Overeager Beaver

I’ll just come clean right now and say that I’m a member of FetLife, an online site for fetishists, experimenters, every shade of sexuality, bondage, sadomasochism, discipline, and everything else that you can (or can’t) think of. Just as an example, there are discussion groups for “Ask a Male Questions” and “Ask a Female Questions” – both having somewhere in the neighborhood of 30,000 members each. Then there’s more specific groups, like “British Accents and Kinksters that Love Them” with about 2,000 members. One of my favorites is the “Return to Sender” group, which has over 14,000 members, and people will post their crazy conversations from FetLife or dating sites like Match, OKCupid and Plenty of Fish. Surprisingly, there are over 14,000 members in a CBT group – and if you don’t know what that is, look it up. Just now I found a group dedicated to sexual experiences with water balloons. (Not surprisingly, there are only 8 members of that group.) Some people – “vanilla,” we call them – may cringe and think that this site is not for them, but you don’t have to be into EVERY aspect of an alternative lifestyle to find something to relate to. I happen to like tall men, and there’s even a group for that; people just talk about how much they like tall men or guys will get on and brag about how tall they are, like “6’10” here, is that tall enough for ya?” (Hint: They aren’t really looking for a thoughtful answer, just worship.)

I joined FetLife four years ago because I was having a hard time in the online dating world dominated by Match, OKCupid and Plenty of Fish due to my baldness. Most men, no matter their cultural upbringing – and I’m not exaggerating in any way – are not okay with dating a completely bald woman. By my experience, I can go on 50 dates, but only 3 of the men will be okay with my baldness: 2 of the 3 will have major mental illnesses like bipolar disorder, and 1 of the 3 will be a fetishist. My choices are that I can go out with men who are batshit crazy (if they aren’t taking meds or aren’t on the right dosage) or I can date a guy who wants to do all kinds of dirty things to my bald head but doesn’t give a shit about me personally.

One guy that I had met through OKCupid in 2011 seemed to be a good match. We had gone on somewhere in the neighborhood of 5-6 dates, and he was a non-aggressive individual, very smart, seemingly relaxed. One night we went to see a show and had a very enjoyable night; when he drove me home, we sat in my driveway and kissed, and he started playing with my hair, which he had never done before. I leaned back and said, “Hey, I want to tell you about something I have going on, because you may feel something on my head that you aren’t used to. I am actually wearing a wig right now.” He asked me if it was just for fun, and I explained that it’s because I don’t have any hair, and I won’t be able to grow hair in the future. He backed himself into the corner of his driver’s seat as if I was his aunt trying to French kiss him. Then he said he “had to think about it” and would let me know in a few days, then he took off. Well, he thought about it, and it freaked him the fuck out, so that was that. This was just ONE experience out of many attempts to date.

I realize that I’m not exactly a prize to date since I look more like Mr. Clean than Gizelle with my bald head. It can be quite startling to see me without my wig on for the first time. I even joke that my dead father, the hair stylist, is rolling over in his grave because he has a bald daughter. Being rejected so many times over the last nearly-20 years of dating during my major hair loss has made it difficult for me to make sound choices in partners, sometimes ignoring my need to have a healthy relationship with a loving partner and settling for ass clowns instead. However, I am getting much better at spotting bad behavior and cutting it off than I used to be.

Here is a recent series of messages from a guy on FetLife who has never talked to me before:

Title:  be my friend

hell you say you want a roommate l will be that for you ,in fact l have not meet you yet but l am pretty sure if you want me you have found a husband l am very serious about this ,let me prove it to you please

Title:  I only want one

an l think you are her my god l have waited a long time for you ,lets get to know one another -you can be in charge l don’t care l love you already

And on some pictures I have posted:

l want you to marry me-an l will tell you why


l am not bsing you l know that l love you,l would treat you as a queen should be


i am open single an love bald lady’s please let me in your life

Okay, 1) One of the “kink” groups I belong to is “Grammar is Sexy!” – definitely not something this guy subscribes to; and 2) On everything else, just…no. I believe in a real relationship evolving over time and conversations and living experiences together, not anonymous, baseless declarations of love and devotion. This is creepy! Knock it off! It’s just one example, but there have been many others. The majority of the guys messaging me with a bald fetish offer to shave my head for me. It does not matter to them that I don’t have active hair follicles – they are in it for the illusion and the sense of power it gives them. Afterwards they want to whack off onto my head. However, the idea of my head being covered in warm snot does not get me hot.

