Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The story of MILF Everest

First off, before I tell this story, let me say I don't view playing things cool and aloof as an intentional form of game.  But, over a lifetime, I have found most women go nuts over a guy who doesn't react to her first move.  I want to throw this story out there because it's a case where I had no interest in "playing" a woman, but she sort of just played herself right into embarrassment.  I think the story is an excellent illustration of how quickly women break down when men are not instantly attentive to them.

Friday night I went out and hopped two bars.  The first bar ended up being a wash because I ran into some chick who had the unparallelled crazy to think it was OK to come off as forward and then tell me that my number of sexual partners was off-putting.  I generally don't answer the number question directly, but . . . sometimes the honest answer just comes out because it's too late and I just don't give much of a fuck.

Second bar I hopped to because I have a younger friend, who we shall call Art, who hangs out there and makes lame attempts at picking up women, but who is all things considered very fun to hang out with.  He turned 21 a year ago and has probably been at the bar an unhealthy amount since then.  Still, funny as shit.

As it turns out, Art had several buddies there and they had brought along an older female friend who they have been trying to bed, as best I can tell, for frikkin years on end.  Once I had been properly boozed up, Art decided he was going to deploy me as his proxy for another run at this woman. 

Oh, and by the way, she is married.  That's worth mentioning.  If you've read the blog, you know I've only slept with one married woman, and it was the result of a long friendship and also her husband being physical disabled and sick to the point he couldn't have sex at all.  So, to say the least, my criteria to justify an attempted homewrecking is very high.

For this group of younger guys, this woman was MILF Everest.  The impossible-to-bed 40 year old that I'm pretty sure hangs out with them in large part for the cheap attention.  Everest seems to know them through some sort of work network of cooks and waitresses. 

A few facts about Everest.  To start, the minute you meet her, you know that a man hasn't said "no" to this woman since she hit puberty.  She knows men pay attention to her and she's not shy about manipulating it.  When pick-up artists write manuals about bedding party girls, Everest is the exact chick they have in mind.

Whatever the case, Art decides he's going to introduce her to me after he has explained, profusely, how awesome it would be to him and all his friends if any of them could bed her.  I had already seen several of them talking to her.  She played it as cool and distant as a player could.  Barely any acknowledgment at all.  Sorry, Art, but you're not even a blip on her sexual radar.

This is an almost perfect setup for a guy to run an aloofness play on a woman.  In other words, it was an excellent time for me to just me be and sit back and watch the lolz ensue.

Everest makes no effort to disguise her interest.  She plops herself hip-to-hip with me and flashes a smile as Art does the introductions.  She tells me in no uncertain terms that she isn't a fan of her husband and, I do quote here, "He doesn't have to know."

Now, Art and his buddies are stunned.  In five minutes I've accomplished more than their dumb asses have in years of trying.

To her proposal, I responded simply that I don't fool around with married women.  I'm not a homewrecker.

Art is having none of this shit and pipes in, "Everest, this guy is the richest dude in the place by far."  Technically true, but, again if you read my blog you know I consider it a decidedly bad move to play any form of "I have money" game.  One, because it's basically gameless.  Two, because I don't want to spend a relationship fearing that the woman in question is a fuckin gold digger.

Well, Everest knows the "I'm a rich guy" game and says something to effect of "You can buy me some Dolce & Gabana."

To which, I once again reply, I'm not a home wrecker.

She says, "You can buy me a drink."  Seriously, this woman has clearly never been blown out by a guy, or she'd know how gameless this is from the female end.

I tell her I ain't buyin her shit.

Her next tack is toward sympathy.  She tells me that her husband ignores her.  No joy?  Well, her husband beats her.  Still nothing?  Well, it's a loveless marriage.

I tell her that's her problem, not mine.

At this point, she's all-in.  She's pressed up on me.  She has her arm on my back.  She's rubbing her leg against my leg.  And she's telling anyone who will listen that "I love this guy!  He kills me.  He's so funny."  Yeah . . . again, Everest has never been fully blown out by a guy or else she'd realize how bad this has to make her look in front of everyone else.

