Is that…?
no… can’t be…
Wait, yes, definitely…
YES those are absolutely hair plugs! How did I not notice before?
Fine tufts of hair randomly arranged-though not quite random enough-dot the scalp of the man who is kissing me. This guy is pushing a bit too hard. I back off to chat some more. He is having none of that and pulls me back in. Third date. Uh oh. He wants me to go back to his hotel, this entrepreneur businessman from New York who asked for my number, called and followed up, and has taken me out the last three times he’s been in town. He’s entertaining the idea of getting a place here in Big Suburb. Wide eyed, naive Monica is fascinated! New York? What’s that like? He also has a place in Tampa. He wants me to go to Florida with him. I’ve never even been to Florida, this sounds sooo exciting! He’s ten years older than me, but somehow seems a decade beyond even that.
OldDude. I would love to tell you his real name. One of those names like Lloyd or Vernon. Eugene. Elmer. Orville. You get the idea. Somehow I feel like the added years will grant more maturity. They will not.
Come on, Monica, you are settling! But I’m intrigued. I’m in love with the idea of being in love, and I keep attempting to cram ill-fitting men into my life, using hammer and saw when necessary. But he is getting wayyy too pushy with me, and when he comments that he doesn’t really know me, it throws a dash of cold reality water into my face and I wake up to what’s really happening here. Of course he doesn’t know me, he has no interest in knowing me. Oh, he for sure wants my ass on that cheap hotel mattress, but he doesn’t want ME. He wants to use me. I am a plaything, a toy. He wants to lavish his money on me. Gifts, fine dining, travel, luxury, in exchange for my body. A trophy, mere arm decoration to use when he’s in town.
I’ve figured out his game.
Suddenly he is terribly ugly to me, and I stare at his dull gray eyes, and the smug expression on his stupid face, remembering the warning from my friend the night I met him: He’s looking at you like a wolf looks at a lamb. I don’t trust him. And a sprout of wisdom rears its head at last, and now I don’t trust him either. I concoct an excuse, exit his car and enter mine, and take the lonely drive home once again, another bait cut from its line, another awful idea for a partner averted. I am SO not good at this. I’m hunting with a comical Elmer Fudd gun, and every time I pull the trigger, BOOM! I’m standing there looking dazed, head blasted and hair on fire.
I go straight to the bar. This bartender has seen me before. She takes one look at my exhausted expression and knows. Here’s your glass of consolation wine, honey. I start coming here after my invariably shitty dates, and lament endlessly to the bartender, who has her own set of sordid tales. She knows the blank stare that comes from the searching, searching, searching, only to come up empty handed, a fisherman headed home with a stinky bucket of nothing. I reek of hairspray, expensive lotion, perfume, and unmet expectations. This is just saaaaad. I plugged all my nickels into the casino of men, and continue pulling the handle, even though I’m down fifty thousand, I just keep pulling, pulling, pulling one more time, lessee what I get! Cherries, lemon, grapes, dammit! Just one more time…
While I’m lamenting why I’m dating anyone at all, a tall man with a head of dark curls sidles up to me and starts to chat. He’s smart, sassy, and incredibly good looking. We have a fun conversation going, he is a trial attorney in nearby Big City. He’s fun and flirty, he puts his arm around me as we chat. He leans over and starts kissing me, and that’s when his friend sitting next to him suddenly blurts out a handful of rather significant words.
He’s married. Wife and two kids.
ASSHOLE!
Suddenly an image pops into my mind… a woman sits on a couch reading to her children, then dutifully putting them to bed, then sitting alone fantasizing over a Danielle Steele bodice ripper while her husband is “working late” because, honey, I’m an attorney! It’s a very important job, and my clients are counting on me… did I mention I’m important? What bullshit text messages is he sending her, or is he simply ignoring her, messages blinking into the darkness of his pocket, unopened? What story is he telling his bride as he gets stumbling drunk and kisses women at the bar? What does he say directly to her face while looking in her eyes? Does she suspect? Does she know?
And instantly I wonder how long he would have dragged this out had his friend not been there to rat him out. I thought I was someone special here. I’m not special at all, he’s just a cheap philanderer.
I turn to him and chastise him. “WHY didn’t you tell me you were married?”
Him, now rather drunk and starting to slur: “You shoulda athked me if I wurzs marrrrrd.”
He starts chewing me out for not asking.
Plaintiff: Why didn’t I ask him? The nerve of me to assume he was single just because he approached me!
Yep. He’s pissed at me because I didn’t ask HIM if he was married.
The defense speaks: “If I am in a bar, and you are approaching me, I assume you are single, because WHY would you hit on someone if you’re already married?” I want to add unless you’re a complete asshole but we’re already having an argument in a bar. An argument with a trial attorney. Not likely to go well for me, even though he is soooo obviously wrong. I don’t care. I have a strong feeling this is what he does all day. Ambulance chasing, showboating, misogynistic miserable excuse for a human being. Wealthy, aristocratic asshat unworthy of being the sole of a cheap shoe. Yeah, I’m pissed, all right. My eyes blaze with anger that he would do this to his family.
The chief witness (bartender) gets wind of this and jumps in: “I believe I’m getting a fifty dollar tip.” Cheaterdude: “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Witness: “I know your wife. I’ve seen you here with your family.”
Oh my GOD this guy is openly kissing another woman in a place he takes his family??!! I can’t wrap my brain around this. And I feel even worse for this woman. How many people around her know that her husband is a piece of shit player with wandering eyes, hands, and I’m sure other parts, too?
The gavel comes down with a BANG and the surprise beneficiary of the final judgment is the bartender, who does indeed get her fifty dollars of hush money.
And I leave and go home, pissed at humanity. People using others, people betraying promises.
My phone dings.
Monica! I’m so glad I found you! Remember me? I’ve had a crush on you since grade school.
Oh wow! it’s my old friend from grade school! Wait, he had a crush on me? Seriously? I was such a nerd! I didn’t think anyone liked me in grade school, much less had a crush! Really? A crush?! Ohhh… this is exciting!
My faith in men is about to get much, much worse.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 