As noted in my previous post, I changed my city to reflect my recent relocation, and immediately got a few messages. The first guy is a foot fetishist. I explained that I’m not currently able to go out either on dates or to social events, and so he started asking me questions about my current health challenges – it seems his mother died of an extremely rare blood disorder. But once we got that out of the way, he asked me to send him pictures of my feet. As I stated in the previous post, I’m not being modest when I say that my feet would kill any hard-on. I received a friend request from him a few days later; it appears that he has forgiven me for not feeding into that fantasy. Of course, he could be just keeping me in his back pocket to pull out later and try again.

The kid that contacted me Sunday reminded me of why I don’t want to raise more men. I’m tired! No – really, truly, I’m exhausted. He called and texted me a couple of times yesterday, so I sent him a quick note telling him I’d catch up with him later in the week. I guess he took today to be “later in the week” because he started calling and texting again. I told him I couldn’t talk but that I hoped he was having a good day, and he replied back, “No I’m not having a good day! Why won’t you talk to me?” Ugh – needy, demanding, self-absorbed – I can spot that shit a mile away. Still trying my hand at Minnesota nice (because I’m a little out of practice), I told him that I needed to not be dumped on emotionally or have demands made of me, because it just stresses me out and makes me sicker. I suggested that he seek out other people. His response was, “No! I only want to be friends with you!” I wrote back and said, “I don’t have the same needs you do. My preference is for you to seek out other people.” Again, his response was, “No, I don’t want anyone else, I just want you.” This is where I ditch the nice. I texted to him, “You are not respecting my boundaries. I am telling you goodbye now.” So his last message was something to the tune of, “Boo-hoo, if you change your mind and you want to be with me, let me know.” I feel pretty secure in the idea that he’s only going to hear crickets. That sheds some light on why he doesn’t have any friends too – he’s unable to interact in even a remotely healthy way.

Out of all of the online sites I have used to meet people either to attend social events or to date, it has been the most diverse in good and bad experiences. I met some great, open-minded people who are friendly and welcoming to newcomers at events. Some events have had very specific themes with people willing to teach and share their knowledge. I love that shit – we should all continuously try to learn, not just assume that we know everything and become lazy and complacent. On the other hand, I’ve met some people who are very single-minded and focused on only getting themselves off (like these individuals or a guy who wanted his jaw and mouth to be stomped on, no joke). I haven’t only had Overeager Beavers, so for now, that profile stays active.

Wait for It

This week has been full of challenges and changes. Just last night the moving men emptied my pod in record time into my new studio apartment – 375 sq. ft. as opposed to the house I used to own at 2200 sq. ft. with an additional 675 sq. ft. in the garage outside. I thought I did a really good job in downsizing until I started trying to cram everything into this little space. I smell a donation in my future.

I have to get used to the noises associated with living on a popular street and in an apartment as opposed to a house. This weekend there is a jazz festival happening city-wide including all along my street, so I hear people outside my windows TALKING (they’re drunk, so they don’t know quiet) and the clinking of beer bottles. I jump a little every time I hear someone passing by my door in the hallway – like it’s my roommate coming home and I am running around in my pajamas and no wig. Then I remember that no one is going to open my door and catch me looking garishly frumpy.

I’m not sure that it has really sunk in that I’m not in Phoenix anymore. It has only been a week since I have left, and even with the sad messages I have traded with the friends I left there, it feels more like I am on vacation (but a working one since I am filling the new place up to the ceiling with my stuff). We are also on the third thunderstorm since my arrival. The humidity makes me feel like I’m swimming through the air and I have to walk funny so that my thighs don’t stick together.

