Tag Archives: relationships

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 13

The curse of the ex.  Why are we drawn to them?  There are reasons why it didn’t work, yet for some deep-seated cause, we all find ourselves in the arms of an ex at 3:00 in the morning with Portishead playing off of an iPod and a fat fan clicking in the background.  Is it just me?  Or do all boys have a portable fan in their room that they keep on high which clicks like a clock… a symbol of the relationship’s impending doom.  My first love called his fan “fat fan” and the name stuck.  Anyway, even when every fiber of our being knows that agreeing to “catch up” with an ex is a bad idea, we do it anyway.  Are we all plagued with masochistic tendencies or is it the need for acceptance?  I think it’s both.  We want to feel wanted, even if it means hurting ourselves.  Or it means that multiple cocktails were involved.

When people ask me if I’m seeing anyone, I am generally vague, because I’m just generally vague about everything.  I relate to writer’s (I feel cheated by the universe that I was not living at a time and place when I could have been best friends with Graham Greene) and with that being said, I think that writer’s like writing because they don’t like talking.  I enjoy blogging about my insignificant life because I don’t exactly like talking about it, nor do I expect anyone to care about any story that I have to tell.  If I write it down, the reader can opt out without feeling rude.  A listener, cannot do that quite as easily.  Audible conversation is riddled with obligations and forced politeness.  If my reader’s don’t care about what I am saying, they can close this tab and google “how to survive a bear attack” instead, (a search I recently did because I was in Canada for a tour and felt that I should be prepared) and not feel like they’re being rude.  I digress.  So, when people ask me if I am seeing anyone, my go-to response is, “there are usually boys but it’s not usually serious.”  I appreciate conciseness and brevity in conversation, and that is the most concise and brief way to describe my typical love life.

However, not too too long ago, I did find myself in what I suppose would be called a relationship.  I hadn’t tried that out in a while and so I guess it just seemed like a fun experiment.  I should have known it would end in disaster because I am not stable enough for one of those, nor mature enough to be performing social experiments.

One of the things that first excited me about this boy, who we will call the boy with the white hair, was that I found myself physically attracted to him.  I wanted him.  This was a feeling I am unfamiliar with since losing my battle to uncomfortable numbness a couple of years back.  Before that, I used to love everyone.  Every boy I ever met I would find something attractive about him.  This was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because I was so loving.  I truly did care for all of these people and I would have done anything for them.  I have known some beautiful human beings and I am so fortunate and appreciative of the souls that have crossed my fucked up path.  It was a curse for the same reasons.  I loved everyone.  I was incapable of having a healthy relationship because I was having a love affair with the world.  I spread myself out too thin.  My tragic flaw was the romance in all that I saw.

Around the age of 25 I did a complete 180 and I don’t know why or when this exactly happened.  I know that part of it at least was because I let Los Angeles get the best of me.  When you move so far away from home, to a city like that, where you know NO ONE, it is easy to lose yourself.  Somewhere out there, probably buried under the construction on the 405, is my soul.  One of my first jobs in LA was as an  assistant to this Persian fucker who needed help with tutoring his kids and keeping his desk organized.  A nanny basically.  During my first week, he hit on me.  I don’t want to go into details, but I remember feeling like such a little girl. A victim.  Like a child who had been violated, but I was 25 years old.  Yes, that is young, but it is not “little girl” young.  I remember I called my 911, which is my best friend Lance, and I said out loud to him, “I don’t understand why men think it’s okay to touch you when you don’t want them to.”

I felt like Jem from To Kill a Mockingbird, when he discovers the evils of the world and realizes why Boo Radley stays shut up in that old house.  That is the last time I can remember feeling that way.  Since then, I feel almost nothing for anyone.  I feel like an adult now, not a little girl.  I meet boys.  I meet a lot of wonderful, beautiful boys… but they don’t usually cause me feel.  I will be into someone, and enjoy their company, but then when it comes to the point where I feel like a kiss would be appropriate, I’m indifferent about it.  Indifferent about them. I missed that feeling of dying to kiss someone.

The boy with the white hair was the first boy in a very long time that I really wanted to kiss.  We were seeing each other for a couple of months (which in Caitlin world, is a long time), and it was getting to the point where I thought I might fall in love with him… or him me.  That’s the direction we were going.  Literally over night however, I realized that I wasn’t going to.  I wasn’t going to fall in love with him.  Which, I don’t know why the fuck not.  He is intriguing, he is nice in all of the right ways, he has his shit together, he is hot and he has good taste in music.

It was the day after Valentine’s day.  We had just spent the prior evening together with his friends at a music festival and something was just not right.  I have no doubt in my mind that this “feeling of not being right” was 100% my fault, but regardless, the feeling was there.  Him and I stayed in a hotel room that night because we were a little bit of a drive away from home and had been drinking, so a hotel seemed like a good idea.  The festival that we had attended I was actually working for.  Not anything serious, I was just acting as a runner for them.  So in the morning, I left while the boy with the white hair was still in bed, to go run a quick errand for the festival, (it was a two-day festival) knowing that I would be back before he got out of bed.

I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but as I was driving over the Bayshore Bridge with the morning sun blinding me and Band of Horses playing over the radio, I just knew that him and I weren’t going to last.  Or that I couldn’t last. If you had asked me two days prior to that, I would have told you that we were going in the direction of a serious relationship and would have been happy about that.

I fucking blow chunks at break-ups.  I accept this and in the past have suffered through months of lying and denial to avoid breaking up with a boyfriend.  I don’t want to be like that anymore.  I have learned from my mistakes and am now on more of a tell the truth even if it hurts, kick.  I am trying to be unapologetically honest.  So I got back to the hotel and had a moment of courage that I felt I should take advantage of.  It was the worst idea I’ve ever had.  I proceeded to wake up the boy with the white hair to break up with him.  Who the fuck does that?  I woke him up so that I could break up with him in a hotel room with our garments sprawled all over the goddamn place like a bad Lifetime movie.

I didn’t want to waste any more of his time.  He was so good and he deserved someone who was going to do it with him, be there with him, wholly.  I was just not capable of being that person, so I quickly decided that each passing second that I remained with him, was unfair to him.

