Don’t Give Me Premature Emotional Ejaculation
Save that for an appropriate time.
Sometimes, when I write, I have too much to say and my brain knows my hands won’t keep up with the emotional vomit. Today’s that kind of day. My brain is reeling.
It’s Monday afternoon. I was supposed to see a movie with Sean, a guy I dated years ago who seems hell-bent on giving a smidge of commitment for the first time. Through a series of scheduling mishaps, the evening didn’t work out.
I asked Carlos if he was free. My parents are coming to town and if I don’t see him now, it’ll be weeks before I see him again. That doesn’t bug me as much as it bugs him, so I’m making an effort.
Our plan is to hang out on the beach and have dinner. I’m not a “hang out on the beach and have dinner” kind of gal, but I suggested it because it’s hot as balls outside. I wear a crop top and baggy jean shorts, my casually sexy look despite my insecurity over my weight gain.
When Carlos arrives, he tells me a text I sent him earlier had him turned on all day. That means sex is happening now, not later. I’m annoyed that he doesn’t have his own place and all naked activities happen at my house; keeping a clean and sexy bedroom is exhausting. Well, keeping it clean on its own is exhausting.
“Let’s just do dinner at a restaurant by the beach,” he says. “The sand will be too hot.”
Grumble. I’m a planner by nature and I don’t do well with spontaneous changes. I scramble to find a dress despite him insisting the earlier t-shirt look is fine (no fucking way am I going to a nice restaurant looking like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman).
The car ride is chatty as usual. There’s never a lull in conversation but I’m never enraptured with his words. My anxiety-filled brain easily wanders to other things.
“Blah blah blah since you’re my girlfriend blah blah,” Carlos says. Wait, what? We had a split-second conversation about labels when he had his dick in me. That doesn’t count. I wanted to have a proper conversation about it. He’s already yapping about whatever topic so now isn’t the time for me to bring it up.
I definitely can’t date Sean, not while I’m (apparently) in girlfriend mode.
The last time someone called me their girlfriend, it was Jeremy and he only called me that after we broke up.
Carlos puts his name in at a trendy restaurant that I went to a few months ago on another date. I’m not sure why people love this place, it’s always listed in Top Ten Whatever Restaurant guides. I don’t do seafood and it’s by the beach, so that’s on me for not appreciating its magical food.
While we wait for our table, we swing by next door to grab a drink. I whip out my credit card to pay, knowing full well that Carlos will pay for the dinner.
“Okay you can get these drinks, I’ll get dinner,” he says. I assumed correctly.
Already buzzed, I tell him that I’m only cool with him paying so much because he doesn’t pay rent while he and his daughter live in his parents’ house. To clarify, I’m fine with him paying so much even if he had a home loan but I’m playing it cool.
“Oh totally. I don’t have a mortgage like you do,” he replies. It makes me wonder if his salary is good enough to pay for a single-family, detached home.
We sit down and order drinks. As we toast, I say “Cheers!”
Carlos looks me straight in the eye and says “I love you”.
For fuck’s sake. It’s barely been eight weeks of dating. I knew he was falling in love with me, I didn’t think it landed and smashed on the ground already.
There is nothing more awkward than the moment someone says “I love you” and you don’t say it back. But it’s not my first rodeo in this department, so I grab his face with my hands and give him a seductive kiss.
He pulls back and waits. Oh shit…is he expecting me to say it back? Right now?
“I will never repeat that I love someone right after they say it to me, I wouldn’t want them to think that I’m only saying it because they did,” I say with conviction.
I thought that would be the end of it. Nope. Carlos has turned his love confession into a dinner topic. I’m an Anxious Avoidant and right now, the Avoidant side is bigger than the Empire State Building. I can feel my body stiffen with anxiety. My right knee starts bouncing. I chug the next glass of wine. I stress eat the garlic bread.
He tells me how he told a female friend that he was going to tell me today. “Wait, you had this planned?” I ask. Yes, yes he did. Carlos goes on a tangent asking if it bothers him that he has a female friend.