One friend wrote a quick note saying something to the effect of, “Ooooooh, I saw that you just changed your city on this site – have any men hit on you yet?” The second that he sent that, I received a message saying, “Hello tantalizing delectable dripping wet treat.” That was the title. BAM! First hit. Well, I’m not sure about it being a hit – I mean, it’s quite a leap to assume that I am “dripping wet.” Does this work on other women? Or is it like that thing where you throw a bunch of shit out there and hope that something sticks? I have a disclaimer that specifies that I’m not currently well and so cannot be involved in any activity in any way. I received another message from a different guy a few minutes later that seemed a bit more tame. He wanted to know all about my condition, so I gave him the very abridged version, and he seemed to be genuinely interested and concerned. Then, BAM, I got a request to email him a pic of my feet. Now, I would not wish my feet on anyone. I am well aware that feet fetishists are very particular in what they enjoy seeing, and it is worlds apart from my Flinstone-wide feet. I also have not been able to get rid of rough skin and calluses at all in the past two weeks. They’re just a hot mess. So while I think it’s pretty harmless to send someone pics of my piggies to give them fodder for the spank bank, I think it would put him off permanently if he saw them in this condition. I mean, what if I want a foot rub (or seven) in the future? Later I received a message from a guy (kid??) almost 20 years younger than me asking to be friends and to “connect with me and get to know me better.” He also specifically states in his information that he has always wanted to be dominated by an older woman. Yay for both of us, except for the fact that I have no experience in that realm.

Wait a second – I bet I could run that little boy into the ground ordering him to finish unpacking my new place. He would be aroused by it too. I should take a crash course in being a Domme and get him over here. I bet he would even scrub my floors.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I always tell people who are struggling with dilemmas to make sure they are the ones making decisions for their lives, and not just waiting for things to happen to them. Hate your job? Look for a new one. Hate your climate? Move to another one. Hate your current relationship? Choose to leave or make your best effort at finding a more suitable mate.

Here I am on the eve of my departure of Arizona, with my car and pod of belongings already on their way to my new apartment in St. Paul. The decision to move back to my home state after being away for 20 years was one of the most difficult I’ve ever had to make, because since the age of 16, I have taken charge of my own life. Really, though, either path ahead of me this time around would have been a bad choice. I could stay in AZ but be at the mercy of the lack of social safety net programs and dependent upon my own friends with their own families and challenges, or I could move to MN and have better programs and healthcare options and help from family and friends but be taken down by seasonal depression because of the 8 months of snow every year. Let me tell you, I am going to buy one (or seven) of those sun therapy lamps and sit and bake in front of it so I don’t go bat-shit crazy.

My family is going to be very helpful with getting me to and from doctor appointments and surgeries. However, since I’ll be living near my family, that means that they are going to know more about my dating life than they have ever known before. I am literally going to have to sneak my date(s) through the back door of my apartment because my sister works across the street, and it’s possible that her minions are going to report goings-on to her, whether she wants to hear them or not. No longer can I get away with vague statements about my romantic adventures. Of course, I’m assuming that I will date again – maybe not immediately, but I can’t be held down for long.

I moved to Arizona in November of 2003 after vowing to never go through another Midwest winter again. When I rolled into town, I didn’t know a single person, I didn’t have a place to live, and I didn’t have a job. I quickly found a place to live in a convenient location with only one huge downfall – my apartment was frequented by many, many cockroaches and crickets. The complex was treating my apartment every month but those little jerks would still come out in droves. I think the worst part was that when I slept I didn’t wear my wigs, so the bugs would crawl up into the corner of the bedroom ceiling and then make death-defying leaps onto my bare head in the middle of the night. There was even one time that I woke up because I was bitten on the back of my knee. I awakened almost immediately and figured out it was a cockroach that got me because it was scurrying away from that area of my body. Then I Googled whether cockroaches do that sort of thing, and they do! It wasn’t my imagination.

Internet dating was picking up speed in 2003/2004, so to solve my problem of not knowing anyone, I decided to go on dates. (I’ll cover that year in a future post.) The internet let me go shopping for men with my grocery list of requirements, which included such necessary items as “pays his own bills” and “does his own laundry.” The list from my 20s was more like “can’t have a hairy back” – oh, how priorities change.

I managed to land my long-term gig after being in Phoenix for a month. I was incredibly lucky to have a workplace only 15 minutes from the apartment I chose, because the job offer came after the apartment, and Phoenix is a city of sprawl – traveling from the SE corner of the suburbs to the NW corner takes an hour and a half or more, depending on how far one has to drive to get to a freeway. As luck would have it, I was one of only three women and the rest of the 33 employees in my work group were men. That gave me an additional pool of potential dates, of which I dipped my big toe into often.

