Mmm, mmm, Jailbait!

I found a Tumblr thread today re: why it's freaky as shit when guys date high school girls. The mixed responses were overwhelming. My favorites were the still barely-legal girls defending their choices to older, 20-something boyfriends.

As a definitely-no-longer-barely-legal girl who was engaged in a long-term 8 year age gap (I was 16; he was 24,) relationship in high school, here's my two cents:

It's wrong. Just plain wrong. On so many different levels. And I can see that now.

It was possibly my most dysfunctional, most fucked up relationship ever, and believe you me, that is saying something. A 16, 17, even 18 year old girl does not have the emotional nor mental capacity to make the sort of judgement or relationship or logic calls that you need to be able to achieve to date someone who can legally drink in a bar, or rent a car. I can see that now, clear as the warning signs I somehow conveniently missed back then. I thought I was sooooo mature. He probably thought he had it soooooo easy, going for a girl who had just gotten her license and was as of yet unburdened by emotional baggage or the relationship carcasses of other men. My life consisted of my new license and car and driving wild and free, my high school friends, convincing my older friends to buy me beer, and making out on the weekends, followed shortly thereafter by having sex and staying over on the weekends. His life consisted of college, paying college loans and the utilities on time, trying to find a "grown up" job to pay said bills, buying a car, and going to the bar with his boys. Can we see where we got lost in the other's translation yet?

Being at roughly the same age demographic now as he was then, I could no more date or condone dating a high school or equally age-spanalicious kid more than I could conceive flying to the moon by flapping my arms and wishing really, really hard on a star. I am far too worried about my thesis and grad school portfolios to worry about someone's sub-par SAT scores, though I DO remember when they were the most important thing in the world. It's odd enough dating someone my same age who isn't going through the same end-of-college crunch that I am; to walk across campus on the way to work and think that he's not doing the same. I have too much to think about figuring out how to spread my paycheck over bills and credit cards and debts to be oh-so-taken with someone's infatuation with drinking (tee-hee-hee!) and smoking doobies 'cause man, I am sooooo mature and alternative and deep when I'm stoned. It is not because you're so mature, little girl, and he is so very interested in how progressive and intelligent you are; it's because you're young, and fresh, and naive and unspoiled and he sees something in you that he kind of wishes he still had-- namely, that point in his life where he didn't have to worry about bills or graduation and the Real World, and he's confused about what he wants.

My relationship then was based on playing pretend, that I was so much older and could handle dating someone with whom I'd cook dinner and spend the night and entertain his friends and family with and babysit his dog when he was out of town. Now, my relationships are all about not actually playing at cooking dinner and spending nights together and entertaining and helping out, but actually cooking dinner and spending nights and entertaining his friends and helping out because THAT'S WHERE I REALLY AM IN MY LIFE, AND THAT'S WHERE THE PEOPLE I DATE REALLY ARE. A late teenaged girl doesn't get that cooking dinner and then going to sleep in the same bed and waking up together and digging each other's cars out of the snowdrifts is reality, and not some pretty pictorial spread of The Way Things Should Be When Grown-Ups Act Like Grown-Ups-- in fact, at nearly 22, sometimes I still don't believe it's my reality-- and that it's not all pretty and fun and games: It's work and communicating and stressful and exhausting and emotional and sweaty and stinky and privacy doesn't really exist anymore and you'll never get that sense of childhood back when you thought that this was all so exciting, so baby girl, don't wish it away, and you not-quite-men-yet-not-boys, don't try to enter into her fairytale world while it's in her twilight. She'll realize soon enough, like I have, that it's about finding someone who appreciates my sense of humor and has life goals for themselves more than who wants to sleep with me really badly or can get me beer and bring me drugs, because, like me, that stuff is old, and that ship has sailed. And that is such a bittersweet, really maturing time, that she needs to find, on her own, to really be the sort of girl a 20-something guy would really want to date.

So, for the record-- most 20-somethings dating high school chicks, or even college seniors dating college freshmen? You're both losers. Yes, that means I was a loser, too. Now for god's sake, both of you, grow up, and date someone within a (better be legal) two-year span. I'm not even 22. I shouldn't have to worry about the suitable men my age going for younger women already. Thanks.

XOXO

P.S-- This is not to say it doesn't always work; though my relationship was a facsimile of a sham, and all of those of my friends' with similar age ranges were as well, my parents married when my mom was 17 and my dad was 23, and they're still together and managed to procreate this wonderful little bundle of joy that is me, and still be relatively sane and still in love, so that's, what? A 1 in 33 chance you crazy kids could make it work? Or, excuse me, you crazy kid and misguidedly-in-love dude? As Matthew McConaughey once famously said in "Dazed and Confused": "That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age." Chew on that fact-- she'll always be younger, and those younger girl quirks will always still be there; she won't outgrow the things that she does now that annoy you in her immaturity. I should know. I still have mine when I date older men, and it drives them insane.