Her next parlay is: "What if I divorced my husband and came back here and asked you out again?"  By this point, she is pushing her public mound into my thigh.

Now, I admit sometimes I cannot resist twisting knife to bone.  I playfully replied, "Well, there'd still have to be courting."

She smiles, because, again, she is fucking clueless because she has never been blown out by someone and clearly has no filter attuned enough to realize I am now making fun of her.  She asks, matter-of-fact, "Would you court me?"

I busted out laughing and loudly replied, "Oh, hell no, I wouldn't."  And kept laughing.

At this point she finally backs off.  She puts both her hands in the air demonstratively and says, "Hey, I tried."  She repeats this several times.  She didn't seem particularly defeated.  I think she backed off because she needed a pause to analyze what this was about.

Now, Art knows me well enough to know where my morality is at.  But, he was pretty drunk and frankly I doubt he gave much of a fuck what I thought about pushing this unholy union.  He says to me, "Oh, her husband's short and I'd kick his ass."  I shrug this incredibly dumb notion off by saying, "That doesn't stop bullets."  He pushes the issue several times and realizes, much to his amazement, that I have opted to blow off a woman he'd cut off his right hand to fuck.

So, before heading off with her herd, she gives me a hug and gives Art a hug.  After some fresh air, I drive Art back to his place and drop him off there.  We agree to hang out the Saturday night, also.

Well, by jove if Everest doesn't make a point of coming by on Saturday night.  This time with her husband in tow.  Now, the first thing you realize about her husband is that he is well aware that his wife fucks around on him.  And worse, he is the jealous type.  In short, the whole setup is pretty much what I had guessed it was.

In no way does this deter Everest from resuming raving about me.  I'm funny.  I should be an actor.  I'm great.  Again . . . gameless as fuck. 

She is, in front of her husband, giving just about every guy she knows inappropriately long hugs and kisses on the cheek.  Art is eating this shit up.  He's clearly not afraid to soak up the suddenly needy affections of a rejected attention whore.

Now, here's the second thing I figure out about her husband.  He's an OK guy.  He's a working guy who started his own construction business and staked his claim to a piece of the American dream.  And a claim to his second wife who is also on her second marriage. 

As I talk to the husband, the first thing I realize is that half the shit Everest told me is total fabrication.  This is a couple that's engaged in all kinds of displaced behavior.  If he gets jealous, he's going to attack another guy, displacing his anger at her.  When she gets bored, she takes her anger out on him by seeking the attentions of other men.  Frankly, my best guess is that it's a bad relationship between two people who love each other in a very fucked up way.

Now, there's a very very nerdy part of me that just wants to dissect these two people and see what makes them tick.  I mean, you read about shit like this in textbooks, but you rarely get to see such a perfect pair of specimens in the wild.  Fascinating.

So, Art and I stick around.  Art takes the opportunity to grind Everest on the dance floor.  I pick on him and leave him to his simulated homewrecking.  Who knows?  Maybe Art will get his shot at Everest now that her ego is sorely bruised and she craves a cheap victory.

Whatever the case, we stick around long that everyone makes the drunken trip to go get food afterward.

Now Everest will not turn off about me.  Her husband stays outside talking with another guy for a few minutes, so I end up getting it both barrels while Art makes his failed go of asking out our waitress.  Even once her husband comes in, she will not shut about me.  I give him this: he didn't hold any of it against me.  I probably won some points for telling him he ought to go home and fuck her until her hip breaks.  Be whatever this was, the hubby seemed to appreciate that I was trying to be a stand-up guy.  I feel safe guessing he hasn't be so fortunate with other guys.

After food, we all finally disband.  Everest makes a point of rolling down her windows and hollering "I love you!"  Ah, the joys of late night drinking.  (Although, I cannot recall Everest taking a single drink of anything.)

This one is a fresh story.  I'm not certain where to frame it.  Certainly not in my gallery of "girls I was tough on, but for whom I feel sorry".  Whatever Everest's virtues are, she fails to inspire a great deal of empathy. 

