The Dating Bender

by Christina Julian

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  This year Valentine’s Day would be monumental. Justin loved me. I didn’t need Cupid to stick it to me this year—he would stick his magic dick into me instead. Not if you don’t ditch the trash talk.

  I planned to surprise Justin by arriving two hours early wearing a raunchy two-piece teddy under a trench coat. Redbook indicated that a girl had to raise the seduction stakes on Valentine’s Day. Plus, I hadn’t seen him for two weeks due to what I could only image was terrorist related. My outerwear almost protected me from the freezing pellets of rain as I ran the two blocks from the subway station to his place. While my bodice stayed dry, my hair did not. I worried my freshly highlighted bangs would freeze and break right off. But no worries, love would conquer in the end. I tapped on Justin’s door.

  “Hey, sugar plum! Happy Heart Day!”

  I tried to look sexy by leaning on the door, but slipped. Justin caught me before I fell onto the terracotta hallway floor.

  I ravished him with kisses to distract attention away from my klutzy maneuver. When that didn’t work, I forced myself inside his apartment. When he failed to kiss me back, I threw open my trench coat and pushed him over to his suede, overstuffed olive chair. Something new from Pottery Barn. Then I straddled him as I fed him some of the heart-shaped salted caramel dark chocolates I bought him. My bold moves were impressive, even though it felt like Justin failed to notice. He didn’t seem as eager as usual to reciprocate my affection, but perhaps my suggestive behavior had frightened him. Oprah warned that change is never easy.

  “Wow, you’re here early,” he said.

  Not exactly the warm welcome I expected.

  “I needed you so badly I left early.” I shushed him. “I’ve got plans for the extra time.”

  I grinned wickedly and forced him up from the chair with my other hand. I led him back to the bedroom. He looked like he might get sick. Had I fed him one too many candies?

  I left the room to primp one last time. In the bathroom, I pinched my breasts to make them appear bigger than they were, and sauntered back into the bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed, looking stiff and uncomfortable. I took this as my cue to seduce him further. I pushed him back on the bed and massaged his pecs.

  I couldn’t tell if he enjoyed it or not. What was going on? I followed Cosmo’s instructions for relaxing your man with a warm-handed touch. He didn’t look relaxed to me. Perhaps I had skipped some crucial step. Stupid, stupid, I knew I should’ve written the tips on my hand.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t matter because Justin’s privates hadn’t gotten hard. This was a first. My maneuvers should have been an aphrodisiac. Was Justin one of those guys that got turned off by Valentine’s Day? Some men hated the holiday.

  The evening faltered, as did my attempts at initiating lovemaking. He broke the tension by giving me my gifts, which amounted to a package of herbal tea and boxer shorts. Not what I’d call romantic. I didn’t even like tea unless it was chai. Boxer shorts weren’t even sexy. What man wanted to de-sex a woman’s look? I didn’t want to offend him, so I put them on anyway.

  When I returned from brushing my teeth, Justin was fast asleep and snoring. He never snored.

  ***

  The night passed without incident, and also without intercourse. He was sweet to me, but distant; much more hands-off than usual, but maybe the rainy weather made him sad. Or perhaps, my dear, your whorish behavior had something to do with it?

  I hoped it was just an off night, but just in case, I decided to take things up a notch by initiating kisses and hand holds. Redbook said men liked confident women. But maybe Redbook was wrong, because he kept dropping my hand as soon as I held his.

  I tried not to think about how weird he was acting as we hauled it all the way to Manhattan to Gnocco, one of our favorite Italian restaurants, but the meal was unmemorable—aside from the fact that Justin never kissed my hand once during the entire dinner. I ordered the Nutella calzone to go so I could get him back home and seduce him before bedtime, but the dessert and my body went untouched.

  In the morning, I could no longer stand his standoffishness. “Hey, J, what’s up? You seem distant?”

  He looked away from me and sighed—the sigh women hated to hear, the one that said nothing but spoke volumes.

  “Why the long face, baby? Are the terrorists getting you down?”

