The Games People Play

[The scent of my cigarette as I lean over my keyboard makes me ravenous in a way I don’t like to admit, probably like how a sex addict craves the feeling of first penetration. Scratch that. I know that’s exactly how it feels.]

The first day I met Mr. Perfect, two significant things happened. The first was an example of one of those brilliant moments in life when liquor helps you discuss the issues that you normally wouldn’t be caught dead asking. While sitting side-by-side, knees touching on my living room sofa and watching Mr. Perfect keep reaching into his jean’s pocket time after time for his vibrating cell phone, Cait, my short-term roommate, our mutual friend and his closest friend for years, asked innocently, “Oh, Joellen?” Mr. Perfect gave her a look and muttered, “No, Joa.” Three minutes later, it was Janessa. The number of girls he knew whose names began with the letter J wasn’t the only thing that shocked me; it was also the number of texts from different girls he was getting all at the same time. In a moment of tequila-induced insouciance, I piped up, filter between thoughts and mouth not working. “Are you a player, Mr. Perfect?”

“No,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “I just have a lot of girl friends.”

“Oh, so you’re a pimp? Ladies is pimps too,” I told him, mock-brushing the dirt off my shoulders in a moment that would have made Jay-Z proud to have penned those lyrics.

Mr. Perfect laughed with a charming grin and then acquitted. “Kinda.”

“He’s not a man-whore,” Cait agreed, which was enough for me and Mr. Cuervo. Privately and later, without tequila clouding my thoughts, I would re-evaluate this occurrence.

The second significant thing was a surprise. I didn’t realize that when Cait gave me Mr. Perfect’s number in case of emergencies (i.e—her cell dying while they were out and about in her car that was in the process of wheezing its last death-rattles,) she had also given him my number. So it was a very pleasant surprise indeed when not even twenty minutes after he had left my roommates and I to our drunken girl’s night, I received a text from him.

“It was very nice to meet you!” it said. (I didn’t know then that this marked the start of my love/hate relationship with the exclamation points that Mr. Perfect was so fond (exclamation point!) of using.)

It was cute; it was polite; it was unexpected. I’ve always held much stock about men who are willing to text you first, which is probably where the problem started. Jersey Blunt, for all of his faults (illegal substance and legal issues included), still managed to surprise me with a few random texts, most of the time about needing community service or getting new weed in, but still. This is probably one of the reasons why despite everything, I considered him a great guy. Communication is big with me, and a guy who is willing to communicate first gets extra-big gold-star bonus points. Women do not want to romance themselves. We already do enough of the talking and the typing and the texting. Sometimes, we just want to be pleasantly surprised by nothing more than a “What’s up?” Or, in my case, a “Got more Purple Haze in,” will do, too.

Hence, The Game. The Game is something that I put all my perspective men through. It gets its roots from the school of Playing Hard to Get, with enough feminist thought and self-torture thrown into the mix to make it really interesting. Mr. Perfect was a perfect candidate for the game. We texted each other every single day, sometimes for hours, since the day we were introduced and his first unbidden text message. We’d done this for about 12 days and 2 surprise text messages from him before I decided it was time to make him a player in The Game: I stopped texting him.

The Game is a remarkably simple one. It just involves not taking his name from my cell’s contact list and putting it in the address box of a text message. Also, not Facebooking or calling. Basically, I disappear for either as long as it takes for him to text me, or until I can’t stand it any longer. Usually, I end up calling or texting first, which means that I lose The Game and from then on have to deal with the knowledge that I’m more invested in whatever it is that’s going on than the Man du Jour is and that I shouldn’t expect a call or text from them out of the blue. Which is a little sad, but no more sad than the fact that I find myself having to play this game in the first place. Which begs the question, why can’t we seem to be happy without playing games with other people? Is it a hold-over from the days of elementary school recess tag, when we knew that Jason would always chase and tag Julia because he liked her? Are playing games our twisted way of trying to make our partners realize this and work for something, anything to happen like we are? Or do we just play games to excite ourselves because when it comes down to it, sometimes it gets our blood boiling more to play than to win?

Day One into The Game with Mr. Perfect, and I wasn’t expecting anything. I slept most of it away anyway, using the excuse of the unemployed and slightly hung-over. Day Two, I jumped every time my cell phone rang and ran to get it. By Day Three, I was starting to realize that Mr. Perfect would go about a week before texting to see if I’d died or just dropped off the face of the earth.

This may seem like a lot of needless work and worry to you, dear reader, but let me explain something: I knew I’d have to do this from the first time I met Mr. Perfect. Do you remember the first surprise that I got from him, all the mysterious women and their urgent texts? Well, that told me one thing after he admitted that while not playing them, a lot of women constantly called on him: that he was used to women hounding him for both his attention and his time. What throws a pimp more than one of his flock not needing him? Nothing, dear reader—nothing. It’s that logic is playing hard-to-get that while I can’t seem to follow in the bedroom, I eagerly apply to The Game: people want what they cannot have. If I fail in that aspect when it comes to abstinence, then I’m going to be the only girl not getting arthritis in her thumbs from texting him.

