RIP: Mr. Grey

tied

There’s a reason Cliff Notes have been so popular. They work. Don’t fuck with what works. Don’t fix what isn’t broken.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if the man I’m involved with has a cheat sheet to follow.

I had an epic weekend… smoky, tipsy-fabulous in fishnets and stilettos, sporting the same smile that’s gotten me into trouble since I first discovered it could turn the tide my way. It was a perfect night with a girlfriend of mine and I didn’t fall into bed until 3 in the morning.

I woke up at 6 because I’m a mommy and I’m usually up at 4:30 to run.. I forced myself to go back to sleep in anticipation of my hot date later that night. I fought my way through every 15 minutes until 8.

My coffee was less than exciting.

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My flight was delayed. Every single flight on my airline was delayed. I’d cockblocked myself by not shaving my legs before I left and was DYING that I was approaching this date without the grooming I demand of myself. Whatevs. This is celibate dating. I don’t have to worry about shaving in the way I do when inspired.

But I’m so inspired I’m ready to let La Perla work it’s magic and everyone knows you can’t wear fancy panties with hairy legs.

I called in some epic favors and flew home by 5. I made an unrealistic drive home, in an hour and change. I probably averaged 85 mph, I flew in the front door and ran to the shower, throwing off clothes as I went. Clip, clip, stockings. Swish, panties. Clip, bra. Into heaven with a brand new razor. I may actually be on time.

His messages whistling at me only make me shave faster.

Out and dry, I ripped open the new stockings I bought on vacation. Panties can either be functional or fucktional and I prefer the latter if I’m buying them for recreation. These fit the bill.. There are rose gold rings tying corsets across the ass I’m working hard to perfect, and I am quite happy with the visual.

I’m bait, in heels. It’s our 4th date and my house is empty. It’s take no prisoners at this point and I’m a formidable opponent.

Driving to meet him was surreal, as I DO NOT TAKE DATES ANYWHERE I KNOW ANYONE. I take them to the worst restaurant in town so I’m not sad if I can’t go back.

Until Miss Fancy spoke up.

F- Uh. No. If it sucks, you should at least have a nice meal.

(I’m actually eating that same delicious dinner right now, and she is %100 correct.)

When faced with the choice of who to find first, I went in search of Miss Fancy. He found me, chatting with her and I had to bite my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping.

He’s wearing tennis shoes. Jeans. Nondescript button down shirt. To my best friend’s restaurant. I look lovely, if I do say so myself, and he looks like he studied for the SAT’s last night. No tie. After enough interest, if he ignores your shameless objectification and the easy opportunity to capitalize on it, throw him out with last week’s news.

But, it all really comes down to one last detail that has me annoyed.

He didn’t shave.

I risked life and limb to deliver silky parts to him and he couldn’t navigate his face.

Our server greets us and asks for our drink order. He announces that he’s having whatever I’m having. I ordered a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini. I don’t think he’s had one before because he’s gingerly sipping it and not enjoying it in the slightest. I’m silently pleased.

She returns for our order and he says he read the menu on the way up and orders the only boring thing on it. Pasta and chicken. Ok. I order steak and he stuns me.

G- I haven’t eaten a bite of steak since I was 8. I don’t want to develop a taste for it and I had a really bloody, gross steak then so it’s easy to think of it as gross.

J- Ok that’s insane. Taste this. I can’t even order anything else on the menu because this is so good.

He wont even taste it. He ordered us steak on our first date and I realize it was just because he knew it was what I like. While I appreciate that, I just don’t think I can love a man who can’t appreciate a good steak. I’ve said for years that I’ll know it’s the right one when he can cook my steak properly. Every single man I have ever loved has overcooked them, and I have a penchant for men who can cook, so that’s saying something.

G- I’ve never had a cheeseburger and won’t try that either. I guess I like being able to say that, so why try one now?

WTF? I happen to know the Cheeseburger Queen and I instantly argue against this stupid idea of his.

J- Oh no, friend. I draw the line at cheeseburgers. That’s just wrong.

G- Nope. Not even a taste.

Ok. I’ve heard enough. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Time to wrap this insanity up.

He held the door for me and stopped at his car in the parking lot. It’s late, dark and I’m parked on the other side of the lot. I gave him an unimpressed half-smile and he hugged me.

G- Let’s do this again soon!

J- Thank you for dinner.

I walked to my car and waited until his headlights took a right turn on the highway and blew him a kiss as he drove out of my life again.

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I can do a lot of things with a little bit of a man. I am the queen of making the most of a bad situation and I do not expect enough…..

But I draw the line at cheeseburgers and I demand a certain amount of effort if my ass is literally in a corset.

I crave a dirty, hard working man, not a rich guy who brags about working 25 hours a week and can’t find the time to iron, shave or tie himself into what he knows I love.

No thank you.

I went back in and laughed over a glass of wine with my best girl. Bemoaning the terrible quality of available men and my silky single legs only reminds me how stupid this stuff all is. I’d rather have dinner with her than any guy and this dumpster fire situation with Mr. Grey isn’t worth sacrificing all my free time to.

I’m over it. It’s knitting season and I’d rather whip up a few chastity belts than suffer through another dumb date.

Smart.

Every now and then, you have to check in with yourself. You need to take stock. Do inventory. Get your shit together, if you will.

I had to do that this morning when I saw the horrifyingly confusing messages I sent Incredicock, along with his equally confused responses.

One thing is very clear, and it takes zero sobriety to comprehend. I would like him to take his clothes off, post haste. All the days in all the lands, I prefer him naked; and fucking me. That’s all. This is the guy you can justify working 90 hours a week for. No baby… you stay home and sleep in. I will support us, and you can support me. Later.

Sadly, he’s a forever soft no and it’s pathetic that I’m even asking. I’m trying my best to avoid a boyfriend and my FWB is the biggest cockblocker in my life. If I end up in captivity, I’m going to blame him, publicly.

Mr. Grey is descending on my pond and the lake around here has never seen a shark like him before. I’m concerned. I see the stats on my blog spike and know I have some rabid local readers. I’m worried one of you will mention our poly-amorous date. I’m taking him to my best friend’s restaurant on Sunday.

I’m kinda making him my boyfriend. I’m fucking panicking at the thought.

I text the one that can satisfy my needs and he’d rather chop firewood and do chores.

#motherfuckingpause

If he would rather do housework or laundry than fuck you? He never wanted to, to begin with. You weren’t a booty call, you were a hit and run. He fucked his ex-wife’s best friend because he could and you were willing, and just because you knew him to be a good guy with her, does not mean he will be with you. As much as you love someone, they can become someone else entirely when you begin fucking them. It’s painfully true.

I’m just as sorry to be wrong. Probably twice as sorry, today.