  I tried to will my eyes to twinkle because Glamour said it’s the best way to cut romantic tension. I prayed his distance was terrorist-related. Maybe they were plotting another attack. His ambivalence could be a covert signal for me to flee the city.

  He sighed again.

  “I didn’t want to bring this up on Valentine’s weekend, but since you asked…I feel more like roommates than lovers. Do you know what I mean?”

  Did I know what he meant? Of course I had no freaking idea what he meant. A couple of weeks ago we were pouring chocolate over each other and licking it off while fornicating all over the place. A week before that, we were having multi-orgasmic sex three times a day. I was not sure what he did with past roommates, but chocolate body painting and porno sex weren't preferred activities in my book.

  I tried to ignore his hurtful declaration and attempted to be the bigger person. But I was not a big person. I was small, and according to my father, self-centered. His comments cut like a dagger straight through my heart. I scratched the tip of my nose until it bled and then I cried because it hurt so much. A drop of blood fell onto his white shag rug. He sat there, not cleaning up my mess. I scrubbed at the carpet, which made the stain worse. What the hell was wrong with him, a clean freak unfazed by bodily fluids?

  “Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re totally hot for each other and in love. I’m not sure what roommates have to do with anything other than I feel comfortable enough to cut my toenails in front of you, not that I would ever do that, but, no, I have absolutely no idea what in the hell you’re talking about, and I have never in my life had sex with a roommate, so no, I do not understand you,” I babbled with increasing hysteria.

  Like a skilled FBI agent whose survival relied on an ability to remain emotionless in times of crisis, he uttered flatly, “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m just not attracted to you anymore. I love you, but like a friend. I don’t know what to do about that, do you?”

  For starters, he could stop saying “friend” and start undressing me with his eyes like he used to. But no, his peeps were cold and calculating, like Bin Laden.

  “I thought I’d wait and see if things changed but here we are, having what should be a romantic weekend, and all I feel like doing is playing Scrabble. And maybe we could make some popcorn.”

  Whatever he said after Scrabble went in my ear and out my mouth, along with breakfast, which I barfed onto his already soiled rug. I knew I shouldn’t have thrown up, but I couldn’t help it. Nothing could have prepared me for this total relationship about-face.

  He started fiddling nervously with his button-fly jeans. Despite his harsh words, it turned me on.

  “Hey, you know what, Sam? Why don’t we enjoy the rest of the weekend and forget I ever said anything. Okay, baby? I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

  At least one of us was sure of that point.

  There are things in life, which as much as you’d like to pretend you never heard them, were impossible to ignore. Being told you are no longer romantically attractive to your partner was one of them. I willed myself to forget everything he said, but not even my parents’ lifelong lessons in the school of denial could deflect my mind away from obsessing on his heart-piercing words.

  The rest of the weekend spiraled downward. We watched romantic comedies, played Monopoly, and binged on Cheetos and Fritos. Never once did we have sex. Valentine’s Day—the demon holiday from hell.

  How in the world could I have missed such a dramatic shift in his feelings toward me? I prided myself on being a realist. Here’s the reality check. It’s over!

  Oprah has said that
sometimes, to keep someone, the best thing to do is to let them go. Temporarily, I assumed.

  When he finally emerged out of his hour and a half-long bathing session, his longest to date, he moved past me and sat on the bed where he refused to look me in the eye.

  “You know what, J? Why don’t we take the next week to be alone and just think about everything?” I suggested, saying the exact opposite of what I felt. “Things have been too heavy lately, so let’s take things light and loose for a bit.”

  I tried to cheerfully pack up my things as a show of my strength and maturity. Oprah’s teachings better be right-on. I prayed that this tactic would make everything better, it had to—I loved this man. And not as a friend.

  Justin, despite his big and beefy stature, looked like he might cry, or maybe it was me. He actually looked unmoved. Perhaps he held his tears on the inside, while I blubbered mine all over his muscular shoulder.

  He did not hold me tight and tell me everything would be all right. Nor did he balk at my suggestion of “alone” time.

