Goldilocks

I guess my nice guy complex caught up with me. I’m not sure why I cried just then, nor do I understand why I sobbed so loudly. I suppose being the strong and stable one leads easily into being the discontented one. The cathartic rush of salty tears sobered me up, but not my friend. I suppose it’s just a good-hearted gesture to take a drunk friend home—this was, perhaps, lost on his roommate.

I was thanked, but still scolded for playing caretaker. I suppose the sharp vulnerability of being so inebriated that you cannot help but become the damsel in distress shocks some people into a more hardened response. This is not to say that I don’t understand such a reaction; not everyone can accept people being nice. And when I say “everyone,” I include myself.

Through a friend of a friend, I acquainted myself with a guy who seemed to have his shit together. I of course had to check all references because a problem-free man is such an anomaly that I couldn’t assume that an apparent lack of problems actually proves results. Despite my prying, I couldn’t find a thing to complain or gripe about. He had a good job, interesting things to say, a sense of humor—all the necessary things.

We went on two great dates. Deep conversations mingled into witty banter and then back to intellectual foreplay. Yet, after each both dates, I went home without letting my mind linger on how great the night went. I didn’t fantasize about him; I didn’t indulge the teenager girl in her notebook drawing. I stopped myself in thinking about what I missed from the “total-package” he seemed to offer.

I liked our late night phone class best. We talked a good while about our days and let our discussion meander. The eagerness in his voice came clearly through my phone. In planning our next date, a pause came. He cleared his throat and continued, “. . . and then after the movie, I though, maybe, you’d like to come and spend the night with me if you want and think you’d like to . . .” He rambled on and a bulldozer slammed what was missing in my face: swagger. He talked and my realization of just how corny he was snowballed until I envisioned Ned Flanders on the other side of the phone.

Feeling like Goldilocks, I reflected on my newly found insight. How can I complain that all the men I meet have too many problems when I only turn around and say the man I meet without problems is boring? Not wanting to be a hypocrite, I went on the date, intending to enjoy his company. We had a good time at the movie and even held hands—my ultimate desire in a movie. Things would be just fine after all.

Back at his apartment, the cuteness of our movie watching ebbed as we flowed into a break in our sexual tension. Clothes came off; hearts began to race. I bit him lightly on his neck, maneuvering his arms to the wall. I turned him around and kissed his neck from behind. Looking down, the glimmer of light from the street illuminated a great horror. My jaw and libido simultaneously hit the floor—he had an ashy back. This was the breaking point. Corny I can handle, but a silver back is just unforgivable. Feigning drowsiness, I rolled over and called it quits.