Long Gone

Tonight, I went to a bar with one of my exes. (Don't worry; this is not one of "those" stories that involve the equation of an emotionally vulnerable woman + man from her past/present she can tell you full measurements of, and I mean, FULL measurements + alcohol = oops.) It actually wasn't as simple as that, because it never is-- when he originally got in touch with me, he said "coffee" and "afternoon," which as the day progressed later and later, turned into "beers" and "11 PM" by the time we actually connected with each other. As is prone to happen, as soon as we made firm plans, a dinner invitation with friends rolled in, I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear in my over-flowing closest that was suitable for this occasion of "hi, this is casual, and yet don't I look great?", another guy came over while I was supposed to be getting dressed, and yet another man texted me to ask if I had any plans for the night. Yes. Yes, I'd say I did. (I swear men have uncanny Spidey-sense about when other men are moving into territory. As I followed my mid-dressing visitor into the kitchen, I had a brief, terrified moment where I thought he was actually going to sit down at our kitchen table to chat and render me hopelessly late for this most very important of dates.)

It always blows my mind how skittish women are about calling guys to firm up plans, but after the ship has sailed, I swear to god it's the easiest thing in the world, mostly, because you don't give a shit. You stop worrying about who was the last one to call or text, or if you're blowing their phone up. He texted me on Wednesday to let me know he was coming into town. He called me this afternoon to work out a time and let me pick a location-- he always lets me pick the location, and this is such a good move on his part. I texted to re-affirm that plans were still on. He texted me to let me know where he was downtown before the bar if I wanted to stop by and grab a slice of pizza pre-drinks, and I called him when I was 5 minutes away from the bar to make sure he was there. I have been told that in a perfectly functional relationship, this is the sort of discourse a couple can have. I have only been able to seemingly achieve it with a few of my exes. I never said I don't have my communication issues.

Once there, standing, pint glasses in hand, face-to-face again after 2 years, it got interesting. I was surprised to find myself no longer sexually bowled over by him, even since our last meeting. Not much had changed in his life, while a lot had in mine-- it made for uneven conversation and the feeling that the student was outgrowing the master. He's 25 now, and I was standing in front of him, drinking legally, obviously not 18 anymore; we were both a little taken aback. And then "Hot Thing" by Talib Kweli came on, and I couldn't place it-- other than the fact that it's on my iPod-- and why it seemed so familiar, and why we were both suddenly so stiff, until I realized it was one of Those Songs from a dark night and twisted bed sheets. Awwwkward. Thanks, 3 Needs.

Afterward, we strolled Church Street to talk where we could actually hear each other talking about our respective semesters in Florence over DMX growling, and when our arms brushed, there was no static charge anymore. In my mind, that was the end of The End. Ship. Officially. Sailed. Off over the horizon. I really have no clue how and why these things work. It makes me wonder if I'll wake up tomorrow morning, or the morning after that, or 2 weeks from now, or 3 months, and suddenly, have no feelings left for people I've held on so doggedly to and weathered through so much with. Probably, actually. Sad, really.

I'm not going to lie about this: Every woman secretly hopes to hear that a guy she used to be with has found that he just isn't able to live without her. This is very rarely the case. But, as we of the XX chromosome persuasion have to know everything, and figuring that all this time and all those other men in between later, I thought it was high time to actually come out with it while he walked me home and ask him why exactly he still calls me every time he comes back to Burlington and asks to meet up.

But instead of admitting his misfortune on dropping off the face of the Earth after graduation and dropping me faster than a hot potato covered in ignited kerosene, when asked why he's kept in touch with me, 3 years later, he grinned his little grin and said, "I still like seeing you. I liked seeing you tonight. And I enjoyed the friendship that we had," and kissed the side of my head. Roughly translated from his Manslation, "I liked the way you blew me."

I have no hope for huMANity. Or my love life.

XOXO

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

Happily Ever After, Or Something Like It.

My lovelies.

I am so sorry about this last week of incommunicado. I've been HOME-home, and busy being lazy. I've been working on three columns, but none of them are shaping up in quite the way I like. So more work is being done. In the meantime, I have a short little post for you, just to tide you over and keep y'all a little less bored.

Last night, I received a phone call from my mother while sitting home alone, watching the "Ghost Town" episode of SATC. (Ha. Fitting. The irony is not lost on me.) "We're at Beer Friday," she told me. "Want to come down? Bring your dad's jacket and the beer in the fridge. We're at SkaterBoy's and Princess Leia's. Oh, and H is here." "H" is the guy that my parents have been trying, fruitlessly, to introduce me to for the past two years. When this all started, he was 26. Now, he's 28, causing my mother to ask me, "Is 28 too old?"

Yeah, mother, generally, it is, but since all I was doing was further drowning myself in a wallowing pit of despair and missing Perfect while watching Carrie and Aiden (who are a great TV version of Perfect and I, by the way,) make up and make out, I decided that hey, this would be interesting one way or another. So I shrugged into my new last-season AE bomber jacket, slipped into my Dansko motorcycle boots, and went on a "what the fuck do I have to lose?" adventure.

Ok. Usually, my mother and I have very different taste, but H apparently stood for Hot. He happened to be in SkaterBoy' and Princess Leia's kitchen with my dad when I walked in, and as soon as I walked through the door, we gave each other a once-over. He was a smaller build then the men I usually go for (the tall and built types,) but he was golden tan with short and thick blonde hair that looked like it had the texture of a Brillo pad and bright, bright blue eyes. Actually, the best way I can describe him is to say that he looked like a condensed, blonde Prince Harry with smaller features. An introduction and a few minutes into conversation later, I found out that he cooked, was Swiss by birth (AHA! That explained a lot!), had a goofy laugh, and was into biking. As we walked out the dark porch together to meet the rest of the crew by the brick bake oven with which SkaterBoy was making homemade pizza, the Swiss Prince turned around at the bottom of the stairs and held out a hand for me. "Here, it's a little dark."