I first hugged him, then sobbed, telling him that I, “couldn’t do this,” like a typical girl that you want to punch.  He is very much a “man’s man” and tries camouflaging all feelings,  so he pretty much just said, “okay.”  I appreciated the brevity.

Here is where the part comes in that I seriously did not think it through.  We weren’t packed!  So we had to pack up all of our stuff in awkward silence and then take that uncomfortable elevator ride to the lobby in more silence together with the smooth jazz version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” playing over the elevator speakers.  Thank God we did not drive together or else I probably would have tried to order a shotgun from room service so that I could blow my brains out.

That was one awful morning.

And here I am.  Another morning.  I’m waking up after a night of, “let’s catch up,” to him still asleep while I scavenge the area in the grey, dawn light, searching for my bra that I seriously don’t want to leave behind because I rarely wear bras so it’s my only one.  I was planning on a quick escape but I am too much of a hot mess to pull that off.  I was missing a shoe.  What am I?  A fucking teen soap opera?!  He woke up, laughed at me and walked me to his bar (he owns a bar which is in walking distance to his apartment) at 7:00am while I was giggling at the entire situation and embracing this very unique walk of shame.  We found my shoe literally underneath the bar.  Jesus Christ.

I know this morning all too well of ex boyfriend’s, blood-shot eyes, disheveled hair and Diane Rehms of NPR telling me over my car radio as I drive home that, “Iraqi Kurdish fighters begin crossing from Turkey into Syria to fight against ISIS in Kobani,” to help remind myself that the Kurd’s have way more problems than I do.

Why are we drawn to ex’s?  All I have to show for it is a lost bra, a 7-11 coffee and a screenplay that I should be working on because my old professor is nagging me to finish it, but instead I am sitting here thinking about the boy with the white hair and how I might want to see him tomorrow night too.

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Never Date a Musician

Never date a musician.  He’ll write songs about you and songs that are dedicated to you, and songs that make you to forget that all they are, are some vowels that sound pretty when strung together, and some ‘a’ minor chords that make anyone’s heart break no matter what order they’re put in.  He’ll sing you to sleep and he’ll kiss your eyelids when you cry, and he’ll even figure out the chords to “Puff the Magic Dragon,” because you told him one time that it was your childhood lullaby.  He’ll be able to feel your pain from a mile away because he is so intuitive that it is almost like having a sixth sense.  While he’s cradling your face with his beautifully calloused finger tips, and kissing your forehead, using his manufactured words to make you believe that everything will be okay, he’ll never forgive you for your feelings, because he is so terrified of his own.

Never date a musician because he’ll inspire you.  He’ll bring out the artist within you and you’ll become an addict of passion.  The athlete you’ll date later on will be gorgeous, and he may even impress you with his wisdom and knowledge of current world affairs, but he won’t remind you of what it feels like to feel, and you won’t become addicted to him because he doesn’t make you want to explore the attic of that haunted venue in Milwaukee with him, and he doesn’t give you ideas for the new screenplay that you’ve been writing.  The tattoo artist that you thought you could fall in love with will be the perfect balance of passion, stability and kindness, but while you’re making love in his squeaky bed, he won’t do that thing where he stops for a moment, smiling, and tells you that you look beautiful under the pale moonlight that is shining through the open window.  The boy with the blond hair will make you laugh.  He’ll make you laugh so hard that he’ll wash away all of your doubts with his sweet smile and the way he can keep you up all night, entertained simply by watching bad television together and eating jellybeans.  But they’ll come back.  The doubts will come back when the blond boy can’t find the perfect lyrical analogy, or he can’t silently grab your attention from the other side of a crowded room, and they’ll come back when he doesn’t cause you to bite your bottom lip in lust, because only a musician can do that.

Never date a musician because that is not his heart on his sleeve.  When he’s on stage, setting your soul aflame with his Alvarez that hypnotizes you, his eyes that shyly stay looking down and his vulnerable voice that makes the audience fall in love with him because they believe that they can see what he his feeling.  They can’t.  That is not his heart on his sleeve you silly little victim, it’s just his ego on display.

Never date a musician because he’ll always try to recreate that one night when everything was perfect.  The night that the two of you went to the bridge and splashed rocks into the water so that you could see the bioluminescence.  Then you ran through a park, in the dark, and played tag together and climbed up a tree until you both made it home and sat on the kitchen floor listening to Cat Power and eating left over beans and rice that you cooked together the night before.  You’ll wake up with rashes on your knees from making out all night on the scratchy rug that the two of you keep meaning to replace, but you both hate IKEA so the rug remained.  He’ll always try to recreate that night, never accepting the evolution of relationships because he’s a musician, and they never have to grow up.  When he can’t recreate that night, he’ll hate himself and resent you, and then just write a song about it instead.

Never date a musician because he’ll lie.  He’ll lie about everything.  He’ll lie about his father being an alcoholic, just because it sounds dramatic and captivating.  He’ll lie about the origin of his name and the time that he saved this little girl from drowning.  He’ll even lie about a tragic drug problem he supposedly had just because he wants to pretend that he can relate to Neil Young’s, “A Needle and the Damage Done.”  He’ll lie about these things because they sound romantic.  He has learned from the best… Jim James singing about death and bigotry and Jeff Mangum writing about the only girl he ever loved who got buried alive one day in 1945.  These lyrics will make him believe that he needs to experience the worst of the worst, and somehow that means that he has lived large and with integrity, but it doesn’t.  You’ll realize later that the song you used to play by Carisa’s Wierd that says, “saying sad things that don’t make sense, can just make you look like a liar” didn’t make him squirm because an ex-boyfriend of yours introduced the song to you.  Now you know he hates that song because it hit too close to home.

