Every once in awhile this subject needs to be broached. Reflected on. And perhaps conclusions can be made. All I can conclude at this moment in my life is that men, dear men make my head hurt.
Men, I do not get. I definitely live in some parallel world to reality. Men are kings of the double entendre. And I have realised they are not entendr’ing in the ways I thought or was told about.
I once was involved in a “relationship” that was near perfect. I lived in Jo’burg. He lived by the coast. We both owned mobile phones with the ability to send sms’s and make phone calls. Two things he ever communicated with me shook me to my bones (ok, fine, but the other times were in a much more pleasant way).
1. I know that if we lived in the same town, we would be in a wonderful long term relationship.
Cough. Splutter. Na Aaa, honey. It works so well now because “it” is very much one-dimensional in character. Hell, I barely know your last name, let alone our compatibility chances.
2. I am sorry to hear about your family member’s death. Why do you not come over to my hotel so I can comfort you?
Sorry honey, but sex and mourning together just do not do it for me.
I never heard from him after that sms.
One month he seems convinced we are set for marriage. The next, he is reaching for new lows to get himself to new highs.
A man who very much should not be contacting me, calls, leaves messages, asks when we are next going for drinks. In a hurt tone he questions if I am avoiding his calls. I sit wondering if he happened to forget about his reality. He does not phone for months, and when he does, and I miss his bi-quarterly call he treats me like I am the distant hard-playing bitch in this situation. Over drinks he will then explain his vision of “us” to me. It resembles the previous example. Detached. Both well aware of the meaninglessness of it all. And how our meaningless will continue for years and years to uh…cum. And I order another bottle of the best, change the subject, & watch his wallet deflate.
They beg me to fly over a continent to see them, to resume what we had before, to then tell me several hours after arrival that they are still hung up on their girlfriend an ocean away.
They score me. Fight with me. Try to bed me. Tell me they are gay. Try to bed me again. Tell me I am great in the sack. And that they have finally worked up enough courage to come out of the closet to their folks.
They come to visit, yet never call.
They know I am desperately attracted to them. Might even say they are too. Yet tell me about other women they are awed by. Or just forget to act on their supposed attraction. Or give the scared speech. (Help me, but that one grates my bones!)
They promise visits and champagne. And do so monthly promise. Flights, I have learnt to suppose, remaining unbooked.
They buy me a tequila as a stranger at the bar in a sober state, and the next time I run into them, they look down and barely mutter Hi.
They call up for drinks as friends. Like we have always been. And we act as the friends that we were before. They promise me the world, knowing full well from experience that the world accepted does not cause me to shag them. And I forget my bracelet on the nightstand. While they forget the entire friendship there, it seems.
They take me drinking. And act ready. And pull back. And call again, asking when we are next going out.
Men arrive. Men leave. And I am left reflecting from a very confused stand point. They offer no advice on what attracted them. Or what suddenly made them cold. Some return months or years later, trying to resume things. Like I am still a sucker for their poor game plays.
And I know the game. I know the rules full well. But the men who attract themselves to me seem to break every logical rule. They never follow the book. Even friends and advisers are left baffled. My experiences become infamous.
Maybe I have bad breath. Or am shite in the sack. Maybe my conversation skills are too poor. Or I am too intense. Perhaps I border on stalker. Or am too easy. Maybe I hear what I want to hear, and not the reality. Perhaps I drink too much. Or am too overweight. I show too little interest? Or make the perfect mate, rather than the perfect partner.
Sometimes I consider demanding enough respect to have some questions answered. But we have moved on, or they are still playing too many games for straight responses.
And while I still believe most of them are wonderful, even those that treated me like shite, I have learnt to stand up against such silliness. Over time we end up as great friends. And while this is gorgeous and satisfactory, it does not often allow for bone-shaking satisfaction.
Or a clear head.