When you create a website where you consider yourself “unscripted”, where do you begin in the storytelling process? Before I begin, I think you should know that when I say “unscripted”, what I really mean is brutally honest, unfiltered, uncensored, raw, diary type shit. That’s what I hope to bring to every post on this blog. That’s how I try to live my life everyday. Fuck mystery. Fuck half-truths. What you see is what you get. Period. (Except for the part where I have to change the names of people in my life to protect their privacy).
At the time I am writing this, I already have 27 years of stories behind me and who knows how many more to come. So…what do I consider the beginning of my story to be 27 years into my life? I feel like the best place to start, would be the present, who I am now, what I’m doing now. The past is in the past. I can share stories about that at some other time, but what I really want to focus on for my first post is the here and now.
Let’s be honest, the true title of this post should be “The Most Recent Time I Cried After Sex” or quite possibly “The Millionth Time I Cried After Sex”. We’re just going to pretend that isn’t the case though. I am the picture of perfection when it comes to mental health, obviously. Ok…I couldn’t even type that with a straight face.
I had a date this week. The guy, Logan*, seemed nice enough. He really liked me. We had been flirting for months. He liked me enough to drive over an hour to get to me for our date, enough to pay over fifty dollars for a hotel room so he wouldn’t have to drive back late at night, enough to also buy me dinner on top of that, enough to tell me he wouldn’t pressure me into having sex if I didn’t want to.
Everything was going fine, despite the awkward dry humping reminiscent of my high school years…despite the unexpected rainy weather….despite him nearly getting rear ended while driving us to dinner. What can I say? I’m a pretty chill date. Near death experiences and grown men acting like teenagers aren’t game changers for me, apparently.
We ate delicious pork tacos and had time to talk and watch bad television before we went to the comedy show I wanted to attend that night. We shouldn’t have gone to the show. He didn’t want to. I knew how much he didn’t want to. He knew I had a “relationship” with one of the comedians months ago. I told him it wouldn’t affect anything because the comedian and I pretty much avoid each other now. We’ll call him Elliot* from now on, for the sake of me not using the word “comedian” over twenty times in one post. What “avoid each other” really meant was I don’t speak to Elliot unless I’m spoken to…in person, anyway. Drunken Facebook messages don’t count, right?
Well, Elliot decided the night of my date with Logan would be a good time to be nice to me and acknowledge my existence. He came up to me after his set. He hugged me like he hadn’t broken my heart in September and hadn’t ignored me for the most part ever since. He tried to have a conversation with me. I don’t know if he noticed my date. I don’t know if he would have cared if he had realized I was on a date. I’m sure he was just trying to be nice but I couldn’t help but internally overanalyze his actions. He excused himself to go outside and “reflect” on the show after our brief interaction.
I spent the rest of the show drinking vodka and sprites. He got in my head. I wanted to be angry at him. I wanted to hate him but all I could do was wish I wasn’t on a date so I could attempt to talk to him more. I missed him. I missed that coy smile. I missed his arms around me. I missed his awkward sense of humor. I just wanted to be able to kiss him again.
The comedy show ended and my date wanted to leave right away. I didn’t get to say goodbye to anyone, especially not Elliot. I was also a bit tipsy at this point and only wanted one thing other than Elliot. I wanted drunk food, Raising Cane’s to be specific. My date drove me there, where I drunkenly ordered more food than I could possibly eat and spilled change all over his front passenger seat. He then drove us to his hotel room. We listened to music and he helped me eat my chicken. No, that isn’t a euphemism for anything.
I wanted to forget Elliot, so I had sex with Logan. I know…not my best idea. I couldn’t stop thinking about Elliot. I almost called Logan by his name several times. I had to bite my tongue. It was the kind of sex where I could only make myself cum. Nothing he did was up to par. Gentlemen, if you’re reading this, please note that grabbing your partner’s breasts so hard that they bruise does nothing for her. Focus on the nipples. Kiss them, lick them, touch them, caress them…sorry, I’m getting off topic.
Then it was over. He walked to the bathroom and by the time he came back I was lying down burying my head in pillows, trying to hide the fact that I was silently crying. He kept trying to see my face and eventually did. He could see my tear-soaked bloodshot eyes and asked me what was wrong and I said, “Nothing. It’s just the alcohol.” He asked a couple more times and I couldn’t bare to tell him the truth. “Alcohol” was the response he got over and over again even though I was completely sober by then.
I cried myself to sleep on his chest and woke up to a man yelling angrily somewhere nearby, slightly before 2 am. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Then I heard him yell again. He seemed closer this time. I nudged Logan to wake him. He mumbled, “Huh? What’s happening?” but fell asleep again before I could even answer. After a few more moments, I heard the man yelling again and hit Logan harder to ensure he would stay awake. He asked, “What’s wrong?”. I said, “There’s a man that keeps screaming. You don’t hear it?”. He was answering with a no when all of a sudden, the man’s voice boomed again. He turned on the lights and peeked out the window. He didn’t see any movement. He didn’t see anything at all. I told him I couldn’t sleep and wanted to go home. He respected my wishes and I packed my things (minus one shoe that I will never call the hotel to retrieve).
The next morning, I told Logan the truth…that I clearly wasn’t over Elliot and I needed to take a break from dating. He was the reason I cried. He was the real reason I wanted to leave. He told me that the cops arrived at the hotel while he was checking out and it turns out what we heard was one of their employees getting jumped. For some reason, this made me feel more justified in leaving. It made me feel like I made the right decision. That wasn’t where I needed to be or who I needed to be with that night or any night. He wished me luck and said we shouldn’t talk anymore and then deleted me from Facebook and Snapchat. I felt nothing.
I’ve come this far in writing this and forgot what my point was for a brief moment. I just thought, “Why am I sharing my greatest failures for all to read?”. Or for 3 people to read, as the case may be. I know this post won’t win back Elliot. If anything it will probably just push him even farther away, honestly. My point is this, though…I’ve been through so many embarrassingly funny predicaments, so many scary and depressing moments in my life. Sometimes I could shrug it off and laugh about it right away. Other times it’s taken years to find it funny or to be able to move on. The important thing is, I got through it, all of it. I’m alive and in one piece and I’m constantly learning from my mistakes and evolving.
This isn’t even my worst story, it’s only the most recent. I’m sure I’ll skip around as far as my timeline goes in my future posts because I’m kind of terrible at staying on topic. I hope if nothing else, this blog will show people that honesty is beautiful and you shouldn’t be afraid to have stories like these because at least it means you lived and made mistakes. I’m that person in my group of friends that makes the other friends feel better about their love lives and I’m perfectly okay with that. It keeps things interesting, for sure.
Stay tuned for more stories. I’ll even accept requests if there’s something you want to know about me and my past, present or future.
*Some of those aforementioned name changes to protect the innocent…because who the fuck wants to be associated with the train wreck that is me?