“That depends," he replied. "Do you want to have sex before or after the movie?”
“Both!” I said.
PB chuckled, but I wasn’t joking. After a week away from my boy toy, I was starving for his touch. My recent “Why don’t you like me?!” email originally received a written response from PB—and what he said was a delightful surprise. As I complimented him later, he acknowledged my feelings, offered an explanation for his actions, and proposed a plan of action. He said he’d call that evening and, as promised, he did. Since I sensed PB wanted to take the reins, I let him choose the day, time, activity, and film for our next date.
When I woke up on the appointed date day, however, I wasn’t happy. I was anxious. Anxious in a way I’d never been with PB. I tried to stuff down the insecurity bubbling up in my tummy with fistfuls of Puppy Chow. (I’d made it as a treat for PB, but by the time I left for the date, I’d already eaten half.)
Foremost on my mind: how does a man deny himself sex as delicious as what PB and I had for seven days?! It felt like an eternity to me.
When I arrived, I slipped into the bathroom to freshen up before going upstairs to greet PB. Next to the sink, there was a recent issue of Time magazine, open to an article on whether or not marriage was passé in modern society. The article was not optimistic. Basically, it predicted the imminent demise of matrimony, especially given the current economy.
I didn’t read the entire piece…but I did see some stats about the average child of divorce witnessing up to six lovers sharing mom’s bed before the kiddos turn 18. That disgusted me. It’s also why, after EconMan bonded, then abandoned, my two (then toddler) daughters, I swore no man would ever meet my children again until there was a wedding date set.
PB and I were alike in our desires to protect our respective daughters from love-and-leave-‘em partners. In fact, we were alike in a lot of ways...so much so that this article was sitting there, mid-read, seemed suspicious. It’s something I might do if I wanted my S.O. to take a hint.
I went upstairs, hoping my lover was still in the shower so I could join him. He wasn’t; he was dressed and drying his hair. When I first saw his face, fresh, friendly, and familiar, my heart sighed. I know that sounds corny, but that's how I felt. Any tension melted away and I thought, “Damn. You are so handsome. I am one lucky girl.”
I attached myself to PB like Velcro…but he didn’t welcome my affection as he had in the past. He detached and went about cleaning his ears.
Since we’d both been slow to warm up during our first two dates (Hard to believe, I know, but it was true. It took a good half-hour or so to really let our guards down for some reason.), I didn’t think too much of it.
“My back is killing me,” he said. “Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?”
“I do, actually,” I said. I’d popped a pain pill on the way over--because the anxiety (or the sugar overdose) had given me a horrific headache. I retrieved the drugs from my car.
“Now all I need is some beer and I’ll be fine!” PB said. (He wasn’t kidding.)
We went downstairs to his chilly kitchen, where PB devoured the Puppy Chow I’d brought him. I stood by and watched, wondering when he was going to ravage me. PB seemed content tuning into a TV program about hunting with hawks. It was interesting, sure, but I wanted this man to give me some attention, not zone out in front of the boob tube!
“Hungry?” he asked.
“A little,” I said.
“We could order a pizza. Or I have a frozen one we could heat up here…”
I probably cringed. You all know how I feel about frozen pizza by now, don’t’ you? In the words of football player Randy Moss: “I wouldn’t feel this shit to my dog.”
“Or would could go to California Pizza Kitchen,” PB suggested. “It’s right next to the movie theater.”
Was this a test? PB had often complained about how expensive it was to go out (tip: your alcohol is the most expensive item on the tab, honey!). I will do a lot of things to cut costs, but eating frozen pizza isn’t one of them. Besides, I’d offered to bring pizza over and PB didn’t bite. If PB wasn't going to eat me out on the floor like he did on our first date, we might as well eat out.
“That sounds good,” I said.
In truth, I didn’t really care where the pizza came from. I didn't care about dinner at all. I just wanted dessert. But it appeared PB wasn’t in the mood for whoopee makin'. He put on his coat. I followed suit.
“You’re going to freeze!” PB exclaimed when he saw my corduroy button-up.
(Oddly enough, my mother had said the same thing about my outfit when she saw me earlier.)
“I'll be fine,” I said. I showed him the lining of the jacket. “This has fuzzy stuff in it.”
“Still,” PB said, giving me the disapproving head-shake of a step-father. “You’re dressed like it’s summer.”
Okay, so my blouse was sleeveless, but as I told PB, “I felt like being pretty in pink and wearing butterflies. Is there something wrong with wanting to look nice for a date?”
PB raised his eyebrows like I had a screw lose. “It’s not very practical,” he said.
“Well, I felt feminine,” I said. “Next time I'll wear my best hoodie for you, okay? Jeez.”
Soon we were in PB's truck, about to back out of the garage, when...PB groaned and leaned over the steering wheel.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My stomach…I think I need to go use the bathroom.”
Readers, I’m sad to say that this is not the first time a man has used this excuse to duck out of a date with me. (That story's in the Man Eater e-book!)