Um. And you're a little adorable.

Furtively, I texted Alli. "OH MY GOD. He is so cute!"

"Sleep with him," she said.

"Um, how about I try for a phone number first?"

"No, do it-- literally. Sleep with him."

"Yeah, like that wouldn't be awkward or anything. "Hey, mom, dad-- I'm gonna bring your friend home to our house to have sex with him in my childhood bed with the horse wallpaper still on the wall!""

"You have a point," Alli conceded.

At the end of the night, I ended up getting neither a phone number or laid. This may be because the Swiss Prince apparently has a girlfriend. Whom he ignored a phone call from while we were talking. "I like your boots," he told me. "I noticed them earlier."

"Thanks," I said shyly. "It was either between them or sneakers."

"Oh, definitely better than sneakers. And they're Danskos! I'm wearing Danskos, too! I love them."

His phone rang, and he stood up to fish it out of his short's pocket. He flipped it open to look at the caller ID, and then flipped it shut again, sending it straight to voicemail, and sat back down again. His eligibility stock went up.

"Earlier, The Girlfriend called him from Boston, and before they hung up, he told her he loved her," my mom told me on the drive home. His stock went back down. Why, whywhyWHY must all the good men be either too young or taken? WHY?

And then, I'm having to field off things like the Facebook message I got from a random guy who found my profile picture on a mutual friend's page. "Wow! You are absolutely gorgous!" he said. "Single?"

Two days later, I got around to emailing him back, having decided to be nice and give him the time of day for going out on a limb and having to balls to at least do that. Though he wasn't my type by far, I thought it best to encourage this sort of behavior, and make it at least a somewhat positive experience and not something where he was just ignored. More men need to just take the chance and do stuff like this. If they did, I guarantee dating would be a whole hell of a lot easier. And I thoroughly believe, as I wrote in Moss on the Moon, and told Perfect the night we slept together, if a man wants to stick it in, then he's gotta be the one to make the moves.

Hey, it worked for Perfect and I.

So, I sent the Eager Emailer this in return: "Happily complicated with a phenomenal guy, but thanks for the compliment, though I will disagree with both the spelling and the use of the word "gorgeous"."

Ok, so I lied a little bit about being "happily" complicated, but it's better than just saying "hair-rippingly, head-bashingly, crazy-makingly complicated" and telling the truth. Sometimes, a little white lie is better.

"Sorry about the typo!" he sent back. "Still beautiful reguardless."

I didn't even want to get into that typo, too.

Meanwhile, I am reminded by his Facebook wall that Perfect has a type which I do not fit in. (Another reason I was always so unsure about what was happening.) Pretty brunettes tall enough he doesn't have to double in half to kiss them like he had to with me with long, thin limbs, big brown eyes and thin little catty smiles seem to do it for him. I am a tiny blonde with a small and muscular body, big blue eyes, and a big smile that shows off all that money my parents put into it when I was little. I have an alto voice, bawdy humor, and varying ideas on what is Wrong and Right. I'm sure the girls that he likes would absolutely despise me. I am nothing like them. Which always makes me wonder why he was into me. (For the first time in my life, my overly-cocky personality was hit with a crippling bout of negative self-confidence.) And now, when those sort of girls are ALL he seems to be accepting friend requests from his new college, and those sort of girls are the ones posting on his wall about how "they need to do that again soon!", I can't help but to get down about what "that" possibly was, and start to get the desire to throw things, preferably whatever is in closest reach. (A stapler? The shoe sculpture I did in 8th grade? A mug?) Then again, the realistic side of me has to add that it's highly doubtful that if it IS sex that they're talking about, someone would post that on a Facebook wall. At least, I hope people have more class than that.

Especially when Perfect has already told me he may, again, be MIA tomorrow for our trip to Worcester, as he may be "at my camp with the fam. We will see." I'm learning "we will see" means "I'm actually too nice to let you down, so I'm going to cleverly disguise a "no" and hope you feel better about it." Also-- Perfect has a camp?! But I've decided if tomorrow is again a no-go, the boy is driving himself to Burlington to see me, politeness on my side be damned. He owes me at least that in gas and common courtesy at this point. Plus, I really need to unload those t-shirts to him. Though I will miss them, I admit.

I've been wishing on so many stars, finding four-leaf clovers for it, and going through so many of my little OCD rituals to assure it that if I don't get my Happy Ending with Perfect, (oh lord, we're going to ignore the innuendo-filled phrase there,) this optimistic girl may give up a little bit of faith in Luck and Good Things Happening To Good People. What is the point in meeting someone who changes all (or most,) of your Bad (Dating) Habits, makes you straighten up your act and start to believe that maybe settling for the bad boys, the inconsiderate guys, and the douchebags isn't at all what life can offer you, and that maybe, just maybe, there are such things as instant connections and people who really care for and about you, and will be willing to do all the Little Things to prove that to you, even in some cases, After The Fact-- what is the point of all this if you don't get your Happy Ending? That you know that there's someone out there who did all this for you, and maybe there are more of them who will in the future? Ugh. Un-sign me up. I'm an Instant Gratification Girl. No waiting, please.

Speaking of waiting, now I must fly, or else I will literally miss the boat!

