The Virginity Monologues

My Life. The Mistakes I Make. Uncensored.

Monday, February 23, 2009

And we don't, we don't want nothing but joy

There's still too many men. And not enough interest on my part. I want to be alone, so I head home after work. I put on my best face that demands to be left alone, my earphones in and do my best not to meet anyone's eyes.

I think about the very sweet and kind boy with waist length dreads, who I've been on enough dates to sleep with, but who doesn't seem to have any friends or much passion for life and is terrible in bed.

I think about the boy I recently met with the finest pair of abs I've ever seen a picture of, who shares my sexual excitement for the gentle purr of a Porsche engine, with a meaningful, selfless career and a continued desire for higher education and I can't seem to summon a great deal of enthusiasm for our sharpied-in date for next Wednesday.

I reflect on the date I had last Saturday night with a beautiful pair of biceps, attached to a pretty face, not much of a brain and a staggeringly inept ability to kiss.

Then, I think about the text message that came in this afternoon from the Mr. 11, who's still in Miami, but each week brings us closer to May, the time when he moves back to New York. I don't love him. I like him. He's smart, smarter than me and ambitious. He's always there at the other end of the phone, ready to assure me that he misses me or indulge me in a round of spectacularly dirty texting and has been known to count down the hours until we see each other again. He's always been good to me and he's someone beautiful who has no qualms in telling me over and over again how beautiful he thinks I am. And I wonder why this can't be enough for me long term. Are my expectations too high? Do I want too much???

Does my ideal combination of hot, funny, smart, clever, witty, tender and loving exist? If not, what can I compromise on? I'm okay without tender. I don't actually need tender. In fact, sometimes, I find tender to be nauseating and silly. And okay, so Mr. 11 isn't exactly gut-bustingly funny. But that's what my martini nights with Email Boy are for. Nights when we get falling-down drunk, draw graphs on napkins about our levels of drunkeness, then consider taking home chairs in large trash piles on the street that may or may not have been covered in poo then make the other person smell our hand to make sure it's doesn't smell like poo.

Maybe one man isn't enough on his own. Maybe I will need Email Boy to be a part of my life forever, to fill in the cracks. :)

Today's Title from: Cigarettes and Coffee by Otis Redding

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