Mr. Intimidated

I haven’t written in weeks because life and work have been keeping me too busy for the moments of reflection I need to blog about it. I guess the main thing to report is that I got rejected by Mr. Intimidated. Which, although I sort of felt it coming, was still a bit of a shocker.

As a refresher, this is the guy with whom I had three consecutive dates. On the first, we had sex and he initially expressed that he felt intimidated by me and that he was going through a bit of a life crisis. On the second, we saw It Follows and when he dropped me off and I went in to kiss him goodnight, he kept his lips pursed tightly shut. On our third date, we ate ramen and talked and laughed and when he dropped me off, I decided to not initiate the pursed-lip kiss and he didn’t either so instead we sat awkwardly for a moment until I shouted “okay, goodnight!” and ran into my house.

If you remember, I liked this guy a lot despite his obvious baggage and the awkwardly sexless nature of our interactions. I felt that he wasn’t quite what I was looking for and that I had a lot more going on than him, but still enjoyed spending time together and wanted to give it a try.

A couple days after our third date, I booked tickets to see Sleater Kinney perform at the Hollywood Palladium and, with no angry feminist female friends excited to go with me, I invited him. He said yes, that he loved Carrie Brownstein and was excited to go.

“It’s gonna be like an episode of Portlandia,” he said.

“Cacao,” I responded.

Then I didn’t hear from him for two weeks. A mutual friend told me he was out of town at a movie premiere. I texted him “congratulations and have fun” and he sent me a pic of his premiere outfit. I felt something was up when I didn’t hear from him again. A week before the concert I texted to check in.

“Hey, are you still going to the concert with me next week?”

I headed into a meeting and forgot about it. During the meeting, I was midsentence when my phone vibrated and I glanced down at it. I caught the following on my lock screen: “Hey. I know I sort of fell off the map these past few weeks. I appreciate you inviting me but I don’t think I want to go...” My words caught in my throat and I lost my train of thought. I thought it best to wait until after the meeting to read the rest, but having no self-control or patience whatsoever, I couldn’t resist. It continued: “I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling it. I know I expressed to you how I feel this is a weird time for me, and my lack of sex drive. I think I just don’t want to be going on dates, and want time alone to just figure shit out. Hope you understand.”

The coldness of the message unnerved me. It had none of the usual rejection niceties: “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re amazing. I like you a lot but (fill in the blank). You’re too good for me…” etc. I was also frankly surprised to be rejected by this guy who I felt was (I know this sounds douchey) lucky to have my attention in the first place. I wanted to write: “You’re rejecting me? Seriously?” But I didn’t. I wrote: “I understand. Thank you for your honesty.” I did appreciate his honesty. And I actually did understand—after our very first date, in light of his personal crisis and recent breakup, I had told a friend of mine, “He probably shouldn’t be dating anyone right now.” But I was still taken aback by how quickly and cleanly he had cut it off.

And I sort of felt like crying. I thought we had fun together, and that was worth something to me. For whatever reason, I actually liked him more than most of the men I meet. But then I was also grateful, and felt profoundly that I had been let off the hook. I would have let it go on for weeks because I liked him. Even though it was awkward, and I knew I wanted something more, and it clearly wasn’t the right thing for either of us at this moment in time.  

I was also slightly annoyed that he hadn’t told me sooner he didn’t want to go to the concert. Would he have told me at all if I hadn’t asked, or would he have let the day roll around and offered some last minute excuse? I scrambled to fill his spot, and decided to invite my friend the DILF, a 40 going on 25 year old Man Child I had sex with over a year ago. He said yes immediately, although he didn’t know the band. Then, apropos of nothing, he texted:

“I am so angry today. I gotta meditate before shooting this gig.” Immediately, I regretted inviting him. Not knowing what to say, I asked why he was angry.

“I’m just frustrated with everything and blaming myself therefore taking it out on the world today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied lamely, not wanting to hear any more.