As always, I am utterly unimpressed with a forward woman.  Physically, Everest seems like she ought to get it done for me.  But, the giant needy push for attention and the completely shameless response to being blown off are both massive turn-offs for me.  Even unmarried, this chick would have been a hard sell to me.

But, there is something instructive in all this about the value of ignoring a woman.  High status women have a hard time comprehending the idea that any man would ever say no to her.  In my experience, this type of woman is a vampire squid sucking attention from as many sources as possible.  Nothing throws her off like a man not responding according to script.  I figure the last guy who blew her out completely was probably a high school guidance counselor who wanted to keep his job.

I do find it chuckleworthy.  In psychology, there is a concept of a "yes ladder" when negotiating with someone else.  The basic idea is that you take incremental steps in working a person toward a big yes they'd never accept in one leap.  Negotiating against herself, with no hope of success, Everest seems to have invented the "no ladder".  She pretty much raced herself to the bottom and then sat there making a disgusting demonstration of it all instead of just accepting it as a rare case of chivalry.

It's a little horrifying to ponder what this whole incident says about women's expectations of men when confronted with a full-on, easy sexual proposal.  I know that most guys will take the sex.  But, seriously, how can a woman like this be so lacking in self-awareness to not at least get off the damned throttle once she has smashed herself full speed into a brick wall?

Apparently hot chicks don't encounter men who ever flat-out refuse them.  I guess somewhere out there is a pair of Mormon missionaries she must have devirginized.  Otherwise, I'm at a loss to explain how else a woman could be so clueless once a guy has started making fun of her.  Clearly she's in that group of attractive women who never had to learn people skills.  There's not much else that explains it.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Why so aloof? I sobered up and . . .

I've had the opportunity in my life to do some really cool shit.  For the longest time, a period I like to call my 20s, I thought myself to be a photographer.  Heck, I even got people to pay me to shoot commercial work.  Photography was always my dream, even if it often took second place to the big money makers in my life.

D was marketing director I met because she hired me to shoot an upcoming designer's women's clubwear calendar.  She had reserved a giant club space for the shoot and had several photographers shooting with several models.  The whole thing was a bit of a mess.  I feel fairly safe in saying that thanks to the make-up crew, this was the largest number of gay black men I was ever surrounded by.  Actually, they were all very cool, even if they weren't quite fans of my hardcore redneck look I was sporting -- it was ten degrees outside and I hadn't shaved in a month!!

I remember D particularly because she was one of those women who instantly struck me as my type.  She was a short mixed-race black-white chick with loose kinky hair that flopped around in a big silly fro that operated by its own laws of physics. She had unreal gorgeous green eyes.  A little pudgy, but if you read my blog, you know that's a bit of a win with me.  And she could dress to the nines.

D was bouncing off the walls trying to get this circus pointed in a direction when I walked in.  I came in around noon.  I think she barely noticed me. That was a long ass day of work.  I shot so many photos I was running out of charged batteries by the end of the night.

About 7pm, we all took a lunch break.  I was the last person over to the pizza box because I needed to wrap my second shoot.  Of course, I wasn't the very last person to get over for food.  D was.  So, we sat there and talked shop and ate pizza.  The club owners were nice enough to gives us free drinks, which got a bit out of hand later.

D and I hit it off when we were talking.  Talked about where I was from.  What I did to make money.  Family.  Actually, it was one of the more human first talks I've ever had with a woman I liked.

But, then back to work.  In retrospect, a first bad sign appeared: she popped some type of pill before getting back to work.

By the time we were done with the third shoots, which through a combination of alcohol and tired curiosity had led us into odd back storage spaces in this club, it was around 10pm.  I remember as everyone was breaking down their stuff, D sat down next to me on a couch (remember, it's a club).  We were both a bit buzzed and smiling at each other and I remember telling her something to the effect that I liked her.

We eventually had to chase off.  We agreed to meet the next day for lunch near where I lived so I could give her a few burned DVDs with all the photos.

