If you recall this article of mine from last February, you know that I have a strange habit of developing crushes on taken men. In the article, I referenced one crush in particular, and ended with a convincing, “…if I do end up entertaining this guy, rest assured that you all will be the first to find out.”
I hooked up with him in September. Safe to say, you were not the first to find out. Sorry for keeping it from you for a solid month and a half.
I could’ve typed up an article right after I hobbled home from his apartment, but I had a feeling that there was more to the story than I hooked up with the guy I’ve been lusting after for a year and it was pretty good!
Though hindsight is twenty-twenty, my foresight isn’t half bad either. Sure enough, there is much more to this story than the drunken hookup we shared. In fact, I’m sparing you the details of it — that’s how deep the aftermath was.
After spending the night together, a week went by before we spoke again. Somehow, we ended up at the same party. For the third weekend in a row. I clearly saw him making out with another girl in the corner of the room and tried my best not to be annoyed. I’m a fairly jealous person, but how he chose to rebound wasn’t any of my business.
However, what did annoy me is what that asshole did next.
Once he parted from his new piece, he came and said hi to me. Strangely, after we exchanged pleasantries, he asked me to leave with him. Because I have an inkling of self-respect (and I was sober), I aptly turned him down.
The next morning, I woke up to a text from him. I forget what it said, and I won’t look now because I am a fragile woman on the verge of a man-relapse. What was important about this event was not the contents of the text, but the fact that I ghosted it (after hearty encouragement from my friends).
By then, I had mostly figured out that this man didn’t see anything in me but a warm mouth. There is a world of depth to me — a depth that, if you recall the events of this past February, he didn’t hesitate to ask me about when he was in a relationship. After starting what might be the rebound of the century, it seems as though every girl is the same to him.
While this might just be a hypothesis on my end, it’s being proven pretty well by the radio silence coming from his end. No more texts, no more coming up to me and asking to go home — just some aside glances as he collects more phone numbers.
This, my subject, is the crux of the issue: Imagine if I responded to this man’s text. Imagine if I became another name on his roster. What would that make of me? Reduced to a number? Reduced to a girl who gives outrageously amazing head?
Though no one truly knows if anything could’ve come from the situation, I can tell you what I think would’ve happened. I would’ve hooked up with him again, then wondered why he was still soliciting other women. I would’ve spent multiple nights in his bed and spent them tossing and turning, wondering how frequently he washes his sheets.
If I know nothing in this world, at the very least, I know myself.
Though I am sexually comfortable, I am more than the favors I can do for a man who doesn’t want a girlfriend anymore. I won’t be called upon when it’s most convenient or ignored until some bum decides he doesn’t want to sleep alone. I will not be a stepping stone on — as I dubbed it a few paragraphs ago — the rebound of the century!
As much as I’d like to make a point here, there is no clear moral to this story. In all honesty, I just enjoy sharing the pitfalls of my romantic life with you, dear reader. If I were to share the ultimate lesson that I learned from my two-week period of entertaining this man, it would be this:
Never meet your heroes.
Virginia Snatch is a student at Cornell University. Her fortnightly Column The Slip ‘N Slide discusses the art of sex, passion and everything in between.
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