When dating in the county of Los Angeles (and who knows, maybe even further afield in Ventura) one notices a propensity for people in general and dudes in particular, to be something approximating “in and out” also known as “hot and cold” or the “slow fade.” How does he feel? What is he doing? What does he, in actuality, want? Any attempts to discern what is actually going on will be met with stonewalling, denial or heavy rounds of compliments:
Do you not know that you are “hot?” (Why yes, yes you do, you have an Instagram account that stands as testimony to this very thing.)
How much he “love[s] fucking you?” (Yes, you had figured that out by the sweating and the noises.)
That you are “amazing” (you will be reassured.) And then… nothing.
Did you do something? Should you not have removed your make up with a Q-Tip in his presence? Did that render you too domestic, too relatable, too housewife? Despite the electrifying multiple sex acts that preceded it, did your personal grooming disgust and disappoint him? Should you have been pushing your tits together at the time? You had run out of cotton squares; is it horrible that you chose to use Q-Tips rather than risking your special friend waking up with a panda? If you had used cotton rounds, would he have called?
YOU WILL NEVER KNOW.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FIND OUT- especially via social media. It is essential that you block anyone whose penis has been in your proximity across all digital platforms immediately. Do not leave so much as an errant Twitter account laying fallow as the Twit will doubtless do or say something upsetting. It is pointless, you understand, to try and dissect his motives, reasons or predilections. He himself has no idea. He is but a wisp of a male, floating between vaginas like a frog amongst lily pads, with equal amounts of Amphibian thought about which he will land upon next, and for how long. He is clueless, faithless and distracted. He is trying to survive and not in a place for you and your antics. Your Beloved is BUSY. (Or should I say your Befucked.)
What these gents offer is perfectly respectable, as long as one asks for not a smidgeon more. They turn up at the vaguely appointed hour with a hard dick and a willing attitude, which is no small thing. Requests for another thin slice of time or attention or affection are met with bewilderment, and rightly so. This is not our agreement, and the agreement is binding. The ones I speak of here have not behaved badly. (There are some that have, and they will get no more than this parenthetical. While it is tempting to put your full names and contact information for other potential female victims [HERE] I shall desist. You know who you are and I don’t wish you ill. I have stopped wishing you well, though. I don’t have the energy. If I find out you died in a fire I shall do my best to remain neutral.)
The men I affectionately pillory have redeemed themselves by pillorying me, and well. When they are there, they are truly so. They do not look at their phones. They do not gaze at other women in my presence. They look me in the eye and fuck well. Bless them and keep them… but for how long?
For as but a lowly female in possession of a highly specialized set of hormonal circumstances, I require notice, gentlemen. Just a hair of forethought, no more. Just one dram of foreshadowing… Just a slight reference to a time when we MIGHT possibly have another engagement, so a girl can arrange her child custody accordingly. Do it for the children (that you will never meet.) I don’t ask for a time, a place, or a date, just an IDEA of when you might perhaps deign to remove your clothing and let me worship once more at the altar of your phallus.
For amongst the hideous monotony of life, a girl just wants to know when and from whom her next dick is coming. Is this so bad? Is this so wrong? Is this, after all, so needy? I do not need said dick to gallop in on a trusty white steed. I do not even require activities, entertainments or gifts. By all means show up in an old Maxima and park where you will. As long as you will shortly park on top of me I care not one whit, for I am a lucky, lucky girl.
I never said Love, and certainly not its embarrassing retarded cousin, Monogamy. I never said Hold My Hand, or Don’t Walk Ahead Of Me, like I’m a bound-footed Geisha who needs to hurry the fuck up, hobbling on the shoes I wore for you. These missteps I can forgive. Let another woman correct them, for I am mostly interested in the acts that will take place once the Geisha finally hobbles up to her apartment. I am even happy to leave the shoes on. Just tell me the next time the sword will be drawn, Kemosabe, that’s all I ever want to know. That there will be a next time…