…but for the father, nothing

In retrospect, he seemed unduly worried that I was not serious about being with him. By his estimation, 90% of women on the dating sites were there just to play games and would never close the deal.

He questioned me closely on my willingness to follow through. This should have been my clue, perhaps, and perhaps when I gain some maturity I will realize that the fears people express about me are often the fears that they have about themselves.

He assured me, however, that he was 100% serious about being on the market for a good friend, fuck-buddy, dating partner and et cetera. Why else would he have active profiles on both a naughty site and a polite site, right?

So we emailed. We talked. We met. He met one of my best friends. She approved. He was respectful and polite throughout our meeting and even pulled away from my overly-enthusiastic kiss good night on the grounds that we’d meet again soon and explore that part of the equation at our leisure.

When the time seemed right, we made plans to spend an evening at his house. Again, he questioned my willingness to follow through. Would I actually show up, he wanted to know? Was I really healed up enough from my separation to get involved with another man? Was I honestly enthusiastic for a sexual relationship? I answered his questions in as vigorously positive a way as I could. He remained somewhat doubtful. I told myself that he’d simply never met a woman like me before and that neither of us had anything to fear.

That night, I bathed carefully. I shaved all the applicable body parts; I shaved the one that I hoped would be getting the most attention into the style he requested, because I’m a little sub-y like that. Do you see that I am attempting to demonstrate to you, the reader, that I was more than ready for sexual congress with this man? Not that you had any doubt of that.

We would up on his couch in short order. A movie played in the background. He drank a glass of wine. I curled next to him, my hand rubbing his thigh. And then he started to talk to me.

I assumed that we’d very quickly progress past the point of talking and on to the sex. Nothing against talking, but I can talk on the phone, or on the IM when I’m at home. On the rare occasions when I’m alone with a man, time is most productively spent fucking. It’s a question of proper time-management, that’s all. Just being pragmatic.

But the talking continued, no matter how stridently I rubbed his leg. I pointed out somewhere along the line that he wasn’t reciprocating my leg rubbing with any sort of touch. He offered me a limp hand to hold, and inquired if kissing me was a “requirement” for fucking.

“You aren’t comfortable kissing me?” I asked, attempting to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

“No, it pretty much weirds me out right now.”

That’s when I shifted from getting-laid-mode to friend-mode. He suggested the obligatory tour of his house, during which some details of his recently dissolved union came to light. The man has issues, understandable issues, with how his wife treated him during their marriage. Anger and raw hurt now showed up in his tone, emotions that weren’t in evidence the other times we’d talked.

In his bedroom, he opened a drawer and pulled out pictures of his ex and him, taken in the happier days of the marriage. While viewing their scrapbook, I gently asked if he’d considered getting some counseling to help him deal with the emotions stirred up by divorce. “Yeah, this other girl I was dating suggested the same thing,” he told me.

I’m getting to be a master at not raising my eyebrows (or rolling my eyes) at inopportune moments.

He invited me back to the couch to talk some more, complimenting me on my insight and kindness. He told me more about his ex’s sins during the marriage. I again raised the topic of counseling. He listed off reasons that he couldn’t go to counseling, including the old standards, time and money.

“And anyhow,” he concluded, “what could I get from counseling that I couldn’t get from talking to you? You are a smart girl; there’s nothing a counselor could tell for me that you couldn’t.”

Gently I tried to derail this train of thought. I’m not sure that I succeeded. At any rate, I soon made my way to the door, hugged him warmly and left.

And that’s when I got all maudlin, and if you’ll please forgive me, now is when this entry is also going to get all maudlin.

It shouldn’t, but this sort of thing exhausts me far more than it should. I went into that situation having expectations, needs, wants–and I got nothing. I need to learn to expect nothing. There’s a chance that expecting nothing could soften the blow of actually getting nothing.

I wanted to tell him that I could not act as his counselor because he wasn’t going to pay me the couple hundred dollars necessary for me consistently to be in the right frame of mind to help him with his issues–not to mention the fact that I have no training in how to help him with his issues. I may be a “smart girl,” but the last thing I ever again want to do is to attempt the emotional restoration of a fragile person. I just can’t do it.

And the thing that makes me the most glum is this: So many times I go into situations wanting and needing to be taken care of in some small way. And so many times I get–nothing. Not taken care of. Not refreshed, not buoyed up, not strengthened, not loved.

Not loved, but made use of.

I accepted it from this man because it was painfully obvious that he needed a friend and not a haranguing shrew pointing out to him the unfairness of bringing me to his house when he was clearly not ready for any sort of relationship.

Remember this, self: The doubts they raise about you often tell you how they mistrust themselves. Remember this. Remember.

So I learn my lesson and move on. What else can I do?

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If anyone recognizes the title and what it means, I’ll be surprised and very pleased.

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I had the nerve to write a FAQ, finally. You can read it here.