We went back inside so PB could use the W.C. and I watched Man Versus Food on the flat screen.
“Let’s stay in,” I said when PB emerged ten minutes later. I would've been happy to hang. He, on the other hand, was really preoccupied with doing the dinner-and-a-movie date. So we went...but the longer the date went on, the less confident I felt that we would ever have another one.
In a nutshell, PB was so full of shit (metaphorically speaking, of course), that I could smell it on him. If your stomach hurt, would you order pizza with pineapple (an extremely acidic fruit that can cause diarrhea)? Would you request Tabasco on the side? Would you drink wine? I didn’t think so. Whatever. I didn't call PB on his shit (natch); I just kept a mental list.
PB and I split a tray of chips, a scoop of ho-hum guacamole and a very unexciting Hawaiian pizza. I was dying for some chocolate (since cock seemed to be off the menu tonight), but PB didn’t want dessert.
“What did you think of that last post?” I asked, referring to the (now removed C’mon down! ditty. “Was it too mean?”
PB shrugged. “You write like a man, Erica. It’s all about getting laid.”
“You understand that the blog is written for entertainment. My readers don’t want to hear about the nights I spend watching YouTube clips in my bedroom while I paint my toenails. That’s not interesting.”
“I get that. I just think I need to stop reading the blog.”
“I think you do, too.”
“And to answer your question: I don’t know if that post was mean. It was honest. But…”
(Insert huge awkward silence in which a big elephant stopped alongside our table and began breathing down my neck.)
“…it’s like that email you sent me,” PB said. “It sort of shocked me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I like to be in control. And I don’t want to move that fast.”
“The problem I’m having is that I don’t want to date anyone else,” I said. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I’m still getting asked out. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” PB said in that utterly-unhelpful male way that made something very complicated sound so simple.
I nodded as though I understood, but I was left wondering if my words—or my appetite—had once again sabotaged a good thing.
The bill came. I paid. Thirty bucks. (In other words: fucking ridiculous. I would’ve rather eaten an entire loaf of my Happy Accident Pepperoni Bread.)
“That was unexpected,” PB said.
“It shouldn’t be. I told you last time that the next meal was on me.”
PB hadn’t remembered that. (I wonder if he’s been dating too much?) “Thanks.”
PB and I walked across the parking lot to the movie theater; it was bone-chilling cold and, yes, for a moment I regretted not wearing a warmer coat.
"I hate Minnesota," PB said, suddenly launching into what I will now call the Ultimate Man Fantasy: him, alone, on a boat, for all eternity. (Do you know how many times I have heard this, readers? No man is an island, but unmarried guys about to turn 40 sure as hell want to live like one.)
"I'd like to leave, but I don't think I ever will," I said. "I'd miss the people too much."
PB "pswah"ed. "As long as I see my daughter a couple times a year, I'd be fine."
Rather than delve deeper into uncomfortable topics, PB hurried me inside. We saw The Next Three Days, a film about a husband who goes to great lengths to free his wrongly-convicted wife from jail. It was a pretty good movie; the only thing that would have made it better was if PB had bothered to touch me, just once, during the film. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know if I agree with killing people in order to steal money to break your partner out of prison,” I said after the credits rolled.
“Those people were meth dealers, Erica,” PB said, his voice taking on an “I-want-to-debate” tone. “How many people do you think they killed by selling drugs?”
“Okay, good point,” I said, “But still. His wife wasn’t in imminent danger. He didn’t have to steal that money.”
“That's how far men will go for the people they love. What would you have done in that situation?”
“Wait.”
“For twenty years?!”
“If he loved her, he’d wait,” I said. “Besides, breaking her out seems like a big risk. What if he’d gotten caught or killed? Then their son wouldn’t have had parents. Better to have a full-time single parent than no parents at all.”
PB shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in that “Let’s agree to disagree” kind of way.
“Well, thanks for going to the movie with me,” he said, apropos of nothing.
“That makes it sound like you’re saying goodbye to me already,” I said.
“No,” PB replied, but his lack of eye contact implied the opposite. He sighed. “But I couldn’t fuck you tonight if I wanted to, Erica. And I do want to. But my back is killing me. Maybe I should have cancelled, but I can only imagine how upset that would’ve made you.”
The realization that PB and I were not going to get naked hit me like a surprise snowball in the face. I couldn’t hide how let-down I was.
“This is the problem with having sex right away,” PB said. “Now you expect it. And if I don’t fuck your brains out tonight, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Yeah, I’m disappointed,” I said. “But could we lie down for a while? Would you at least…hold me?”
As soon as the cliché request left my mouth, I scoffed at myself.
“What? Why’d you say it like that?” PB asked.
“Because it’s such a girly thing to say,” I replied.
“What’s wrong with—oh, never mind. It’s not worth talking about.”
I suddenly felt like chopped liver. I fixed my gaze on the nothingness in the distance. I knew if I looked at PB, I was going to start crying.