Never fall in love with a musician because he’ll make you feel like you’re crazy.  When you wake up crying for what you think is no reason, in hindsight you’ll realize that it was because deep down you knew that he was on the other side of town waking up with Adelina, or Calico or Berlin… or some other girl with an exotic name.  She probably has multi-colored hair, and her lips are probably fuller than yours, and she’ll pretend to know all about Wilco just to impress him.  You’ll plead with him on the corner of 3rd and 5th, as strangers are walking by and tears are spilling onto your blue shirt that you’ll never wear again, to tell you the truth about the girl with the Kurt Vonnegut tattoo, but he won’t.  He won’t because telling the truth would mark the end, and all musicians are terrified of a conclusion that cannot be depicted with a few “la-la-la-la’s” and a gentle fade-out.

There will be a tombstone marked “Muse” where you will lie dead.  The day will come when he’ll bring that Alvarez, and sit on top of this grave, and sing to you sweet lullabies, trying to resurrect a time, a place and a you that has long since passed.  Do not fall for this though my friend, because he’ll never love you completely, because completion would mean The End.

Also see, Never Date a Writer.

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Michael – Moments 3 of 3

…to be continued from Moments 2.

Like I said in part one, I could feel Michael.  It was weird.  I always KNEW, without a doubt, when he was going to come into my work to visit me.  I knew when he was going to randomly pop by the house.  I knew, from miles away, when he was sad or having a bad day or when he was out, getting too drunk.  I knew the days that the demons were fighting him, and I could feel when they were laying dormant, temporarily leaving him be.  I knew all of this without words, and I think he sometimes knew them about me.  While that was so very special, this may just be the thing that ultimately brought us to our knees.  Not long later, I stopped being able to feel him.  I’m not sure who let go first, and I’m not sure that it even matters anymore.  I will get to that part at the end.

The night that I first fell for him was the first time we had ever spoken alone.  It was late and I was sitting at the bar alone.  Completely alone because I was managing the bar at the time and shut it down.  It’s an outdoor place, and I was winding down with a whiskey and Hemingway’s, The Sun Also Rises when for no reason at all, I looked up.  It was the first time my Michael sixth sense came into effect.  I knew that he was walking up even though I hadn’t heard anything and even though I didn’t know him very well at this point.  Before I could even see him, I hear, “Caitlin!” and then he emerged from the darkness, still in his steel-toed work boots, white t-shirt and paint splattered pants.  So I put my book aside, and we spoke for a while, but then he picked up my book and started reading it aloud.   For about ten minutes, without interruption, we sat there and I listened to him read to me.  I don’t know why, but it felt so vulnerable… just him, me, the night sky and a story about a lost generation.  I thought it was one of the sexiest things I had ever been a part of and we had never even kissed at this point.  But now he had hooked me.  After that, Michael started coming around alone more often, and by the next week, our romance would begin.

Later in our relationship, on some nondescript day, I was particularly bad.  He happened to call me and normally I wouldn’t answer my phone during one of these crazy spells, but I knew that he was the only person who would know what to do.  I am not sure exactly what I said on the phone, I doubt I was able to form real words, I just remember him saying, “I’ll be right there.”  And he was.  Less than three minutes later, he just walked into my house, I met him right at the door, and fell into him.  He held me in a way that I don’t know anyone has before or since, and for a moment, I felt like I melted into him.  You know that feeling when you love someone so much, and no matter how smooshed together your bodies are, it doesn’t feel close enough?  You feel like you want to melt into that person?  That morning, with Michael holding me as I cried over my bullshit, it is the only time that I can remember, when it actually did feel like I had melted into someone.

He didn’t say anything except, “You feelin’ it today?”  He didn’t ask me what was wrong, or if I was okay or if I wanted to talk.  He just said, “you feelin’ it today?”  That’s possibly my most cherished memory of him.  I just shook my head yes with my face still buried in his neck as he kissed my forehead and tears away, and that was all we said about it.  I knew that he knew what I was feeling.  He helped me catch my breath, exhaling loudly, breathing with me and shaking it off with me, and then sending me on my way.  I had to pull it together and go into work.  I don’t think we ever spoke of that morning again, and I don’t know what would have happened had he not been there.  There were multiple crazy spells like that which I went through, and he was always there for me; so much stronger than me.

I loved Michael for his honesty.  He was never afraid of hurting my feelings.  He would tell me that I was fucking nuts and that there were things that he didn’t like about me.  He did not mean this in a mean way, it’s not like this was said during fights, and that made me like him even more.  We were laying in bed together one night in silence, which was typical of us, words were always minimal, and he said to me, “You know that there are parts of you that I really love.  But then there are parts of you that I really don’t like.”

He didn’t need to say it, because I already knew.  And he knew that I knew, but there are some things that should be said out loud.  I know that it might not sound like it to you, the reader, but it was one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me.  Later that night I said to him, “You know that there are parts of me that really love you too right?  And parts of me that just can’t.”  And he said yes, because he already knew.  And I knew that he knew, but I’m glad I said it.  That was the only time him and I ever used the L word.

As we continued in our dark cycle, we had some truly precious times, and I wish that I could remember it all better, but those times are such a haze.  Dark days.  We planned to drive to New Orleans together, our favorite city, to see a band play and stay overnight.  The date was approaching, but for some reason, Michael and I weren’t really talking.  I can’t remember what happened, but I stopped being able to feel him.  We never really had “fights,” but there was a couple of times when we both knew that we needed a few days from one another for whatever jaded reason.  Whatever it was that we disagreed about this particular time, it was the closest we had come to a fight, and we didn’t see or speak to one another for a week.  It wasn’t ugly or malicious, but that’s just how we were.  Minimal words.

The day came when we would have left to go to New Orleans, and Michael shows up at my work.  I couldn’t sense him this time, and I hadn’t been able to for a couple of weeks.  He was there, expecting me to get in the car and drive away with him.  While I should have known he would pull something like that, I assumed the whole trip was off because of the weird state our relationship was in.  I told him I couldn’t go with him.  He walked away, hurt and silent.  I tried calling him, but I knew it was over.  That was it, that was the moment that we died.  I saw him walking his dog a few days later, and I got out of the car and we had a very short, amicable conversation that resembled something of closure, and of course, both of us apologizing.  I shed some tears, and he hugged me for the last time, and I got back in my car and drove away.

