Bachelor #2- In the Past

Shit. I’m almost late. I have to make the 7:47 a.m. bus–not because of the obvious reason (i.e., if I miss the bus, I’ll be late for work)–I couldn’t care less about that. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen my bus boyfriend–you know, the really hot guy you see just enough so that you keep gloss on your lips even though you’re having your morning tea; your only real reason for flat ironing your hair or wearing your 3-inch heels to the bus stop instead of carrying them in your work tote–him. It’s been two weeks since we’ve last seen each other, and I need a recharge.

This guy-let’s call him Bachelor #2–he’s one of the reasons I run daily, ward off carbs most weekdays, or say “no thanks” to that donut at the morning meeting. I actually have two others. Bachelor #1, however, is out of my league. He’s model gorgeous, has beautiful skin, beautiful teeth, designer Hugo Boss suits, Ferragamo shoes, and a black leather Prada laptop bag. Now that I think about it, he’s probably gay. But Bachelor # 2 is my favorite–probably within my numeric range. Let me take a moment to explain the numeric range, otherwise known as Rule #32 (another one of my many rules), because lots of people get confused by this or think it’s a shallow way to judge people: no one really cares about personality when they first see someone–maybe later, but in the beginning, you’re meeting the outer shell, and that shell has a number. There are always people out of your range, no matter who you are (well, except Beyonce, but let’s face it–none of us are Beyonce.) So, in order to keep the universe in balance, most people should stay within 1 standard deviation from their number. That means if you’re a 5 it’s okay to date a 4 or a 6, but not below or above that–doing so never works and it only takes away viable people from an already shallow pool.

Back to Bachelor #2: he’s tall, dark, and handsome–well dressed, Kenneth Cole inspired wardrobe and Cole Hann shoes–total cutie pie and absolute whore. He seems to have a healthy appetite for women. There have been countless times he has gotten on the bus with women carrying very obvious overnight bags (they are all average, which is the only reason I’m still hopeful.) They do slight things like adjust his tie or fall into him as the bus makes a sudden stop–small signs of their intimacy the night before. “How tacky,” I think, to let the world know you’ve spent all night slutting it up (though I secretly wish I was one of them.)
Then, there is Bachelor # 3- slightly attractive but more so because of his resume than his outer shell. I know I would be the prize in the relationship, I’m out of his range. He’s the one I smile at occasionally and whisper something to when I’m in a good mood, such as ”good morning’” as he walks past my seat. Not nearly as doable as Bachelors #1 or #2, but equally attractive, since the other two are not aware of my existence.
I make the bus. We pull to their stop and (damn it!) Bachelors #1 and #2 are missing. “Good morning,” says Bachelor #3.
“Morning.”
It’s Friday. I’m walking to CVS, and who do I see, but Bachelor #2. He’s standing in the corridor, talking on the phone. I promised myself and every friend I told about him that if I ever saw him outside of the bus, I would speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say
“Let me call you back,” he says into the phone. “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good.
“You ride my bus right? Well, used to–I moved.”
I think, “Damn, I ran this morning for nothing,” but say, “Oh really? Where to?”
“The other side of town.”
“I see you like the phone.”
“Well, if I had your number, I would love to talk to you.”
(Omg, this is not happening–Bachelor #2 is asking for my number! Lord, thank you so much for answering my prayers.)
He called that Sunday.
“What are you up to?”
“Studying at Panera. You?”
“I’m tailgating, you should stop by.”
“Okay.”
This is so not me. I hate last minute plans, and I never go with the flow, but I guess I’ll do anything for Bachelor #2...
Tailgating is so much fun–it’s five of his friends, two of whom are his brothers everyone is really friendly, including him. I feel like we have been friends for years. (I’m also sure this is his MO, but I don’t care–I’m smitten!)
After that, we start hanging out–we meet for drinks, movies, basketball games, and it’s moving fast. He comes over (we all know where this is leading), and I have the perfect outfit––black lace bra and lace boy shorts fresh from the VS semi-annual sale. The candles are lit (yes, candles, but not because I’m a romantic; it’s because candles are a great way to make sure men wear condoms without seeming like an after school special.) We start kissing. I can’t believe I’m going to have sex with Bachelor #2! What if I’m not as good as I think? What if he’s not good? What if he’s a sweater? Do I want to do this? This could totally ruin my image of him–he’s so perfect in my head.
“Wait!”
“What‘s wrong, are you okay?”
“Nothing––sorry”
He takes the candle from the night stand. “Stand up; I want to see your outfit.”
(WTF? Okay, I don’t care who you are or what kind of shape you’re in, but having a man ask you to stand up in the bed while he holds a candle to examine your body is a blow to your ego.) So I do what any girl in my situation would have done: I suck in my stomach, stick out my butt, and pout my lips. He loves it. Everything after that moment is effortless. We quickly fall into a routine–24 hours of non-stop contact–breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, movies, sex–then 48 hours of no contact. I love it. It’s the first time in years I’ve truly been okay with “no strings attached.” I don’t ask about other women, and I don’t care. I don’t glance at the screen when his phone rings or assume when my text message indictor comes on that it’s him. I enjoy him when we are together. When we’re not together, I go about my life, which sometimes includes entertaining other people, but I only share myself with him. This continues for another three weeks.
Then, one night–it’s late, 3 a.m..,I just got home–he calls. Since we rarely do the late night thing, I’m alarmed.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure.”
“Just so you know, I’m really drunk.”
(Great. Really drunk like throwing up or just can’t get aroused? Either would annoy me...)
I buzz him up. Turns out, he’s both. After he showers, he talks for hours about his family, and I’m half asleep trying to listen. (This is usually the time when most women say things like “oh, he’s sharing something personal with me–we are growing.” I, on the other hand, don’t want to know. I just want my 24 hours of lust. I’m addicted.)
We sleep most of the morning away. I get breakfast in from the local diner. We spend the rest of the day eating, watching football, and “playing.”
Then it’s getting late. He needs to leave.
“Let’s have sex before I shower.”
We kiss. He seems alarmed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I...I…I… don’t have an erection.”
“Really? (I stutter––I feel a slight blow to my ego--it’s me).
“What’s wrong with me?”
(What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me?) “Nothing. We’ve been “playing” all day. It’s fine.”
As I’m reassuring him, he’s staring off into space. I already know I’ve lost him.
He showers and kisses me goodbye. I lay there knowing we will never speak again. He is embarrassed or feeling something I’ll never be able to justify for him. I’m sad, but then a slight grin comes to my face–it’s the same grin I had after my first ½ marathon–painfully exhausted but pleased with the memory of everything it took to get there–all the long days, the endless miles, expectations, and the fear of failure.
My grin turns to a smile; I can’t believe I actually banged Bachelor #2. Victory!