Originally posted August 15, 2008
So after my last trainwreck of a relationship, I vowed to myself that this time I would go about things smarter. No more bad boys, no more handsome dunces, no more self-described "playaz". While they are fun short term, once you get to the stage of meeting parents and sweating anniversary gifts, their charms are long gone, and you question how you ended up living with someone who mysteriously disappears on a weekly basis, and has never read a book for fun. During my off season of serious dating, I tend to hook up with people who ideally would be great candidates as boyfriend material. However, I consciously pick these same partners for recreation BECAUSE I know things wont work out. They party too much, or live too far away, or in one hypocritical case, I decided that he had too much going on in his life to give me the time I would require in the periods when I am able to get away from MY chaotic schedule. So imagine my surprise when I meet someone with obvious potential... only to find out that despite his claims, that's not at all what he was after.
The chemistry between us was crazy. Its not that he was particularly cute or built, but he just had an aura of goodness around him that I found irresistable. His perceived innocence was endearing to me, along with the fact that he was whip smart and we could banter back and fourth like Laurel and Hardy. And on top of that, he had great taste in music and movies, spent literally HOURS texting and talking to me, and made me feel as potent as any drug. I intoxicated him. It was a very flattering feeling, but also the crux of our problem.
Most aspiring writers are brilliant and tortured, and always longing for the next bout of inspiration to take hold. That's where I apparently stumble in. Our pseudo relationship, which flowered and whithered before we even had our first kiss, was completely contingent on the feelings I was able to produce in him. The sexual tension of our first encounters. The all-consuming satisfaction of requited interest. The mental high of sparring with your intellectual equal. And the grating temptation to take flirting to the next level. Once we completed all these levels, its only natural to progress onto the physical. But this particular guy would rather feel the anguished longing of want, rather than give in to it. The mental and emotional feelings I unknowingly stirred inside of him outweighed any physical satisfaction I could offer, by far. In his opinion, at least. But than again, this is coming from a person who never even kissed my lips.
Then, of course, I started to doubt myself. Am I not his type, physically? Is he secretly repulsed by my pretty eyes and soft skin, but showers me with compliments on my appearance to distract me from the fact that he's never made a move? Did I suddenly develope some bizarre strain of body odor that only presented itsself to attractive males? Did I somehow turn him gay? When I confronted him, he tried to turn it around on himself; that he was so "inferior" to me that I, in turn, intimidated him. He could not see himself with me because I was on a different plane of existance. In real life, Beauty never, ever choses the Beast. But he was willing to carry on with our technological romance since that was far more innocent, and it gave him something to write about. And I said no. I wasn't willing to become a reluctant muse for anyone, especially someone who jerked me around for weeks on end, with nothing to show for it besides some pretty prose about the majestic way I use my hands during a massage. I am so much more than that. While I'm glad I was able to help him through his writers block, worming his way into MY head just to help issue poems from HIS felt unjustified. I deserve a person who adores me for all my parts, even my faulty ones. In this particular case, I would have rather been used by this man for sex than for my personality. At least in that case, I could have been satisfied, too.