I Manifested the Wrong Relationship

On paper, it’s perfect.

I’m not a “trust the universe” kind of gal.

When frantically distracting myself during my breakup with Jeremy, I went down a manifestation rabbit hole on TikTok. There are two main thoughts: behave like you already have the thing you want (and are grateful to the Universe for giving it to you) or believe with conviction that you’ll get the thing you want (and are grateful to the Universe for giving it to you).

When spiraling emotionally during my initial No Contact period, I slapped myself out of my hysteria by repeating, “By the end of June, I’ll meet the guy who will end up being my boyfriend. He’ll meet all the criteria. I’ll look back and be grateful I dodged a bullet with Jeremy.”

Any time I felt down about myself or obsessed over the breakup, I’d bitch-slap myself and say “End of June. End of June.” This tricked my brain into thinking my pain would send soon as a stop-gap measure to get me through the day. I figured if it didn’t happen, at least I got through the worst of the breakup heartache.

I deleted the dating apps. But on a whim, I tried Facebook dating (it’s the little heart icon at the top of the app if you’ve ever wondered what it’s for) and immediately met Carlos.

He’s cute but the more I stare at him, the less I find him attractive. He had braces as a kid but didn’t properly wear the retainer so his teeth protrude, almost like bad celebrity veneers. He has a wide nose which makes him sound like he’s stuffed up with a cold. He’s on the shorter side, which makes me feel odd as a petite woman when wearing heels.

On the flip side, Carlos has crazy muscles. His bicep is easily the size of my thighs. He’s of Mexican descent and has smooth, bronze skin. His dick is on the larger side and he’s pretty good in bed.

I never have to drive anywhere, which is a far cry from the days of trekking to Jeremy’s house. Carlos has old-fashioned tendencies, including picking me up for dates and always opening doors. He’s in sales and has an outgoing, chatty personality. His divorce ended years ago and he went to therapy before entering the dating world.

This is a guy who makes efforts. He knows my favorite flowers and often asks what I like or don’t like. Carlos wants to know my sexual preferences and is eager to adapt. I mentioned my favorite tea is discontinued (“mention” means “I flipped out”) and when he swung by Target, he picked up the last boxes they had in stock.

I’ve barely paid for anything. Typically, that’s a relief because I’m dating someone wealthy. One of Carlos’ red flags is he lives with his parents because he sold his house after the divorce and buying right now in Southern California, with current interest rates, is absurd. His mother has lymphoma but also watches his daughter when he’s working. This guy isn’t paying a mortgage and has loads of disposable income.

It also negates his willingness to drive everywhere. He doesn’t have a choice. We can’t hang out and fuck at his place. The perk of always going to Jeremy’s house was that I never worried about having fresh bedsheets or a clean kitchen. It’s time-consuming for me to tidy despite Carlos’ probably indifference to the mess.

In the grand scheme, he’s great. He adores me. He wants a serious, committed relationship. This is what I wanted and at the same time, it’s not what I want.

It’s Saturday. Tonight, Carlos got us tickets to a popup speakeasy event. After months of dating a guy who never made plans in advance, it’s a drastic change to date someone who plans and schedules dates.

“I’m craving my favorite brunch place in Del Mar,” he texts. “If you’re free on Sunday morning, you up for making the trek?”

It’s over an hour away. My brain immediately declines. My hands type back, “If we won’t be back super late, sure. If you’re spending the night tonight we can go for breakfast in the morning.”

I can’t have a bad attitude when this guy is making efforts. He was texting me all week about how excited he was to hang out on Saturday. I would have given my left arm for Jeremy to ever tell me that.

To switch my brain on the right track, I dye my hair (to cover the greys I refuse to admit I have) and slather on self-tanner. I change the sheets and wear a sexy, low-cut dress with a tropical print. It’s open in the back and if I twist the wrong way, I’m flashing my nipples.

I feel self-conscious about the weight gain since the now-infamous Jeremy breakup. I was 95lbs when he last saw me and while that’s unhealthy, let’s acknowledge that it looks bangin’ when wearing a crop top. I’ve barely exercised since and my diet consists of Pringles and cookies.

For unknown reasons, Carlos made stupidly early dinner reservations. The speakeasy event isn’t until 8 pm. He picks me up at 5 pm. Why am I annoyed when someone has taken the time to plan a fun evening for us? It’s like there’s a peanut gallery in my mind full of catty bitches, incessantly complaining when I should be grateful.

Before we leave, I get all cutesy and ask him to help carry something heavy to my car. I stupidly bought a portable air conditioner, as if I’d ever be able to install that thing myself. Maybe I’m used to buying that kind of thing and having Jeremy easily install it. After lugging it out to my car, I give the oh-you’re-amazing-thank-you-so-much-I-hope-it-wasn’t-too-much-trouble spiel. Carlos shrugs his shoulders and says, “Man work”.

I should appreciate this, right? A guy who defines taking out the trash and lifting heavy things as man work without me asking?

Throughout the night, he’s pawing at me. Unlike most men, Jeremy’s love language wasn’t touch, so I often compensated by making the small touchy-feely gestures that I knew were important when dating. With Carlos, I’m back in the realm of letting the guy bridge the physical touch barrier.

Also throughout the night, he gives me passionate kisses. Each time he leans over, I brace myself like a child standing on the sand waiting for an upcoming wave to engulf them in water. His mouth is ginormous and his not-veneered giant teeth make me feel like he’s eating my face instead of kissing my mouth.