Since then, we have run into each other here and there, and there are no hard feelings.  We both understood each other too well for there to be bitterness.   We were in it for that time and place and we never tried to change each other; we just were.  Michael was my lifeline at a time in my life when I would have otherwise drowned, and this is all I can give him; just some words on a page.  I don’t know if he will ever read this, and I hope he already knows all of it, but sometimes it’s good to write it down anyway.  So raise your glass to Michael, the boy whose heart sets in the West.

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Michael – Moments 2 of 3

…to be continued from Moments 1

I don’t remember how V found out, but it wasn’t through Michael.  I should remember, it wasn’t all that long ago, but fuck the details.  Not two days after the innocent kiss between Michael and I, you would have thought that Armageddon was happening, that’s how NOT okay V and his girlfriend/Michael’s roommate took the news.  I have no idea why the roommate/girlfriend gave a shit.  You’d think that she’d be stoked, but that’s irrelevant. I felt awful, and not because of the means texts, false rumors started or the social exile I was experiencing, but because I felt guilty about what Michael had to endure.  It was his best friend, and here I was, being a Yoko and coming between their friendship.  For a while I kept my distance, and I would have never made contact with Michael again if that’s what he would have wanted, but it wasn’t. It was too late, we were connected.

Michael felt uncomfortable in his own home because V was always there but giving him the silent treatment.  Michael tried talking to him a few times but to no avail.  He even offered to let V punch him if that would make things better.  This war without words went on for weeks, if not months.  Their space though, just brought Michael and I closer. We were bonded by our exile and a secret Michael/Caitlin world was temporarily built.

He would get up before sunrise to go to work, so we actually had mornings together which is something I don’t think I have ever experienced with any other boy. My body is such an asshole because it won’t allow me to sleep more than 4 hours, so I am often awake at 5:30am, and have had an entire day by the time anyone I associate with has even contemplated waking up. I’d sometimes rise with Michael, and we’d have coffee and listen to a good, morning song before he’d put those steel-toed boots on that I loved so much, kiss me good and leave for the day. Sometimes I would see him after work, sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes we’d see each other a few days in a row, sometimes we wouldn’t see each other at all for a few days. I would occasionally pop in and bring him an Iced White Chocolate Mocha thing from Starbucks. He liked six shots of espresso in these drinks, but I only got him the normal amount when I was buying because if he had a heart attack I didn’t want to feel responsible.

When he stayed over, we’d wake up in the middle of the night and mold into one another.  He’d keep his eyes closed and pull me into him, mold me to him, without saying anything and fall back asleep.  A couple of times he woke up in the middle of the night, pulled me into him, and without uttering a word, made love to me.  That was one of the sexiest and most romantic things that I have ever experienced because it was so honest and true.  Sometimes he would have nightmares, and I would gently rub his face and chest and whisper in his ear, to try to gently wake him up.  Between my attacks, him talking to himself and both of our nightmares… what a dysfunctional duo disaster we were. I worked a lot during this time, about 55 hours a week, so most of our interaction happened late at night, after I was off of work. It’s strange to think about, but I still have no idea what his bedroom even looks like. Due to our circumstances I was never able to go to his place. So the nights that he didn’t stay over, we would often meet up for a quick hello and a goodnight kiss at the bridge or the pier or the wall by the water or at this fancy nearby hotel that has a piano inside that we would sneak to, and hope that we could get a song in before someone discovered us. He played beautifully.

What made our relationship so different and so special, was that we acted like a 70-year-old couple. We NEVER texted each other.  Not once while we were together. We vowed that we never would, so it was all phone calls or random drop by’s.  There was something so romantic about him unexpectedly knocking on my front door.  What a rarity in this day and age.  We sometimes went on “drive’s,” the way that people did in the ’50s, and we drew pictures together, going back and forth with a sharpie, taking turns building a full page design.

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We would listen to the radio together and leave each other notes on our car windshields or front door step. The morning that I ran away (which is another whole tale that includes me hosteling through Florida and living out of LA Fitness’s), I left him a note at the nearby bar that he sometimes worked at, simply stating not to worry and that I’d come back. I felt like I was in the Wild West, leaving a note with a gold coin for the barmaid with instructions to give it to the “fellow who will soon be passing through.” A few days later, when I decided to turn my phone back on and deal with all of the frantic voice messages I was sure to have from family and friends who basically thought I went missing, the one I got from Michael just said something like, “I think I know what you’re doing and I didn’t tell anyone, but they’re worried. I hope you’re okay and I miss you.”

Our secret world was even more isolated due to the fact that at the time, I was living without cable, wi-fi or any type of “smart” device. At one point, I went for a few days without electricity just to see what it would be like. Good God, I really was going insane. Anyway, I think that environment enhanced our little secret life because when he was over there were no distractions. We only had each other for entertainment.

This all sounds cute and innocent, and it partly was, but we also enabled each other.  We had some beautiful moments, but it wasn’t exactly a healthy relationship.  We both drank way too much.  I was trying to escape my demons and he was trying to drown his, so a lot of the time we were just drinking together, avoiding all of the dark feelings that we could sense in one another but chose to ignore.  When you are a lost soul, you can sense a fellow walking dead, and Michael and I were among the uncomfortably numb, using alcohol to try to feel something.  We both knew it, but never said it out loud.  I was constantly on the move, and didn’t know if I was running to something or away from something, and Michael seemed to always be having an inner civil war.

I secretly called him, The Boy Whose Heart Sets in the West.  He is from Northern California, and just didn’t seem to belong in Florida.  His heart is real, but it seems to function independently from his head.  An inner civil war.  I may be being presumptuous, because I really don’t know much about his past, but I think he was used to being the crazy one in a relationship.  When I came around however, he totally stepped up to the plate and became the one taking care of the crazy one.  I was out of my fucking mind at the time, and he was there for me. He dodged his demons so that he could deal with mine instead.  For that, I will be eternally grateful.  And embarrassed.  Thinking back, my behavior was so embarrassing, and I have no idea why he didn’t flee at the first sign of one of my crazy spells.

