A Seemingly Perfect Date That Secretly Wasn’t
I spent hours in misery.
It’s 2 am. I have a man next to me, in my bed, snoring loudly. My fingers are firmly pressed against my crotch to help ease the throbbing pain from a bladder infection. Five more hours until the alarm goes off and he leaves.
FML.
After deleting dating apps, I gave Facebook dating a random shot in a moment of weakness when missing my ex-not-boyfriend Jeremy. I met Carlos, a single dad who is okay-looking but is the buffest guy I’ve ever seen naked in my life.
I vowed never again to experience a relationship where I like the guy more than he likes me. Carlos is enamored with me. While it took nine months of dating and a breakup for Jeremy to finally call me his girlfriend, Carlos would easily jump into boyfriend mode if I snapped my fingers.
There’s intense pressure to know immediately. The longer the dating time frame, the more difficult it is to end things. It’s been almost a month and I feel suffocated by the inevitable decision.
I forgot what it’s like to have a guy immediately text back, make plans, and enthusiastically want to spend time with me. It’s shocking to me, in hindsight, how much control Jeremy had over my self-esteem because of his unwillingness to plan anything beyond a few days or text me more than once a day.
Dating when people have kids means date nights happen at random times. It’s Monday and Carlos has planned an entire evening for us. I don’t have to lift a finger for planning.
“I’m old-fashioned and believe the guy should always pick up the girl for a date, is that okay?” he once asked me. “I hate driving and you’re the one making the trek,” I reply. Only once in the nine months of dating did Jeremy show up to my place for the sole purpose of driving us.
He arrives on time, flowers in hand. When was the last time someone gave me flowers? It’s a sweet gesture but I don’t even have a vase (my tiny house doesn’t have storage for frivolous things like that). I take the ghetto route and put them in a plastic juice pitcher.
Our dates have always been in public so once he walks in, Carlos passionately kisses me. His kisses are like making out with a soaking wet sponge.
For all the readers who insist you can teach a man how to kiss the way you want him to…best of luck with that. I know from years of my son’s speech therapy how much mouth shape, strength, and tongue coordination are all factors in how we use the bottom half of our face. Carlos isn’t a teenager new to the kissing world. We don’t control our spit output. I’d be offended as fuck if someone tried teaching me how to kiss, no matter how hot the guy was. You get what you get.
Despite my mouth feeling like it’s being slapped by a fish, I lead him upstairs. I might as well enjoy the rest of his body if his mouth is going to make me miserable. We get upstairs to my bedroom. He’s got a larger-than-average dick so, yay for that. He’s solid in his boning skills. Not the best I’ve ever had but I have no complaints. Yet.
After Carlos cums, we hit up a nearby driving range because I’ve decided I’m going to be a golf pro. There’s irony somewhere in that I’m learning about the underlying purpose of meeting men in the wild.
Carlos pays for the bucket of balls and lets me use his daughter’s golf clubs. It’s very sweet that he’s excited for me to learn since he plays regularly. I also know that it gives him the chance to show off his mad golf skills. Guys will always use an excuse to fluff their feathers.
Being the snarky bitch that I am, I’m annoyed at this scenario. I’m the type of person who prefers to learn things solo or with strangers. There’s too much pressure, even when none is given. I rush through the bucket, eager to GTFO and move on to dinner.
I change into a dinner outfit when we walk back to Carlos’ Prius. I think back to when a guy once told me never to date a guy with a Prius. At the time, I thought he was ridiculous. Now that I’ve whored myself with a billion guys since my divorce, I agree. The guys I get along with drove Teslas, BMWs, or big fancy trucks. It makes sense for Carlos to drive a hybrid since he visits clients all day for work but my brain still thinks my SUV is better than his car.
We trek to the restaurant which is further away than I’d ever drive for food. I gush to him about how “it’s sooooooo niiiiice” that he picked me up for us “to go allllllll the wayyyyyy” to a beach city. I know the game. Always show a guy appreciation for his efforts like he’s moving a fucking boulder up a mountain.
When we park, I put my hand in the crook of Carlos’ bent arm in an old-fashioned way. It’s my move for making guys feel chivalrous while flexing their biceps. They think it’s sweet. Meanwhile, I do it because I fucking loathe holding hands. Unless it’s my kids, keep your sweaty hand away from mine. It’s an autism thing.
I look over at him. He’s not bad looking. The more I look at him, the less attractive he becomes. While his body is built like a truck, he’s shorter than he lets on (sorry bro, you’re not 5'10). He’s in sales and is smooth with chatting. We can babble for hours.
Except…I don’t care for anything he says. If I hadn’t dated Jeremy, I’d think this was perfectly fine. But now I long for the days when I held onto his every word because he was interesting and hilarious. Despite Carlos’ enthusiastic talk, I force myself to focus on his words and come up with upbeat replies.
Alcohol helps.
Driving back to my place, Carlos mentions spending the night. I blurt out that only one guy has ever spent the night at my place since my divorce. Somehow that translates to an open invitation and I don’t know how to tell him that I’d rather eat glass than have him spend the night.
Fast forward and we’re back in my bed for Sex Round #2. I find myself automatically moving into doggy style, which Carlos later comments must be my favorite position. I realize that I did that because it was Jeremy’s favorite position. I make a mental note to quit doing that.