Why are all the men I attract carrying so much baggage, and why do they all feel the need to take it out and show it to me without my asking to see it? Why do I feel more like a mother figure to these lost boys than an equal, a partner, a lover? Where is my equal and why can’t I find him? I went on Facebook seeking distraction and soon found myself stalking the Hot Guy I slept with at my Housewarming Party back in October. I found a photo of him lying on the beach next to a girl kissing his sweet bearded face, #staycation. A wave of sadness passed over me. Not because I necessarily want to be with this guy, although I did have a slightly desperate moment of trying and failing to see him again after that night we slept together. And I haven’t seen him since. But I suddenly viscerally felt the reason people feel sorry for single folks, and this is not a feeling I usually relate to. In a way, I also felt relieved. Because I could let it go—that weird distant hope in the back of my mind that I might someday run into this incredibly hot man I slept with once, and we would go on that follow up date. 

“You’re strong, you’re like a sturdy tree, that’s why these guys are attracted to you,” said a wise friend. I guess that’s true, but I also think these men somehow think I’m stronger than I am. They don’t see my vulnerability and therefore feel intimidated or insecure around me. Maybe this is my fault. I know I do present with a lot of confidence and bravado, and maybe I’m looking for a man who has the strength and confidence in himself to help bring out my vulnerable side.

I was chatting to this guy on Tinder, a kinkster looking to get into some dom-sub play. Naturally, he wanted me to dominate him. He said he was into “feet, ass worship, objectification, voyeurism, domestic servitude, to name a few.” When I shared that I was from NorCal, he shot back: “I was just telling my roommate how San Fran women are so masculine. They need men to inspire their feminine side.” At the time I thought this was an incredibly dumb thing for him to say and showed an extreme lack of good sense. What kind of man thinks it’s a good idea to call the woman he wants to sleep with “masculine”? Masculine to me means I have a mustache and big calves. I value people putting thought into how they communicate, and his word choice was so thoughtless it was virtually irredeemable, and a big reason why I never ended up meeting up with him.

Now I think part of my strong reaction might have been that, poor word choice aside, maybe this guy was actually onto something. Maybe I do need a strong man to bring out my feminine side. The best relationships I’ve had with men have been when they could see past my feminist rants and loud mouth opinions and crude jokes into the sensitive and thoughtful person underneath. They have been with men who feel empowered, rather than belittled, by my strength. Despite my know-it-all personality, my ex-boyfriend always knew how to find the softness in me, and he always understood his value in our relationship. Best Guy Friend will debate me all day long—he knows how to find the weak spots in my seemingly ironclad arguments and enjoys poking holes in them. This is the kind of give-and-take I need in a man. I think I often like to be right and I get frustrated when people argue with me, but conversely it’s hard for me to respect anyone who doesn’t have their own strong opinion.

I realized after my second date with Mr. Intimidated that I didn’t know what he thought of the movie we had seen. I didn’t remember him saying one way or another. I asked him about it on our third date, shoveling ramen into my mouth.
"I just realized I don't know what you thought of the movie."
"What?" He looked surprised that I would bring this back up.
 "I don't think you ever said what you thought of It Follows."
"Oh. I loved it," he responded flatly.
"You did? Really?! You didn't tell me that."
"Well, you just seemed so weirded out by it I guess I just didn't know what to say."
I stared at him. Something in me felt disappointed. I couldn't imagine being in a relationship with someone whose opinion they wouldn't share for fear of disagreeing with me. I would eat that person alive. I pictured a future of me monologuing and him nodding vaguely by my side. This image made me shudder. I should have called it right then and there--at that moment, I knew instinctively that this would never work.

Valentine's Day

“You look like a present,” says my roommate. I’m wearing a cherry red, skin-tight dress with a big bow in the back and lots of tits in the front. It’s Valentine’s Day and we’re throwing a big ol’ house party. Per usual, I’m dressed to attract a mate for the evening. It’s V-Day after all and the evite instructed each guest to “bring a single friend, or 7 single friends.”

As I wander through the party, searching for someone to bone, I’m surprised by my own lack of interest in the various prospects. There are indeed several attractive, single men in my midst, and yet I continue to wander rather than setting my sights on the most promising option and digging in for the night, as is my custom. I find myself dodging a handsome, somewhat boring insurance guy who is probably my best bet. I realize I’m less interested in sealing the deal with him than chatting with friends I see all the time and generally flirting with no one in particular.

Where is my usual ambition to get laid no matter what? To find the hottest guy in the room and focus on him all night until he’s completely incapable of walking away? To tenaciously manufacture chemistry even when there is absolutely none? I suddenly realize that, oh my god, has the moment finally come when I am actually bored of the random hookup?