To be continued…

 

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Michael – Moments 1 of 3

Michael was my lifeline at a time in my life when I would have otherwise drowned, and this is the only gift that I can give him. Just some words on a page. I don’t know if he will ever read this, and I know that he probably already knows all of it because he could feel me, but sometimes it’s good to write it down anyway.

Michael came at the worst time.  Who knows why I’m choosing now to write about him, but it is time.  Maybe it’s because I’m moving again; he’s all over this house.  Moving is always stressful, especially for me because I’m just so goddamn sick of it.  Since I graduated high school in 2005, I have lived in 14 different houses.  This is not including the multiple tour buses that I have spent many months in.  I think moving takes an emotional toll because you are forced to go through old sentimental shit that we all, for some reason, keep.  Items like ex-boyfriend gifts, old photographs of family members that have passed, letters from best friends whom you barely speak to anymore are revealed and it all takes a psychological toll as you’re throwing them into the back of a truck that you had to borrow from the guy down the street who hopefully won’t expect a date out of the favor.

Last year, upon moving in, there was a lot to be done and I felt completely overwhelmed.  Michael helped ease the pain. He helped me paint the inside, he brought me tools I needed and shelves and faucet aerators and PBR for us to drink while we listened to music and sat on the cold hard floor while we waited for the walls to finish drying.  I was painting my bed frame, but taking my sweet time, so my mattress was in the middle of my kitchen for what I think was weeks before I actually started sleeping in a bedroom.  Waking up in the morning with him, in the middle of the kitchen on an uncovered mattress with the gentle hum of the refrigerator, may be the only times that being in that house really felt like home.  Now that I’m sitting here, really trying to cultivate memories of Michael and I, I’m realizing that the stages of that house are the perfect metaphor for our relationship.  When the house was relatively empty, before furniture purchases and boxes of old artwork and comic books arrived, Michael and I felt light.  Light, simple and untainted.  We would sit outside in the dark for hours, just drinking and talking.  He had such beautiful eyes. They were guarded, but sometimes, and only sometimes, he would falter, and the guards came down and those eyes would look at me in a way that consumed my every sense.  For just those single, fleeting seconds, it’s like he owned my entire sensory system and I was hooked to him as if he was somehow connected to me intravenously.  As time progressed, and the state of the house progressed, Michael and I began to feel heavy.  With the arrival of more clutter, came the arrival of more mental clutter.  Those unguarded looks became fewer and more fleeting and eventually led to times when I think we felt lost and confused in each other’s eyes instead of safe and light.

He worked (or works, I’m not really sure what he’s doing nowadays) at a retirement community as what I would describe, a handy-man.  I thought that was so sexy.  I love boys who get off of work and have paint splattered on their calloused hands, smell like fresh sweat and have grease stains on their jeans.  Michael had all of these. He would bring me a bunch of knickknacks from rooms of people who had just passed.  It became an inside joke that whenever he would bring me something new for my house I would ask, “Did this come from a dead person’s room?”  Thank you to the little old lady who once owned the nightlight I now have.  That’s my favorite.  This move was taking place during my dark days.

I refer to my period of living in Los Angeles as “my dark days,” but there was also a time, about six months after leaving LA, that I lost myself to yet another episode of dark days.  Of all my life obstacles chronicled by adolescent angst, teen heart ache, college stress, quarter life crises and career let downs, I would say that last year for several months, I was at my absolute worst, and this is when Michael came into my life.  Here I am, moving again, out of this place that parts of him are scattered throughout, so maybe that’s why I’m choosing now to write about him.  The days are no longer dark though, and I think he is partly responsible for that.

Michael and I were forced into what I call, “serious mode” because we breached the best friend line.  I knew Michael’s best friend before I knew him.  We will refer to him as V.  V and I VERY mildly were seeing each other for a second before Michael came into the picture.  We never slept together or did anything except for kiss for that matter.  He is a gem, but about two weeks in, in true Caitlin style, I knew there was no way it was going to progress.  We had that uncomfortable chat, and decided to continue as just friends… but maybe I hadn’t had made that as clear as I thought I had. I suck at that type of confrontation, and this whole calamity solidifies that notion.

V had already begun hooking up with his ex girlfriend again, so I was thinking, sweet! I’m off the hook. Apparently not.  An inappropriately short amount of time later, Michael and I kissed. We both did not think it was a big deal. Whatever, we got drunk and made-out, it happens. Michael was going to tell V and all would be well since V was back with his ex who just happens to be Michael’s roommate… of course!  There is the cherry on top just to make this situation even more appropriate for the mess that is my life.

Under normal circumstances, Michael and I probably would have just hooked up a few more times and lightly seen each other until it would inevitably fizzle out, like it always does.  However, because we unwittingly catapulted ourselves into a war zone, also known as a love triangle, we were now brothers in arms; bonded.  The curse of the best friend. That curse has always plagued me.  I can’t regret this mistake though, because it means that I had Michael, and we had our two-week romance.

I describe a “two week romance” as any romance that is viciously passionate, and ends as quickly as it begins with little or no communication before or after the affair.  It doesn’t have to be two weeks, but I’ve noticed that this is a common amount of time for these fleeting yet fervent romances to last, and “two week romance” has a certain ring to it.  I think Michael and I lasted about two or three months.  Just like I said though, the way we were thrusted together overnight, we ended just as abruptly.  Even though we were short-lived, I had someone who I could feel, during a time in my life when I couldn’t feel anything else except for crippling anxiety. It was literally crippling because it harshly effected my day-to-day life.  I had immense trouble leaving the house, I refused to see any friends and I was having frequent panic attacks.  Dark days.  I don’t think that there is anyone else but Michael who could have seen me through that time.  We had a deep, almost psychic connection that I have a hard time understanding, so I’m not going to cheapen it with an inadequate wordy explanation.  Let’s just say that we were very close, but a closeness that we could feel but not really see.  Michael had gotten into my bloodstream…

To be continued.

