Don't Be Anal

Izzy and her sortabae, let's call him Joe, are about as complicated as complicated can get. Their texts to each other are these mind bending, incomprehensible riddles that leave each of them guessing and scratching their heads. I can't tell you the amount of brain power that she and I have invested into trying to figure out what he meant, and how much time she has put in to sending him messages that are just as confusing. 

But today the texts got shockingly clear. Joe says that he likes her, that he thinks that she may be "the one", but certain needs of his aren't being met...like anal sex. 

I found myself laughing uncontrollably. Apparently, I am one of the last folks on earth that thought anal sex wasn't an actually thing. But it wasn't a joke, and Izzy saw his response to be a door opening to relationship negotiations. 

"If I am going to do that, than we are going to have to start going on dates. He is going to have to start hugging me more and responding more to my texts," Izzy said, outlining her list of demands. 

Again, I was at a loss for words. But only for a second. "Are you serious? Girl, nothing is worth literally giving up your booty!" I shouted. 

I know that in relationships, you have to compromise, but geez, aren't we supposed to draw the line somewhere? Izzy insists that more people are into it than I think. This could be true. I didn't think that people were really into French kissing but I was wrong about that. I guess my question is this: once that is given up, what is next? Izzy says that saying that she will do it and stringing him a long is still on the table. I don't know. I don't see a man that is really into that letting it go if he doesn't get it. But again, I've been wrong about these things before. 

The Barber pt. 2

You all would be so proud of me.
I have been even more needy than usual lately. I experienced a loss in my family and since then, I have been in desperate need of long hugs and soft conversation. In my mind, this is the definition of compassion. But as you all know, my mind is not often in line with reality.
Anyway, just as I was feeling at my worst, I got a text from The Barber. Can you believe it?! The last time I heard from him, he told me that he wouldn't come see me unless I could guarantee him sex! He said what all f**k boys say in a text when they are trying to get on your good side: Hey.
This is where you guys will be proud of me: I didn't respond.
For many of you gals out there with stellar self-esteem, you probably don't see the achievement here. But for simps like me, especially ones in extreme emotional distress, this is a big deal. Not engaging a loser for attention when you are lonely can be very hard.
Now, I won't lie. For a split second I did think of responding. I needed some type of kindness, and by this point, my friends had had it with my depression and were forwarding me to voicemail like I was a bill collector. I thought that maybe me and The Barber could meet up and he could hug me. Then, if he tried anything else, I could scream in his face and run to the nearest corner to catch an Uber.
But honestly, I didn't feel like running. I also didn't feel like a second of niceness was going to be worth the disrespect he would inevitably give me later when he didn't get his way. You may call this common sense. I call it growth.

The Barber

I just want to start this post off by asking a few general questions. One: ARE THERE ANY DECENT MEN LEFT IN THE DATING WORD UNDER 60?! Next, I would like to know, in a world where many of my friends have managed to marry good, employed, God-fearing men, how do I keep attracting sex-obsessed super freaks? Meditate on these questions as I tell you the story that has unfolded over the past week.
Recently, I went out to dinner with Haynes. The restaurant was next to a barber shop, so I stopped inside to ask if there was a test that could be done to see if I had head rolls. You know, the ones that men have that look like hot dogs on the back of their necks? I wanted to know because I was considering chopping off all my hair and didn't want any surprises. The barber, a cutie in a '90s Ginuwine type of way, told me that I didn't and asked me if I wanted to move forward with the cut. I told him I would think about it.
After dinner, Haynes and I went back to the shop. I decided against the cut, but we all sat and talked for a while because the shop was empty. The barber, we will call him Chris, was super nice and sweet. I got the feeling that he was flirting with me but I don't trust myself when it comes to these things. After all, I thought that P was flirting with me for the last two years of college. I was incorrect. But Chris and I exchanged numbers, so this time I was right.
I will cut through the fluff and tell you that when he was talking to me with my friend present, he was the gingerbread man. Once we began texting one-on-one, he became Uncle Luke from the 2 Live Crew! The first red flag was when he asked me for nude photos. Sorry Charlie! I don't do nudes. I sent him a pic of me having fun at a friend's birthday party. The next day, after we had made a date to meet up and chill, he tells me he's had explicit dreams about me and wanted to book a hotel room. HUH?
"I told him that I am not the type of chick that books hotel rooms after less than a week of knowing someone," I proudly told P.
"No, that's not going to work," P informed me. "You said less than a week, like you'd do it after two weeks, maybe a month."
"That's not what I meant!" I assured P. But low and behold, that is exactly what he thought I meant. He politely let me know a couple of days later that he met some chick at a cupcake shop that is down for a three-way when I am ready. He's a gentleman you see. He's not trying to rush.
WHAT?
Again, I am disappointed. Where did my friends find their husbands and boyfriends? They seem like stand up guys. But I don't know that for sure. Maybe their nuptials took place after two or three years of this type of gross, disrespectful language. Maybe I have been in La-La Land this whole time, fantasizing about love and kind words, while the reality is vulgar language with requests for nude pics.
Watch me as I slide comfortably back into my lonely, single shell.