  “Maybe you’re right. Time apart might help me get out of this funk. I’ll miss you,” he said.

  At least he didn’t say, “love you, like a friend,” again.

  Not even a word about my upcoming birthday. He just leaned over, his massive forearms trembling, and kissed my button nose that he supposedly loved so much. Not enough to prevent him from “friending” me. It was odd how friending in the real world was nothing like being friended on Facebook. Screw Mark Zuckerberg for planting the stupid friending seed in the first place.

  As he shuffled out the door to give me some space to finish packing up my stuff, he looked back at me as though we would never see each other again.

  Chapter Thirty

  The week that followed Valentine’s Day rendered me a complete mess. I spent every hour of every day obsessively dissecting our relationship. What had gone wrong? What had I done to make him not love me anymore? Correction. To love me like a friend. Sleeping with him out of wedlock might have had something to do with it.

  I decided that Justin still loved me even though he never bothered to call me on my thirtieth birthday. I’m the one that offered him space. He would not be honoring my dumb boundary if he made contact, I told myself. That would have been un-kosher. Of course he wanted to call.

  Alone time made people realize what a good thing they had going. At least, that was what Redbook said. I hoped they knew what the hell they were talking about.

  Even my parents had cared enough to call me and sing a boozy rendition of happy birthday over the telephone. They also invited me to spend the weekend with them in the Catskills. I was hungover from a binge-drinking night with Shannon, so I accepted their offer.

  From the moment I arrived under their vacation “roof,” as my father liked to refer to their kitschy A-frame cabin, he grilled me about my production job. I updated him that I’d been fired from that post months ago, and my gig with Crazy Molly didn’t count as work, because her office was her home. So, in his eyes, I was unemployed.

  “Honey, if you get off your high horse and agree to attend the military job fair, you can move back home, temporarily. At least it would show some form of intent on your part to get a real job,” my mom said.

  I smiled politely and then stared up at the corroded, vaulted ceiling, looking for a God who would deliver me away from this evil. I tried the best I could to block them out, especially when my father launched into a lecture on responsibility, pausing only to take a swig and switch gears to discuss tips on filing taxes as an independent contractor. I wanted to tell him when you earn as little as I do, it’s irrelevant. But it was nice of him to care about my finances. His version of I love you.

  Thankfully, Jimmy and Jackie joined us for the getaway. They deflected some of the attention away from me. Too bad I hadn’t realized sooner that my parents had cooked up this weekend as a means for brainwashing me with their threatening career advice.

  “Hey, Sam, do you have some pantyliners I could borrow?” Jackie asked.

  God bless her. She knew that any mention of such female business never failed to silence my parents. It was amazing I survived my youth without getting pregnant since my mom was too embarrassed to discuss the birds and bees. Google taught me everything I knew, which could explain Justin’s decision to “friend” me.

  “I sure do,” I said, as my parents pretended not to hear and went to busy themselves in another room.

  The cabin’s bathroom felt more like an outhouse with its poopy stench and the toilet paper roll hanging from the wall with some twine. The lantern lamp on top of the back of the potty looked out of place. We were in a house, not a tent, though the décor had me wondering.

  “Sam, what’s wrong with you? You look horrific.”

  Leave it to Jackie to bust right in with a hefty dose of reality.

  “Everything is a mess. Things were amazing with Justin until Valentine’s Day. Then he used the words ‘friends’ and ‘not attracted to me’ in the same sentence. I offered him space to think, assuming he would never agree, but he did. He couldn’t push me out of his apartment fast enough,” I wailed.

  “Sam, I hate to be the one to break this down for you, but it’s over. Giving a man time to think is never a good idea.” She looked at me with that married person’s pity pout. “You should’ve talked to me before you did that. Break up with him now. Show yourself some respect.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to digest her advice, so I excused myself before I started to cry. Jackie hated crybabies. So did my parents. I snuck out onto the back deck and inhaled as much air as possible. I wanted to dismiss the reality of what she said, but couldn’t.

