After a mind-blowing first date like the one I had with PB, it’s pretty much impossible to demand a repeat performance. Our second date was not as impressive--in any way--as the first.
Cut to my PB collapsing in exhaustion in bed and asking for a massage instead of something more moan-worthy. I didn’t mind; I used to give The Mexican massages all the time. It didn’t feel like a chore since I'd already been satisfied and we were both naked.
“Oh my God, Erica. That elbow!” PB moaned.
I giggled. “I’ve been complimented on many a body part, but never my elbow,” I said.
I dug aforementioned elbow into multiple knots in PB's shoulders and neck.
“You know what the yogis would say about this?” I said. “That your throat chakra is blocked. You’re not speaking your truth.”
PB scoffed at me, but I knew what was up (or rather, what wasn't).
Post-massage, we spooned nude on the dirty sheets, and PB started to fall asleep. I was falling, too; I could feel it. I felt so safe there in his embrace. Our bodies fit perfectly. I was totally blissed out...but I had to stick to my rules. I leaned over the edge of the bed and reached for my clothes, just as PB snored himself awake.
“I’m going,” I said.
PB pulled me towards him.
“Don’t.”
So I didn’t. At least, not before getting my rocks off.
As we lay there afterwards, PB seemed to be fishing for info on what I’d write about him.
“I wonder what my pseudonym is going to be,” PB mused.
“I already know,” I said.
PB perked up. “What is it?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to blog about you. At least, not as long as we’re still dating. When it’s over, all bets are off.”
“Tell me what it is."
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
PB rose up on his knees and hovered above me. He grabbed my hips. Hard. “Tell me.”
“I gotta keep at least one secret,” I said.
“Tell me, Erica.”
There was an edge in his voice; a dangerous edge. I liked it. It turned me on. Him, too, apparently, by what ensued. It felt good to withhold something that he wanted...something that I wasn’t going to give it up. PB continued to repeat his “tell me” plea but no matter what "torture" tactics he used, I kept the lips zipped. It was sick and twisted and incredibly sexy.
“I’m not telling you what your pseudonym is because I just might change it,” I said.
I was so tired after all the go-round, I wished I didn’t have to go. PB knew about my sleepover rule, so he didn’t expect me to stay. I don’t think he expected me to fall asleep, either. Whoops.
“Shit, Erica, it’s 2:30,” PB whispered, nudging me awake a couple hours later.
I started getting dressed. In the dark. I didn’t want PB to turn on the lights, so I ended up putting my shirt on inside out...and left without panties.
PB kissed me at the door. Sweetly. And pulled me against his chest. His body was so warm and comforting; I wanted to make a nest right there on his pecs. I was totally smitten. Finally, finally, finally! I thought. I’d found what’s referred to in Spanish as my “media naranja” (half-orange)...
…which is why I wasn’t surprised when PB started pulling back.
The next few days involved a few text exchanges, but no date invites. I didn't understand what the hold up was.
I continued on with my weekend, pretending that I wasn’t thinking of PB the entire time, wondering when I was going to see him again, and getting increasingly pissed that on a rare kid-free Saturday night, there were no concerts worth the cover charge nor was I going to get laid.
That night, PB sent me a picture of himself cooking up his kill in his kitchen.
ME: Soooo jealous! Enjoy that meat, caveman!
PB: What R U doing?
Have I said men can smell each other on me? They can. I was just leaving my latest bad date in St. Louis Park, a suburb neighboring PB’s hood. (From my house, his place was anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, depending on traffic and weather.) If we were going to hook up over the weekend, this was perfect timing!
ME: Just leaving SLP…and could use a nibble…
I refused to sit in a cold parking lot waiting to see if PB was going to invite me over or not. I drove in the direction of home. I tried to detach. I tried to not care. But, damn, it was only 9 PM and if he was awake and capable, I wanted some meat! Five minutes into the commute, I put one more feeler out there.
