Ego

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It takes a special kind of man to sit comfortably in the crosshairs of my blog. I make a point to not get involved with anyone that knows me well enough to know about it. It puts me at too much of a disadvantage when they start reading. I’ve learned the hard way by thinking it wouldn’t matter. It always has.

The worst of the worst , work overtime to manipulate it. The absolute worst guy I ever dated, manipulated every syllable until I bleached him out of my life. He knew if he came to see me, I’d be word vomiting his ego back into the stratosphere before he got back to his office. He also was the only one who’s ever loved a solid hate blog. I wrote about his failed erections. He was furious, but he made a point to drive over to spank me, because he wanted to read about it.

The best one was determined to be a good guy in print. I wasn’t that into him and he was on overdrive. He sent me pretty shoes, cheeky panties, a pretty pink Coach bag… and on and on. He would have kept on buying, purely for how much he loved to read about how much I loved my new panties… until he read about me putting them on for a date he wasn’t taking me on. Nice guys turn crazy when they read how lukewarm you are about them. Disinterest hooks them just as deeply as it does us.

The hottest one, lived to outdo himself. He referred to my blog as personalized porn, and he did research on ways to stun, surprise and satisfy me. He counted my orgasms like goals and left me drowning in adjectives and shaking from the highlight reel running through my head. What began as a revenge fuck, ended up being a hell of a hard habit to break. Still the only man who has ever made me tap out. Bless his smoking hot soul.

The biggest monsters learned the largest lessons. Nathan still has to explain why he’s such a liar and I cock-blocked Virgin Islands with the truth until he begged me to stop. I set most of the content regarding both of them to private because I don’t want to be defined by my biggest mistakes any more than they do.

My friends will tell you that I’m one of the nicest people they know. They will also caution anyone not to overlook the flip side. I rise to the occasion and put in overtime to outdo my conquests. Same goes for when they’ve decided to be an asshole. When I hear them whine and complain about how they hate and want me simultaneously, I know that my work is done. I’m not a bitch, I’m just a big fan of Karma.

However they inspire me to feel, will be returned to them, tenfold. I’m the ultimate investment until he’s a douche bag, treating me poorly; whilst reading my journal.

At that point? He becomes a verbal target and I unpack my bag of his deepest insecurities for a few thousand friends and strangers to read and laugh about. It’s all fun and games until it hurts, huh boys?

Mr. Grey is not a subscriber and will not be reading. Something that absolutely delights me for a few old fashioned reasons. I don’t know what he’ll be wearing on our date Sunday, because he hasn’t read what I hope it’ll be. He’s attentive without knowing I want him to be, responding to my texts within minutes unless he’s in court. He actually apologizes if he’s away from his phone and doesn’t respond, promptly. That still surprises me. Confidence is one of the hottest things a man can show you and it’s the definition of masculinity for me. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t play stupid games and <gasp> even communicates. With words I occasionally have to look up…<quadruple swoon>.

For the most part though? It’s really fun to see what he does without reading the cliff notes…

Monk

I’ll be sitting at the table across from him in two hours and thirty-five minutes. I sort of want to throw up. He’s celibate until January, so we’re arriving separately and I should probably not shave my legs.

Yeah right. I stopped just short of my arms. I exfoliated and threw on a fresh coat of spray tan. Plucked my eyebrows, painted my nails and sat down to unwrap the fishnet stockings I bought. His texts came whistling in and my nerves really started to sink in. Oh my god… what am I doing? I’ve been up since 4:30 and I’m sick to my stomach with nerves. I said a silent prayer that he was canceling.

G- Can we agree on jeans so this isn’t so stressful?

J- Absolutely.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this works in my favor. I fit into my favorites today and my Songbird immediately noticed.

S- Are those the jeans?

J- Yeah.

S- Let me see. Turn around & lift up your shirt. Oh yeahhhhhhh. Nice! Get some.

J- Shut it, I’m already terrified.

So I’m dressed and ready… with too damn much time on my hands to obsess about the what-if’s. Also, I have a bad case of the lazies. I don’t want to drive 45 minutes for a date. That’s lame. Especially if I’m not getting laid. #sorrynotsorry  That’s the kind of driving time you invest for a threesome, not dinner. I realize I’m being an asshole. But still.

