the distaff side of my brain

Another one for the books

I don’t tend to think my life is very exciting.  I don’t mingle with celebrities, take exotic vacations, or go skydiving off cliffs in the name of saving Nepalese babies.  When any “drama” occurs, it has to deal with the ridiculous people I’ve met in the course of being me.  I talk to strangers.  I am impulsive.  I get into cars I shouldn’t get into.  Etc.  None of this I regret (except that one time.  If ever I needed Lacuna, Inc, it was that one time).

I am bad at saying “no.”  On the flip side, some people don’t know how to take no for an answer.  This is a case where I’ve pressed the “no” button so many times, it must have broke and wired itself to the “yes” button.

The following is kinda NSFW, mildly NSFPWAMM (Not Safe For People Who Are My Mom), and NSFTNUTUTTFEISA (Not Safe For Those Not Used To Utilizing Technology To Facilitate Engagement In Sexual Acts)

This charming fellow has his own long, twisted, fucked up backstory.  It culminated in me slapping him in the face on New Year’s Eve 2007, and Mary yelling at him, “You’re mean, you’re ugly, and no one likes you!” while squirting him with a water gun.  He stood there like a champ and was soaked with tap water.   Let me make this clear – I never saw him after that.  He’s made several desperate, sad attempts at reconnecting with me, which became easier when he got a cell phone (he used to borrow mine to talk on for too long).  He’s a terrible person for many reasons, which makes any interactions with him terribly hilarious.

The scene: this past Friday evening.  I am in Mary’s kitchen, my hands are sticky from three types of sugar, I’m coated in flour, and sweating from the ambient humidity and the oven kicking out 375 degrees of heat for a couple hours.  Baking is so sexy.  I receive the following text message from the above-mentioned guy:

“Should we do some hanky panky?”

I meditate on this.  He lives and works in Cambridge, MA but has family in the East Bay, and he has let me know he’s visiting them for a few weeks.  I dread leaving the house because I don’t want to run into him.  He sent me a few texts in the days prior, and I’ve done what I could to make sure we wouldn’t be in the same place at the same time.

I reply:

“you are aware of what that means, aren’t you?”

I know, not very clever.  I didn’t feel like investing a lot of mental energy into being witty.  I was busy baking cookies.

“Making out?”

Oh, now he’s being coy!

I ignore him. My silence is like a beacon to a ship lost at sea.  He sends me another message two and a half hours later:

“You around?”

The marathon baking session is over; I’m showered and primed to go out.  A beer has been guzzled, and one is tucked in my bag for the road.  What a fool he is, I think to myself as I step out the door.  A few blocks from home I remove a can of Old Chub from my bag.  I crack it open, take a pull, and notice a police cruiser.  I love beer in cans!  I feel bold.  I’m so much better than him, that shameless loser.  Another few slugs from the can and it gets tossed for someone to collect the deposit on it later.

My judgment lapses.  If he wants to come find me, it will be amusing.  My friends will be with me, we can laugh at him!

“headed to the mission”

I figured that was vague enough that he wouldn’t actually make the effort to go to the Mission.

Fifteen minutes later comes the reply:

“Feel like having sex with me?”

Instantly shot back:

“nope”

At least he is direct with his sleaziness.

“Grrr. Why not? It used to be so fun.”

Now he’s mad!  What a moron.  I attempt to deflate his enormous ego:

“innumerable reasons.  it was not as fun as you remember”

Well, it wasn’t.

And here is where the sociopath in him sets in.

“Hee hee. What bar? Casanova is always good. And at least some making out later.”

I’m not getting through to him.

“i hate that place.  no making out.”

See, I said no.  In a variety of ways.  I hate his choice in bars, and more importantly, I hate him.

Finally, the kicker.  The text to end all sexts:

“I want to give you an orgasm.  How can we make that happen?”

We, sir, cannot.  I howled laughing in an intersection and narrowly missed being clipped by a taxi.  I jogged down Valencia, darting between slow-moving Marina trash, side-stepping cigarette smoking hipsters (in front of Casanova!), leaping from curbs so I could share this insanity with my friends.  An hour later I attempt to put a stop to the exchange:

“yeah, it’s not.  but have fun trying”

Radio silence for the rest of the evening.

If you think it ends there, you’re wrong!  I received one last cellular missive today:

“What a silly exchange last night. Anything fun happen?”

I battle between wanting to never hear from him again and being incredibly amused that he seems so clueless.  Indeed, he never understood why any of his behavior made me angry.  In his mind, he is blameless and beyond reproach.  In my mind, he’s an arrogant, self-serving, hateful aging man.  Whenever I bring him up to Mary, her reaction is an audible “Ugh!”  What do you do with people like this?  He’s not someone I have to physically deal with, yet he tries to insert himself in my life when it’s convenient to him.  He doesn’t want to be forgotten and discarded.  It’s amusing to humor him, but ultimately I think I’m better off not responding, leaving him to wonder if it was something he said.

12:23 am October 19, 2009