Thou Shall Not Text

When I was younger, I saw the Behind The Music of The Go-Gos. You know, the 80s group that sang "We've Got The Beat"? Well, even though they were really cute, most of the girls in the group were on coke really heavy, and one of them was addicted to heroin. She fell in love, went to rehab, and she said that first weekend that she was home she prayed the whole time. So hard, in fact, that her knuckles turned white. She was pleading with God to help her keep it together so that she wouldn't use. After that weekend she said that she never had a desire to use again. I liken the way she must have felt that weekend to how I felt yesterday trying my HARDEST not to text Faux-Mega.
Texting him would have been a bad idea for a shitload of reasons. One being that I already texted him last week, he should text me so I don't look as desperate as I feel. Second, I don't think he's meant to be in life. Texting him would have been a clear reaction of my hormones. And third, waiting for him to text me would have literally driven me mad!
But that doesn't mean that I didn't want a text from him though. I swear guys, I stared at that phone. I prayed over that phone. I did an Indian rain dance around the phone. I went through my messages and made sure I didn't overlook one.
I found myself pulling a Go-Go and just begging God to dismiss the urge to contact him from my system. I feel that God agreed that the whole sitch was a mess, and that I needed to just throw in the towel. So God, being the peach that He is, occupied my time by allowing me to talk to other friends.
The only difference between me and the Go-Go girl is that when the worst was over, I still kind of wanted to text him. This just proves my unwritten theory that heroin is easier to kick than a crush.

The Text

Today, I was lounging around my house, just enjoying my weekend, and I sat down and started going through my phone.
I texted P.
I texted P and he did not text me back.
Worry not, I am not hurt, just disappointed in myself that I attempted to reach out after doing so well.

The Rebuild

I am not sure if I told you this or not, but shortly, after a guy "friend" disrespected me, he texted, not told me but texted me that he didn't think we should talk anymore and it hurt my feelings. Funny, he has said some out of line ish to me but what hurt most is that he may never offend me again. Pathetic.
The tip of the iceberg was in Miami, when, while trying to express my emotions to my bestie Haynes, I broke down in tears on Lexington in front of a very busy Victoria's Secret. That was two weeks ago.
So, what have I been doing since then? Trying to put myself back together. The whole thing has been an adventure. It's not like when my gay boyfriend dumped me in high school, when I got cornrolls and spent my days and nights listening to Lauren Hill. This go 'round, I can not stop the poetry from flowing as Bush and Nirvana are on replay.
Am I all better? No. But I don't feel like trash anymore, and I can go for hours without replaying the situation and texts and conversations and the expressions of people wondering why an obese Black woman was crying in public. The goal is to heal without letting this take me over, further tainting my view of men. It's going better than expected, but give me a month, assuming that is all I will need. Give me a month.