After I sobered up, I realized I had semi-intentionally scheduled a first date.  I also started realizing that D was bouncing off the walls because she was drinking and taking enough uppers to kill and adult horse.  And, I also realized I lived a long goddamned way from where D did -- I'm a country boy who likes to visit the city about twice a month.

I remember D and I were standing outside the restaurant.  I had eaten.  She didn't get a chance because she ran late and the place was closing after lunch service.

It was a weird awkwardness.  For one, we were both now sober.  For two, it was clear she really liked me.  A lot.  Those of you who have read me before know things fall apart fast for me once I know a woman is emotionally wide-open even if I don't have an excuse.

We're standing out in the bitter cold and D is doing everything in her power to keep this conversation from ending.  And she's looking super cute and dressed to the nines even in her ginormous winter coat.  And I'm dying.  Because I know this is too far to drive to make a relationship work.  And I know something gives with her constantly bouncing off the walls -- I grew up poor enough that I deeply fear addicts of any stripe, even overachievers hopped up on amphetamines.

But, she wasn't going to make me leaving easy.  This girl was selling out in this moment for this guy.  When I signaled I was ready to leave, she made a showing of needing very detailed directions.  And then she tried to hop from that to talking about the area.

I finally hit the wall with this and just mildly insulted her.  That got the point across.  She finally faced facts and took her discs and left.

The funny thing is, this was the worst drought of my life.  Two years without a woman in my life, in fact.  I had spent the last couple years just burying myself in twenty different attempts to make money and realize my dream of being a photographer.  In long hindsight, I realize D didn't get a fair hearing from me.  I nitpicked a few details and found an easy basis to do what I always do when I'm threatened with someone else possibly showing some enthusiasm for me. 

During that stretch in my life, I had sort of sealed myself off from everyone.  I can remember one of my college friends actually sending me an email telling me he was just checking in on me, because he figured I had to be having one of my episodes of extreme isolation.  He said something to effect of "I picture hiding out there in the woods having no contact with anyone except the occasional family member".  That's what that period in my life was like, for sure.

At that point in my life, I was absorbed.  My life was math and computer code and photography. 

And through the random availability of free alcohol, I let my guard down for a minute.

Now what I should have done was taken some time and seen where this thing could go.  But, even by my low standards, I wasn't in a healthy place at that point.  I was more scared than usual.  This was the early, early gestational phase of my upswing, of my arrival in life.  And I felt like everything had to go into making this one, narrow, perfect moment work.

And of course, I look back and I realize this woman, D, had the unlikeliest luck to glimpse in at that moment and be impressed.  I liked her.  She liked me.  This should have been a moment for both of us.

But, at that moment, I was in many ways the biggest wreck I've ever.  Almost any frustration could set me off.  I was putting in sixteen to twenty hour days trying to cram all of my energy into this one perfect launch.  My entire existence was going to take off (and it did).  And I was far too fucked up --  again, even by my own low standards -- to let anyone in.

So, I didn't.  I retreated right back my semi-monastic life.  My emotionally insecure, financially stable, lonely life.  I am seriously the only guy on earth who could go to a modeling shoot, find a chick drunk and interested in me and willfully fuck that up even as she tries to make it work.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Growing up tough

I grew up rural, white poor in Appalachia.  The town I grew up in was peculiarly violent, even compared to surrounding towns.  Despite being a small town, it was a slow year there wasn't a murder.  And it was a slow weekend there wasn't a guy seriously fucked up in a bar fight.

It was a working poor culture.  Every guy I knew was a big, scruffy, gruff and had thick, meaty hands.  You could pretty much tell if a guy was a criminal by how mangled his hands were.  A guy whose hands were anything less than callouses and burger and twisted fingers was probably someone who hadn't worked many honest days in his life.

Except for a handful of folks who came from established wealthy families (usually money from taking some type of carbon from the ground), everyone was poor.  Kids who wanted out went into the military.  A few went to college, but not as many as you would guess.

One thing I particularly think about now that I have money is that no one ever made a thing of it if they had money.  Whatever your background was, flaunting wealth was a quick way to get your ass beaten down.  That was about the only real code I can ever remember there being.  Whatever you do, you don't make another man feel poor, feel less of a man.

