I can see us sitting across from each other at a diner or semi-casual restaurant. Exchanging pleasantries. Laughing at our silliness and fuck ups. At our failed relationships and agree that a warm bed, warmth from another person, is severely missed more nights than you’d like to admit.
And we’ll look at each other and see the possibility that maybe we’re the one to warm the bed. But not just in a sexual way. But warming the bed with big and little spoon heat. The kind that calms you automatically because it’s the breath of fresh air you’ve needed and fought to say “I don’t need it.”
So we make a trial run that night. And it feels right. But then you begin to doubt it as he’s saying the things you wanna hear, start to believe it, but doubt yourself due to all the times it’s been said, but never done.
We’ll look at each other and want to give it genuine try. But you know it’s 75% not going to work. Yet, sometimes, the 25% gives you the fill needed.
One of us will think we‘re the 75%, but know we‘re always going to be the 25%. And it’s almost always me. And you’ll wish it was me, that I deserve to be someone’s him and you grow a little sad that it isn’t nor will it ever be.
So you stick to your type, never wanting to venture out of it, despite wanting the disappointing cycle to end and wanting so bad for it to be a different him but that will never be.
And you can see me being the him but you can’t attach feeling to what you see you want with me. The never-forced random discussions in bed filled with laughs and rolling around kissing. Why am I not the him?
I‘m the physical embodiment of “he’s the whole package but not physically packaged right.”
He knew this right away. The answers were right there, every time a woman would look at him with eyes that wanted him but not quite present either.
They’re trying to imagine him in their lives- where he fits in with family and friends, work functions, etc- and no matter how hard they tried none of the women could make the blurry image clear.
Aesthetics matter. People seem to forget that no matter the contents of the package, if the exterior doesn’t also match, a return must be made.
He knew only very specific types were after him but seemed to pop up every so often, when the chemistry (and stars, if you believe in that sort of thing, were aligned- he doesn’t) finally mixes correctly.
He’s tired of the trials. This isn’t a race, and he doesn’t have a biological clock, but time does seem to be running out. Too many short sprints when he’s ready to run marathons.
He got straight to the point with this one, sending a message that, under other circumstances, would be considered risky, but the chemistry was just too fine-tuned to not say it: This is inevitably going to end up in your bed anyway, and we want that so badly. So let’s skip the filler episodes & get to episodes that matter.
It never did lead there, however. Not for a lack of effort on his end. An almost 32 year old who can’t keep plans. Ironically the profile she used to communicate with him had “I’d get into something casual if the person were reliable” written.
“You need to leave.”
“Not without seeing my son.”
“You’ve got some nerve.”
“He’s. My. Son.”
“Since when? All of a sudden you’re a father. Where were you for his first steps. First day or kindergarten, scrapped knee.”
“You can talk all the shit you want but he’s still my son, and I have rights.”
He knew it wasn’t a valid argument, that she was right. Biology aside, he has never been there for the boy. He wanted to be, so badly did he want to be there for all of that and everything to come, but knew he couldn’t. Not fully. It was futile to fight the inevitable.
His own father had skipped out on his mother. Difference is, he actually got to spend time with his old man before deciding to skip town. Must have been when he was around ten. To this day his mother still refers to his father as “the sperm donor.”
He could tell when his mother looked at him she saw his father. Same eyes, nose, accent, walk, hair texture. His mother has tried not to show resentment towards him but little slips of the tongue make their acquaintance with his ear drum. “I can’t stand you” “you’re becoming just like him” and so on.
He vowed- maybe out of fear of disappointing his mother or wanting to test fate- that should the day come when his own children walked this Earth, he’d be there.
Years crept by and no children. Thought for a while “maybe it’s me.” Feeling like he’d never be good enough because the slips of tongue from his mother. That despite being one parent and having to do twice the work, she chose to do none.
Starved for affection growing up, even that became so difficult to give and accept later in life for him. Even now, as his son’s mother points a finger at his chest berating him with profanity and “ain’t shit” declarations, his hands longed for hers.
He fell in love with his son the moment he held him in the hospital, knew he wanted to be there to teach him how to throw a fastball, a spiral, shoot a free throw. Ride bikes with him in spring and summer. Binge on cartoons Saturday mornings while talking about life. The other feeling, however, was ever present. Fear.
“What if I can’t do this?” The same question his father told him years later during a dinner secretly arranged. He was more like his father than he knew.
He knew if he can be around for his son’s developmental years he’d grow up to know what it was like to have a loving father, something he never experienced. Perhaps that’s what allows the fear to take refuge in the hearts of men no matter the level of resistance.
His own son, at the age of ten now, should he stick around, will have a better understanding of the emotions a man has for his son. But these are just nothing but excuses he’s telling himself as his heart sets up for another inevitability.
He still has to try. It’s his son, after all. Maybe he can do this…
You look like an ex of mine.
Do you know how many times I get this line that usually is followed up with some form of rejection, not even realizing it’s a rejection in itself?
So many variations of myself out there in different shades, shapes, sizes. A “create a player” generator. Difference is they’re the ones with girlfriends, wives, children. Lives.
And then there’s me.
I really hate having a good first date where everything goes so well you end up creating scenarios in your head for the next time you’ll see them. Butterflies taking flight in your belly, through some kind of witchcraft you can still faintly smell them. But you don’t see them. Ever. All you’re left with is this feeling of “why am I never good enough” while carrying a ghost of what could have been around.
the thing that makes this worse is it’s happening after ONE date. Why does your brain do this to you? Why must this apparition of a now possible past life follow you, reminding you that all you’re good for is a few fleeting moments of passion with quick kisses and caresses of skin, feigning eye contact of longing.
Dating sucks, dude.