XOXO

Ruckus On State Street: The Montpelier and Worcester Diaries

Last Sunday, I put $10 worth of gas in my car, filled my tire with a slow leak up with air, and loaded Alli and Emily into the Civvy for a girl’s getaway day to Montpelier. There are some things that girl friends have to do with each other as mandatory summer friend-community service, and road trips are one of those things. We had an iPod full of summer driving songs, sunglasses, cell phones, and a need to all get out of town. It was one of those days that just feels amazing for a reason you can’t put your finger on.

By now, I’m a champ at driving 89 into Montpelier and getting around town. Because parking was the only thing that I hadn’t done before in the city, we decided to take the easiest option out, park at Shaw’s, and walk. We figured we’d be killing two objectives in one go—getting some exercise, and window-shopping. We stopped in to Splash and Spangle, which is basically Montpelier’s answer to Burlington’s Bella Donna and Queen Anne’s Lace. A rock shop (and by “rock,” I mean those things you find on the ground, but of the pretty variety) on the corner of Main Street and State Street caught Alli’s eye, but unfortunately, it was closed. That’s what you get for going city-hopping on a Sunday.

Capitol Grounds, however, was open and bustling. I ordered a Capitol Chill—their version of a Coffee Coolata—with hazelnut flavoring from a barista who looked so familiar it weirded me out until I came up with the only excuse possible—she was either one of Perfect or Cait’s Facebook friends whose profile picture, and so, face, I’d seen before. We both gave each other curious looks, so I think the feeling was mutual. That’s the one weird thing about Facebook—far-flung friends of friends aren’t strangers anymore when they’re staring you in the face on someone’s comment wall.

After getting our iced coffees and such to go, we wandered right past Perfect’s place of employment (and no, my curiosity did not get the better of me and I did not peek into the front windows like I wanted to so badly,) and to the State House’s lawn and front steps where we followed Alli’s idea to “really stir up something crazy so if Perfect or John hear about it, they’ll know it was us,” and put my native Vermonter’s tax dollars at work by turning it inside-out to be our “we’re twenty-somethings with a camera and taste for adventure” playground. There were cannons to be climbed on, statues to mock, lamp-posts to swing around, marble to be danced on, trees to be climbed…you get the drift. If there is one thing that you cannot accuse me of, it is taking myself too seriously. I still love to play like a little kid. The pictures posted here from that day are proof of it. The first thing I did upon approaching the lawn was to kick off my flip-flops and go skipping off, shoes, coffee and Ralph Lauren purse in hand.

We spent about an hour lounging literally on the Capitol, having girl-talk, sorting out the world’s problems, making lewd and salacious comments, and generally soaking in the gorgeous and finally present sun’s rays. As we started our trek back to the car, a motorcyclist checked us out so hard he almost tripped his moving bike over by overcompensating. We laughed openly at this, although I think that we all know that while we may make fun of guys for doing this now, there’s going to be a time down the road when it doesn’t happen anymore, so secretly, or not so secretly, we cherish it now.

Not so cute was the old flat-black-painted pick-up truck of three twenty-something guys. It was cute the first time they passed us heading out of town, as the half-naked and attractive guy in the passenger’s seat hung a little further out the window to grin at us as we grinned back at him, maybe a little too convincingly, because when they passed us again on route 12, passenger now hanging his upper body out of the car to get a good look at us, they pulled over, let us pass, and then pulled out behind us. And proceeded to follow us almost all the way in to Worcester. Normally, Alli, Em and I are pretty cool customers—it takes a lot to flap Alli, whose father is an ex-UFC fighter and who herself can take down an over 200 pound man singlehandedly; as for myself, having too much bravado for my own good and an ex-Marine for a father who taught me a thing or two, “fear” usually isn’t a word in my vocabulary—but after the flattery of this event wore off, it left us rather worried. Thankfully, I knew two different ways to get to where we were going to the Pots, and one way travelled right past John’s mom’s house. It was decided that if the followed us up Minister Brook Road, we would pull into John’s driveway, hoping he was there and all 6-foot-one, lanky sapling body and sweet nature of his could save us. We would go to Perfect’s house, just up the road from John’s, only in the utmost dire situation. The idea of landing unannounced on his doorstep that had never been shown to me, merely explained where it was, chilled me more to the bone than the idea of having to tell three Montpelier guys to back off at a local swimming hole. Alli, the official road trip video girl, got this entire episode on tape. Possibly the most self-telling moment of this entire situation was when after I bombed across a bridge under construction to try and put space between the Civvy and the black truck that remained close to my bumper, Alli caught my distress mantra on tape.

“John, be home, be home; oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please,” I chanted under my breath, and then after glancing back into my rear-view window, did the only thing that came naturally to me at that second: opened my mouth and wailed Perfect’s name is distress.

“PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERFEEEEEEEEEEEEECT!!!” (Um. Ok. Granted, I yelled his real name and not his nickname, but you get the idea.)

Perfect, all 6'3" and 204 muscular pounds of him with his voice that sounds like it originates around his kneecaps, could certainly give our pseudo-stalkers pause. Perfect, with all the time I spent next to him, reassured me by nothing more than proximity. Perfect, the hulking manbeast of sheer strength and belly laughs, still is categorized in my mental Rolodex under “Protector.” Perfect is still the first person I think of for help when in a crisis.

