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It got me thinking: how does it happen that I’ve had so much sexual experience (not SO much, just so much), and so little dating experience?
Could it be that for the entire duration of my early-twenties, while I assumed I was being vetted for girlfriend potential, I was just serving as a potential-less plaything? I suspect it’s because in real life there are no algorithms or “Here For” categories to help define what we are doing, like really doing, when we writhe around in someone’s bed. Now that I look back on my time as a single person, I’m pretty sure I was never properly courted; never picked up promptly at 7, treated to a nice plate of surf n’ turf, and never not ditched abruptly when I made it clear that I wasn’t going to have sex with this much older, half-Panamian actor/hand model who feigned interest in my personality just to get me back to the palatial chateau up Franklin Canyon he was house-sitting for a rich friend.
The preemptive strikes, the leaving in the middle of the night and deleting phone numbers to avoid the temptation, solved nothing.
While I still don’t value those things as mandatory prerequisites for happiness, I appreciate women, and people in general, who have the courage to ask for what they want instead of impersonating contentment while privately oozing bitterness.
On multiple occasions, I watched the guy I had feelings for (and whom I’d been sleeping with) flirt with another one of the regulars at the bar.