I’m Not Getting Laid Because I am Boring.

It occurred to me yesterday, during the course of a conversation with Ava (I was at work and stealing a moment away from my desk—thus hiding out at Ava’s desk) that at some point, as I write about this or that in this blog, and say outright, and/or slip it in where I can, that I need to get laid, people are going to A. start to wonder how long it's been since I last got laid, B. start to feel sorry for me, no matter how long it's been (because I cannot shut up about it), or C. get so sick of me saying that I need to get laid that they, therefore, are going to D. tell me to just go out and slut it up, already. Well, I kinda did that.

No. No. Sorry. I totally was not trying to be misleading this time. The truth is, about a year ago, probably longer, I did slut it up and it turned me off from slutting it up again. I met this guy while I was out with a friend... Correction: I was out with someone who I used to work with and who is not a friend anymore because she's a drunk and she blamed getting her vintage-fur coat lost, or stolen (God only knows), on me. I'm sure you can figure out that her leaving her coat somewhere, or her getting it hijacked by the cute little Asian chicks that were sitting next to us and admiring her coat, not even 30 minutes before it went missing, is what I call: shit happens, and not, in fact, my fault.

This gal? Yeah, she not only holds the distinction of being one of only two friends in my life that I have formally ended the friendship with, she also gets to be one of the crazy-biach title-holding friends. She goes to swinger parties (lost her unicorn status just two weeks before we went out together that night). She intermittently does cocaine and "X", which accounted for the 20-pound weight loss she’d said was “eating right”. (In what universe is vodka and bar appetizers a good dietary program?)

She drinks, a lot, so much so she’s got a bottle in her drawer at work, and she is not a functioning alchy (her 2 kids live with her parents). She's more than a recreational pot smoker. And, oh yeah, she's obviously crazy because, according to her, it was also my fault that she lost the house and car keys that she’d put in that stolen/lost coat pocket. I know, I should have been babysitting my 38 year old friend better. (I don’t usually shirk responsibility.)

Yup, folks. I'm an equal opportunity kind of friend. Come one, come all, drunks, druggies, spiritual birds, brainiacs, every-day normies, or nerds. As long as you don't screw me over, I'll be your friend.

But, I diverge. (No surprise there.) Anyway, that night, as blame-your-stolen-coat-on-me-crazy-biach and I were talking up all the other bar-folks who were sitting to our left and to our right, at the bar-type ledge we were occupying, the man I was to have a one-day stand with, who was sitting in a booth with his brother just below that ledge, started chatting me up.

He was cute. Not holy-cow-I'm-breathing-hard cute, like Mr. Adorable was, but cute. Cute like the guy in the grocery store that you start sizing up, because you, like me, haven't been laid in a while, is cute. Once Mr. one-day-stand man started to come on strong, and plead, "Go with me and my brother to this other bar. Come on. Come with us." That’s when I started to size him up.

I told him, "No. I’m not going anywhere with you tonight. You can call me and ask me out on a proper date.” What he didn’t know was that in my mind I was saying, “No, I am not going anywhere with you tonight because I am so tipsy I might sleep with you and I do not want maintenance for one night. I want sustained service for a couple of months…at least.”

And, the very next day, calling me up to ask me out is just what he did. But, I was coming down with a bad cold. That’s when he, somehow, talked me into coming over to his house to let him take care of me. “I’ll get you some soup,” he begged me further. Stupid me. He wanted to take advantage of the sick girl. Stupid him. I wanted to be taken advantage of.

Look, I hadn't had “any” by that time in about two-ish years. And, I'd also rationalized in my mind, while he was lobbing up his fifth plea to take care of me and following it up with why I should let him do so, that it's not slut like if you meet the guy the night before and then sleep with him the next day. A one night stand is a one night stand. You meet a guy at night, sleep with him that night, then you never see him again. It doesn’t matter whether the walk of shame happens before or after sunlight. A next day lay, which you are planning, is like a relationship. (What? That isn't sound logic?)

If I am even more honest, I was giving him a trial run on my sick day. I knew he was not for me in the long run, but for once in my life (okay, twice. We'll get to the other time in a second.) I wanted to just be selfish and get what I wanted from him and then move on regardless of what he wanted from me and I had to see if I wanted what I thought I wanted from him. I figured if he did his job right, he'd get a couple months of me before I was done with his service. (In hind sight, it’s actually pretty impressive, the almost arrogance I’d had, that I’d get him under my spell and get as many months out of him as I wanted, especially when I am the furthest thing from cocky.)

