Guilty sext?

Sexting Boy guilt sexted me. Something along the lines of:

Hey I know I always do this but are you up to anything cool?

...in the wee hours of morning. Yep.

Perhaps he knows I'm a classy chick (obviouslyyy, I have a blog about this kinda stuff). Perhaps he just is beginning to question the terms of this relationship. We sext. Nothing ever comes to fruition.

Ohh back up plans.

I like you, etc.

The Doctor. He asked me if I hated him for his future moving. Ohh the moving, it seems as if it's on. He is going.

The always cool chick that I am (and also...perhaps semi-clothed at the time?), I told him it was fine that he is moving. It's fine. It is! Except that he's a cool guy and I like him, etc.

It could be more, it could. I fear it will become more, without me realizing it; it's becoming more as I type, I like him, I do. He is really nice and adorable and speaks doctor and is cheesy and I like it. I like it. I like him.

*ALL names and identifying details have been changed

I have cultivated a sexting friendship. One of my guy friends. It's recently become a challenge as to who can initiate the conversation with the most disgusting sexual reference. Nothing ever comes of it, we never actually meet up, even though there is talk of it.

This happened yet again. Eight hours of this off-and-on sexting, talk of meeting up, me falling asleep as I always do. I realized the next morning that he called me mid-slumber, and I missed the call. I was a bit flattered, I admit it. Hahaha, I will make you want me and then ignore you! Ha!

That morning, after I noticed this missed call, another friend called me. There was talk of a bar she had been at, and I almost said, "Yeah, Sexting Boy mentioned he was there," but then stopped myself, because what's the use even mentioning that? It was a split second non-admission, and she continued without missing a beat.

They slept together.

Not that I care to have sex with Sexting Boy (Pun? Double entendre? Nope.), but, let's think about this timetable: sexting me all night, called me really late, I didn't respond. Minutes later he was with my friend. It was a random thing, they're not together, and I don't want to be with him, but still.

I texted him the next day, jokingly congratulating him on being the biggest whore ever. That boy has nerve.

Be mine

I sent The Boy a Valentine's Card. And a book. We exchange books. I read a book a few weeks ago, I thought he'd enjoy it, so I mailed it to him shortly thereafter. Simple as that.

Snail mail works in mysterious and painstakingly long ways, and so he got them over a week later, and then yesterday, yesterday, among the junk mail and wrong addresses and my childhood friend's wedding invitation: a card from The Boy. He made me a Valentine's Card.

I'm crafty, I make things. Before Boston, I kept a running stream of handmade postcards on hand to send to him. Post-Boston, the flow slowed, slowed, stopped. But I thought a Valentine's Card would be a nice gesture, so I made him one. And then the aforementioned book.

He sent me a heart card with a silly poem. A sweet poem.

I had to stash it away because the Doctor came over only moments later.

I'm far too pretty for this

I couldn't sleep last night. I'm the obsessive compulsive sort. I obsess over things I cannot change, it is true. While out with the Doctor and friends last night, the topic of his chances of moving came up. They are very good. May. In May, if he gets this job, he is moving. Across the country.

Well good for him. Yes. That is exciting. I would move too, if given an opportunity (...still waiting for that job opportunity).

However, what does that do to us? We've had dates, we're dating in the loosest sense. We're not an item, couple, whatever the kids are calling it these days. But, we're something quite lovely, that I feel could become even more lovely.

Essentially, I have finally met a man who lives in the same city as me (I keep somehow finding myself drawn to men who live far, far away), and I like him and he likes me and he's well-spoken and nerdy and chivalrous and polite and- he's going, he's leaving.

And sure, I can ride this out, knowing it has an expiration date; I can accept this and enjoy what this is now. But, I know myself. I know myself far too well and I know that this feeling will not dissipate, but fester. Resentment will grow, I will pick apart all of his actions, question his motives, obsess over the details. I will punish him for this moving, his career aspirations (how dare he!), I will kiss other boys and lie to him all because I can't accept this.

I know myself.

Doctors are an aphrodisiac

So the other date, perhaps we shall call it The Other Date and The Other Man, but "other" in the it-wasn't-that-cool sense, not the sneaking around sense.

The Other Date with The Other Man effected me in a way that solidified my feelings for The Doctor. Being on this okay date, with this okay man (okay in the sense that he is not right for me in any romantic way), made me appreciate having this other man. Made me angsty for The Doctor. Made me obsess about The Doctor.

I'm doing the thing. The why won't he call me it's been two hours and he hasn't called me and it's not like he said he would call me, and I'm busy and he's busy but what's he doing and what is he thinking? Why isn't he calling? thing.

All the normal thoughts. Of course.

Out of body experience

Oh, and yes. When the date with the other man finally ended, I was driving home, and conveniently had to pass the Doctor's street. He lives only half a mile from my house, off the same main street that I live. And while doing all this passing of his street, without even thinking about it, I turned down it, and there was his car. And his house.