Every woman has her own version of The Game. Some follow the tried-and-true rules of things like the sex-on-the-third-date rule to make sure a guy is interested enough in her to go through three separate instances of public and monetary showmanship. Some enlist physical touch or making their hands (or any other body part, for that matter), available to see if the offer is taken. Others doll themselves up in heels, make-up and particularly pretty or provocative outfits to see if they can make men remember that they are, in fact, pretty damn fine women, and not just that girl who he always crashes on the sofa with wearing jeans and a hoodie. Still more women play the jealously card and go so far as to blatantly ogle other men or casually mention in passing to their beau another man who has recently admired them/complimented them/ asked them out. These are the games that women play, and we are not the only players. Men may either realize it or not, but they are almost always engaged in some sort of cleverly connived feminine subterfuge. (Scary, isn’t it?) If it’s done well, a man will never even know what hoops he’s being made to jump through—he’ll just know that he suddenly feels a strong urge to do something, the result of which is probably the means to the end of the game. Games and their outcomes tell girls a lot more about a particular guy than dating for a number of months or hours spent talking could.

This isn’t to say, gentlemen, that the next time you feel the urge to pick up the phone and call a lady, you shouldn’t because that means she “wins”. Dear lord, please…take what I’m saying with a grain of salt. There are no real “winners” or “losers” to these games. The only thing that can be said to be “won” is a sense of what is going on—if you’re into us enough to make a move, be it picking up the phone, taking our hand, threatening to take out a co-worker with wandering eyes, or asking us out for a forth date. And the only thing that can possibly be “lost” is the sense of an equal attraction. I know that my desire to let Mr. Perfect know what’s up every day means I want him to be part of my life; by finding out if he has the same desire to know what’s going on in my life or include me in his lets me know that I can let my guard down and let him in, and not have to worry so much about those fifteen other girls with names like Janelle and Joanna and Jessica. Now that you know what’s up, please, be a little more proactive—if you want your sex life to get better and/or more frequent, I guarantee you, this is the secret to making your life easier. Call or text her first, just to say “hey”. Compliment her on an outfit or on a choice she’s made. Take her hand when you’re out and about for no reason. Tell her that one of her male friends makes you feel jealous, even if it’s complete bullshit. I’m giving you gold, here—what women are really after. And the best part? You’ll win The Game, and she’ll never be none the wiser that you’re on to her own Game. Nothing like a little competitive spirit, eh?

As for Mr. Perfect? I folded and texted him on the afternoon of the third day. Score: Perfect, 1. Carissa: 0, but a sense of relief.

XOXO

Perfection, or Lack Thereof

[“It’s not my fault…if I know it’s out there, I’m going to go after it. I’ve never been good about not giving into temptation,” the small girl said, biting her lip guiltily. From the kitchen, her roommate leveled a ladle at her like a sword. “Maybe that’s why you never made it as a Christian.”]

I have, admittedly, a few bad habits. Maybe even some downright nasty ones. On the nervous tick side, I chew on the insides of my cheeks when I’m nervous or thinking particularly hard, and I picked up split-end pulling as a side-effect of having OCD. On the more destructive side, I’ve already had a brush with alcoholism in high school that has made me extremely wary of vodka, and a small-time pot-smoking habit, mainly for escapist reasons. I casually smoke clove cigarettes, but mostly when I’m stressed or nervous, not as a real habit, and it can take me a month or more to smoke a pack of twenty. I do swear like a sailor or seasoned barmaid, and, if you haven’t picked up on it, am downright casual and outgoing about sex and sexual things.

It’s no wonder one of my high school’s boyfriends’ Roman Catholic mother absolutely despised me.

I’m not perfect.

I’ve been in three real relationships, but had three or four more “things” that defy any sort of definition, mostly because I hate titles and somehow missed out on getting the female gene responsible for making me want to talk about “what’s going on”. My longest (by far) relationship lasted six months. The rest of them, one. I somehow have perfected the art of entrapping, loving, and making one of us in the relationship (or whatever it is we’re doing) check out after four weeks. Despite this, by the tender age of nineteen, I’d already collected two marriage proposals, both of which I’d turned down.

(The first was my seriously older serious boyfriend in my seriously-in-over-my-head six monther. The second came from one of my cousin’s seriously drunk friends at a wedding. That’s my favorite proposal. He was a young heir to a very wealthy New Jersey mafia family and had a last name you would probably recognize. After thirty minutes of conversation with him, he looked at me and said, “Wow, I could marry a girl like you. What do you say? Will you marry me?” I thought for a moment about the repercussions of saying “no” to someone whose family owned a waste-removal business that did inexplicably well and decided that all the Dior in the world wouldn’t make up for having to look over my shoulder for baseball bats, guns with silencers, or piano wire for the rest of my life. I let him down gently, pleading the too-many-gin-and-tonics excuse. He sighed, and told me he hoped I’d reconsider someday because I’d be “a valuable asset to The Family”. I was charmed.)