Then…once I slept with him I knew I’d never do it again. It was so bad that I honestly don't even count him as a notch on my who-I've-slept with post. (Shit, I guess he counts now if I am blogging about it.) The point is, I had him slated to take care of my business for a couple of months, this cute-enough-but-not-breathtaking/you’re-lucky-to-get-a-chance-with-me dude. Then the plan I’d hatched to let this guy, I normally wouldn’t be interested in, get lucky with me, while I filled up my I-need-sex-tank with enough gas to get me further on down the road until Mr. Right-For-Me pulled my car over, failed miserably.

Further to the point, one-day-stand man was the worst lay of my life. He was everything, and more, you DON’T want someone you don’t love to be: sweaty, quick, small, loud, and amateur. (Sorry for the details, but I’m the one who suffered it first hand.)

The other time I threw the slut-label to the wind and didn’t care what blew back, or if I got sexed-up by someone I wasn’t in love with, was Ross...and that was about three-ish years ago and about a year-ish before you-suck!-one-day-stand man. Okay, so Ross wasn’t the first time I was selfish, but he was the first time in the last 15 years, past my early/mid twenties, which is pretty much when every girl is a bit of a lost, insecure, selfish slut.

Ross? He was just your typical every-day 45year old (looked 32 years old) Greek God. Imagine, if you will, that Matthew McConaughey and Jeff Bridges had a baby. Okay, now imagine just like that, but better than that, equipped with Matthew’s six pack abs. (I’m not lying for effect. Ross had a body that would make a nun ditch her vows.)

I'd known Ross for about seven years before we'd ended up in the sack together. I'd first met him at a friend's backyard party. When Ross walked through that rusty-red-paint-chipped gate into the main back court yard, and made his way through the candle-lit, white plastic tables and chairs to greet the hostess, every inch of my sexual being wanted his bread and began to plan how our butter would melt together. He was into me, too. Big time.

But, now, imagine Sean Penn’s character Spicoli in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” After five minutes of conversation with Ross, because he’d just totally blazed before he’d walked into the party, I couldn't take it. I know I’m not a rocket scientist, but every time he laughed that fader laugh of his, the kind of stoner laugh that gets trapped and then curls up in the back of stoner’s throat like a sputtering but smooth engine, or, more accurately, every time he laughed like a goat’s bleat, and every time he paused that pot-head pause, which, if you’ve seen that squinty eyed pause, it feels like you are watching someone one’s brain cells burn up on the impact of each new thought, it’s a painful experience for the non-stoned, over-active, intensely minded person such as myself.

Again, I am not claiming that I am or was smarter than Ross. Just more sober. (I had no way of knowing that night that Ross would turn out to be a bit of a pot-savant, a bit of a brilliant and artistic mind and conversationalist—stoned or sober.) However, at the time, listening to his baked ramblings and haze-filled advances was harder for me to endure than it would have been to have my arm hairs plucked out one by one with a tweezer for two hours straight.

But, alas, seven years later, and a thousand times later of us running into each other through the same mutual backyard-party-having friend, time after time, bar after bar, party after party, him stoned or not, I wanted to get boned a lot by him, but…I never made it known to him or any of our mutual friends. That is until the night we both acquiesced to our mutual desire.

That night I didn’t want to jump him right away when he showed up at the bar that backyard-party-having friend and I were at. (Later, I’d learn, because Ross told me, that the reason he showed up that night, and always seemed to show up when I was out with backyard-party-having friend, was because every time she told him that she was out with me he’d jump at the chance of seeing me again.) Alright, I did want to jump Ross that night. I wanted to jump him every time I saw him, but, also like usual, I wasn’t going to do anything about it.

The fact remained, each time I ran into Ross, as much as I wanted him to take me further away than Calgon could ever manage, I could never get past his whole Spicoli presence. I’d imagined that getting it on with him would be a lot like having your dog stare at you during sex, only the dog in the room wouldn’t have a bark. It would be his ever-present stoner laugh and dimmed stoner stare breaking the mood.