And then I realized, I'm on the Doctor's street, stalking out his car, after midnight. What am I doing? What does this mean? Stalker! Stalker! And on and on. And then I realized that I had to turn back around on his street and drive past his car and house again because I had to actually go home.

Reflexive? Reflexive to drive past the house of the man you've recently begun dating? I can't even give myself the credit. I really wasn't even thinking, just acted. Like a crisis situation? Was the other date that bad?

I've deemed it an out of body experience. I cannot hold myself accountable for those six seconds.

He's no doctor

I had date with the new guy. He was nice enough, turns out we're both from the same area, I went to school with his sister all my life (he is ten years my senior). But. Eh.

Eh.

That shouldn't sum up a date, but I suppose it does this one. Conversation was okay, we have some common interests, but there just wasn't a connection. He was...caustic. Blunt. Too much like me, but in a way that I surely hope I am not.

My roommate was very annoyed about me having a date with another man. She was very in favor of the doctor. Very pro-doctor. In fact, while I was getting ready for the other date, she kept saying, "He's no doctor." And then instructed me to wear quite unflattering things. She was very much in favor of me wearing awkward sweaters with jeans I never wear.

On said date with the other man, I found myself thinking about the Doctor. He has this great nervous laugh. He texted me during dinner, following up about something I had said earlier that day. I sneakily responded to him while the other boy was in the bathroom.

Stream of consciousness

Dating requires so much pacing. And willpower. You're not allowed to have sex because you barely know each other. But all you're thinking about is having sex because you know you can't and you want to savor this not having sex because how fun is it? "Fun" could probably be translated as "frustrated" in this instance. And I'm insane and my worst critic (excuse my trite reference here) and all I can think is that if I sleep with him anytime soon what number on the whore scale will I hit? Is it a sliding scale you think? And how long must this waiting charade continue before I will no longer deem myself slutty? And bases? Is it normal to be mentally going through which base we're on while it's happening? Do bases still count? And are there only three? Are there stipulations, half bases? Should I be obsessing over this during and then now again post? And truly, it's handy that I'm lining up boys so that I can stay busy and distracted and not have sex with the Doctor and I'm already worried about dating two different boys even though I haven't even had a date with boy two but what if I'm with one and we run into the other? Because we all three love this one bar with true reverence. And I must be upfront with both about me dating other people but how can I be tactful with that? It doesn't just come up in conversation between "So you're from Elmhurst?" and "What's your favorite Lady Gaga song?"

When it rains it pours

Another good date with the Doctor. Maybe I'm not used to this business, this dating business, but it does feel a bit superficial. I barely know him, I suppose, so it makes sense. It's a strange sensation, not knowing him but wanting to know him and allowing him this sudden inclusion in my life. Trust, I think that's what this is called.

And the raining and the pouring. Another boy just asked me out. Another legit date? This is just too much. This one, what shall I call him? I don't know him that well, actually. Only met him once. I met him through a friend a month ago, and a group of us (including him) were supposed to hang out last night, but I bailed in favor of the date with the Doctor. So he e-mailed me this morning, saying that he wanted to ask me out last night, but then I didn't show. He sent me his number and mentioned that he likes sushi. I love sushi.

I wanna hold your hand

Second date with the Doctor went well. Very well. So well that tonight is date three. It feels like it's happening a bit fast, that I should be savoring this time, not rushing anything.

He held my hand, and I've gotta tell you, that gets me every time.

I kiss and tell

How do I say this nicely? My roommate is convinced The Boy is gay. As are other friends. Or at least, they're skeptical.

This is a semi-anonymous blog, I want to be tactful.

But. Okay. The Boy, really, he is a grown man. A grown man. His pseudonym should be The Man. Except that sounds sexist etc etc.

He is a virgin.

While affectionate, polite, reciprocatory while I was in Boston, he also refused to bed me. (Ooh dated expression, I know.) And not to say that I necessarily had grand plans for my trip to Boston, but after a certain age, sex feels agiven. It's agiven.

(And to clear this up to all parties, the title of this blog is kissingdoesntkill.blogspot.com, which can also be lovingly construed as kissingwhore.blogspot.com. Whatever works. All in all, I kiss. And tell. And that is all.)

The problem is: what if he is gay? Awesome! I've wanted a gay best guy friend my entire life! ...or since the advent of Will & Grace. Which has passed. Meaning I'm way over due for this fantastic gay man in my life. (I did meet a semi-mutual friend at a show a few months ago, Mitchell -real name here -and I was shamelessly drunk and am pretty sure I full on assaulted him to be my best gay friend. He didn't seem as into it? Nothing to do with my hideous honesty. And drunkeness.)

I digress. Gay best friend, yes, I would love. But I would really prefer that The Boy not be my gay best friend.

I really like The Boy. I really do. While this month of separation has been helpful, so very, very helpful, I feel...embarrassed. Because, yes, I have removed my eggs from his basket, but also, I had legitimate feelings for him.

