Like the new look? Now that I have the ability to keep changing the colors, I probably will…and often. I get bored of the same thing for too long.
Speaking of that, how about more short-lived boyfriend stories? I know I mentioned several last night, but I think I’ll tell the story of The Puppet tonight instead. Don’t worry though; I’ll still tell the others.
The Puppet is my less-than-flattering name for the one boyfriend that resulted from a blind date (obviously not Lazy Eye from last night). One of the teachers I taught with several years ago was about my mom’s age. She had a son who was only ten days younger than me. I think she always felt somewhat motherly about me. Anyway, she and her son teamed up to set me up with one of his still-single high school friends. From the description, he sounded like my type: computer nerd, slightly shy, and unaware of his own charm.
I knew before we went out the first time what my hopes for the night were. My plan was simply to get a second date out of him, if I decided he was worthy when we met. He was surprisingly captivating. We chatted easily during dinner, so I chose to use my womanly wiles to con a second date out of him. Fortunately he had chosen pool as an after-dinner activity. I may not be very good at the game of pool, but I know how to play the game, if you know what I mean.
The first few games, I acted like I had no clue what I was doing. He “taught” me, as I predicted he would. Then suddenly he started losing game after game. It’s not that I was suddenly improving. He was merely distracted from the pool cue in his hands, trying to hide the pool cue in his pants (although that might be giving him more credit than he’s due). My skirt was just short enough to get him wondering without seeming sleazy, and my shirt just low enough to keep him looking, even though I knew he wouldn’t see anything. I’d planned it all. I was rightly smug when the date ended with plans for a second one.
My goal for the second date was a third date and hand-holding. I wanted to make progress while still coming across as the sweet, innocent thing he thought I was. Again, I dressed the part, just revealing enough to make him wonder, but perfectly innocent. And again, I accomplished my goals easily.
My goal for the third date was a kiss, and the promise of more. We ended up making out on the couch in my apartment, as planned, with me pushing back his wandering hands before they could wander anywhere that might sully my pristine innocence.
I look back at the next few weeks after that as well and realize I played him like a fiddle. I don’t think the guy would have wiped his nose if I hadn’t manipulated him into doing so. I’d never been the powerful one in the relationship before, and I savored my control over him. I enjoyed having a puppet who jumped when I called him and melted if I so much as winked at him.
After some time, though, I grew weary of my position as the one in charge. There’s a good reason I’d never had that much control before; that’s not me. It felt like I was wearing someone else’s clothes, pretending to be someone I’m not.
For that reason, I was none too disappointed when the night came that he broke up with me–his one and only act with a backbone of his own. We’d gone out with one of his friends, and in the car on the way home, both before and after dropping off his friend, it was far too silent. By the time we were alone in the car, I couldn’t elicit anything but a short, monosyllabic answer from him, something resembling a grunt, to anything I said. I finally gave up and squirmed in the oppressive silence. I felt like I could drown in the tension left in the void without noise. I knew before he said a word that it would be our last night together.
He walked me to my door and hesitantly started talking before I could give him a hug and kiss and close the door. He stumbled through a vague break-up speech that he had undoubtedly been practicing in his head the whole way home. I would have been somewhat upset with him for the suddenness of it, but he looked so uncomfortable that I actually pitied him. He stared at my feet the whole time and didn’t even look up when he left. I never saw him again.
I did cry a little after he left, more because I was lonely than I missed him. But before I could get to the sobbing stage, I would picture once again my puppet without a backbone so involved in breaking up with my feet. I had visions of myself stripping naked, dancing the hula, and clucking like a chicken, all without him noticing anything other than my toenail polish. I chalked it up to yet another story-worthy experience and moved on.