The thing about me and dating, is that my experience is rather limited. The experience I have? Is quite pitiful. Most of the men I’ve dated, I knew as friends for quite a while before things changed. Hence there was none of that nervously-charged getting-to-know-you sort of thing.
Men metaphorically dropping out of the sky into my lap who happen to be hunky and sweet? Since when does that happen to me?? Please pinch me. Ahem. Anyway. We’re not talking about that.
Offered for your amusement: A peek into that which shapes my expectations–correctly or not–about what it can mean to “date” a guy.
The year was… um, long ago. In college. I had broken things off with the last high school boyfriend about a year earlier. Life had been moving along–boyless–and I hadn’t really given it much thought.
Enter SuaveGuy. SuaveGuy didn’t interest me. He was arrogant. He wasn’t nearly as attractive as he thought he was. He had a big mouth and a decided lack of maturity. Most of the women (girls) in my department were swooning over him. I thought he was a dickhead. And I didn’t have a problem letting him know it.
Turns out, SuaveGuy liked a challenge. He pursued me. He told me his persona was all show. He was really a nice guy, a sweet guy. He wanted to prove it to me. I just needed to give him a chance. He used the puppy dog eyes and the sincere voice. I rolled my eyes.
One night he showed up at my room to further expound on why he was really just misunderstood. We talked for a while, and then he started kissing me. I hadn’t quite decided if I was going to stop him when he shoved his hand down the front of my pants.
I removed his hand. I didn’t rip his arm off, which in retrospect might’ve been a better way to handle it.
His lips travelled to my ear. “Hey,” he whispered, “I touched yours… now you touch mine.”
Maybe it was my laughter that upset him. Hard to tell. I was able to get the laughing under control long enough to choke out, “What are you? TWELVE?? Are you for real?”
He stared at me blankly. Clearly this was not the response he was used to. His confusion fueled my giggles.
“Geez, do you have to be such a bitch?” he huffed.
I stopped laughing. “Get out. Now.” He left.
By the time I went to class the next morning, he’d told everyone who would listen that we’d had sex. I started out trying to set the record straight; I did. In the face of the constant incredulity I encountered, I changed my tactics. By the end of the week most of my fellow co-eds believed him to be a one-minute-wonder with a microdick. Oops!
Thus was I inducted into the mysterious world of Men Who Are Assholes. (And its sister planet, Dignity Through Payback.)
True, that particular experience was unique. As I got older, the men tended to be a little bit better behaved. Sometimes. But a part of me still figures that either a guy is waiting for his opening to get a hand down my pants or he’s just not interested.
A well-behaved man who leaves me smiling confuses the hell out of me. In the best possible way, of course. Such is life as an incurable neurotic.