Other than that, it was a very live-and-let-live lifestyle.  No one really gave a shit about your religion, politics, sexual orientation, race or all the other shit that is characterized as Appalachian redneck hate generators.  The culture centered on the common bond of poverty.  Everything else was background noise.

The real question you faced was whether you were willing to make an honest living.  To a greater extent than you'd guess, the big divide was between working poor and those on welfare, particularly those who lived in the two housing projects in town.  Working poor, of course, was OK.  Welfare plus subsidized housing made you a scum.

It's funny, because to any outsider, we were all pretty much white trash.  One was indistinguishable from the other.  But, within the culture, it was a big deal.  Even at the bottom, people seek status and sort themselves and their neighbors accordingly.

What's funny about all this is that I still feel very weird living up to what I have now.  Even though I own a lot of suits, it's hard for me to dress well.  I come from an oil-covered flannel culture that says no man is better than anyone else so long as he works.  I still have a hard time thinking that anything that doesn't involve tools or heavy machinery is work.

It's something that I think adds to my aloofness.  I don't really feel a part of any particular culture.  I'm too soft for the working poor.  I'm too hard for the educated folks.  To some extent, I jumped the entire gap and went from poor to wealthy without really spending any time being middle class.  There were a couple years when I was struggling to get my business off the ground where I could have been middle class if I hadn't been pouring every dollar I had into making more money.

It's tough feeling connected to people when your experiences don't chart well with anyone else.  When the word "Dickensian" applies to you, life can leave you a bit standoffish. 

Monday, December 12, 2011

I'll be better tomorrow

One thing that has hindered me my entire romantic life is the belief that I just needed to improve myself.  Life will be better once I have money.  Life will be better once I lose weight.  Life will be better once I go travel. 
No matter how obviously fucked up I am, I have always felt that there was some improvement just on the horizon that would make it all better.

As I sit here at age 33, I face the simple truth of it all.  I have the money, I've lost weight and I've gotten out in the world.  At some point I must improve myself internally.

One of the fun thing about "oh, I'll be better tomorrow" is one of it's best corollaries: "but, while I wait for that to arrive, I might as well have fun".

One thing I realize as I get older is how much of my life I have justified with the basic notion that I'm not ready to settle down, but I shouldn't be a hermit.  The notion of "who would settle down before they have the money to do it right" sleeves nicely into a lifestyle of serial non-commitment.  I'm not ready to settle down, but hey, why would I deny myself the chance to have fun.

It's funny how much creative effort we humans spend staring down our own faults with bullshit that allows us to function and believe we're not bad people.  On balance, I don't think of myself as a bad person.  Yes, I frequently struggle to find a way to check up on the women who used to be in my life to make sure I didn't leave a trail of burning wreckage.

Of course, it's decidedly narcissistic to expect a trail of wreckage.  You have to be a first class fuck up to leave a visible trail of wreckage.  What do expect?  A bunch of tattooed chicks sitting with a brood of illegitimate children in a crack house?  All because I, that one perfect man, wasn't ready to commit, right?

Not so much.  It's fun to think other people's lives hinge on their encounters with you.  But, the truth of the matter is most of your relationships are going to just one more for that person.

It's a funny kind of white knight complex, I think.  Or maybe I'm just an ass.  That's also a fair possibility.

But, from a personal development standpoint, as I stand back and look at myself, I find it interesting how much of my life I hid behind this notion that I was somehow not ready.  I needed a job.  I needed money.  I needed life experience.  I needed to get in shape.  I need to work on self-improvement.

It's funny, because in business I'm a no bullshit, no excuses person.  Everything fits on a spreadsheet.  Everything on that spreadsheet works for profit.  Anything that doesn't, well, you won't be seeing that bullshit on the spreadsheet come next year.

But, when it comes time for me to do more to pull together a personal life of my own . . .  I'm nothing but bullshit and excuses.

The sad part is I feel like I will never overcome it.  It feels like I will always be able to manufacture a reason, a scenario, an excuse . . . an out.