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My Teenage Boyfriends’ Spoiled Me

The boys that I was hooking up with during my formative years were nice.  Maybe it was simply because they were young innocent’s and the world had not yet swallowed them up, churned them around in its’ acidic bile and spit them out a poisoned, corrupted soul.  Graham Greene said in The Quiet American, “Innocence always calls mutely for protection when we would be so much wiser to guard ourselves against it: innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm.”

Boom.  Graham Greene is sexy.  Anyway, the dude was on to something.  Maybe I should have guarded myself from innocence because I grew up thinking boys were nice and understanding and patient when it comes to sex.  Was I just lucky?  Did I just happen to get the good ones?  Don’t get me wrong, I definitely had my fair share of shitty bedroom situations when I was a teenager, but the boys I was with when we were younger and learning how our bodies worked, were terrified of hurting me.  They were gentlemen.  And I mean that literally;  gentle men.  They didn’t unbutton my pants on the first date and they didn’t grab my boobs after four seconds of saliva exchange and they didn’t even let it get to the point where I would have to use the word, “no” because they fucking paid attention and just knew when it was and was not okay to progress.  Guys now think that kissing will always lead to sex.  Um no.

There was James.  He was my first, and my first “real” boyfriend.  I was 16 so I don’t remember a lot, but he was nice and definitely never pressured me.  I couldn’t have asked for a better first.

Then there is Cody.  I’ve never written about Cody mostly because I can’t.  There is too much history that it is overwhelming.  There are some things so sacred, in which words seem feeble to attempt to use.  Maybe one day, if I’m ever a better writer, I’ll try to write about Cody.  For now though, I’ll just say that if there was some sort of test for hearts, the way there is an IQ test for your brain, Cody and I would score the exact same.  Cody was caring.  He was like me, because he didn’t need sex.  Not in the way most guys do.  I had some problems, and he was so soft and understanding, (or at least pretended to understand) and said all of the right things when we were rolling around together in his squeaky high school bed that had a sound machine next to it that he was obsessed with.  And boy, could he kiss.  There you go Cody, there is the one thing that I will write about you.

My Love was amazing.  He put up with my fucked up ways and never questioned it.  When him and I first started dating, I remember the first time he put his hand up my shirt.  He went so slow, allowing me time to stop him if I wanted to.  I didn’t stop him.  Then, instead of his hand landing on my breasts, where I assumed they were going, he went all the way through my v-neck shirt and landed at my face.  He cupped my face as we kissed and that was the first time his hand was up my shirt.  I’ll always remember that because it seemed so innocent.  He was a hormonal teenager who could have had a grab at a boob, but he passed them and went for my face and it was more intimate than any awkward feel-up could have been.

Tommy and I were a goddamn rollercoaster, and he came later in life, but when we first started seeing each other, he could read my body language as blatantly as he could read a book.  I remember the first time we hooked up, and it got to the point where we were about to have sex, but I just didn’t feel right about it yet.  I don’t think I even had to verbalize anything, he just stopped.  He could tell from my body language because he was paying attention.  Listening with his instincts.  BOYS DON’T DO THIS ANYMORE!

Those are the ones who I learned with.  The ones that I’ve been with the most.  Maybe I have a jaded current view of boys because I haven’t “seriously” been with anyone in a while.  That is mostly because I just don’t like being in relationships, but I’m wondering if it’s also because boys just don’t pay attention now that we are older.  I’ve dated guys since Tommy, and almost become at least semi serious with a few of them, but I’m wondering if part of the hesitation is that I’m silently screaming for someone who only existed at a time when we were dumb leper’s who had lost our bells.

Like I said, I have had PLENTY of crap experiences, but the one that sparked this random musing happened last night.  I was out with this guy who is a friend, but has been pursuing me for a little while.  Just don’t pursue me.  It’s exhausting.  I leave town often for work and I’m like a dude when it comes to relationships.  Just not that into commitment.  Obviously.  Anyway, this guy was trying to take my pants off, but I kept stopping him.  First question, why did I have to do this more than once?  He then went on to remind me of a time that I threw up and passed out in his bathroom once during a party a while back.  It wasn’t my finest hour.  It happens.  Apparently he can’t brush it off so easily, because he surprised me with this:

“I had to clean up your puke, so at least show me some snatch.”

I swear to God.  I don’t even need to waste my linguistic energy on why that statement is so fucked up.  These are the boys nowadays!  I got so used to the Cody’s and Matt’s of the world, that I grew up thinking all boys are nice.  They’re not.  Not all boys will take the time to read your body language like a book.  Maybe they have all just found their bell and learned to guard themselves against innocence.

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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 11

I have discussed what I like to call “uh-oh moments” in past entries.  I was chatting with a friend recently, and he made me realize that these moments have dictated my life way more than I have been giving them credit for.  If you’re not up to speed on my definition of an uh-oh moment, I will fill you in.  The “uh-oh moment” is that single second, after your boyfriend/girlfriend/fuck-buddy/romantic interest does or says something that you can pinpoint exactly, which causes an unexplainable switch in your brain, and from that moment on, you just know that you will never be attracted to that person again.  There is no going back. I will start with the very first uh-oh moment that I can remember.

Sixth grade.  I think back then we called it “going out.”  So I was “going out” with this boy, which basically meant that he met me in the halls in between classes and we sometimes held hands.  We had probably been together for what I’m guessing to be a week, and in my twelve-year-old mind, the thought of kissing was still light-years away.  At my locker, he kissed me on the cheek before leaving to go to his class.  EW!  This was a seriously big milestone in a sixth grade relationship, and I was so grossed out because I could feel his saliva on my cheek.  I wiped it off, but for the rest of the day, I could just sense where he had left his slobbery mark.  Uh-oh.  No more milestones for us!  At the end of the day, I made Allee-Jo break up with him for me because she would see him while walking back home from school.  Now that’s a good friend.