Dude loves going down. You’d think I’d be all for it except I can’t cum that way. Blame it on years of using sex toys to compensate for a sexless marriage. Unless your tongue is mutated and can do superhuman motions performed by electronic devices, it’s not going to happen. I’m okay with it for a short while but unlike most women (I assume), I’m fine with it lasting a minute before moving on.
Meanwhile, Carlos could spend an hour doing that. I tell him that he’ll never get me off that way but he doesn’t care. I think guys figure that it’s so enjoyable that it’s still worth doing. Or maybe it turns him on because he likes flappy things on his tongue. Either way, he does it often throughout the night and I’m moderately annoyed after a while.
We finish Round #2. And then a minute later, he’s hard again for Round #3. Like dude…no. I’m accustomed to men in their forties having a revival rate of a day with a max of twice if things are exceptionally sexy. At least the sex is good but like everything else, the Law of Diminishing returns kicks in.
When we’re done, Carlos comments about setting an alarm so he can wake up for work. Seven am. I get him a toothbrush and tell him my nighttime routine is time-consuming so it’s better that he just wraps it up and goes to bed rather than wait for me.
As I hand him a toothbrush, we look at our naked reflections in my full-length mirror. He’s behind me and the gravity of my body dysmorphia hits me. I knew he was buff but I didn’t think he was that much bigger than me because he’s only a few inches taller. In the mirror, I see that we look like Chris Hemsworth opposite Natalie Portman in “Thor”. I look microscopic despite feeling massive from my recent weight gain.
He crawls into my bed wearing only boxer briefs and passes out. I look at the green toothbrush I gave him, placed in my toothbrush holder. My brain isn’t used to any other toothbrush there than the purple one I saved for Jeremy. I pop a Macrobid antibiotic prescribed to me because I’m excessively prone to bladder infections. It’s better for me to always take a single pill after sex than to get the inevitable infection and then start a full week-long course of medication.
Crawling in next to Carlos, I’m not stoked by the scent of his post-sex body. I lay awake, unable to sleep from his snoring and my discomfort of having someone in bed next to me. I didn’t even sleep next to my ex-husband for the last decade of our marriage. Eventually, I realize I need to pee and quietly head to my kids’ bathroom.
It burns. No. No. No. I realize I took the Macrobid pill too late because our first sex session was at the beginning of the date. I frantically look in my kids’ bathroom for those little red pills that temporarily numb the pain until the meds kick in. Nothing.
I quietly sneak into my room and look in my closet for the secondary stash of medication I keep there. My house is so small and lacking in storage that I have to keep a box of medications in the same spot housing my shoes. I eagerly swallow the pain-numbing pills with the relief that in half an hour, I’ll be okay.
Except…I’m not. All night the pain is still there. I can’t sleep. I look up the box of red pills and realize it contains a different ingredient than the one that makes your pee turn bright orange. I’m in agony as I open my phone while on the floor of my bedroom, willing to pay Amazon thousands of dollars to ship me the alternative pills.
With a minimum of $35, Amazon will ship it to me within hours. I throw in a random set of bedsheets (I’ll return those later) and thank Jeff Bezos that in a few hours, I’ll get the meds. At this point, I’ve taken four of the other anti-numbing pills and two of the prescription pills.
I can’t sleep. I regularly get up to pee in my kids’ bathroom, knowing only a drop will escape and it’ll feel like knives exiting my urethra. I’ve dealt with this problem since college and after extensive visits with experts, the take-a-single-pill-after-sex has been the best solution and I thankfully only experience a full bladder infection twice a year.
Carlos wakes up at one point. I know he’s going to want sex in the morning because he’s a dude and testosterone is highest in the morning. He apologizes for his snoring keeping me up and I briefly consider telling him about the bladder infection. He’s the kind of guy who would not only apologize but run to the drugstore for me to get me anything I need at two am.
I tell him to go back to bed. I press my finger against my girl bits so that the pressure eases the pain by a whopping ten percent.
I’m miserable. And I’ve got hours to go before both Carlos’ departure and my Amazon arrival.
I get a brief respite of sleep when the alarm goes off. I opt for morning sex because it’ll be quicker than saying I’ve got a bladder infection, him exclaiming in horror and feeling bad, then the ensuing goodbye. I’d rather pretend things are normal. I’ve been through much, much worse bladder infection incidents (including peeing straight blood but being unable to visit urgent care while caring for a newborn and a toddler).
When Carlos leaves, my Amazon package is already at the door. “It was fun, bye-eeeeee!” I holler as I push him out. I savagely open the box and inhale more pain-numbing red pills than the maximum recommended on the box. I don’t care if it turns my stomach lining to confetti, I need this pelvic pain to end.
Throughout the day, I reflect on Carlos. I know I need to stop the comparisons with Jeremy. He’s everything most women would want: in great shape, has a seemingly-decent job, is chivalrous, great at conversation, tells his friends about my amazingness, and makes an effort to spend time with me.
Am I lowering the bar because I’m not enjoying our time as much as I did with Jeremy or am I being unrealistic? In my analysis paralysis, I choose to keep the status quo and let the relationship continue to play out.