Once I got the money and once I started losing serious weight, I copped to the notion that I needed to get better with women. 

You know where I did my best with women?  During my trip to Europe this year.  Why?  Because I knew none of it would follow me home.  I could be myself because every girl who got into me had a timer hanging over her head, waiting for the relationship to end.

It's upsetting to me as I think about it.  I loved Europe because everything was temporary.  I could go get drunk, dance with a girl, maybe things worked out better . . . and I could screw and even let myself fall in love a bit and I would never have to pay the price for any of it.

When I was young, I fancied the notion that I was a man of principle.  As I got older, that notion evolved into the self-serving idea that I was a principled man with a practical streak.  Which eventually became I do what I have to.  And that eventually became a mush of moral ambiguity in the cause of an aimless and purposeless life.

As I've gotten older, the truth of my life becomes plain.  I bullshitted myself because it protected my ego from confronting the basic question: just how fucked up am I?

I'm at a point in my life where I'd like to find a woman I could settle down with.  But, I feel like I'm such an emotional cripple that it isn't worth plumbing the depths of my problems.

All of my relationships pretty much fall into two categories.  There are the short, sexual relationships that I think I mainly engage in so I don't start thinking I'm gay.  And there are these drawn out not-relationships where some woman who likes me just orbits at the edges of my life and takes forever to face facts and go away.

The odd thing is it's those orbiter relationships I remember most.  You can tell just reading the blog.  Except for the rare short relationship that put an existential question right to me, I don't think much about those.  No offense to the two Scandinavian girls I met on the beach in Spain, but . . . we all three sort of knew that was a one-night arrangement.

Those women who orbited me, in some case for years, those are the ones that weigh on my conscience.  That whole set of behaviors makes me sick to my stomach.  I hate the notion that somehow I was worth that much angst to anyone.  Or moreso, I hate the notion that they went through all that angst for nothing in return.

I think sometimes I'm segregating my emotional life from my sex life.  It's easy for me to fuck some random chick I met while drinking, but if a girl shows a need for real emotional involvement with me . . . well, she ain't gettin laid on my watch, that's for sure.  And likewise, if I feel something emotional for a girl, I'm almost completely frozen at the idea that I could proceed with her in any way at all that might lead to something sexual.

I think the core nightmare of my emotional life is the looming fear that of what might happen if I had sexual relationship with a woman I cared for.  What would happen if I had someone I needed on too many levels?  What happens if I ever make love to someone I fell in love with?

It paralyzes me to think about it.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Why so aloof? Because you cannot be serious . . . right?

Sammie (as always names changed, innocent, etc) did the books at one of my jobs while I was in college.  I provided tech support for a sales system at an ag sales business.  It was decent part-time job that paid well and where they had tried desperately to find someone who could handle it.  In other words, Sammie is yet another example of a woman who I had game with because I was able to help.

Here's the thing.  Sammie was twice my age.  A little matronly, but actually kinda cute. 

It was not unusual for Sammie and I to spend an entire shift, sometimes well over ten hours, together in the office.  And we were very good friends.  To be honest, there was some sexual chemistry there.

But, the thing with Sammie is that she was very prone to really over-the-top attempts at hitting on me.  And I don't just mean demonstrative.  I mean, she did shit you have only heard about in movies. 

An example: Sammie called me over to fix her computer at her house.  The computer was in her bedroom.  She lived by herself and her only kid, a daughter who I kinda dug, was long gone.  As I'm working she sits down next to me, legs rubbing against mine, and sets up two drink glasses.  She says, "Bourbon's your drink, right?"  And she pours us both a drink.

Seriously?  She had pulled a naughty pool boy on me, right?!

Then there was the time she told me I looked like a famous male model (I don't) while leaning on a counter at work, cleavage out and swooning.  There were a lot of interactions with Sammie that tested my capacity to not burst out laughter at the absurdity of her advances.

Just to be clear, there would be a lot of scenarios where I could have slept with Sammie.  She was available and cute and had expressed an openness to a no-string strings relationship and frankly under the right conditions I'll fuck pretty much anything. 

