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| Rainbow Pal and I have decided that all weird dating things require a romantic French term! |
There was a moment. I was toying with Thoughtful Guy’s
dick through his underwear, just kind of nuzzling around down there, when he placed
his arms around my shoulders in a soft embrace. A breeze of kindness blew all
through me, an almost supernatural affection. Stillness. Peace.
He couldn’t stay late, he had to get home to his
kiddo. As he started to get dressed, I wrapped up in my aqua-blue summer robe,
feeling flushed and decadent and beautiful. “You look so good,” he said, with a
little growl in his voice. He backed me up against the pillar on the pony wall
of my loft, and kissed and kissed and kissed me.
He picked up his phone and said absently “Annnddd one
of my partners is texting about making a date…” then went back to kissing me. When
I finally, reluctantly got him out the door, I felt happy and hopeful, like my
life might actually make sense! I’ll never stop believing in that feeling.
The next day, instead of feeling lonely and insecure,
I felt grounded in my own life, sure I was cared for. But when I told him as
much, he abruptly cut off the conversation and said he didn’t want to be
keeping me up. I was up! I was working on my 2000-piece puzzle! It’s an
intricate undersea scene! It was only like 10.
Oh, the little ghosting. When I texted in the morning
to start planning our next date, his tone had changed. He said laughing emoji
to the time I suggested, not whether it was too late or too early. He suggested
a better night for our date, and I said sure. Then he left me on heart-reaction
and disappeared.
By the time it was ten again, I hadn’t heard from him
all day, and plans hung in the thread unfinished. The internet, always the most
toxic, let me know he’d had time to change to an even-sexier profile picture
while he was busy not texting me.
So I texted to suggest that we might not be a good
match because our rhythms were off. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I hate le
petite fantôme. You liked me the day before yesterday, I wanted to say, then radio
silence.
He texted back ALL the paragraphs (OH, the self-justifying
man-paragraphs of polyamory. May I never again read them.) including “Do you
know your attachment style? You seem insecure.”
First of all, I find attachment theory to be the most
unhelpful therapy thing of all time, like oh, you weren’t loved properly as a
baby and now you’re fucked up forever. What is anybody supposed to DO with
this?!
I mean, misnamed Thoughtful Guy was probably right,
but you don’t get to psychoanalyze me after ONE date, if ever! And you don’t
get to make it my deep personal flaw when you mini-ghost instead of finishing a
conversation.
I’m grateful to Summer Therapist and a lifetime of
self esteem work that I got mad instead of accepting his assessment of me,
instead of accommodating and building something new and cute and misery-making.
It was a fantasy that he could be boyfriend material
while already having five partners. Like, who do I think I am, hoping that I
wouldn’t slip his mind among all that beauty and tumult and day-to-day? Like so
many precious darlings before him, he just wasn’t the right match. I miss him,
but onward.
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