It wasn’t until after a couple of drinks, four…no five, six glasses of wine, that I knew it might finally happen, regardless. That’s why I didn’t argue when Ross and our backyard-party-having mutual friend planned for me not to drive home and to stay the night at his house. I’d drank too much, they’d said. Duh. I was getting up the nerve to put the moves on Ross.

But, once we’d gotten back to his place, and I had nowhere to go but to sleep or to bed, and once Ross had landed a kiss on me in his hallway, right in between the door to his bedroom and his two bikes (street and mountain), which were hanging from the ceiling, my mind started to pick “to bed and now!”

But, with fifteen years of: I’m over treating myself disrespectfully, and working out whatever issues I might have in bed with strange, or familiar, men, springing up on me (there weren’t that many men, as I am merely exaggerating, again, the rite of passage many girls experience going from slut to more so self-respecting saint), post my first kiss with Ross, and post our second, third, and fourth, and then post the two of us making our way to his bed, cloths still on, I didn’t want to do it. I put the breaks on.

I said, “I’m sorry, Ross, I can’t go there.” Then, my brain gave me the bird and said, “The hell you can’t, sista!” and my cloths flew off quicker than a sneeze.

I’d been run-into-him friends with Ross for seven years. If I couldn’t break the seal with a hot Greek God of a friend that I’d always wanted to go more than French on, what was I waiting for?

Then, after about two-three months of Ross serenading me with his guitar pre-sex, after doing yoga naked in my living room, pre and post sex, after multiple classical music concerts, dinners, a lot of wine, and after some of the hottest sex I’d ever had in my life, I found out that Ross had never been, as he’d convinced me, broken up with his girl-friend but was, instead, cheating on said girlfriend to be with me. Okay, part of me knew that he was lying to me by month two of our coitus, but I needed a couple more weeks of don’t-ask-don’t-tell, and just-keep-using-a-condom and keep giving me this drug-like sex, before I was ready to confront him.

Once I confronted Ross, and confirmed that my intuition was correct, that he had never broken up with his girlfriend, like he’d told me that he had the first night we were together, and once I realized that he was probably too messed up of a guy to be faithful to anyone (he’d even cheated on his wife of 18 years), I couldn’t knowingly put his poor, confused, messed up heart, nor my own selfish I-want-your-great-sex need (but you suck for lying to me, even if I never intended a future with you) through it any more.

Plus, once I definitely knew that I was one half of something I could never abide by, cheating, I felt sorry for whatever it was in me that needed that human contact enough that I’d allowed my intuition to be ignored, and I felt even sorrier for his girlfriend. I wasn’t the first, I wouldn’t be the last. Although, I always told myself that I was special. Not special like I was better than any of the other girls that Ross had cheated on his girlfriend or his wife with, I’m not an idiot (he was a lost, cheating man), but special because he waited seven years to be with me. Every other girl, he got the night he went after her. (Like I said, Ross is HOT!)

So, while there is nothing special about being with a man who is lost or who is hurting someone to be with you, that small part of my ego that is not fully enlightened, AKA all growd-up and developed (I’m big enough to admit that) liked that he’d waited seven years to be with me. I liked that I found out that for seven years he’d been showing up every chance he could to get that chance to be with me. I liked that he thought I was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known, as he’d said, “Inside and out.”

After all, I’d waited a long time to be with him, too, in a way, minus needing to get past his stoner-induced goat bleat laugh, which I’d way over-imagined from the first night. He really didn’t have any annoying traits, aside from the first night of being really baked and the biggies of being a lost cheater. His laugh was actually adorable and infectious, I’d just been hanging onto the idea that his laugh and his stoner persona weren’t something I could get past…that way I could keep myself from “going there.” (I think I knew he was a little damaged from the beginning and I’ve never been good at consciously walking into damage. Unconsciously? Yes)

Ross, if I give him the credit he is due, outside of him misguidedly thinking he’s “not that man” (his words) who cheats, is one of the sweetest, sexiest, interesting, and fun men I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with and whatever is broken in him that makes him a cheater fails in comparison to the heart of his that I got to know. I’d never put up with his or any other man’s cheating, like his girlfriend did. I’m just saying that Ross has a gorgeous heart, even if the cracks in it misguide him. So gorgeous that, even if I’d remained resolved that I didn’t want a future with Ross, there was enough in him: beautiful, intriguing and easy, that I, on a couple of occasions, while I was with him questioned…is he someone I could spend substantial time with?