…And Perfect was at home and so, out of cell-phone range for receiving any calls either about our needing to be rescued or to meet up to swim with us.

Luckily, the pick-up truck of men pulled over when we crossed the border into Worcester, probably thinking that they’d followed us far enough with us showing no signs of stopping or pulling over. We continued to the Pots happily, if not shakily, passing John’s house—sans a John, so that plan wouldn’t have worked—and went swimming in the refreshingly glacial waters. Knowing that the plan had been to try and meet up with Perfect and/or John to inject some testosterone into our Girl’s Day, Alli and Em both kept a close eye and question on my well-being when that plan fell flat due to Verizon’s lack of cell phone towers on Worcester Mountain. What bothered me even more than the fact that neither of them were there was the fact that I had inadvertently stumbled upon the fact with the “help” of the guys in the truck that Perfect is still my go-to guy in a time of need. I still, maybe foolishly, rely on Perfect to protect me, get me through things, and be there for me, when in reality, I don’t really know if I could trust in him to do those things for me.

In the long run, however, it seemed maybe better off that the guys hadn’t met us. We all ended up getting creepy little crawly bugs from the stone waterslide in our bathing suits, and there was a lot of bare ass being shown as girly shrieks pierced the air, prompting me to come up with the term “Beasty Cave” as a synonym for “vagina.”

“You know,” I said to Emily. “That’s where I keep my pets. Sometimes, a one-eyed snake even lives in it.”

On the way home from Montpelier, after working myself into a righteous anger with Alli and Em about how Perfect was now “officially avoiding me” or so it seemed since it had been bordering on a month since we had last seen each other, I received a text from a perfectly contrite Perfect.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was out of service all day! How was it?”

I can’t go from rampantly pissed to cooingly pleased with him so quickly. It’s bad for my health. Or, at least, mental stability. I have also since decided that Perfect owes me the last four shots of my vodka that he got drunk off of and an orgasm. Then we can call it fair.

Meanwhile, my roommate Kim’s younger brother and friend have been living with us for the past week, which I’ve actually greatly enjoyed. Men you can tell to pick up their shit and not have to feel bad or sugar-coat it. In fact, sometimes, they even wash dishes, take out the trash and vacuum without being asked. Louis and Matt are both 17. I sense great promise in their futures as boyfriends and husbands. Watch out, ladies.

I’ve loved having them around for a few reasons. One, younger men are what I call “great soft-assassination flirting targets.” Basically, you can practice your game on them, let them hone their skills on you, and everyone feels good without feeling like they need to follow through on anything. These 17 year olds know I’m not going to decide to just hop into bed with them—as I said to Alli, “You have friend standards, and I have statutory rape standards.”

I may feel this way because it seems that younger men are less intimidating. A 23 or 24 year old I never would have slept with the second time I met him, but Perfect was 19—and so, safe to me. I felt no need to impress him or pretend to be more mature and less raunchy; in other words, I felt no need to be someone who I am not. In my past dating experiences, especially with older men, I have always morphed into some weird hybrid between who I really am and who I think they want me to be. It never goes well.

Secondly, I’ve realized that a lot of my straight male friend’s advice is coming from a different age group than Perfect is in. Most of my guys are 20+ with life experience behind them and a little more maturity. Living with two almost 18 year old boys has given me the sounding board of the younger set.

“Why,” I would ask them. “Would a guy be so into you, make plans to see you, keep in touch with you every day, do all the cute things he’s supposed to, and even more, and then suddenly say he needs to stop? Why would a guy go on and on about plans with you if he was only going to break up with you a few weeks later? Why would he say things like, “I’m looking for a relationship,” and “It sounds like you need a good relationship with a good guy—I’m a good guy,” and “I’ll visit from college,” or “It’s a 3 and a half hour drive, but would you visit?” or “Wait until you see how jacked I get from all the lifting I’ll be doing,” or “Maybe I’ll have to come and travel with you when you’re studying abroad in the spring”?”

“Because he wants to get in your pants,” Matt said matter-of-factly.

“I’m going to be blunt with you,” I told them. “We’d already been there and done that. He started saying these things after.”

“Oh, then that’s completely different. He really liked you, then,” Matt amended his statement. “If he was still making plans to see you and saying that to you after he got what he wanted, than he really meant it.”

Do you see what I mean? Most of my guy friends are too old and have too much tact to say things like “when he got what he wanted.” But it’s the truth, isn’t it?

“Distance scares guys,” Louis added. “Especially when things get serious. If he really likes you and you live 45 minutes away from each other now and it’s going to be more once he moves, then he’s going to get scared about it not working out and him getting hurt.”

“Is that why he jumped ship so quick?” I asked.

“If a guy really likes a girl but thinks he’s going to get hurt, yeah, he’s gonna get out of what he thinks is trouble. Believe me, I know. I’ve done it,” Louis told me. “You need to let him know you’re not scared.”

I think I see the logical equation of the younger male: feelings + distance = scared, so run away. This varies inversely with the logical equation of most females: feelings + distance= work at it and try harder to prove you care. Hmmmm. Our math does not seem to compute, here.