Fast forward to four years later, still very much a virgin and seeing this guy I met in drama.  I was new to the whole foreplay thing, so when he started fingering me and it was the most distressing thing I had yet to experience in my so far innocent life, I thought that might be a normal reaction.  But the uh-oh moment came when not ten seconds after he started this uncomfortable activity, he said, “are you going to come?”  EW!  That word grossed me out so much.  I had never heard someone use it seriously before.  My friends and I, whose activities at this time in our lives included melting action figures on Glenn’s stove, and coming up with inventive things to put into macaroni and cheese, would use that word only to be funny and purposely disgusting.  Hearing my “boyfriend” say it to me was a HUGE turn-off.  The next day I broke up with him in the hallway before French class.  I entered class a bit shaken, and received some good advice that I’ve lived by ever since.  “Next time Caitlin, you might want to wait until after school to break up with your boyfriend.”  Thanks Mrs. King!

Fast forward now to my twenties, and these moments are no longer in chronological order.  My twenties have just been one big jumbly mess of social conundrums.  This guy never closed his mouth, and he always reminded me of someone.  It would drive me crazy that I couldn’t pinpoint who it was that he resembled.  When I realized that it was Brainy, the mouth-breather from the cartoon, Hey Arnold… uh-oh!

Brainy.

Brainy.

 

This next one is bad because I was actually pretty into this guy.  He was the first relationship I even mildly took seriously in years, and I fucked it all up because I’m such a snob.  He put his hand in the back-pocket of my jeans while we were out.  Uh-oh.  I thought that move had been abandoned in the 90’s, gone forever, as it should be.  It’s just such a gaudy behavior, and I’m the opposite of gaudy when it comes to relationships.  Due to that moment, what I had been stewing on for a few days became blindingly clear, we were just not going to work out.

This move.  No thanks!

This move. No thanks!

 

Another guy bit my nipple.  Hard!  While attempting to be hot.  Done.

I was lightly seeing this kid in college, who was much more fashionable than me, which was already a problem.  I suppose he was just a hipster, but that term hadn’t become popular yet.  My roommate could never remember his name, which is mostly my fault because at the time, I was seeing a few boys, so he had trouble keeping them straight, and would just come up with clever nicknames for all of them.  Corey’s nickname was “the train conductor,” because there were a couple of occasions when Corey would wear this hat and vest situation… and he really did look like a train conductor.  The next time I saw Corey, after hearing my roommate call him the train conductor for the first time, I thought, uh-oh.  All day, all I saw was a goddamn train conductor.  He was no longer Corey.  It didn’t matter anymore what he was actually wearing, I just always saw a fucking train conductor from that moment on.  Michael and I still laugh about Corey on occasion.  At least I got a good inside joke out of it.

Another guy killed me when he used the phrase, “dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  He was telling some story and said, “I felt like such a dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  WHAT?!  Everyone else I associate with would just say, I felt like an asshole, or I was being an idiot.  This kid busts out with dummy dumb dumb dumb.  Each syllable of that ridiculous phrase felt like a gunshot to our relationship.  So I maybe could have survived “dummy dumb,” but he had to take it all the way, and just murder me with the five syllable onslaught.  I’m a jerk, I know.

Some irrelevant guy I was seeing for a second, started touching himself while kissing me.  We had never done anything but kiss, and one night we were doing exactly that, FULLY clothed I’d like to add, and barely “into it,” when I realized he had his hand down his own pants and was jerking off.  That’s fucking foul.  Done.

At a bar and I let this guy use up my last credit on the jukebox.  He chose a Creed song and was 100% serious about it.  Uh-oh.  I don’t know which is worse, Creed fans or Nickelback fans.

One of the funniest uh-oh moments I’ve ever heard of, didn’t happen to me, but to my friend Cody.  Back when we were teenagers, if I remember correctly, he went out only a couple of times with this girl because she was really hot.  She told him that she doesn’t like guys who like corn.  WHAT?!  So that was Cody’s uh-oh moment.  It’s not that he loves corn, he just couldn’t like a girl who doesn’t like guys for such an absurd reason.  It makes me laugh every time I think about it.

 

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I Dare You

Laying low at a bar.  What else is new.  I was reading Maxim at a high top in the shadowed area of the Chic-a-Boom Room, a cool spot located in Dunedin, Florida.  Two guys walked by, and a few seconds later, one of them comes back around.

“My friend told me to turn left for the bathroom, but I had to turn right to tell you how pretty you are.”

I literally laughed out loud.  I fucking love cheesy pick-up lines.  I think they’re so much fun.  My favorite…

(Picture a boy acting like he’s in a deep discussion with another friend, then turns to you…)  “Hey.  Do you know how much a Polar Bear weighs?”

“No.”

“Enough to break the ice.  (Offers out his hand)… “My name is Mikey.”

I fell for that one.  I thought it was hilarious and that boy got a genuine laugh.  Anyway!  Although I was one hundred percent flattered and entertained by the lame, “turn left/turn right” pick up line, I didn’t, at first, take him seriously as a human being at all.  Because of my curse, to my not so surprise, I discovered that he was the musician playing at the bar that night.  OF COURSE.  But that’s irrelevant.

Side note:  I understand that it’s incorrect to start a sentence with a conjunction, and I understand that I just did it twice, but sometimes it’s just necessary for effect.  Side note #2: I will admit that I just spent a solid two and a half minutes trying to decide if I should use “effect” or “affect” with that last sentence, but gave up and went with the most popular.

Back to the story.  Later, I was sitting at the bar, next to a fellow solo female bar patron.  She bought me a shot, which was incredibly sweet and “female bonding” of her.  Once I took my nose out of my magazine, and started being at least mildly social, I quickly realized that she was friends with the musician.  The one with the cheesy pick-up line.  Boy, do they have some history!  I loved their chemistry and weird relationship, which was put out on display for me as the night and conversation progressed between the three of us.  While I’d love to digress, and tell you about their doomed romance, instead, I’ll get to my point.

The point of this random musing is that this night, reminded me that EVERYONE, even the guy with the terrible pick-up line has something to offer if you just listen.  I believe his name was Jeremy?  Maybe?  So Jeremy, the guy who I originally didn’t take seriously as a human being, ended up saying something which I found to be relatively profound.  To paraphrase his drunken theory… he basically said that all it takes to save a relationship, or maintain a long-term relationship, is twenty minutes of undivided attention a day.  Whatever relationship in your life that is lacking, whether it’s a romantic relationship, a close friendship, a familial relationship… whatever.  Put aside twenty minutes of your day, to give that person all of yourself.  Leave your cell phone, your to-do list, the television remote and your insincerity, and listen.  Listen and talk with that person for a solid twenty minutes.  That’s all it takes, and it will take you far.