Feeling very drunk, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, thinking I might throw up. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror over the sink: long, kinky blond hair; cleavage to the chin; red bow framing my ass. I come to the sudden realization that I may have outgrown this party costume. I do feel sexy but also with perhaps a sprinkling of trying too hard. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder, who is this peacock?

Then I have the double realization that this costume positively screams one night stand. Why did that never occur to me before? I’m fond of asking myself and my friends, why am I attracting this certain kind of guy over and over again? Two kinds actually: the skeezy loser who likes me more than I like him, or the upstanding guy I go to bed with and then try to parlay the one night stand into a real date and never hear from him again. Why has it honestly never occurred to me that this dress and the attitude that goes with it might have everything to do with who and what I’m attracting?

Yes, dudes pay more attention to us when we dress sexy. But I think T&A is honestly so distracting for them that they are fundamentally incapable of seeing past the basic instinct to fuck. Obviously. When I’m shoving my tits in a guy’s face, what do I honestly expect? And I’m not slut-shaming myself. I think maybe I just didn’t realize until this moment that what I’ve been working to attract is actually not at all what I want.

I’ve had this fantasy that when I finally meet the right guy, he will see past my cleavage-baring dresses and loud mouth outspokenness to the thoughtful and smart individual underneath. I guess it didn’t occur to me to lead with these qualities. Probably because in these instances, I’m usually looking for sex, not great conversation. But the fact that I often feel dissatisfied by these encounters has never before made me think I need to change anything about my behavior. I think my belief that attracting men is all about dressing as sexy as humanly possible has actually been attracting the wrong kind of man. Shocking, I know.

I think back to New Year’s Eve night when I zeroed in on the hot bartender who was giving me lots of exciting mixed messages. I pleaded for a midnight kiss and, when he wouldn’t give it to me, asked if he had a girlfriend. “Yeah,” he scoffed, “If I was single, your face would be wet right now.” Obviously, I didn’t leave him alone for the rest of the night. Later, as we shared a joint outside with a group of my friends, I stuck my hands in his jacket, feeling on his chest. I pushed my body into his and reached for his crotch. You might say I was being a little forceful, but the smile on his face made me believe he was very close to giving in. Naturally, I was rocking my gold sparkly ensemble and, per usual, lots of cleavage. My animal instincts told me he was barely able to resist.

About a week later, I returned to said bar and parked myself right in front of this same bartender’s station. He barely looked at me all night. I don’t know what I was expecting—for him to leave his girlfriend for me? No, but I thought we could at least have one night of fun, no strings attached. I realize now what this must have looked like: a very sexually uninhibited girl who keeps trying to have sex with a guy even after he’s made it abundantly clear he lives with his girlfriend. What kind of future could there possibly be and why on earth would he jeopardize his relationship to be with me for one night? He wouldn’t. Especially when he’s probably reading the vibes that this girl has no intention of making him her boyfriend, she’s truly just in it for the sex. Even man’s deep and primal instinct to fuck is not strong enough to overcome the doubt and uncertainty inspired by this situation.

All this to say that, when I dress up as the Barbie, I think I might be sending a confusing message, because although I know how to peacock around, I’m ultimately playing a role that is not who I am. I am not going to be some perfect piece of arm candy. That’s just not me. I'm too loud and opinionated for that shit. And it is not by pretending to be that person that I will find the right guy for me. Because there are plenty of women who actually fit that description and the guy that wants that woman will get a real one, not the one who’s just flirting with the role for tonight and in the morning goes back to being very serious and career driven.

And please understand, I am by no means saying that being sexy and strong are mutually exclusive. Because obviously those are both qualities I admire and hopefully embody, but I’m coming to realize there are different kinds of sexy. And some kinds are more understated, not quite so in your face, leave a little something to the imagination. Like Gillian Anderson in The Fall. So strong, so sexy, so doesn't give a fuck. But I digress...

My mom’s favorite expression “mutton dressed as lamb” is suddenly hitting home in a very real way. While she has always used this expression to refer to women who dress too young for their age, it suddenly seems to me that it is actually more about maturity. Maybe that’s what being a grown up woman is all about—being so confident in yourself and your sexuality that you don’t have to flaunt it like you’re 21, you can simply know what you want and say it out loud.

As I stand in front of that bathroom mirror, staring at the "present" reflected back at me, I think I'm only 28 and I already feel too old for this frock.