Anxious - the Word of the Century.

Christoph and I broke it off November of last year. Those of you who have kept up with my blog were probably wondering what happened to the perfect union. In reality, Christoph was an amazing boyfriend who I respected greatly. But alas, we were two different souls who chose separate paths. He wanted to move back home, and I wanted to move up to NYC. We both wanted to see what was out there (i.e. I have wandering eyes), and decided that if we were meant for each other, we would find our way back to each other. It was the most mature mutual break-up in the history of break-ups, and now we are good friends. No long story. No drama. Just short, simple, and sweet.

Initially, I was really scared to date after Christoph. Would I ever find a man perfect enough to replace perfection? I highly doubted it. As I ventured out into the world of dating yet again, I found myself bombarded with a slew of extremely attractive men. The first I crossed paths with was my fellow co-worker. He was the typical, tall, dark, nerdy (book smart), handsome, shy guy that I’m into. I could give him a pseudonym, but he might sense it and get anxious. That was his problem. He was too anxious to function. In fact, I shouldn't say "was"; I should say "is". I asked him out to dinner. I asked him out to dinner while I was still with Christoph. I know I'm a jerk. What made things worse was that I told Christoph that my co-worker had asked me out and that I was tempted to say yes. Christoph still doesn't know the truth, nor do I plan on telling him.

In any case, my co-worker decided he would go out with me but then never followed through. This was probably because of the anxiety that whispered in his ear about how you should never mix business with pleasure. I'm sure this is true, but come on, I'm pretty irresistible (not to be confused with "hot", it's my own personal belief that I'm a "butter face", more on that later). I pursued him like it was my job (pun intended).

Well push came to shove and we never ended up going out. Now I’m at a new job, and coincidently, he’s working in another department at the same place. We’ve spoken since, and he’s seeing someone for his anxiety, but still gets anxious about anything involving me and/or dinner or just me. My ex co-worker is the guy my parents would want me to be with. He is the stereo-typical well-established nerdy doctor who would be able to take care of me and my future family. I just want to break him in.

Did I Tell You About Toby?

So on New Years Eve, I invited Toby to come to New York City and celebrate some friends and me at a snazzy loft in Chelsea, which isn’t really my style, but it is. You know Toby, right? The guy I was in lust with since 2000, Wayne’s best friend, and the playboy of the house. Right, so I asked him to come along as “friends”.

That’s complete bullshit, I knew I was going to sleep with him, or at least try to. So we come home that night, blown out of our minds and immediately fall asleep. At the suggestion of one of my friends, I didn’t wear panties (which I’ve come to find out, ALWAYS works).

Okay, okay, so drunk out of our minds, he didn’t even make a move till the morning, but after all that hype, all those years, the good looks, the black wife beaters, and the gym workouts, WHY was the sex not that great. Okay, I mean he was the first person I slept with since Christoph but was I really setting the expectation too high? It was literally an in, out, in, out, bang, bang, done. What the hell?

Look, I don’t think I set too high an expectation. All good-looking guys aren’t great in bed, but if I hear rumors about a guy and his ability to do something right, I am going to have a set expectation on the morning runaround.

I felt kind of shitty for judging him so I bought him eggs from the diner down the street. Was that tacky?

Mistress NYC.

Yes, it’s been a long time, but I’m back at least for now and that’s all that needs to be said. Last night, I went on an off the cuff date with Lucifer (clearly a pseudonym), a guy I used to, for lack of a better term, do. Lucifer and I “dated” for approximately a month or so and stopped seeing each other because he decided to reunite with his ex-girlfriend, who he now resides with. Well, it appears that things are not all white picket fence with a little dog running around because he called me to go out with him last night.

Upon completion of dinner at my very favorite Thai place, Spice, in my very favorite part of Manhattan, Union Square, we headed over to his apartment in Brooklyn (side note: it’s strange, because all the guys I’m currently dating live there – stay tuned for future blog entitled “Why are all the cute guys in Brooklyn?”). In any case, “his apartment” was really “their apartment”, and although she wasn’t there, she was all I could see; in the curtains, in the sofa, in the shower curtain, in the movie (it was her movie). Half way thru our thrilling viewing of “V for Vendetta”, Lucifer started getting a little restless and a little fresh, and I’ll gladly admit that I was not at all offended. In fact, since a few months ago when he broke things off with me, I knew that if given the chance, I would sleep with him again. Fooling around was becoming exceptionally passionate and about an hour into it, it hit me, I was officially the mistress.

At first I pulled away as I in no way wanted to participate in a home wrecking predicament. However, as I sat back and thought about it (whilst he kissed my neck, of course), I realized how sickly appealing this situation was. In those old movies and soap operas, the mistress is always this beautiful courtesan-like goddess who was inconspicuously known as “the other woman”. It felt very erotically empowering and confidence boosting. This extremely gorgeous albeit confused man wants to break his circle of trust to potentially bed me, someone clearly more stimulating then his current beau. You might be thinking that I should instead feel offended that this man wants nothing to do with me than to have sex, but I think you fail to realize what his role is in my life at that point in time, which was sex.

This leads me to my questions. In evolutionary terms, men are known to want to spread their seed around to perpetuate their genes. Along the same evolutionary terms, women are supposed to accept sperm competition as a way of perpetuating their gene line. This would mean then that both men and women would need to copulate in order to carry on their genetic values. Why is it, then, that men are praised for their need to have sex while woman are deprecated for the same reason? Cuckoldry ensures superior genetic quality and is justification for routine sex practices in my book. What are your rules?

In case you were wondering, I didn’t sleep with Lucifer last night. I told him to think about it, and to call me on Saturday.