But, the thing with Sammie is she was not peculiarly bright.  Nice girl, don't get me wrong.  She had a very naive streak about her, even in her fifties. 

One thing I've learned about women in my time is this: there is no such thing as casual sex.  In fact, Sammie was the first woman I overtly rejected for this exact reason. 

Women believe that if they can settle in with a guy that some combination of sex and chemistry and fate and true love will take over and make things work.  In fact, it's fair bet that at least fifty percent of women who agree to casual sex are openly hoping for this scenario to play out.  And I guarantee you, for all the obvious truth of the age difference, Sammie was one of these women.  From our conversations, I knew she had a very traditional notion of male-female relationships and that she wanted that old school male protector sort of mate.  Her husband, the father of her only child, was a drunk and a bit of a let down that she had gladly divorced. 

Plus, Sammie orbited unobtainable guys.  She had, when I arrived at this job, been orbiting the owner of the business.  Now, me and The Boss became friends and have remained friends to this day.  And let me tell you something about The Boss: he was the guy every woman tries her damnedest to not fall for.

The Boss, needless to say, had money.  He had never been married.  Never had kids.  And he had never met a grown woman he didn't wasn't willing to lie to if it meant she'd fuck him.

I can remember years later an incident where two of his ladies he had been fooling around with found out about each other.  Because one had come in on him having dinner with me and the other lady.  And, in another event that you think can only occur in movies, she grabbed his drink and tossed it on him.

It was always like that with The Boss.  The funny thing is, he never took a run at Sammie.  But, my gawd if she didn't seem to spend forever pining for him.  Even as she watched him do his thing and embarrass himself (he was not shy about his behavior, to say the least).

Sammie was like that.  She had a thing for any man she couldn't have.  She had a thing for complete jerks, too.  She crushed hard on guys and then sat there basically boohooing that it must be because her looks were fading (which is a whole other can of worms).

I liked Sammie, actually.  Truth be told, there's something very sexy about naive women.  There's a rawness to how they fall in love that just makes me stop and want them more than other women.  It's a fucked up type of sincerity that only a handful of women ever display.  It's tragic and sick in a lot of ways, but it is nice to have such a sincere person swoon over you.

But, I also knew from the start I could never make a move on Sammie.  That sincerity that made her attention such a turn-on was also her undoing.  Behaviors that could otherwise have seemed bold or even playful had a tendency to seem pathetic with Sammie.  When I think about Sammie, it's the rare case where I understand what women mean about eager guys coming off as losers. 

There was simply no way to engage Sammie without her going overboard and making too much of it.  It wasn't a safe relationship because she was willfully self-destructive in pursuing men who could not work out and provide her the love she needed.  It's funny, too, because Sammie is one of the women I've known who I most hope has found some happiness.  The last I heard she had settle down with a guy her own age.  The Boss told me this.  The only thing positive The Boss could say was the guy had money.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Why so aloof? There's the kid . . . and the crazy Asian mom, too

A few posts back, I mentioned Sonya.  Sonya was, by a fair distance, the hottest chick who ever wanted a relationships with me.  Sonya was a black-Asian mix who was just the most exotic looking thing you've ever seen.  Very demur (other guys find that sexy while I don't).  She was casually fashionable.

Sonya and I became friends in college.  We were in the same major and we ended up doing group work one semester that required us to meet in the student center during nights.  Yes, my best game has always been while being the smartest guy in the room -- remember this lonely nerd boys!! 

Sonya had a son, the nappiest little black son you ever met in your life.  She couldn't always find a sitter and sometimes the kid had to come to group work with her.  I was the only person in the group who didn't treat her kid as a giant inconvenience.  I come from a family with legions of nieces and nephews and little in-law off-spring.  So, I have a lot of experience dealing with kids that aren't my own.  Kids and I get along well.