Jeremy seemed to relate this to a marriage.  He definitely is not married, but the way he was talking, I’m assuming that he was at one point.  Sadly, I think he made this “twenty-minute self-help” discovery too late.  I related this advice to my relationship with my Mother.  My Mom is a beautiful human, and if everyone had a little bit more of her in them, the world would be a better place.  I truly believe that.  However, she can be absolutely annoying at times, and for me, difficult to talk to and find common ground with.  But after contemplating Jeremy’s theory, I decided that if I simply take twenty minutes of my day, and put aside my differences with my mom and embrace her quirks, I think it could make a world of difference.  It could build our relationship, make it stronger and be overall beneficial for both of us.

So I dare all of you, to be still.  Be still, for only twenty minutes a day with the person in your life that you love, and care enough about to save a relationship with.    Advice from the drunken free-spirit musician at the bar.  To add to this….

Caitlin rule:  Give EVERYONE the time of day.  They may just surprise you.

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How to Make a Guy Fall in Love With You

These were some of my secrets, in no particular order.

-Be forward.  Playing hard to get is overrated.  If you like him and the two of you vibe, straight up say, “I like you,” then grab his face and make-out with him.

-Keep your past a mystery.  Ambiguity = Intrigue!  Example: When/if he asks why you and your ex broke up, do NOT, for the love of God, tell that story.  Instead, say something along the lines of, “Oh, just life.  So many reasons that don’t even matter anymore.”  Example 2: He asks, “What brought you out here?” (I get that a lot living in Los Angeles), keep it a mystery!  I usually respond with, “I’d tell you that story… but it’s not a very interesting one.”  Not only is this true in my case, (ha!) but it keeps the boys wanting more.  Keep them wanting more in more areas than one!

-Never refer to him as, “dude.”

-Get your vagina under control!  Rinse that shit out regularly with water!  No excuse for foul smells!

-Call yourself out.  Example: I am generally pretty low maintenance, but I have my girly moments.  When these occur, I straight up say, “I’m sorry, I’m about to be such a girl right now, but I have nothing to wear.”  Without that disclaimer, I would lose cool points immediately in his book.  But because I own up to my occasional ridiculousness, I not only get away with it, but I gain cool points because now he knows that I am able to check myself.  Example 2: My feet are NOT cute.  I have disgusting, fat, square, dancer’s feet.  Instead of trying to curl them under while cuddling together on the couch, I just openly make fun of my “Flinstone feet.”  Now I’ve manipulated him into thinking that my “negative” is kind of endearing.

-Magic words, “not like you.”  When he compliments you… says you’re beautiful or sexy or have a pretty smile, or whatever, instead of blushing and saying thank you, gently bite your bottom lip, make cute eye contact, and say, “not like you.”  This one is TOP SECRET!  It works every time, I guarantee or your money back.

-Be able to get ready in fifteen minutes.  You don’t need to do this every time, but he needs to know that you are able to get ready on the fly when necessary.

-Don’t talk about your period.

-Do NOT ask him what his “number” is.  Let me say this again.  DO NOT ASK HIM WHAT HIS NUMBER IS!

-If he opens the car door for you, reach over and unlock the driver’s side for him.

-Pretend to know about something he is interested in.  Without being creepy, find out about a subject he is into, that he doesn’t think you know he is into.  Example: (A shitty one, but an example still), you’re in his car and see a book in the backseat about mixology.  Don’t say anything about it, then go do some homework.  Just spend twenty minutes researching some generalities on mixology, then next time you see him and it gets “casually” brought up in conversation, modestly impress him with your knowledge on the subject matter.  Real life example:  I had a harmless crush on this foreign valet guy.  I thought he sounded Russian, but asked one of his co-worker’s where he was from, and was informed that he’s from Serbia.  So, I wikipediad (yes, I just turned that into a verb) some general info on the country, and bam!  Now he thinks I’m a cultured, wise and hopefully irresistible because I use to eye fuck him like it was my job.

-Show some skin, but not too much!  If you’re wearing a low cut top, do not wear a short skirt.  If you’re wearing a short skirt, pair it with a not so revealing top.  Remember, we’re going for love not lust here!

-Want him, but don’t need him.

-Tell him you’re not really into relationships.  Whether this is true or not, act like it is.  This will make you seem “dangerous.”  We always fall for the dangerous boy over the nice one.  Secret:  It works both ways!

-Make him feel special by lying.  I used to bring guys to this awesome “secret spot” that overlooked the water and had this beautiful view and was sort of secluded.  I would tell them I had never brought anyone else there before… I was totally full of shit.  Example 2: Tell him an anecdote that is relatively personal (keep it short and sweet though, don’t talk his head off) and then tell him that you’ve never told anyone else that before.  I know, I’m going to hell.

-Keep your room smelling nice, and always have a dark-colored comforter.  Get rid of your Martha Stewart pastel colored crap.

-Let shit go!  Be easy going!

-Do not pee in front of him or talk about poop.  As far as you’re concerned, girl’s don’t poop!  This rule (along with some of the others), bend with time of course.  But at the beginning, he will always think it’s weird if you pee in front of him and he doesn’t want to be reminded that your butt functions as anything more than a cute spectacle.

-In the sac, teeter on the line of seeming utterly vulnerable, yet sure/dominating at the same time.  I know, it’s tricky.  Show him that you’re comfortable with your sexuality and you know what you want, but at the same time you need to come across as somewhat fragile.

-Be spontaneous!  Go hop a fence and jump into a pool together, go on a mini road trip, sneak onto the roof of a tall building and make-out!

-Be someone he wants to fuck AND talk to.  Guys generally look at a girl and see one or the other.  You want to be both.  This is ultimately what will make him fall in love with you and what I would consider to be the most important on the list.

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