Speaking of Perfect, and 3 posts back, as with most of the supposed meetings with Perfect as of late, it never happened. (But thanks for all the input, though! It was so heartening and really appreciated in my time of indecision!) He and his Amazonian friend were already gone from Church Street and at the UMall by the time I got my shit together and texted him. “I feel like the end of the world is going to happen before we see each other again,” I told him. “Or, at least, you know, the beginning of school. Well, I’ve got to go home this weekend, but I’m sure we’ll be back to Montpelier sometime soon. And you owe Cait and I a girl’s visit to Burlington, sir!”

Suddenly, the atmosphere in our conversation changed completely with the register of his next text. “LOL, why’s that, haha?” he asked. Ok. So. Let me tell you something about Perfect. Picking up attitude in his texts is actually very easy. A single “ha” means displeasure, annoyance, or he’s humoring you. A stand-alone “haha” is his trademark—it’s in almost every text he sends, somewhere. (He’s just a very laughy and exclamation-pointy person.) An “LOL” is more coy. He’s genuinely pleased with something. And an “LOL” and “haha” together or a winky-face is Perfect for “flirting.”

I was flabbergasted more than anything. What am I supposed to say to that? I know the start of a flirty Perfect text when I see one. I know an opening for sexting with Perfect when I see one. And I hadn’t seen one since June. Frankly, I was more happy to know it’s still on the table than anything—I was worried it wasn’t even still in the dining room. But really? Now? Now he wants to get all flirty and hear about how miserable my life has been without him and how I want him back?

I did what any self-respecting girl would do: I weighed my deep desire to tell him yes, I really missed him, and he should visit so that we could ravage each other everywhere we were supposed to—the party shower, his 4Runner, my already broken-by-Perfect bed—with the amount of perverse pleasure he would get out (or off on) knowing the wanting he caused me. And so I sent him back this:

“Because we both miss you and SOMEONE is always busy or MIA when we go to Worcester, that’s why, hahaha!”

For the records, I only use “hahaha” when I’m trying to lighten my texts or add a flirty edge. I’m sure he knows this by now, too.

“Ok, I get it, LOL,” Perfect sent back, keeping the same tone, and it made me wonder, did he really get it? Really? Did he understand at all what I’ve been going through and meant by “we miss you” really meaning “I miss you but am too chicken-shit and wary to say it yet”? Did he really mean to open the “way we used to text” back up and dredge up Memory Lane? Does he really want to know why I want him to keep visiting and stay in my life? I hope so. I hope he really got it. And I hope I don’t have to say all of this alone.

As we wound our conversation down, he promised to come visit soon. He said he’d be around next time we came to Worcester. He even said he’d come up to go clubbing if we could work out a copasetic time. Hmmmm. It’s a start. Is it a start? And how much time do I have to get my lines ready? Maybe while I’m home nannying this week I need to start practicing saying “I miss you, and I miss us.” It’s not that hard—“I miss you, and I miss us.” “I miss…”

XOXO

Age Is Just A Number...And Some Baggage.

It’s funny—the older I get, the more age doesn’t mean shit. Seeing as I got my “older man” phase done early with in my life, I’ve since noticed a change recently in myself—now, I’m liking the younger fellas. (A “Puma” is a “Cougar” in training, don’tcha know?) As with any man, though, regardless of his age, there are some lessons to be learned. Fortunately, I can pass on what I’ve gathered so far in my (love…or just sex) travels.

There is nothing wrong with dating an older man. They tend to be a little more mature, a little more sophisticated, a little more worldly, and a little more financially stable. They usually tend to have gone through their “wild one-night-stands” phase, and are looking for something a little more serious, which is great if you’re thinking of settling down a little bit. Bonuses include the fact that they’ve probably gone through college or lived alone by the point at which you meet and start dating them, which means they’re a little more self-sufficient than your average college dude, or at least have some idea of how to cook or balance a budget. Expect them to be mature. Expect them to know how to treat you well. Expect them to not still live in their parent’s basement.

Now for the word of warning. This all may sound great, but let me talk with you a minute about age differences and what they mean when you’re with someone significantly older. When you’re 25, dating someone 35 is fine. You’re living in the real world; they’re living in the real world. When you’re 19 or 20, dating someone 28 or 30—not so fine. And take it from my hard experience: when you’re 16, dating someone 24—so many different shades of wrong you could paint a house. This is what the problem is: when you are young, and someone significantly older starts putting the moves on you, ask yourself this—why are they still single? Why, by the time they are 28, or 30, or 35, have they not met someone their own age and settled down yet?

Please—don’t say it’s because they haven’t met “The One” yet. Yes, it may be true, but you know what? I, Miss “I Redefine The Word” Commitmaphobe, cannot even imagine myself being 35 and not in a fully committed, long-term, monogamous relationship. I can’t even see myself not even mildly committed by the time I’m 28. Sure, it may not be the same one man that I’m with from 28 to 35, but I guarantee you, even I will be slowing down on the dating and mating thing. (Well, the mating with other men. I highly doubt my sex-drive will ever grow out of the 19 year-old boy that it is.) Usually, these men are still single because there is something—some quirk, some tick, some habit, some mentality—wrong with them. The women their own age, and the ages more immediately around them, have already sussed this out and moved onto greener pastures. (The Number One problem in older men? Immaturity. Believe it. Some people never grow up, and when you’re eight years younger than your Significantly Older Other and the more mature one? RED FLAGS. ABORT MISSON.)

