Tonight was date night. After a few days of relapsing with the ex – and squeezing in one last lusty lapse before moving on – I was ready to close the chapter on him by having a hot date with someone who was very promising indeed. I’m not a multi-tasker, so the best way for me to move on is to do it literally.
So, tonight was date night. With a guy who is ridiculously perfect on paper. Way perfect. I’d list the reasons why, except that they might make it possible for his identity to be figured out.
We met for coffee last week, after enough emails to make me think there was a good reason to meet him. Yup, as advertised. This was the first time that I was not disappointed after meeting a guy with whom I had good email. Hot. Very hot. Smart, kind, funny, compassionate, a laundry list of commonalities that shocked me. A profoundly good guy. We’ll call him Mr. Blue, because he has eyes you could drown in.
Then the weekend of exlapsing. I took the ex to the airport yesterday and, in my mind, that was it – again. Onward. I woke up this morning, not really in the mood to see Mr. Blue, or anyone. He hadn’t called and confirmed for tonight, and I felt oddly uninspired to confirm. So I didn’t.
Around noon, he called, and I let it go to voicemail. (Not a good sign.) His voice was sweet, and he wanted to set up a time to meet next week. He didn’t mention, at all, that we had plans tonight. And I was relieved. I texted him immediately and enthusiastically, that next week would be great. (It’s supposed to be in the 80’s early next week, so we can play in the park and I can picture the ex on the rainy West coast, that’ll help.) The last text on my phone was from him, about how excited he was for our dinner date tonight, but that was days ago, I guess he forgot.
Thing is, I need this. I need to just fuck someone else and officially move on. It’s like a shot – penicillin, not tequila. As a friend kept telling me on the phone today, “Jesus Eva, it’s not like there aren’t other great cocks out there. There are plenty of guys who can fuck well.” (No, actually, there are surprisingly few who are both skilled and equipped, really!)
What surprises me is how little I care? It is maturity or apathy? I like the guy. He’s perfect for me, in so many ways. So why don’t I care that I’m not seeing him tonight? Did the exlapsing fog my brain?
Or am I just genuinely happier going slowly and not getting worked up – either good or bad? That would be good. Or am I fundamentally unable to get excited about guys that aren’t bad for me? That would be bad.
Not nearly as bad as the fact that I’ll probably crawl into bed tonight with new AAs in my vibe and watch the porn that the ex sent me last night, from his hotel room on the other coast, telling me that it made being in bed without me much easier.