could not spell Wednesday…’Wenesday’. This was a man who owned his own company and he could not spell the days of the week…I had let him inside me and he can’t spell!
- Doesn’t know the difference between their/there and they’re.
- Constantly talked about his ‘Big Things’. Motorcycles. House in the country. Trucks. Big dog. Owned his own company. Money, money, blah, blah, blah.
- He could not take a joke…unless I spelled out the joke for him, he would get pent up and frustrated.
We got into a weird routine, every Monday he would come over at 8:00am and we’d fuck for an hour or so. The only reason I allowed him over at this abhorred time of day was because I’d make him bring me coffee and my roommate wasn’t home. (Except for that one time she was…Oops.)
I’ve only recently decided to stop sleeping with him because he messaged me to ask how I was doing, but he clearly only wanted to tell me it was his birthday and he was hinting for some kind of special birthday sex. (Someone must tell me what the difference is…do you fuck on top of a cake or something?)
To which I bluntly replied, “And when is my birthday?”
R: I don’t know.
H: And you won’t. I’m not your girlfriend.
Harsh? Probably. However, he continued to message me all day Sunday trying to make plans for Monday morning.
If it looks and smells like desperation…well…