My third date with The
Socialist (a week ago yesterday) was just as warm and snuggly as the first two.
I drove out to visit him in the suburbs, to his very guy apartment with a goth
mix playing and Smiths posters all over the walls. He was wearing a Smiths
t-shirt that matched the rest of the aesthetic, and all of it felt very homey
and familiar. When I was nineteen, my boyfriend-type-person was a goth guy who
took me to a rave club on Friday nights, and that seems to have influenced most
subsequent decisions.
I felt so cozy sitting on
his (velvety black) couch with my feet in his lap, talking about books and life
and politics. I was SO RELIEVED when he made fun of the idea of a rigged 2016
primary! I told him he deserved ten blowjobs for that, and I meant it, but maybe
I need to set my bar higher than “only buys into SOME misogynist news cycles.”
Kinda where we are right now, though.
In bed, it was easy and
warm. He knew just how to kiss me and just how to fuck me, didn’t mind when my
exuberant moans rattled the walls of his crowded apartment building, though he
did eventually get up and close the window. I couldn’t contain my joy, and he
didn’t want me to.
After a couple of snuggly
hours, I got tired of the goth music and (this is seriously one of the best
date things that ever happened to me) put on one of his TWO Monkees playlists,
singing along to cheery retro deeps cuts with his whole heart and his whole
face. This, to me, is the miracle of dating, the way that, in spite of every
wall and flaw and trope, a near-stranger’s perfect goofball humanity can shine
out of him like the sun, and I am sometimes lucky enough to be there, naked and
satisfied, to witness it. (And, in this case, laugh my head off.)
Definitely not hot songs,
but I climbed all over him some more anyway—"Another Pleasant Valley
Sunday” indeed.
The trouble started when
I tried to tell him what I needed in terms of post-snuggle communication. He
had disappeared for most of the week following our excellent second date, and
as I tried to ask for something other than radio silence I felt stupid and
needy and a little flower of hurt bloomed in my chest. I knew I wanted him to
be more present by text, but everything I said felt like it had the potential
to scare him away, everything kept coming out wrong.
We did spend a very
pleasant half-hour joking our way through the emoji keyboard (Upside-down-smiley-face
makes a much better ping than the businesslike thumbs-up, don’t you think?!) As
I was putting on my pants, though, I knew I had to try and get serious, and he
could not have looked more miserable about that.
I explained that praise
is a really important part of sex for me. “Praise” makes it sound more BDSM
than I meant it to. What I really meant was…softness. Kind words. He hadn’t
given a single tiny sparkle of a compliment, and I explained that I couldn’t
read his mind to tell if he liked me. He argued that he wouldn’t have had me
over if he didn’t like me, but that is just nonsense when it comes to sex. (And
I have, like, five years of blogging to prove it.)
“I’m just not good with
praise” was the verdict and so was “I just don’t like all the talking.” I said
that if we were fucking, he needed to communicate better, and he seemed to take
it to heart.
On the long drive home,
my phone chimed, and I got my hopes up that maybe he’d said something sweet.
When I pulled up at home, I opened the phone and saw…more bantering about
emojis, which is admittedly fun and cute but also nagged at that little void in
me where kind words should’ve been. I have all
the kind words to offer, and I wanted to believe that I deserved some in
return.
He pinged the next day,
but the connection felt broken. There would’ve been so many things to chitchat
about all week—the Blue Wave! The new emojis! Orange heart! But my phone was
silent except for reminders from ResistBot, so I had to admit that The
Socialist didn’t like me the way I liked him.
After I let him go, I
felt a return to myself, a relief from the emotional hangover that had made the
sad election anniversary even harder to navigate.
What I want is simple, I
want the cute person to tell me I’m cute. What isn’t so simple is remembering
that I deserve it.
As the dust settled and I
sent my OKC app to the cloud for a breather, I realized something I’ve never
been able to non-judgmentally take in about myself before: sex is a scary thing
to me. It’s all of the wonderful things, too, but sharing my space, my body
with someone takes a deep investment of trust. I’ve always wanted it to be no
big deal but with a sensitive body and soul and a heart that will leap into
action at the least provocation, I have to take care of myself. I have to admit
what I need.
So it’s a sad week,
guywise, and I’m disappointed, but this is also a good, big step. I listened to
him when he told me what he had (and didn’t have) to offer, and I believed him.
Instead of treating the difference between us with self-sacrifice and eventual
resentment, I treated us both kindly, setting us free to find a better fit.
Sigh-go me.
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