Texts from Incredicock have me hot and bothered. I would much rather have 30 orgasms delivered, than go in search of frustration. I worked all day and would rather not drive any further than home. Lazy? Maybe. So shoot me. All this pomp and circumstance is a pain in my frustrated ass.

I made the drive with my running playlist screaming in my ears. Not hearing a word because I hate this first date stuff more than anything. I’m not sure what happens to me. I’m confident in a big crowd. I can approach a group of strangers and make friends. I’m friendly, funny and not terrible to look at. This should NOT be this difficult.

It’s torture. If I hadn’t already had a wonderful first date with this beautiful creature, I’d be sorely tempted to turn around and go home. I was fifteen minutes early and ordered a dirty martini when I got to the table. The waiter started to babysit me when he was 15 minutes late. A text comes thumping into my phone and I can’t help but grin. It’s He-Who-I-Crave, asking me how the date is going. I tell him he’s late and he tells me to calm down. I’m exhausted and the martini is turning my joints to jelly, absolutely and completely ready to climb into bed. I was playing on my phone when he came walking in and he instantly looked horrified when he saw my empty martini glass.

G- Am I late or were you really early?

J- You’re about a half hour late.

G- Will you ever forgive me?

J- Maybe.

I stood up to side-hug him a chaste hello, and he tugged me out of the booth and into his arms. I’m thankful for the martini on board, because I am REALLY green when it comes to dating. I’ve had 2 in 5 years. I must have looked a little shocked because he laughed and kissed me all over my face like I do to my little one. Laughing, I pushed him away from me and we sat down. The waiter came rushing over to introduce himself.

G- Thank you Dave, for keeping my lovely date company while I so rudely kept her waiting.

D- It was my pleasure, sir. Can I bring you something to drink?

Mr. Grey looks at me and winks.

G- May I order for us? I remember you liking that.

Am I alone in this? Is this a weird thing? Nothing makes me happier than a man who takes charge and orders my dinner. My dad is a chef and always ordered for all of us. I suppose this is one of those golden Daddy issues. Seems harmless enough to me and I am quite pleased he remembers and rises to the occasion.

Sidenote: This can really backfire if you’re on a date with someone you don’t know well. I ate a piece of salmon on a date once, while I watched him eat steak. It was our last date. Same goes if he eats his steak well done. I’m sorry, but I just can’t take that guy seriously.

G- We’ll both have the filet. Mid-rare with salad, vinaigrette on the side.

I’m pleased. He knows it. He grins at me and says the dirtiest thing I’ve heard in ages.

G- Do you want some mozzarella sticks? They’re really good here. Deep fried, melted cheese? Come on…

J- Don’t talk dirty to me in front of Dave. No thank you, but I appreciate the visual.

Dave left and we caught up about kids and life until our dinner came. Honestly I feel so bad for every poor vegetarian in the world, because cow is amazing. Eating a filet when you’ve been on a strict diet of what that filet ate, is nothing short of an out of body experience. I started considering how I could grow a cow and whether or not I could eat it if I raised it. That’s how good it was.

As far as my date goes. He’s pretty in that rich guy, manicured way. He definitely has his nails done. He smells like Nordstrom and I’d bet he bought what he’s wearing there. I’d be willing to bet a million dollars that his socks are bright white. Gone is the college guy I dated almost a decade ago and in his place is the grown up version of my original vice factory.  He’s recovering from a broken heart with a year of celibacy.

He’s hot and broken, like all my favorite things are.

J- Thank you for dinner, it was delicious and it is wonderful to see you.

G- You’d challenge a monk’s vows with that look in your eyes.

J- I’d never date a monk.

G- What about a feminist?

J- ? Explain?

G- I believe in the feminist movement. You’re still a legend in my psyche for taking me to Deja Vu but I don’t encourage misogynistic behavior.

J- No second date to the titty bar, huh?

G- No.

J- Never?

G- No.

Well, then. That’s a buzz kill.

A celibate feminist.

Isn’t that kind of the same as a monk?

monk