We all have our shortcomings. That’s what I should have said to “Donnie”* when he tried to play Don Juan in the deluded fantasy of his universe. There’s nothing worse than a guy in his early 20s who tries to impress a woman by acting like a playboy.
A playboy must accrue first the physical specifications and second the accoutrements of a well-rounded reputation. If you’re going to act like a stud, you better damn well have the junk to speak for itself.
Second, a playboy should never let his guard down. Never, ever show a point of vulnerability where a woman can cut you down for years to come with her friends who will from now on rule out the possibility of ever having sex with you. Even though the rest of us are human, playboys aren’t. They have no soul. Remember this first and foremost.
Donnie could have used this memo a couple weeks ago when he instant messaged me on Google Talk. Because I am in constant need of communication in some form or fashion, I have the Google Talk application downloaded on my Blackberry, so I can chat with friends while they’re at work but don’t want to be seen texting at their desks.
So anyway, I’m exploring a new city with my good friend from college W, and I get this IM from Donnie: “Good afternoon.”
There’s nothing that irks me more when a man attempts to amp up his everyday speech for the sake of looking or sounding cooler and more intelligent than he actually is. Apparently I didn’t answer fast enough because he followed with, “Got a minute?”
I groaned and told W the message. I couldn’t possibly be in any sort of trouble. We hadn’t been dating by any means, and we certainly weren’t having sex. How could this have been a bad thing? Then I started thinking about the possibilities. This guy may actually want to make this work. Ick.
Well I didn’t get my worst nightmare, and I didn’t exactly get my dream scenario either. As a product of the 21st century and a fully liberated woman, I prefer to keep things casual. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. We’ll see who breaks down first. Most likely it will be you. (Some may also say this is a product of a broken heart; this is what I call playing it safe.)
It takes him a while to respond, all the while W and I are checking out every hot navy boy’s ass as they walk by (I wanted to hook me a sailor, fa’sho). During the space of time it took him to respond, I thought back to all the hot and heavy sessions Donnie and I had shared, which all ended … unfortunately.
I’m not sure why I kept seeing him, to be honest. It was probably mostly out of boredom and the shallow dating pool I was forced to wade in, thanks to the tiny college town that I occupied.
Donnie was, well. Donnie was special. And I don’t mean that in the I-fell-in-love-with-this-guy special. I mean the wow-can-you-really-call-that-thing-a-penis special.
This was my first experience with such a, how shall we call it, disproportionately sized disco stick. At first I thought he was having a difficult time getting hard because we had a couple of cocktails, which then prompted the thought, “Oh hell no, this won’t work, seeing as how I could use a cocktail with every meal, except breakfast, and even then I want a beer.”
It was just so … tiny. There’s nothing more disheartening for a woman when she has somewhat of a physical connection with a man, only to find out minutes later, that the bastard isn’t packing enough heat to make friction with a pair of panty hose, let alone my clitoris.
So here I am, trying not to gag. Not only was it small, but only halfway hard. There is also nothing scarier to me than flaccid penis. Not only is it flabby and wilted, but it also holds no utilitarian purpose for me. It’s useless. He asks me to go down on him. I oblige, but cautiously. We make out for a few more minutes, and Jack finally comes out of his box (seriously, the only thing that could have made this experience more scarring is if his peen were uncircumcised).
It’s not that I don’t enjoy giving head. I do … but only when the stars are aligned perfectly. We as humans only really enjoy doing it to a very small percentage of people—we just continue to give it because it gets us what we want.
So I’m down there, doing my best at acting like his junk doesn’t make me want to run for the hills, when I don’t even have time to get my bearings straight, and … he finishes. It couldn’t have been longer than 60 seconds. That’s usually my interest threshold for BJs, and I hadn’t even gotten bored yet. Plus there hadn’t been a courtesy tap or warning in any fashion.
What. The. Fuck. This had never been a problem with any of the guys I had dated, casually or serious. In fact, up until this point, I had been extremely lucky. My first real boyfriend, turns out, was more of a stud than I initially gave him credit for. I should use this time to apologize, but I’m not one for apologizing to people who are as big of assholes as myself.
And for my unabashed approach to talking about sex, I’m surprisingly traditional. Well, traditional in the sense that you only get the goodies when you pay your dues. Take me out on dates, act like you give a shit, even for a substantial two weeks. Who wouldn’t? I’m a catch with a nice ass, and if the rumors are true I’m awesome in bed. I like men, and I like partying. The two go hand in hand.
So with Donnie, the answer was simple. I didn’t deign to have sex with him, for fear of becoming a social pariah. Not only had he not expressed interest in dating me, but he also had a stump for a third leg. This was a no-brainer. Why waste both my energy and my standards? There are better stallions to break, I promise you.
So, imagine my shock and laughter when I get this message verbatim (I save chat logs for this very reason): “While it would be easier to let it taper off, I feel that the right thing to do is explain to you that the sexual side of our relationship wasn’t working out for me, and I hope you’ll respect my wish to simply be friends.”
There are two problems with this type of message. First, do it over the phone and don’t hide behind the your mother’s skirt (in his case the Internet) because you’re too much of a pussy to hear what I actually have to say in return.
Second, the “relationship” (if you could call it that) had already tapered off. There was no reason to continue seeing this poor soul. I hadn’t talked to him in weeks and was perfectly content with that realization. Once he told me that someone once compared him to dust particles one sees in the afternoon sunlight … and thought this was a compliment. This is someone I had no business around in the first place; I was just better, and that’s all there is to it.
And third, who says, “Respect my wish”? I wanted to laugh in his face and bitch slap him at the same time. The only males I maintain a friendship with are the ones I respect enough not to conquest. Let’s get real here. His personality was enough to send me home. Take out manual stimulation and oral sex, and I’ve already got my bags packed with a foot out the door.
My response: “I really don’t need an explanation. I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks, and I’m OK with it.”
Donnie: “Oh. Well. Glad we’re on the same page then.”
See, if you’re going to act like the playboy that Donnie wished he was, just disappear. And make sure the girl actually gives a shit. If she doesn’t … well, you’re just come off looking like a jackass. Or an idiot who has issues with premature ejaculation.
Like I said, we all have our short cummings.
*Names have been changed. Obvs.
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