Finding and keeping good friends is always a challenge for any adult who doesn’t still reside in the place where he/she grew up, or who doesn’t attend college in person. After many stops and starts in the realm of friendship, I feel like this is the best part of the world I created here and I have the hardest time saying goodbye to these great people. I have a meaningful connection with more people than the total sum of my fingers and toes and recognize that I am indeed luckier than I sometimes know or deserve. After taking the time to say goodbye to each of these people, hug them, look them in the eye and thank them for their support, I know without a doubt that these friendships are the greatest love story of all of the time that I have been here.

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Things You Don’t Think About Until You Lose All of Your Hair

The guy who has been my tenant for the last ten months just moved out last night. I waited until this morning to tackle his bathroom.

I’ll just preface this by saying that he is an extremely hairy guy. He’s got full back, front and arm hair (and leg and pit and let’s just get real here, probably pubes too, because who would let all of that hair grow wild but then trim around the frank and beans), plus he belongs to that club of men who are growing out their beards to ZZ Top lengths. He even has an emblem for that club on his vehicle. (Walks with Wood would tell me that every time he saw my roommate, he had to resist the urge to run his fingers through his beard and then mess it up.) I know about all of his hair because there have been numerous sightings of him in just shorts or a towel.

I suited up for this cleaning by wearing elbow-length gloves and a mask. Even with my gear, I had to hold back a few gags because there were all kinds of curly hairs floating around the tub and the floor. Since I haven’t had hair for about 12.5 years now, it’s not something I have to deal with when I’m cleaning my bathroom. It makes me recall certain events I can’t un-live, like the time a boyfriend and I took another friend to get food at Denny’s at 3 am because it was the only place open, and my first bite into pancakes resulted in a curly, coarse hair wrapping around my tongue. (I did not lose it all over the table but I also did not continue chowing, no matter how not sober I was.) It also reminds me of a few times when I’ve had my face in guys’ junk and one of the short and curlies got stuck at the gag spot at the back of my throat, instantly making me dry heave and my eyes water profusely. As a side note, I am torn about the whole shaving phenomenon, because nothing will kill the mood faster than dry heaving during sexy time, but then again, if guy has some stubble and it comes into contact with my bits, it feels like my most tender parts are being sanded with an 80 grit.

I still have a good number of men in my circles who are single, and the best, unsolicited advice I can give them when they wonder why they are single is that they should start with their bathrooms. Their toilets should be white, not white-and-brown-and-yellow-and-moldy. Same thing for the counter tops and tubs – clean, not hairy, fuzzy and moldy. And for god’s sake, clean out the piles of hair balls that collect in the corners of the room so that when a breeze blows through it doesn’t look like a rabbit has escaped. If a guy does manage to land and keep a woman, I can only say that she must have forgiven him.

I scrubbed the toilet and the tub twice. Twice.

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Ping Pong and Other Sports with Balls

I’m at an age now where I’ve had a chance to really build up a history with a man. In fact, I’ve done it with a few, though this person is by far has racked up the most time with me.

I have been in and out of a relationship with this man that I will refer to as Ping Pong since 2008 all the way to 2014. We met because he was my trainer for the absolute worst job I’ve had to date – calling people to ask them to donate blood to a blood bank. Everyone we contacted had either previously attempted or successfully donated a pint of blood, so it wasn’t exactly cold calling, but often people screamed in our ears or made crazy sounds and then hung up on us. His job was to prepare us for the worst. For the week that we had training, when everyone else would leave the room to take a break, he and I would stay and chat. (You support human rights? I support human rights! You are a democrat? I’m a democrat! You used to love The Scorpions in 8th grade? I used to love The Scorpions in 8th grade!) At least fundamentally, it seemed like we were on the same page about a lot of things, plus he was very cute with big brown eyes and curly eyelashes, and we easily fell into dating. He was very socially conscientious, affectionate and caring. I always liked holding hands with him because we were extremely physically comfortable with each other.