We get to the restaurant and sit at the bar. Since Carlos isn’t a lazy sloth, he can eat anything he wants while his muscles passively burn it off. I’m starving but stick with a single slice of wood fire pizza and cornbread (if there’s cornbread on a menu, I’m fucking ordering it). We finish dinner with loads of time to spare.

Why is my brain disinterested in everything Carlos says? We talk endlessly but my head hears “blah blah blah”. We walk around the shopping complex after lunch and I repeat to myself that I’m lucky. This is what I wanted. This is what I wanted.

We get back to his car and there’s still time to spare. Carlos glides his fingers up my thigh and between my legs. He’s not the greatest at his fingers but he’s not the worst (there are only so many instructions you can give a guy and I’ve done my best to teach him). We still have loads of time to kill so I unzip him and begin sucking on him.

I don’t want him to finish though. If I finish him now, then it’ll take longer for him later, and I don’t want another night like the last time. Instead, I get all cute and coy. “I want to leave you wanting more.”

We have over an hour to kill. Driving to the speakeasy pop-up, we pass by a Costco. I don’t live near one and when I visit, I have to look cute because I don’t need to run into Jeremy (who practically lives at Costco) looking like a homeless psychopath. Perfect timing, I needed to pick up a few things that don’t need refrigeration.

Costco is the absolute worst and closed at 6 pm. How the fuck does that place stay in business? Their hours of operation are the worst.

At this point, I’m edgy. I need alcohol to continue the rest of this night. There’s only so much Cute, Fun, and Sexy I’ve got in me without it.

I wish I could write down the things we’ve talked about up to this point. Something about his beer club and a story about his job. I don’t remember. Or I don’t care. I should care though. This is what I wanted.

The speakeasy is in a restaurant at a golf course and after parking, there’s still loads of time. Fuck it, I don’t have mundane talk in me at this point. I go in for the second round of the blowjob. His Prius is tiny and my TMJ is killing me. Guys don’t appreciate the level of effort they take while looking elegant.

When I’m done, I glide his fingers in me. Despite my internal crankiness, I’ve been horny as fuck all week. If I break up with him, I’d either have to go without sex or start all over finding someone compatible. This is what I wanted.

I look over at the speakeasy and see a line forming. When we jump in line, we realize it’s not like a standard speakeasy which is a fancy word for a bar in a basement with no windows. This is a performance; there are no tables and our chairs all face forward like we’re watching a play. The windows are covered and it’s humid as hell. It’s going to start smelling gross really soon.

The show is cheesy. Four mixed drinks are passed around as someone stands in front wearing a spooky Halloween costume, telling a ghost story. I barely drink any alcohol (which was the point of the whole thing) because they’re horrific, which is ironic that the drinks were scarier than the ghost stories. “Want to get dessert after this? I was craving molten lava cake from our dessert chat earlier,” Carlos whispers.

My eating disorder inside me screams because I’m uncomfortable as it is with my food consumption the past few months. But this gives me a chance to guzzle a glass of wine before a potential night of never-ending sex. Dammit, why did I finish off that blowjob?

Do I remember anything Carlos said while we ate dessert and sipped drinks at a restaurant bar? Nope. This level of indifference is how I should have behaved with Jeremy. I know it sucks men in as they subconsciously enjoy the chase. Don’t get me wrong, I’m engaging, laughing, and dazzling. But I’m not giving anything emotional beyond surface-level topics.

When we get back to my place, he asks if I can put on lingerie for him. I once showed Carlos the massive drawer of lingerie I’ve got and most items still have price tags. My body is screaming that I ate pizza, cornbread, sugary drinks, and dessert. I grab a basic black lace teddy (basically a swimsuit made of lace) and as he comes in, he growls in anticipation.

Carlos crawls under me. He spends eternity licking and slurping between my legs. I should adore this. He’s good at it. He likes doing it. But my body is ruined from using clit toys in my sexless marriage. As he gets his tongue action on, my brain wanders to my Costco grocery list.

Eventually, he fucks me. He’s quite good. A solid 7.5. No one has ever hit a ten and only two have been at 9.5. I’d even say based on technical skill and not my emotional attraction, he’s much better than Jeremy. It’s tough not thinking about Jeremy when I’m being fucked; I long for his voice directing me, “Fucking cum for me!”

I tell Carlos to put his hands on my throat when he’s going to cum. I need him to be a little more dangerous. I need him to be less polite. I need him to dominate like I don’t have a choice. I need him to be more primal. I need him to be less Carlos.

When he finishes, we lay for a bit and give the usual post-sex chatter about each other’s hotness. He likes to say how attracted we are to each other which makes my brain think “But…are we though?” The more he says it, the less attracted I become.

“Want to watch a movie?” Carlos asks. Uh, no. I’m an autistic introvert who works from home. My quota of in-person time is already maxed out and we’re driving quite a while tomorrow for breakfast. My brain needs to recalibrate.

I jump out of bed and start washing up. I fake yawn and say, “Oh gee, look at the time! I’m exhausted, let’s go to sleep.” Carlos is shocked, given that I’m a night owl and it’s not even 11 pm. Why does my brain keep bouncing to thoughts of breaking up? He’s wonderful. He makes plans. He lifts heavy things. He’s enthusiastic and social. He adores me. This is what I wanted.

Carlos snores even louder than my ex-husband. I spend most of the night willing myself to sleep downstairs on the couch but instead, I stay in bed while pushing him every few minutes. He sleepily apologizes and resumes snoring.

I told the universe by the end of June what I wanted and it gave it to me. The limerence and butterflies I want are signs of an unhealthy relationship, right? I was handed a guy who is good to me and ready to commit. I should be happy, right? This is what I wanted.