SURVIVING THE GAME: Taking My Ball(s) and Going Home

NOTE - I thought I'd posted this Monday night, but I forgot to hit post. I figured I'd go ahead and post it before I leave for the ol' hometown later this week to deal with a serious family crisis. (Thanks to those keeping my "G'Maw" in their thoughts).

Not edited very well, but you should be able to get the point. Please forgive the typos. Not as pissed about the event as I was early Sunday morning when I started writing it. Lol...I hope no one reads this and thinks I have a black cloud over my head. I'm so over it, but, yeah, not going there again ;)

- Jason

So I'm in this apartment. On this strange woman's bed. Strange woman is in the bathroom...

Her bathroom. Her apartment.

Something really didn't feel right. I didn't feel right. I'm not sure how I got into this situation. I just stared up at the ceiling and asked myself if I really want to do what I was pretty sure she wanted to do.

I guess since I'm a guy, I'm somehow supposed to get excited that, yeah, more than likely, I was going to get laid. Cute girl. Almost too cute. I guess the fact that it took less than an hour to go from a friendly conversation to heavy petting to a very quick makeout session to her place probably means something to somebody.

An apartment decorated in pink. Girly pink. There's a Green Beer Day tee shirt on the floor, an empty Red Bull can and a unopened diet coke on the nightstand. There's a poster of Big Ben, the Super Bowl hero, on the wall, next to a picture of Heath Ledger.

Why the hell do I feel trapped?

For some reason, I started thinking about a conversation I had with Stephi, one of my fellow OxBloggers, recently. She said something that, for some reason, stuck with me. Something about overly aggressive women being less creepy than overly aggressive guys in bars.

Why the hell did that pop into my mind?

---

I've never understood why I can't read women very well. At least, why I can't read women who are interested in me or who I'm attracted to. No frigging clue how to read body language if I'm just getting to know someone.

I guess that's the No. 1 reason I've always gone for aggressive women. Aggressive women tend not to put up with my self-esteem issues, my fear and self-loathing. I think the fact that it takes a bit of aggression to convince me to let down my guard a bit is the reason aggressive women go for me.

Trust me. For a woman to make it past my signal-reading blindness, my baggage, and other shit, she's going to have to be aggressive. And some women actually like that challenge, I guess.

But is there such thing as a woman who is too aggressive? At what point does sexual or romantic pursuit become simply a demand, completely free of respect for another human being, mechanical and detached?

As I'm staring at the ceiling in this woman's apartment, her cell phone starts bouncing on the nightstand. I ignore it. A.'s still in the bathroom - perhaps the longest pre-whatever ritual I've ever witnessed a woman go through. Damn thing goes off again. And again.

I pick it up to kill the ringer. The screen lights up.

Text messages. Stupid fucking goddamned text messages. Asking if A. had "FUKED THE COWBOY YET."

I might have been amused if I hadn't gotten nosy and read the other two messages. (Sure, it's probably unethical, but what the hell? I've been tempted to ask the probation officer who reads this blog to screen dates and, yes, I google on the first date.)

"GIRL 7PTS 8IF CB GOS DOWN"

"K WILL HATE U U FUCK HIM FIRST 8PTS BEATS HER PROF"

Um...excuse me? If someone fucks me first? Do I have a say in this? I am not a goddamned pointspread. And this ain't the fucking Kentucky Derby.

---

A. walks out of the bathroom. She changed clothes. (Who the hell changes outfits after getting home? She puts on the radio - some god-awful Top 40 shit. She puts on my Stetson - without asking - grins, and starts to do the absolute worst spoiled-rich-girl version of a striptease this side of a Paris Hilton sex tape.

I probably should've laughed. But I'd made up my mind that, yeah, I just wanted to go home. I'd just lost interest.

Physically, sure. Still...um...functionable. That's never been one of my problems - hell, I almost married someone with a clinical sex addiction (along with her other clinical addictions and problems.) Trust me, women aren't the only ones who can fake it 'til they get it right.

Emotionally? No. When that relationship pops into my head, that's a huge red flag.

I'm not a bet. I'm not my penis. She can lie and say something happened for all I care. I'm done. Gone.

She's down to her underwear when I stand up; she pushes me back on the bed, straddles me, kisses me. I turn my head, say I think I'd better leave, that I'm just not in the mood. She doesn't believe me, forcibly kisses me and starts pulling at my belt. I pull back again, and this time I ask about the text messages.

She ignored me and tried shoving her tongue down my throat again. She had my belt undone. So I pushed her off me, got up, and started walking to the bedroom door.

Then she went apeshit. She tried to stop me from leaving by blocking the door. She started accusing me of everything from being a "faggot" to being a "no-dick chickenshit." She screamed about how she'd just find another guy to get her "fucking points."

Yeah. That's called emotional blackmail, lady. Not gonna work.

And then she tried crying. I didn't want her. I was using her. I led her on... I was almost dumb enough to fall for it. She tried kissing me again - I almost gave in. Almost. I just couldn't bring myself to kiss her back.

She even explained the "grading scale." You know what the "prize" was? A drink and some fucking buffalo wings at a bar.

I just had to stay, just had to make her feel good, just had to...

Even after indicating that this wasn't something I wanted to do, she stuck one hand down my pants and used the other to unzip my fly. I guess I sort of zoned out for a few seconds.

I realized she was trying to go down on me. And I flipped the fuck out. What the flying fuck? Get back on your meds, lady. Seriously.

I made it out the apartment, climbed into my truck and pounded my fist into the steering wheel. I must've sat there for a good hour, listening to the engine idle and the radio play.

How the fuck did I get into that apartment in the first place?

I wondered how those other eight guys felt. Did they know the only reason they got laid was to help a very disturbed, insecure woman win some free chicken?

Game over, man. Game over.