This was not my first or even fifth try at dating someone with children from a previous marriage. He has two daughters and one son with a woman that he married very, very young – mainly because her boobs were so big that when she sat down, they nearly touched her knees (his words). She proved to be very unstable and had numerous affairs during their marriage. At the time that we started dating, she had moved back in to live with her parents to raise two more children with her current husband, a marine. The first sign of trouble started when very early into our relationship, Ping Pong left his phone on the counter at his former in-laws’ house. This was when phones were rarely password protected. So Ping Pong and I were eating dinner at my place and I got this call from a number I don’t recognize, and it’s her. Good lord, she was drunk. She was slurring her words and shouting, and telling me that I needed to stop dating her husband. Ping Pong left to go over to her house and get his phone back, but of course, she wasn’t too drunk to plan ahead and she programmed my number into her phone. For the next 8 months I received all kinds of calls and messages from her with strange accusations, mostly with her being drunk. Whenever she called while he was at my place, he always left to go to her house, ostensibly to talk her down or through the latest episode of bad choices.

Ping Pong explained to me that because his ex was such a nut job and cheated on him constantly, he wanted to take things slow with me. His definition of slow, however, eventually evolved to mean that he would only want to see me once a month for sexy time, and he would not introduce me to his children. I got tired of it and called it off.

(Pause for time with Drummer #2, to be told at a later date.)

Ping Pong kept in touch with me while we had over a year apart, sending random texts saying he was thinking of me and just wondering how I was doing. I ended up in the hospital to get an appendectomy, and he visited. When I saw him again after so much time had passed, I felt as if I was seeing my best friend again, and all of the good feelings of love and comfort returned.

When Drummer #2 was finally out of the picture, Ping Pong and I fell back into dating. But again, it didn’t take long for the old patterns to emerge. I would only see him once a month for sexy time and I was not allowed to meet his children. Again, I called it off.

(Pause for time with Dumb and Angry, also to be told at a later date.)

After the whole Dumb and Angry guy, I told Ping Pong that I would really like to try to make it work, but that things had to be different. I had to meet his parents and I had to meet his children. He said he would definitely set something up where we could all go to dinner, and I wouldn’t be his dirty little secret anymore. Again, the old patterns emerged quickly. Every time I tried to pin him down for a time to get together with everyone, he would give me excuses on why either his parents or his kids wouldn’t be available. (By this time, the kids were 21, 19 and 14. Saying that young children shouldn’t be introduced to partners would not apply here.) But on days he said they weren’t available, he would get together with them anyway and then tell me later. My parents flew down from the Midwest to help celebrate my 40th birthday as well as my graduation with a bachelor’s degree Summa Cum Laude, so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity for him to meet them, and I gave him about 6 weeks notice with reminders so he couldn’t claim he was busy. The day we were supposed to get together he texted me to say that he was playing a softball game really, really far away and he didn’t think he could make it. My lie-dar was going off big time.

Ready for something weird? Sometimes at night I would receive these garbled text messages that would always say something like, “Why don’t you love me apoigfdahsdf alhdfgpoia qweonigdfgh” or “You are the most lgpohierthg ghpoiu ahs gthpia”. It turns out that he would take heavy medications including Ambien before bedtime and if he didn’t hide the phone from himself before turning in, he would send drug-induced text messages. I tried to joke about them or tell him it wasn’t a big deal but he was always embarrassed – but not embarrassed enough to put his phone in a different room. I’m a firm believer that you say what you’re truly feeling when you’re drunk or high, but I wish that he could have been able to actually finish those sentences so I could get the whole picture.

Another factor that sometimes interfered with our relationship is that he is bipolar. When the downward spiral of depression would hit him, which it would often because he wasn’t on the correct dose of medication, the text messages would get more desperate and garbled and he would be on the verge of tears when I would see him. He was never interested in doing anything when he was in the throes of the sickness, and I could not count on him for emotional support for anything that I was going through.

The last breakup happened via text. First, I think it’s terribly disrespectful to use this method for someone you have known for 6 years. Second, I didn’t get any closure. His message said something to the effect of, “I’ve really tried, but I have put my heart into a castle and built the walls and moat up around it, so that I can never be hurt again.” I mean man, for a 43-year-old guy, that suspiciously sounds a lot like his 14-year-old daughter got ahold of his phone. I texted something back to the effect of, “Maybe you should be honest with the women that you date in the future and tell them you are just trying to get laid.” And that was it. I was left alone to process this breakup without being able to say anything else to this man who had a sizable history with me – but maybe it was not enough, or never would be enough, because we didn’t have children together.