“Great,” PB said. “I can see it now: He took me to dinner and a movie and he didn’t fuck me.”
“Blog post forthcoming,” I muttered. When PB didn’t respond, I turned and reached for his hand. He was as responsive as road kill.
“I don’t mean that,” I said. “It’s just…I would at least like to cuddle with you.”
PB was not enthused.
“Shit,” he said as he pulled onto his street. “I have to take the garbage out.”
Don’t forget to toss yourself in that bin, I thought.
After PB finished hauling the trash, we sat down on the couch together. The silence was suffocating. It was like he wanted me to leave but he didn’t want to say so. I leaned in; PB recoiled.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You’re throwing yourself at me,” he said. “It’s really a turn-off.”
Now I pulled back in shock. If I was too much, he was not enough. I wanted to be kissed and caressed and adored. I needed to feel like even if extenuating circumstances prevented sex that at least he wanted to have it.
“It’s like…you’re trying too hard,” PB said. “The way you’re dressed, the Puppy Chow…”
Well, yes, I was trying too hard…but only because I could feel him pulling away. What was I supposed to do? Show up unkempt and demand he make me a steak? PB was clearly in a bad mood, so I picked up the slack by being extra agreeable. Relationships are supposed to be balancing acts…aren’t they?
A line from the movie shot through my brain: You want this too much. You're going to mess it up. Gulp.
“I’m sorry for liking you so much,” I said, semi-sarcastically.
“Don’t apologize. It’s just…it’s all sex, all the time with you. I’m looking for something more.”
“So am I. That’s why I told you I don’t want to date anyone else.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. You’re moving too fast.”
My head was spinning. This was the warped alcoholic logic that reminded me of when Slump Buster would get angry and make my pain sound like my fault. Here was PB, saying he wanted something more than sex, yet dodging any discussion of exclusivity. WTF?! The confusion, coupled with my chocolate and cock deficiencies, hit me all at once. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that. You don’t need to get upset. I’m just being honest about how I feel.”
“And I’m being honest about how I feel. I’m hurt. And I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t feel good,” he said. "I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of our date. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
“Yes, I understand. But you're human. You have a body. It's not a big deal. I'm suggesting a compromise. You don’t have to fuck my brains out, but could we at least cuddle?”
PB grimaced. Yes, grimaced. Now my stomach was upset.
“I don’t want to be touched,” he said.
“Well, I do. So if you’re not willing, I’m going.”
The tears came harder and faster than I could wipe them away. I hid my face behind my hair as I zipped up my boots. When I stood up and turned around, PB was right behind me.
“Bye,” I said without brushing my hair back.
He hugged me. It was a good hug, but I wasn’t really engaged in the embrace because internally, I was torn. I didn’t understand how his body could be doing one thing, his words another…though I was no different. On one hand, I wanted to grab his junk and coax him upstairs; on the other, I wanted to stab him in the shoulder with my keys. (I believe experiencing those opposing urges simultaneously is what is known as “passion”.)
The drive home was 45 minutes, which meant I had a lot of time to think...but we’ll do a post-mortem analysis in my next post…
**
For your oral and aural pleasure today, I’m going to get a little cheesy with the Hawaiian theme from what turned out to be my "last supper" with Paul Bunyan. Time for the soothing sounds of Meiko and enough carbs to put me in a coma until my heart mends...
"DON'T YOU WANNA GET LEI'D?" HAWAIIAN PIZZA
Ingredients
For crust:
3 ¼ cups flour
¾ tablespoon (1 packet) granulated yeast
¾ tablespoon salt
1 ½ cups water
For toppings:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 ¾ cup shredded mozzarella cheese
6 ounces Canadian bacon, sliced
1 can pineapple junks, drained
Method
• Whisk dry dough ingredients together in large bowl.
• Add water; stir with wooden spoon just until dough forms.
• Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rise for 2 hours.
• After initial rise, chill dough in fridge at least 2 hours for easier handling.
• When ready to bake, place pizza stone in oven. (A pizza stone ensures the crispiest crust. If you don’t have a pizza stone, a greased baking sheet will suffice.)
• Preheat oven to 525 degrees.
• Roll dough out on floured surface, shaping into heart shape (use pizza wheel to cut dough into heart shape if necessary). Transfer onto large sheet of parchment paper (so dough does not stick to stone. If you are using a baking sheet, no parchment paper is necessary.)
• With pastry brush, coat surface of dough with olive oil.
• Top with half of cheese, followed by Canadian bacon and pineapple. Top with remaining cheese.
• Gently transfer pizza, on parchment paper, to baking stone.
• Bake 8 minutes; slide parchment paper out from under pizza. Bake additional 4-5 minutes or until crust is browned and cheese is bubbly.
• With oven mitts, remove pizza and stone from oven. Cool slightly, then slice.
• It lieu of getting laid, get lei'd!
**
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