Now…what to do to solve my current problem of being among the un-sexed? If Ross wasn't such a mess, and if I thought Ross and I could have one of those every-once-in-a-while agreements (most people just call it friends with benefits) I'd have called him up to get another three month session going…by yesterday. Truth is, I'd called Ross about a week before I met one-day-stand man. But Ross was, as unfortunately expected, still not broken up with his girlfriend and still cheating on her with some other new girl he was probably hoping would fix him better than a bowl full of weed or I could.

And, it’s really a waste of time to go backwards and fill one’s time up with someone who has nothing more to teach you. I know Ross doesn’t have any more lessons for me. He might have some new moves… Can’t think about that.

So, the best chance I have right now for getting laid is waiting to run into my Mr. Right-For-Me at the grocery store, or hoping that the possible fix-up Ava might be able to arrange happens and turns into something substantial.

But, fix ups can sometimes be a long-shot, and not because the person doing the fixing up has something to do with the actual mechanics of the fix up working or not working out (meaning they fall off their match making duties). A fixer-upper-er not following through is not usually the case for a fix-up not happening (besides, Ava is a follow-througher). I’m far enough along in life to know that if the fix-up isn’t “it” (it-it), or isn’t one of someone's important stepping stones in life, or if someone isn't going to learn from it, grow from it, or isn't going to get something or give something to the person their person is trying to fix them up with, it ain’t gonna happen.

See, the universe gives us the lessons we need to repeat until we get them right. The universe gives us the people we need to meet in order to point out who we still haven’t become in our personal quest to live up to our full potential. And, the universe aligns everything, including moving the right people, the fixed-up recipients, into the right path, the right mental attitude, and, well, into the right magnetic net (like two flower seeds trapped by the same window screen) if it is supposed to happen.

So regardless of whether I’m up for it, and I am, or if he’s up to it, and I do not know that yet, if this guy who Ava mentioned might be a good fit for me is not the fit the universe wants for me, or for him, for a long time or for a short time, we probably won’t meet no matter how hard Ava gives it a go for us or no matter how hard we both want to meet. Something will get in the way. That’s what the universe does. It puts up road blocks up for things that are not supposed to happen and opens up gates for those things that are supposed to be.

Now, if I was still asleep at the wheel of my life, like I was when I was younger, I would have already met Ava’s Mr. fix-up by now, I would have pushed her and pushed anything I could to make it happen and I would have already begun to experience the lessons, or what I would have dramatically begun to call “the tragedy or bliss of our love”, unfold in my life. But I am too awake in my life and I know that I cannot force a lesson that is not mine to learn, not with this fix-up guy, or with any other guy. I cannot hope the right guy into my life sooner or hope him into a more convenient package. I cannot bend the universe to my will. The universe is meant to bend me to its consciousness.

Of course, if you ask Jen, she’d say I’m lazy in my pursuit of love and I need to push the people who are trying to fix me up more. Jen would say I need to let her fix me up more (more than never) and that I need to let more people fix me up, period. She’d say I need to go out more. Basically, she’d say I need to just "do" more to get things going. And, she’d probably be right.

That’s why, for the first time in the history of someone saying, "There's someone I think you might like," I not only took the bait when Ava initially said it, I, just yesterday (three months-ish later), post Ava and I having an I-need-to-get-laid-conversation, asked Ava, straight out, to get Mr. Fix-up man to check me out on Face Book and, if he thinks I'm cute, to give him my number and/or email.

I've never done that before. Usually, I am lazy, just like Jen says. Or, I'm probably also not comfortable being pushy. I figure if someone really thinks it's a good idea, they'll follow through. If they don't, it might not have been a good idea.

Plus, now, with me being all sort of rosy and more balanced in my life the older that I get, I’m extra boring. I’ve come to accept, even more, that what will be will be. I no longer desire exerting the kind of energy it takes to go down a road where I have to lay all the friggen cement first before this road can be traveled upon. I've learned that the roads you are meant to go down, once you’ve already gone down most of the bumpy ones, those roads, are mostly paved and they unfold before you more easily.