“I couldn’t care less,” I tell him. Which is true. This isn’t the kind of guy who cheats. However, I’m mad at his female friend. Bitch, don’t we have a girl code? Why didn’t you tell him he was jumping the gun too soon? Why didn’t you tell him he’s coming on too strong? You had one job and it was to keep your male friend in check.
In a shocking state of bluntness probably fueled by alcohol, Carlos asks point blank if I feel the same way.
Who does that? If you have to ask, then you know your answer.
I give him another one of my patented face-holding, seductive kisses. “I feel very, very strongly for you. This is going in the right direction that you want it to go.” This satisfies him enough (I think he thinks that I love him too but just won’t say it.)
In a world of Fight or Flight, I “fawn”. I don’t want to run, break his heart, look like a dick, and make it a big deal. I don’t want to debate or defend that I don’t feel that way after barely two months of dating.
So I fawn. I let my body freeze up, plaster a smile, and engage in regular dinner chatting. I don’t do well when put on the spot in tense or heightened emotional situations.
Carlos brings it up a few more times and I swiftly redirect to other topics. I’m one step from hyperventilating. I just want to go home, change into something comfy, crawl into bed, and mentally process this emotional proclamation.
We head back to the bar next door when dinner is finished. Once again, Carlos brings it up. “Were you surprised when I told you I love you?”
“I already knew,” I blurt out. I didn’t want to say, “Because you gave me certain looks during and after sex, I know what those looks mean.”
“A girl can sense when a guy is protective over her. I know right now if someone came in with a gun, your instinct would be to shield me. That’s how I know.” I’m proud of myself for BSing a swift reply.
As we walk back to the car, I offer to take a picture of a couple attempting a selfie. They ask if we want our photo taken and I hand over my camera. I like my phone but it sucks at taking good photos. I always look like a mutant version of a human.
Unless, of course, I do look like a mutant version of a human and I’m in denial.
I scroll through the pics as we drive back to my place. Some are fuzzy and get deleted. There’s one in particular that sums up the entire night.
In the picture, Carlos is turned towards me with a smile on his face. It’s one of those “find someone who looks at you the way Johnny Depp looks at this bottle of rum” kind of faces. Absolute adoration.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a fake smile plastered as I look at the camera. I can see the look of abject fear and a desire to process Carlos’ premature emotional ejaculation.
Fuck. Fuck. This is moving too fast. We’re not young, needing to look into marriage and kids. We have time to go at a reasonable pace. I think back to Carlos mentioning a previous relationship, after a few months they were hanging out with their kids.
That’s not how I roll. That’s not how anyone else I’ve ever dated rolls. We don’t introduce kids until it’s at a hardcore serious stage, like moving in together. Given the pace Carlos is pushing this relationship, I’ll meet his daughter next week.
I give Carlos a flimsy excuse for why he can’t spend the night. We bang twice (that’s three times in one night, I’m plenty fine with just twice because the third time is neverending and it’s a law of diminishing returns) before he bails out.
“Gahhhh!” I yell with the intensity I had when leaving Sean’s house a few days ago. This clusterfuck of a situation just got more clusterfucked.
My brain wanders back to Jeremy. This is the opposite of my relationship with him, where he never professed any affection until we broke up.
Oh fuck. I’m Jeremy in this situation. I’m the one who has one foot out the door, isn’t sure, doesn’t want to commit just yet, and isn’t jumping through hoops to see the other person.
I don’t want to be Jeremy in this situation. It’s not fair to Carlos. On paper, he’s wonderful. He’s the kind of guy who would fill up your tank of gas every Sunday morning before you woke up. He has me on a pedestal and adores me. Every woman would kill for a guy this wonderful.
But I’m not going to be Jeremy. Fuck that. It’s an awful feeling because on the opposite end of a Jeremy. So here’s my plan: I’ll give it four months. If Carlos weren’t pushing things, I would feel comfortable at four months to assess if I’m going towards love or if it isn’t going to happen.
If by Halloween I’m still feeling the way that I do now, then that means I’ll never fall in love with him. I vow to him, to you the reader, and myself, that I’ll end things.