One of the funny things about Sonya is that she set off competitive streaks in other women like you will never see.  There was a girl, R, in that study group that I had been chasing the previous semester who floored me hard with a brutal rejection.  But, the minute R saw me and Sonya chatting it up, R turned into the sluttiest attention whore in history around me.  If you read my earlier post about Olivia, you'll see a similar reaction.  I didn't think much of it at the time, but Sonya was so hot that other women perceived me as sexy anytime they saw me with her.  An early instruction in female craziness.

I remember one time R and I had been sitting in our weekly night session early, talking before everyone else arrived.  And Sonya came in (no kid this time) dressed in her lazily fabulous way.  And, again, remember that R pretty much rejected me as "no way, no how, not in any universe" the previous semester.  R was laying it on thick, saying shit like "You wanna sit on my lap" and laughing it off by saying "I guess I really shouldn't tease like that".  Sonya set off a seriously fucked up form of derangement in other women. 

Sonya was always quiet and soft about everything.  She never spoke up.  Half the time she barely rose above a whisper.  But, man, other women were sent into some type of hypersexual bitch mode when Sonya came in the room.

Thankfully, the group session ended.  Over the next couple years Sonya and I stayed friends.  And, Sonya made it clear that if things were the way she liked them to be we would have been more.  Sonya, like a lot of young women in that situation, fell back on the orbit method. 

Particularly at that time in my life, in my early 20s, I was not wild about dating a girl with a kid.  But, the real stake in the heart was Sonya's mother. 

I never asked how the living arrangement worked, but Sonya lived with her mother.  Her mother was the genuine article, an old country Asian mama with marginal skills speaking English and an evil eye for every man she met.  Sonya's Asian mother got to the point she bothered me so much that if I saw the two of them out in public, I would try to sneak away before Sonya spotted me.  I wanted no part of the old lady.

The last summer I was in college (I ended my college tour during that summer session, BTW) I would see Sonya in the hallways of our department's building.  I remember we got to talking the one day and she asked me about the next semester.  I told her I was done.

Sonya was visibly crestfallen.  She was looking down at the floor and mumbled something about "I thought you had another year."  I think Sonya just assumed we had entered school at the same time.  I was half a year ahead of her and graduated an additional half year early, leaving college with two degrees in a shade over three years.

It's one of the tougher moments for me.  She didn't cry or anything.  I think I could have handled that.  Instead, she stood there stunned, looking at the floor.  I could see her doing the internal math and arriving at the sum of "oh . . . fuck . . ."  I told her I was only going to be around about two weeks more and then that was it.

So, she smiled and we wished each other well and parted ways.  After that she didn't say hi to me anymore in the halls.  She had settled on dying with a whimper for her orbiting friendship that would never go further.

Sonya I think about particularly because in hindsight she reminds me of a basic thing women often bet on with guys.  Women work from the notion that if a girl and guy have some a friendship that that bond will always pan out into romance.  There's sort of a founding myth of womanhood that The Right Man will be your bestestest friend in the whole universe.

With Sonya, there was a lot going on to convince her of the case for "Us".  We were in the same major.  She was an undeniably attractive woman -- and those girls grow up with people telling them all kinds of shit about how they can land any man they want.  I was good with her kid.  And we were good friends.

If I'm being dishonest, I'll say it was her mom that put me off.  If I'm being honest?  It was the kid.  I have to be honest . . . the notion of dating a very exotic looking dark-skinned Asian girl and toting along a very black-looking black kid didn't appeal to me.  Yes, I admit, I was young and dumb.  I was scared that we would look like freaks. 

Also, frankly, Sonya never jumped out me.  She was nice.  Too nice.  Too quiet.  Too demur.  Too soft.  I tend to like confident women and Sonya was anything but.  She was a pretty girl.  Like a lot of pretty girls, she was very nice because the world had never beaten it out of her. 

I feel like a terrible person for how I treated Sonya.  I know women with kids have a hard time.  Non-white women often have a hard time.  And the truth is, the presence of a child and the racial issues with her and that child paired with a blond white guy bothered the shit out of me.  I looked at Sonya and me and her kid and I just couldn't picture how that could ever be a working thing.

So, there ya go . . . that's how I pretty much completely fumbled an easy score with a total 10 who desperately wanted to be my girlfriend.