So the lesson learned here is a very simple and short list:

1) Don’t look back or go back to someone that didn’t work out on the first try.

By the way, this is a recurring theme. I’m human.

How to Kill a Relationship, Pt. 1

Not long after Eva Mendes gave birth to the baby she and Ryan Gosling created, she was quoted as saying something like, “Wearing your sweatpants around your husband is a surefire marriage killer.”

Okay, let’s review:
1. She isn’t peeing standing up or even trying to whip out her penis in front of him, which, if you’re in a hetero relationship, would be pretty startling if you think your wife/girlfriend is a woman with all of the associated lady bits and trappings thereof. 2. If wearing sweatpants is the worst you’ve got, you’ve got it pretty good.

I think we all have grandparents or even parents where we know the woman in the partnership does not let her partner see her without makeup, even when it’s bedtime. It was a concept that gained popularity around the 1950s, but nowadays most people understand that it’s not healthy to sleep in your makeup every night.

I am an extremely light sleeper and so it’s easy for me to wake up long before my bed mate does when I have sleepovers to brush my teeth and either furiously rub away the sooty eyeliner that has been smeared as low as my nostrils, or to apply just the right amount of eyeliner so that I don’t look like a cancer patient since I am missing my eyelashes. (It also gives me a chance to twist my wig into the right position. It’s very, very uncomfortable to sleep in my wig, but most guys freak out if they wake up to Mr. Clean in their beds when they went to bed with Christina Hendricks the night before.)

I think there is a much more realistic killer to a relationship and it has nothing to do with being beauty-pageant ready, and that is snoring. Inevitably with every couple there is a light sleeper and there is a snorer. In my house, my roommate is the snorer and I am the light sleeper. Sometimes the surefire way to be able to tell he is home without leaving my bedroom is to hear his unabashed open-mouthed, window rattling snores. When talking to other friends about the phenomenon, the one who is the light sleeper is constantly complaining of lack of sleep, and the snorer shrugs his or her shoulders and says, “It’s not a problem for me, I never notice.”

This turned into a debate with a friend on Facebook because he is a window-rattler. He insisted that I hadn’t thought of all of my options, which boiled down to him deciding that if he just purchased ear plugs for his partner, the problem would be solved. Of course, none of his options involved weight reduction of his 300+ pounds or different sleeping positions for the snorer.

So, 1) He is incorrectly assuming that he has the perfect solution (because he has a penis) and I’ve never thought this through. 2) As the person who would have to wear the ear plugs, I wouldn’t be able to hear the much quieter alarm go off in the morning to get up for work. 3) I hate to have shit stuffed in my ears. Doesn’t matter if it’s foam or cotton or ear buds, I just don’t like anything inserted in my ears. (And no, guy, you can’t fuck my ear either, even though I know you are tempted to because you have a penis.) 4) Losing sleep because you can’t even get 30 minutes of uninterrupted sleep isn’t just an annoyance, it’s damaging to the health, especially if it happens every night, not to mention the sleep-deprived person is going to be constantly crabby.

The Best Excuse Yet from Walks with Wood

I met this guy through work – he changed my laptop, I changed his life. (Oh, if only!)

He worked on me for about two years – you know, how guys like to keep women on the peripheral just in case they want to pursue some serious V. We stayed in touch and chatted every once in a while, and then after a year, we became intimate. Twice, I think. This was during the thick of my illness, and I was out from work many times because of serious problems with my shunt. When it got really bad I cut him loose, but we still stayed in touch. Then in December of 2014 he came back to me and said that things didn’t work out for him with an ex he went back to. I had also just ended a relationship with someone whom I had dated off and on for about five years. We sat down and had a serious discussion about what we wanted from a relationship, and we agreed to be exclusive. He told me that he was interested in me as a woman, and my lack of hair and my repeated brain surgeries did not bother him at all.

It wasn’t so bad, at first. He told me that he was trying to cut down to only drinking once a month, and he had made a promise to his sisters, niece and me that he wasn’t going to drink and drive. He’s a smart guy with a high I.Q. I affectionately nicknamed him Walks with Wood because he is Navajo and is obsessed with sex. About a month into the relationship, he tried to tell me that he has multiple personality disorder and he turns into a different person when he drinks.