Although I have been in love with a man, I have never said “I love you” out-loud. Neither have any of my various men ever uttered those words to me. Generally, I tend to consider myself unlovable. At first, I may deceive people into thinking I’m easily loved, but once you discover all my bad habits (see above), spend some quality time with me (read: extended periods of time, like all weekend; special functions; experience me hungry, tired, or really pissed off), or start to see my odd quirks (won’t even go into those), I can even see why most men would rather run for the hills than spend another week with me, let alone tell me they love me.

My mother has always said that that man I end up with…

(Note she says “end up with.” Despite the marriage proposals, I have no intents on ever getting married. I feel it’s a dying institution and find the idea of waking up next to the same person every morning for over thirty-five years of my life like my parents have to be utterly demoralizing)

…Will be someone incredibly interesting who will give me a good run for my money.

Because if he’s not, I’ll certainly manage to get rid of him.

I am loud, bawdy, cocky, have a tendency to have to put my foot in my mouth, saccharinely sweet when dealing with people who I don’t want to have to deal with that they can sense, two-faced in dealing with my personal and professional lives that I see no problem with, have never had to meet the parents and so am terrified to for the above reasons, and generally a very good example of the term “a hot mess.”

But what does this all have to do with anything, you ask? Well, I’ve just met Mr. Perfect, you see. Maybe not my Mr. Perfect, as he’s lacking the blue eyes and criminal record and subsequent nefarious mind that I seem to find so appealing, but I think the rest of the world would agree on the fact that he is Perfection. Hence, the moniker. In fact, I think he was actually behind me the day we met when I ran to my bedroom to Tweet to the rest of the Twitter world that I had “met the perfect man, and in fact, I think he’s standing right behind me as I write this.” If so, he was perfect enough not to mention my zeal and indisgression.

He is six-foot-three, and a solid two-hundred and four pounds of “I work out at the gym for two hours every day and did track and field in high school” muscle. Make that, “I have the state record for a discus throw, too,” muscle. He has soft and floppy brown hair, and bright and mischievous hazel eyes. He has a quick and bright white smile, with teeth that either boast a few thou worth of orthodontia work, or some of the finest genes Mother Nature ever handed out. He dresses nicely, wears size fifteen shoes, and has hands that are so big his fingers bend down mid-knuckle over the top of mine. (And yes, if you’re wondering…he is proportional.) He’s out-going, and makes friends quickly and conversation easily. (I refer to his disposition as the Labrador of people. Big, charmingly goofy and attractive, and has never met a person that hasn’t liked him. Except for maybe one of my exes.) He has a beautiful tenor singing voice, writes his own music which he performs, and plays the bass. He spent two months in Costa Rica with a few friends this past spring on a whim, and while there learned how to both salsa dance and surf. He, in fact, likes to dance. And used to ride horses. (His family has two.) He is, surprise surprise, just as casual and into sex and sex-related stuff as I am.

And of course, I am not the only one who has realized he is perfect. Of course. But I always did like a good fight, and I never play fair.

We actually met on a fix-up. My short-term roommate Cait just happened to be one of his closest friends, and one Friday afternoon called me into her room to show me pictures of her friend who was going to come and visit. “I think you’ll really like him,” she told me. “You two are a lot alike and I think you’ll click.” His pictures didn’t really do him justice, even after Cait gave me the “track and field, state records, works out, really tall and attractive” spiel. I was indifferent.

“If I’m around, sure, I’ll meet him,” I told her.

I happened to be around when Cait brought him back to the apartment, and went to go let them in from the parking garage. As I held the door open for them and watched him walk toward me, I had only one thought:

“Wow.”

Needless to say, we did click, as Cait had predicted. By the time he left that first night, and Cait asked what he thought about me, he told her he thought I was cute and fun and would love to hook up, if possible. I considered it very, very possible.

Four days, a few texts, a collective eight vodka shots, four beers, a half-and-half clove and marijuana cigarette, a drunken invitation to share my bed for the night, some quick meeting of my friends (and an ex), over two hours of soul-searching and past-enlightening conversation, and a cute come-on later, I slept with him. The second time I met him. Though this officially made me a slut, and not, as my best friend protested, “horny and opportunistic,” it was the right move. We both wanted to, so why not? I’ve never held much stock in that whole wait-for-the-thrill-of-the-chase thing.

Since then, Mr. Perfect remains an on-going experience. We’ll see how long it takes him to figure out that under the big blue eyes and quick wit, I am anything but perfect.

XOXO