Conversely, immaturity is also a problem with dating younger men, but there, you know to expect it. Younger men are actually great to date, maturity or lack of it and all, if this doesn’t bother you. They’re more fun, more adventurous, more spontaneous, and more care-free. They like having a good time, and they like you having a good time. And if you’re an older woman dating a younger man, they’re actually thrilled to let you subtly take the relationship by the reins. Younger guys tend to be not so much about the details, and more just about the doing (it). Older women who know what they like, know what they need, and can express and teach this to them, which turns them on. They like a woman with a little more confidence than the average girl their age. (That’s where you come in.) They’re game for most anything, which is different from older men who have lived long enough to have found their preferences, and gotten very attached to them.

Actually, with younger men, the problem is the fact that they still haven’t gone through their life-growth experience. They haven’t necessarily had a chance to sow their wild oats. They haven’t completed college, haven’t rented a first apartment, haven’t had to live on their own; maybe, they haven’t even moved out of their parent’s house yet. They tend to be a little self-centered. They have a lot of expectations about what they want to get out of life, but not so many plans as to how to go about them, or details as how to go about maintaining an even keel. A lot of things, including you, can get lost in their excitement-without-the-details craze. Or, they just might find out that what they expected a month ago doesn’t really fit in with their plans a month from now. Life changes fast for these guys, so you either have to adapt quickly to change with them, or know when to hop off the ride.

On a more candid note, this is something that I learned from Perfect. He is, as previously stated, over half a year younger than I am. He also deferred a year from college to stay close to home (actually, AT home), and to travel a bit. Though, yes, this means he still lives with his parents and younger sister, it wasn’t the Kiss of Death. He works a full-time job that he’s been at for two years, and also works two other part-time jobs when needed. (I recently told him his work ethic was as big as his appetite.) He helps out around the house, doing chores in exchange for the privilege to still live there rent-free. He paid for his car, it’s insurance, gas, and anything else it needs himself. He’s travelled through South America, and lived in Costa Rica for two months this past spring. One of the first comments that came out of his mouth when we first met was the fact that since he deferred a year from school, he no longer has health insurance, which, he said with furrowed eyebrows, he was “really worrying about and looking into different policies.” Obviously, the boy is a pretty serious younger man.

But still. This also makes him an incoming freshmen, while I am a rising junior. I’ve got two years of college under my belt. I know the drill—I’ve had my fun, and now I’ve settled down into my routine. Life has gotten pretty placid for me. Perfect, on the other hand, while not so academically thrilled to start college (going in as “Undeclared Sciences”), is excited to get out of Dodge/I-Live-In-The-Boondocks and expand his social life and start competitively throwing discus again on his college’s track team. I am under no false expectations. He loves women, and women love him. Actually, just plain PEOPLE love him. He’s already a Big Fish in a Little Vermont Pond, and I have no doubts that even though he may be in a larger pond at school in Massachusetts, he’s still going to be a Big Man On Campus, if for no other reason than his stature. (The boy stands out in a crowd.)

He and I had a few discussions about his life in college; Cait and I had a few discussions about his life in college; and Alli and I had a few discussions about his life in college. The general consensus is that college probably won’t be a “Perfect” thing and he’ll probably end up relocating somewhere closer to home. Deep-down, he is that Good Ol’ Vermont Boy, with family and duty ties like the roots of a particularly tenacious maple sapling. Both he and Cait mentioned more than once each that he’s going to get homesick and want to come home as much as possible, at least for one weekend a month. He and I had a pretty serious conversation pre-Cease and Desist Conversation about the fact that he’s bringing the 4Runner to school with him.

“It’s a three-and-a-half hour drive from my college to Burlington,” he told me as we lolled around on my bed one afternoon. “I’ll probably be up here a lot. What about you?”

“Well,” I said slowly as I watched him watching me, gauging my response. “I’ll still have the Civic, obviously. And I like taking road-trips.”

“Good,” he said. (“Good” was how Perfect responded to most of our serious “relationshippy” conversations. When I told him how much it meant that he would be here for my birthday, he told me that was “Good.” When I told him I thought he was a pretty cool guy to be with, he responded with an empathetic “Good!” At least then in Perfect’s world, everything moving forward along smoothly was a “good” thing. I wonder when and why it changed.)

Later that night, at dinner at Asian Bistro with Cait, he brought it up again. “It’s three-and-a-half hours away. I’ll visit you guys if you come visit me?”

“Carissa has a car,” Cait said.

“I’d drive,” I reaffirmed.

“Good!”

My dear and oldest friend Caiti (the “i” is enough to hold all the difference between Caiti and Cait,) gave me some excellent advice about how to deal with the whole “new-to-college” thing, and she should know, because she’s been through it twice with two long-distance boyfriends. “If you’re going to try to stay close, you’re going to have to stay in his life,” she told me. “Stay in touch with him—still text a few times a week or call. Visit him. But have a pact that if he has other girls who he’s flirting with or hooking up with or whatever, or if you have other guys you’re doing the same with, you don’t talk about them with each other. If you can figure it out together, it can work. And if you can’t, you can’t.”

Will, my straight male relationship guru, backed her up on this whole-heartedly. “It’s realistic,” he agreed. “He’s going to want to do the regular freshmen stuff, and it’s good that you want him to do that, too. Just be ready and able to say “this isn’t working” if it’s not.”