I hate to admit this, but it's a pride thing. I am in love with a gay man? Or perhaps he is gay but I'm not really sure and I'm not man enough to ask him, so I'm currently composing a "20 questions" joke e-mail to him where question 5 is "What's your number on the Kinsey scale?" (http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/index.html). What does this say about my gaydar? About his? About my chutzpah? It's more pride. It's all pride. How do I politely ask him if he's gay?

Let's talk politics and religion

We had a date. The Doctor. And I. I was really nervous, felt silly for being so nervous, drank a glass of wine while getting ready to settle my nerves, but hadn't eaten, so then I was a bit drunk when he arrived. Right on time.

He seemed nervous the entire night. I talked way too much, but really, I talk way too much all the time. So. Nothing unusual. My hair looked amazing (because let's be honest, that is important). He is a little bit nerdy, which I like. And he feels mid-western to me, very clean cut and honest and gentlemanly, which is good (he is not at all from anywhere in the mid-west). Good, but not edgy? I'm used to boys who aren't so polite. It's disconcerting, this consideration. I can't decide if I like it.

Ohh, stop me there? Shall I now get a lecture about how rare it is to find a man who is respectful and chivalrous and polite? Well fine. He is. The Doctor is great. But, one date in (and another planned for next week), I'm already wondering how fast it will take me to get bored. But, it was a first date. He has to be nice. Hopefully we'll get in an argument on date two. A heated debate about Ron Paul's politics. Reasons why I could never own one of those tiny dogs you carry around like an accessory, and why he has a secret passion to do just that. His disapproval of my need to read entire books in the bookstore without buying a thing. Only the important things, of course.

Strangers in the night

I am a creepily light sleeper. I went to bed early last night, not having much else to do and knowing I am working a ton right now, so sleep is best. I woke up to what I thought was someone trying my doorknob, and then footsteps on my downstairs front porch. I jumped out of bed and started turning on lights, and then peeked out the window. I saw a man rather drunkenly walking down my drive. He leaned against a fence.

I went downstairs to check that the alarm was set and everything looked in order, walked back upstairs, the man was gone. I was in a panic, wondering if I should call the police, but then not really knowing if the man was perhaps a friend of my roommates' (they are out of town this weekend), or if he was just at the wrong house, on and on and on. Then, a realization, that was The Ex, wasn't it?

Very likely, he got drunk, and since I have been ignoring his (not as frequent, thankfully) texts and calls, did what he does best, show up at my house unannounced. And then all I could think were thoughts of him trying to murder me in my sleep, of how he would do it, would it be murder-suicide? Why can't he get beyond this? I was very clear about the conditions of our relationship as I presently see it, and I also know that is not what he wants (this talk happening the last time he randomly showed up at my house. In retrospect, a bad idea to even answer my door, however, if you remember said night, he could see me painting through my bedroom window. No escape.). Thus I have been ignoring him.

This just feels out of hand. He cannot show up at my house whenever he feels! And last night, I was legitimately scared. I had no idea who was at my house in the middle of the night, and then when I realized it was very likely him, I started to panic about what this means. His need to ambush me, to corner me. To him perhaps it feels romantic, to pursue me this way, but to me, I'm more just worried. It feels like that Julia Roberts movie, Sleeping With the Enemy. And any J.Lo movie, really.

Course of action: ignore! ignore! ignore!

Did someone call a doctor?

I keep telling myself I must stop going back to all my old standbys. Well, just recently. I have made the decision! I will no longer fall back on the same guys!

However, I think WOS and I are becoming friends. That's nice.

I met someone new. Someone who hopefully knows none of my friends. He asked to take me to dinner. *Ahem, can I remember the last time a man asked me to dinner? A real date? Not just, "Hey, wanna come out with my friends and me for a drink in the not so distant but very late at night future? I promise to grope you in a parked car afterwards and then text you when it's most convenient for me."

Do I sound jaded? Maybe.

The new guy. What shall I call him? Oh, wait, that's right, Doctor. Because that's his job. Excuse another reference to (and perhaps dated) media culture and how it infiltrates our lives, but I'm pulling a Rachel (of Friends fame). She had a thing for doctors. All someone needs to tell me is I'm a doctor and I'm sold. It's a done deal.

So. The Doctor. We shall see.

Oceans apart

I think the Brit got deported.

In a nice way. I'm not fully sure. I just know that I awoke this morning to a voicemail from him at the airport last night calling to say he had just arrived, but was being sent back to England because his visa had expired. So not deported deported, but being kicked out of the country may not look good to those people in the visa office. Or future employers. Etc.

The point is, he was going to be in town this week. We were going to hang out, he was going to talk with his delightful British accent, that sort of thing. But it seems he is on his way back to the Motherland.

Pandora's Box

The Ex was outside my house shouting my name.

I was with him for a second, just a second. We had a moment. And that was it. Then he thought texting me twenty times a day for two days was appropriate, and finally, when I was unresponsive to texts, showing up at my house felt like the logical next step. Not even knocking though, just standing outside shouting my name because he could see me painting through my bedroom window.

Typing this makes me realize how creepy the entire situation sounds. ...this is not the first time this has happened. Typically, however, he knocks.