ME: Going once…going twice…
Nothing…until 20 minutes later, that is, as I was approaching my exit.
PB: :( I’m just sitting at home with my roomie and his girl.
I stared at my phone, befuddled. I had the slightest inkling of déjà vu. This situation reminded me of a time when I swore Slump Buster did the reaching-out-without-grabbing-onto-anything trick. (Note: subsequent texts are verbatim, including his misspellings.)
PB: Uh hu
ME: ?
PB: U say yes.
ME: To what? I haven’t seen an invitation…
I pulled into my driveway as my phone chimed at random intervals with a barrage of incoming texts. Instead of engaging in further drama, I got into my own hot tub and enjoyed several effortless orgasms, thanks to my favorite jet.
PB: I say yes.
PB: Huh??
PB: What?
PB: OK. Forget it. Sorry.
PB: Drive safe. O
WTF?! (Male readers, please hear me out: if you’re an asshole sober, you’re doubly so drunk. Alcohol does not make you sexier, funnier, or more charming; it only makes you think you’re new and improved. If you stopped drinking, you’d lose weight, get harder, go longer, and be less buffoonish in general. Lay off the booze already, all right?)
PB: I’m confused. Yes? No?
ME: I’M confused. What question am I answering yes or no to?
PB: U r or r not coming over. Ok so I thought maybe u should but u don’t think like me huh?
The only thought I had at that point was “GRR!” I decided no response was the best response. Over the next half-hour:
PB: Will y come or no
PB: Ok. Ni ni.
PB: I love being yor back up. I get it though, just wish u could talk straighter than u already are arrow o
PB: Hello
That was it. What I did next surprised myself. I played the part of mature adult, picked up the fucking phone, and (gasp!) called him.
PB answered in Spanish. Slurred Spanish. There were people laughing in the background, which really irked me. It was like this was a skit put on for his friends’ entertainment. I hung up and texted instead.
ME: To be clear: I’ve been wanting to see you. You’ve been busy. Too bad the wires got crossed tonight. You’re not my “back up”. I don’t want to discuss via text. Call me when you’re sober.
End of conversation. Confession: I was so upset, I cried myself to sleep. My dreams of finally meeting a mature man had turned into reality (read: a nightmare).
PB didn’t call the next day. He texted to say the pepperoni bread I'd brought him on date #2 was really tasty (tell me something I didn't know). And then? Silence.
I admit, I started to freak out. I was finally psyched about a guy who was fun in and out of bed, yet now all he seemed interested in was mind-fucking me. So, on Monday morning, despite all my common sense to the contrary, I sent PB a message:
So I know it's totally uncool to ask this, but my curiosity wins out over the rules every time. Is there some reason you don't seem to want to see me again? No need to sugarcoat anything. And if you have any questions, just ask.
Sometimes men say they're intimidated by me and I don't understand that. I'm an open book. Literally. And, while I'm laying all my cards on the table here, I really like you. I know there was some concern about being my "back-up" and that you mentioned insecurity as being a problem in past relationships. I think you're the whole package and I'm kinda bummed that the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual. :(
Anyway. I don't want to sell myself to you and I'm not trying to "sway" you. I think I'm pretty fantastic. It'd just be nice if you thought so, too. :)
Erica
PB responded...and what he said stunned me. But we'll get to that next time...
***
I wish I had a recipe for you today, readers, but my baking mojo has been off lately. Everything I've made has either been either over-baked and crumbled or too moist and limp. (You should be laughing, people. You really are what you eat.)
'Til I get back on track, this song from The National should be plenty of food for thought. I can't decide if I relate more to the man who penned it or the woman it was written for, but the contradictions inherent to falling in love fascinate me either way.
I was afraid I'd eat your brains
'Cause I'm evil
I'm a confident liar
Have my head in the oven so you know where I'll be
I'll try to be more romantic
I want to believe in everything you believe
I was less than amazing
Do not know what all the troubles are for
Fall asleep in your branches
You're the only thing I ever want anymore
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