So, we’ll see. Ava assured me that this fix-up guy is tall, mature, spiritual, and handsome. What more could a girl want?

Or…we won’t see.

Or, I’ll see and won’t tell you about it because I’ll want to keep it all to myself for a while.

Oh, and if you are wondering why I am blogging about a guy I have not met and may not, and also writing about two of my past lays, one of the worst and one of the best, it is because I have figured out, just as I have told you, that I am boring.

What else am I going to write about?

I, without any doubts now, lead an uninteresting life. I’m interesting, but to the outside world, my life ain’t. And, while it may also seem sad to the outside world, I love my boring little life. Nothing could be better than having the evening ahead of you where a long hot shower, a bowl of whole-wheat pasta with a mound of fresh chopped garlic and Roma tomatoes, a glass of wine, and your couch and television are all your date. Okay, having an actual date could be better. My couch, while comfortable to lay on, is not my idea of a good lay.

However, if it is not already obvious, since I go out very seldom, that leaves me with very little to write about. If I am not blogging about my most recent spiritual revelation, or what has already happened, I got a bunch of noth’n.

Yes, I do go out every once in a while, but do you really want to read about me and Chloe having drinks two weeks ago and how the bartender at Chloe's neighborhood bar flirted with me? Because that didn't even happen. I flirted with him first then he flirted back (kinda). I can't really say what happened and what my mind filled in. How could I not flirt, though? He looked a little like Michael Buble and the first thing he asked me, in an Irish accent, was, “Can I get you something, love?” I wanted to tell him he could get me on my back, but I thought I’d just order a glass of wine.

Chloe and I also went out during the middle of the week to see this dude she was thinking that she might be into. This bohemian type dude had a singing gig. He also played an instrument, although for the life of me I cannot remember what it was. Sax? Horn? (He wasn’t my man. Why would I remember?)

But, I told Chloe, after he walked in and didn’t notice or say hello to Chloe and I for a half of an hour, that he wasn’t it for her. It wasn’t my place, and I should have kept my mouth shut, but Chloe had come to his gig because he invited her. Chloe and I were the only ones sitting at the bar five feet from the front door that he entered. Also, Chloe is GORGEOUS! She is hard to miss. Everywhere we go men stare at her.

So, because of that, whether he was shy, arrogant or otherwise, I decided that he was not her man. She deserves a man with enough grace to thank her for coming to his gig the minute he walked in. I don’t care how shy, or how whatever he was, he had to have noticed her and it took him too long to acknowledge her. And that’s on him, not her.

I could also tell you how last weekend I went out with Fae and her hubby for lunch, but the waitress was a female and she didn’t call me love, but that’s pretty un-interesting and un-getting-laid worthy, eh?

Two days later, this last Tuesday, when I drove in the pouring rain on flooded streets to get all four of my SUV tires changed, like only a jack-hole does, the guy at the tire store flirted with me. But he was married, and a bit trailer-trashy, so that’s not very noteworthy, either.

The point is, like I said, a couple of times, I AM BORING. That’s why I’m not getting laid. I rarely go out. I’m making the psychic’s prediction, that I’ll meet my hubby this year, a wondrous and distant dream by leading the life I lead. I know that.

Shoot, even the notes from the universe that I signed up for, which Ava also turned me onto, told me I need to get off my arse. Go to Tut Adventurers Club and sign up for your own emails from the universe. It’s fun. :>)

The note from Tut said: Should you choose to go, do, and be, at the end of your life, shocked and dismayed, you'll likely exclaim that because of all the uncanny events, wild timing, weird coincidences, and sheer chance encounters, all of your life's good fortune must have been your destiny.

Or, should you choose to wait, wish, and hope, at the end of your life, shocked and dismayed, you'll likely exclaim that because of all the uncanny events, wild timing, weird coincidences, and sheer chance encounters, all of your life's bad luck must have been your destiny.

Hmm.

BTW, it was also Ava who inspired me to start this blog, so it’s not surprising that she’d continue to inspire me on future blog posts, but if telling you why I am not getting laid turns out to be as boring as my life, and if you find yourself no longer surprised as to why I am among the sexless…still, don’t blame Ava. Blame me. Apparently boring people require batteries and I’m all out. (What does that even mean?)