You may feel as if I’m being remarkably blasé about this whole “other women/other men” thing. But really, I’m being honest. I don’t expect him to be a priest, and I doubt he expects me to be a nun. While we’ve already talked about the fact that both of us don’t just have sex with anyone, and we can’t have sex with other people if we have feelings for someone else, I have no misconceptions about the fact he is a Hook-Up Whore. As of tomorrow, it will have been two months since we had sex, and I haven’t had sex with anyone else since then. (Again, misleading blog title, I’m sorry.) And as far as me and my intelligence knows, he hasn’t, either. Before we slept together for the first time, I asked him the same question I had asked Cait earlier to see if the right answers matched. “Do you ever do anything like this? Have sex with someone you’ve only met twice?”

“No; never,” he said. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Bing, bing, bing! This, which rings true with what Cait said about him and his inability to have sex with anyone he doesn’t really care deeply about, and a few other facts are what make me ok with an arrangement like this. For one, Perfect was raised in a household not quite as free and open about sex as say, mine was. His parents both still think, or cling to the disillusion, that their baby boy is a virgin, which hasn’t been true for the past, oh, almost five years. Because of growing up in this sort of “let’s-not-talk-about-sex” environment, Perfect can be endearingly shy when it comes to certain things about sex. For example, it made him hesitant to get it on if my roommates were home, because he was afraid to have them hear us. (I, as it may have already been stated, am unapologetically loud.) He’s already also admitted he’s nervous about having a roommate of his own come fall, so between the fact he doesn’t like to have other people around when he does the dirty and the fact that most college girls are not fans of bringing guys back to their rooms, I say that’s a pretty good deterrent. Perfect also is not much of a drinker. He’ll have a beer or two in social settings, but he’s not really one to get drunk. I can’t see him joining Greek life or being a huge party animal. When there are parties and drinking involved, he’s most likely to be seen in photos taken of the event sitting on a couch with one beer and relaxing while everyone else is staggering around. Costa Rica and the night we slept together were apparently the drunkest he’s ever gotten. (I, on the other hand, always seem to be drinking when he’s around. He knows I’m a straightened-out drinker, but the first time we met he witnessed me pour margarita mix into a blender without a spout attached and have to clean that mess up while laughing hysterically; the night we slept together I was blissfully, adorably, memory-blanking toasted; on my birthday, I drank Smirnoff Ice on the beach, sand and all.)

Every time I think about this proposition, I can’t help but make up lovely daydreams in my mind about it. If it all works out, when I go to visit him, I’d wear V-neck cable-knit sweaters and ballet flats and pearls and look so collegiate—the older junior year girlfriend!—and sleep in his wifebeaters and go to the gym with him in the morning and run on the treadmill as he lifted and we’d grin at each other, and other people would watch as I slammed my car door shut in the parking lot and ran to where he would be waiting in front of the dorm and jump into his arms, pearls and all, and they would think, “so that’s the girlfriend.” And then they would get the reason why I wasn’t worried about other women and let him do his thing—because it may as well just be us.

Seriously. I really wish you could have some sort of idea of how The Way Things Were so you know I’m not just saying it. Those of you who were around to witness the two of us together, you get it. We could (and still) talk for hours, our silence was companionable, our humor similar, body language and chemistry so attuned he would lean or start to speak at the same time. That was the magic of the almost audible, definitely felt “click.”

What I do have no misconceptions over, however, is the cold, hard, cruel fact that I am a jealous person. And regardless of how practical and chill this little plan of mine is, I do know that regardless, I would get suspicious and jealous. How I feel and how I hide it or discuss it are three totally different things, though. So I guess we’ll see how this pans out, and if there even is a need to worry about a sort-of “man-share.” As it stands right now, I’m not really seeing much of Perfect, and he’s not seeing much of me. I don’t particularly like it, whatsoever. Because what I texted to Emily the other night rang so true, and still does, I’ll repeat it here: I don’t really have anything to say to him other than “I really miss you, and when will I see you again?” I don’t know if that’s really acceptable on his end, but it’s the truth, and I see no reason to ever tell him anything but the truth. I may not miss him every second of every day, but I miss him at least a little every day, for different reasons and with varying intensities. I have no illusions that this is True Love or The End or anything, but I can tell you that when it’s been over a month since we decided to try Perfect and Carissa Apart and if someone who you’ve only known for two months sticks in your memory and daily day-to-day thoughts of survival, it means something. Sometimes it’s selfish, like when my windows in my bedroom are stuck and for lack of WD40 or another six inches of height, I can’t get push them back up, and realize in a moment of frustration and self-pity that if Perfect were here, he could tackle those tricky windows for me in a moment. And with a smile. Sometimes it’s for more logical reasons—I’ll see a cute couple or find a shirt that I think would look really good on him—and in these practical moments, I miss the idea of him. And sometimes, at the oddest times, when I’m in the shower or late at night, sometimes even in my dreams, I get hit like a ton of bricks missing HIM—everything about him, from the way he smelled to the piggyback rides he gave me to his massive hands to the sound of his voice to the over-abundant exclamation marks and various emoticons in his texts that used to drive me crazy.

It’s so simple, these three words—“I miss you,” yet so hard to say. If I don’t see him on Thursday when he’s coming to town with another friend, I’ve decided that those are three words that have to be said to get the ball rolling. It’s a start, and who knows where we will finish? And that’s why I keep thinking, entertaining the possibility of, a future with Perfect, somewhere yet to be determined, in it.

XOXO