Single: The Gig That Keeps On Giving

It’s been one year, two months, 10 days, nine hours and 41 minutes since I last had a boyfriend. But who’s counting, right?

Being single is not a bad gig - it's not only afforded me material for my blog, but I also don’t have to shower, shave my legs or even bother with expensively pretty panty sets and lingerie. And not wearing make-up saves me about 15 minutes of prep time for any activity. 

Mainly because there’s no activity to prep for … but, I digress.

While being single is great, I do want a boyfriend one day; they’re handy to have around for things like moving furniture across town, fixing plumbing/mechanical stuffs and killing dangerous predators like spiders and other bugs with a scary number of legs. Plus, it’s nice to have a guy all to myself that I can make out with whenever I want – because how awkward would it be to occasionally ambush a strange guy’s face with my mouth?

I feel like that could get me arrested, herpes or syphilis.

I don’t have a problem meeting guys. Just having a vagina makes me a man-magnet. My problem is meeting guys who want more than just sex. It used to bother me a lot to think that guys didn’t see me as long-term potential – I took it personal. Especially when a guy is trying to romantically sext me to get in my panties … while courting another girl the old fashioned way. He offers me his penis and the gives the other girl dates and his hand to hold.

What the f*** is that?

That, my friends, is douchebaggery.

Not too long ago, a guy I knew offered me his sincerest compliment by admitting that he thinks about me

when he masturbates. I had to laugh because if he could have only seen me at that moment, laying on my couch after the gym, gross and unshowered, looking about as sexy as a fat man in a bikini – he’d be more likely to punch himself in the eyes than touch his manly bits.

When he said it, he paused like I was supposed to thank him – maybe even gush (no pun intended) about how I’m so flattered. Is that like telling me I’m beautiful, but in a sexy, porny way that makes him feel a certain way? I mean, he basically told me that he only thinks about me when he’s touching his penis.

Which isn't very flattering. 

When I think of all the things I’d like to hear from a guy, having him admit that I’m spank bank material is not anywhere on that list. It’s a pretty short list, too, because I’m low maintenance: 1) You’re pretty; 2) here’s some food; and 3) you’re someone with whom I’d be seen out in public.

That particular compliment didn’t come out of nowhere. It started with a single sext – not a picture, just a very detailed description of something I may or may not have seen in a porn once. I mean, if I watched porn. 

Which I don’t.

When I saw the sext, I paused for a minute.

Image courtesy Someecards.com

Engaging him would go against my better judgment. But my curiosity and a bottle of wine got the better of me, so I maybe, kind of, sorta, probably let it happen because I was bored and curious at the same time.

And wow, did it happen. What a mistake.

Once you ‘go there’ with someone, you can’t come back. And believe me when I say that he went all kinds of places during that sexting session. It was raw, dirty, nasty, wrong and made me feel like I needed to go to church and confess his sins for him.

I needed holy water for my eyes. 

It didn’t last long, which was good, because I’m sure he would eventually notice that I wasn’t actively
participating. The only time I put any effort into sexting is during long-term relationships and then I get creative – like I use Google, illustrations, and flow charts and other detailed stuff.

I figured it was a one-time thing, but apparently, my sextually-interested prowess made an impression because he pursued me through sext for months. I had no intention of letting things happen in real life. Not just because some of what he wanted to do only really happens in porn and they get paid, but also because I wasn’t attracted to him in that way. At all. So, I started to reply to his sexts with appropriately witty one liners -  if I didn’t ignore him completely.

When I mentioned what was going on to a guy friend, he got pretty upset. He said it was shitty of me to lead a guy on like that if I had no intention of letting things manifest in real life. All of a sudden, I’m the bad guy.

Me.

Guys have been leading me on and taking what they can get for years; telling me one thing while thinking/doing another; letting me believe that something will come out of nothing … and all I was doing was letting a guy sext me without ever telling him I’d actually do any of those things. Why is it okay for him to offer me his dirty fantasies, but it’s wrong for me to not tell him he’s never gonna get it, never gonna get it? (Now that song’s in your head, too, you’re welcome.)

What manner of double standard is this?

But my conscience got the better of me and I decided to let the guy know we would never be naked together in the same room and his penis will never be in any close proximity to my vagina. Because as much as I wanted to be reckless, my friend was right: it was pretty shitty. Why do something to someone else that I wouldn’t want done to me?

Don’t get me wrong, I am no angel, but I try to do the right thing. Sometimes I get it right, sometimes I get it half right and sometimes I just don’t get it at all. But, again, I digress.

However, before I could make a move, I saw something on social media that gave me pause. He was tagged in a photo with a girl looking very much like a couple - a fact that was confirmed shortly after. I distinctly remember him telling me he wasn’t seeing anyone. Yet, there he was, and he was definitely seeing someone. 

Maybe his definition of seeing someone was different than mine?

Nothing dries me up faster than knowing a guy is married or dating another girl. It’s an instant turn off.

At first, I was relieved because I figured he probably wouldn’t pursue me anymore. Then again, this guy was already sexting me, and who knows how many other girls, while he was dating this chick. Most douchebags don’t stop being a douchebag until they meet someone who makes them not want to be a douchebag (you can quote me on that). The girl he was with was not that girl, because shortly after that photo went online, he sext me one last time.

I took that opportunity to call him out and let him know he was just an experiment for a blog. Surprisingly, he took it well, even owning up to being a douche … then made one last attempt to assert that he had taken care of ‘things’ and was single again … right before he committed to a relationship - publicly on social media.

Incidentally, social media is pretty much where I go to get the truth most of the time.

PRO TIP: Guys might like to be vague about their status, but their women love to overshare and tag the shit out of their men in everything.

They know what’s up.

When it comes to dating and relationships, I haven’t really been that lucky. On a scale of one to girlfriend, I’m measuring a big, fat, single white cat-lady.  The idea of me is probably sexier than the reality of my personality – I mean, c’mon, I’m a sci-fi nerd with a sense of humor that dictates I should have been a stand-up comedian – or, at the least, just an geeky chick living in my parent’s basement, playing World of Warcraft.

Which, now that I’m moving into my parent’s old house, I’m, like, one step from that – can you even play WoW on an Xbox One? Juuuuuuuust kidding … (kind of ).

But, all that said, one day I’m sure I’ll meet someone who will appreciate that I like dates equally as much as I like to Netflix and Chill. And by Netflix and Chill, I mean watch a movie and cuddle while fully clothed.

Because I don’t need a code word for sex, I’m 42 years old.   

And guys: A good rule of thumb is to not sext anyone you haven't had actual, live-action sex with.