Can you see the red flags? I did not go into this naively, so I always held back in connecting with him on a deep, emotional level. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Quite honestly, a statement like that about having multiple personality disorder is usually presented as a humblebrag and is completely untrue, so I just took it to mean that he is a liar.

Shortly after we started dating he landed a travel tech job. I would jokingly tell him that when I agreed to be in a relationship, I didn’t mean long-distance relationship. We talked every day but I only physically saw him three times a month, tops, and that mostly centered on me driving him back and forth to the airport after he parked his SUV at my house so he didn’t have to pay for parking. There were a couple of times when I stayed up 24 hours at a stretch to make sure he was picked up and dropped off when he needed to be. He moved to another apartment during these months that we dated, and I helped him with getting his belongings into storage so his free time at home wouldn’t be consumed with moving.

Oh, yes, I did ask him to fix a few things in my house and hang some new ceiling fans. He also promised to cut down a tree that was growing into some power lines (his idea). He never came through with help.

Walks with Wood could not keep up good behavior for very long. First he started visiting strip clubs – even one up the street from me, telling me that the waitresses were also the dancers, so they would dance on the poles fully dressed down to their tennis shoes. Not sure who to feel sorry for in this case, the ladies or WwW. Then he started saying that whomever he is dating better be okay with him watching strippers all of the time because he wasn’t going to give that up. I know it’s difficult to try to get someone to stop something they are addicted to and it would create problems if I put my foot down, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret: his drinking and diabetes are seriously interfering with his ability to perform. WwW is 6.5 years younger than me, but I would rate his functionality to be the same as some guy who is, say, 80 years old. So he’s basically a dirty old man watching naked women writhe around a pole. That much exposure to strippers has the same effect as having a porn addiction 24/7.

As time went on, he resented me asking if we could spend time together when he was in town between work trips. When I say “time”, I mean more than one hour. I never even asked him to stay overnight. At the beginning of the relationship, he told me that if the woman he’s dating puts her foot down and says that she wants him to do something with her, he will put her above everyone else. That was definitely some hot, stinky smoke being blown up my ass.

Then he started drinking heavily again. He broke all of his promises to me, and he was proud of it. The last fight we had happened because I invited him and his roommate over for dinner at 6:30. After he was an hour and a half late showing up, he and the roommate finally arrived, but he had another woman with him. He also had a tall Mason jar filled with Coke and Jack. I was mad because, 1) he was late – VERY late; 2) he was back to drinking heavily, and 3) he brought his fuck buddy with him. When a fight ensued, he was yelling that I was using his past against him, and that if I said anything, it would make him want to drink. I told him his past was his present. I asked him if he had been to the bar that day, and he said no. So when the roommate, the other woman and WwW and I sat down to eat, the other woman revealed that WwW had driven her around all day to look at cars to buy (even though she doesn’t have cash and doesn’t qualify for a loan) and then they sat at their neighborhood haunt and drank for three hours before heading to my house. Everyone quickly finished eating and the roommate and the other woman went to sit in the car outside, and WwW and I had a few more loud words. He left by saying he really wished I hadn’t fought with him. That was the end of it. We didn’t talk about it later and we didn’t have any contact at all…

Until about a month later. I got a text message saying, “I was in a really bad car accident and I hit my head. I was going through our text messages and it seems like we didn’t end things well. I hit my head really hard and I don’t remember anything.” When he said he didn’t remember anything, he meant ANYTHING. He claimed that he didn’t remember any of the months we dated, any of the times I picked him up or dropped him at the airport, any of the promises he made to me about helping out, and anything of what we talked about in general.

This is like the lighthouse of red flags. I have never, never had any of my former men claim total and complete amnesia.

He kept offering to send photos of his banged up head. I told him I wasn’t interested at all, and I was busy with having to sell my house, get surgery #10 and move to MN. His only response was, “Oh, okay.” Then I told him to check his texts for conversations with other women and go screw them, because he had told me right before the big fight that he would cheat on me if he got bored, and he was bored. Again, he responded with, “Oh, okay.” No denial. No apologies.

In conclusion, I have improved greatly my ability to send someone packing, even if the guy says he is “okay” with my health issues and lack of hair. The lesson is to believe someone when they show you who they really are (thank you, Maya Angelou). I didn’t have stars in my eyes and hang onto the relationship as I might have just a few years ago. Life is short.