It was inevitable to happen but here it goes: the first post that gives a glimpse into the Joneshaw dating past, or as I like to call it, the Vault. A non-date event-filled weekend inspired this post yet, even in writing I’m trying like hell to put it off…
Meet Mr. Dinges selectively suave, charmer-asshole, the ultimate mind fuck, Mr. Big—minus the money, the impressive job, and at the end of season three we find out he “doesn’t catch feelings.” His MO: sauntering in and out of my life at will, screwing my brains out, and followed by the grand disappearing act rivaling Houdini at the World’s Fair. It was supposed to be “casual.” Turns out that Webster’s definitions of casual were more like a rule book for Mr. Dinges than a concept. I know what you’re thinking. WHY? Simple! I was young, naïve, obsessed, recently damaged, and believed him EVERY TIME he’d promise to change.
Fast-forward to the present day. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours in therapy later, I’m officially OVER Mr. Dinges. The only problem is his “Shit on Joneshaw’s Happiness Radar” kicks into over-drive every time this happens. There have been several chance meetings with him in the past year (mostly on public transit, of all New York places) where I have very specifically, dramatically, and definitively told him that I will NOT ever sleep with him again. Even during the recently ended Dry Spell of 2010, I would let a cactus grow out of my vagina before I even consider letting him near it again. Agreed on by my therapist and myself, it is indicator #1 that I’ve hit emotional rock-bottom if I ever go back to him at this point. I refuse to let that be the case. The dates have been shitty thus far, but life’s not that bad.
As previously noted, the eight-month Dry Spell of 2010 has been ended with probably the most adult and uncomplicated casual encounter I’ve ever the pleasure of having. In the post-coital glow of finally getting some action, in swoops Mr. Dinges. He smells my new-found confidence of boning a hottie from two days and a borough away. Now he must now go in for the kill. Waving, smiling, nodding from the escalator towards our mutually chosen form of public transportation and the most distressing part is: I had a feeling I would see him. No matter how much my Dinge-senses go crazy, I can never fully seem to mentally prepare myself for these sanity-shattering encounters.
Moving on to bad decision #101 of the week, Mr. Dinges and I are alone and yet again I am put in the deliberating position of reiterating for him (for the thousandth time) just why I am incapable of having “casual” sex with him EVER. Making sure to point out that he crushed me emotionally, was factor #1 in my inability to trust men, and factor #1.5 in my failed capacity to connect with physical AND emotional feelings for someone I truly like. Bringing us back to reason #1 why the guy I actually like on a personal and emotional level is sitting around thinking that I like him as a friend. Thus extrapolating the title, The Joneshaw Project.
After I finally got him to stop kissing me, I whipped out the best mood-killer I could muster. “Why did you do that to me for two years?” The ignoring, the reappearing, the lying, the faking, the panic attack-inducing… His answer was quicker and simpler than two plus two. “I had a girl friend.” And yes, 22 out of our 24 month relationshit, Mr. Dinges had a girl friend. Low and behold, I was the side bitch with an order of pickles.
The hilarity of it all is that the recent Happy New Year, rain-shower, Drought-ender’s honest closing statement was that he was going to try and get serious with someone. I have so much respect for someone who can be a mature and honest adult like that. Since, apparently, guys like that are rarities. The truly Debbie Downer turn to this entire bogus weekend is that I’m jealous and it’s making me upset. Not jealous of my casual encounter’s future S.O., not jealous of Mr. Dinges’ duped G.F., but jealous that I’ll never be the one that makes Gial (Guy I Actually Like) stop wanting to see other women. That realization made me cry like a virgin on prom night and he obviously has no idea.
Bottom Line: Casual sex with proper boundaries can be fantastic. Casual sex with assholes can be traumatic. We all have baggage. Some of us write blogs in hopes of finding that emotional moving sidewalk to bring us from point Physical A to point Emotional B. If you’re still following the metaphor, it’s up to you to invest in wheel-y luggage and make the trip that much easier.
Next Up: Still waiting on FratBoy’s fix-up and I don’t know how much I’m diggin’ Howaboutwe.com.
Your Undercover Lover,
Joneshaw