  The frigid temps made me choke on my own breath. I ducked down out of sight from what was sure to be a roomful of drunken stares. I dry-heaved until something stopped me. I bowed down.

  “Dear Lord, I know it’s been awhile, and I’m sure you have a lot more deserving, church-going souls to save, but I’m desperate. I promise if you help me this one last time, I’ll, I don’t know, I’ll start going to church again…” I stared up at the sky waiting for an answer, but got only the icy glint of the Milky Way in return.

  “Okay, I’ll definitely go back to church. If you’re listening, I hope you can help. I met the love of my life, which is hard for me to believe, but I did. Unfortunately, I made a huge blunder.”

  “What are you doing out there?” my mother shouted out the kitchen window. “It’s like you’re trying to avoid us. Get in here before your tater tots get cold. A jazz concert is on TV. You know how your father loves jazz.”

  My father never liked jazz. He listened to it because my mother made him. That apparently made him an aficionado. She slammed the window shut, just like Justin had slammed the door on our love affair.

  “Hopefully, you’re not in the habit of making people pay for their sins, since I’ve built up quite a list. Anyway, maybe just this once, you could make Justin love me again. Amen.”

  Looking out at the black, cold Catskill abyss, I prayed for some ethereal signal to show me God had heard. I shivered as I waited for a sign that never came.

  “Screw you,” I said.

  Dusting the pine needles off my knees, I stormed into the kitchen, grabbed my parents’ box of white zinfandel, and downed three gulps straight out of the spigot. Per Mom’s orders, I grabbed a fistful of tater tots and swallowed them whole. I needed power food if I hoped to make it through the night.

  “You look like hell. Where have you been?” my father asked when I rejoined the party.

  “To church, ha, ha, ha! We should play a fun drinking game, ‘Never Have I Ever.’ We go around the room sharing tidbits of information, like never have I ever gone without washing my clothes for an entire month. If you have washed your clothes, you take a sip of wine. Does that sound fun?”

  It was a tad devilish, appealing to my parents’ drunken tendencies, but if it helped distract them from my love life and work situation, it w
ould be worth it.

  “Sure,” my father replied, already half in the bag.

  “I’ll start,” my mother said, standing for effect. “Never have I ever skipped going to church on Sunday.”

  I raised my glass until she glared me down. They slurped their wine, clearly not getting the gist of the game. They were devout churchgoers, if nothing else.

  “Never have I ever disgraced my family by living out of wedlock,” my father said, waiting for me to imbibe.

  “Or disrespected my parents,” he continued.

  I sat complacently, not drinking, and ruminated on the concept of a non-boozing parental unit. My mother looked ready to attack.

  “Dear, please, just drink. You’re not fooling anyone. This game is a real kick!” she said, drinking after every word. “Never have I ever disgraced the family by getting divorced like a cheap, sinning hussy.”

  I had created a monster.

  Jimmy and Jackie sat on the sidelines, speechless and sober. They could see where this was headed and they wanted ringside seats for the showdown. It was like a family game of badminton. The box of wine served as the birdie.

  I held my mother’s gaze. “Never have I ever had sex before marriage,” I said, pausing for effect, and then gulped down an entire glass. This game was fun.

  “Never have I ever had sex for pleasure,” I said, watching as horror distorted their faces. With great pride, I cocked the box back, poured myself more wine, and drank it in one smooth swig. Then I belched to nobody in particular and moved onto the burnt orange beanbag chair on the floor. I felt tingly and triumphant, but inexplicably gassy. I burped one more time, and then continued.

  “Never have I ever disowned my daughter, repeatedly.”

  I waited for them to raise a Dixie cup, and then pushed the box to my father, but nothing, so I spoke louder.

  “Never have I ever disowned my daughter. Do you not hear me?” I screamed into my father’s squinty eyes. “Are you all unable to reach the box?” I got up and lifted the contraption up to his chafed chin. When he failed to start drinking, I filled up his cup until it overflowed, and then moved on to my mother’s. I poured wine into her cup until it also spilled over the rim. They flinched away, splashing wine everywhere.