He Offers Me Nothing

balloons

*

He says, “All due respect but those boobs,” then a hearts-for-eyes-smiley-face, and then two hands clapping.

He says, “Older women help me fulfill my total potential.”

When I am offended, he says, “Well, it’s just the facts, you are older.”

I read it with violent intonation.  I read it like it’s new information.

You ARE older.  YOU are older.  You are OLDER.

He waits for a response not knowing that I am already bored with this, doesn’t understand that I am turned off by his selfishness; he has never even thought to ask himself what it is that he offers me, them, us.

It is nothing.  He offers me nothing.  He is without an offering.

Why am I always expected to provide, to be something, to give of my body and my mind.  Smile for them.  Make them laugh.  Show them your body.  Give them everything they want.  Be kind.  Be pleasant.  Be a thing worthy of their idiotic conversation, their tedious ill-thought out plan.

Have they even considered that they are unloveable, unlikeable?

Why is being alive enough?  Why is existing and being attractive a thing?  Why are the numbers of people who cannot think a thing through so large?

I know there is a bitterness spreading in me, growing slowly, insidious, like ivy on my heart.  I’m thinking about learning math instead of men.  I’m thinking I could be happy without kissing if I had something interesting to turn to.  I wonder if I could write jokes about numbers.  I wonder if I could turn this bitterness into a formula.

I’m thinking thinking thinking why does no one ever worry about my full potential?

I Let This Ruin Us

*

I do not say anything.  I let this ruin us.  

I was turning 33, having finished my master’s degree and recently returned home to Vancouver, and he was 35, the only man I had ever loved.  We had broken up four years prior but so much had not changed.

When he asked me to come down to see him for my birthday, (or else he could come up and see me?), I had agreed.  He was the only one I wanted to spend my birthday with: reliable, loving, fun.

I had just been dumped by a 22 year old after only two dates for someone he “had a better connection with”.

*

We had Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits for dinner.  When he had asked what I wanted for dinner, he added, “Whatever you want” and I thought long and hard.  I was on a diet.  I was always on a diet.  But birthdays are automatic ‘cheat days’, those are just the rules.  It took an hour to drive there, and an hour back.  When we kissed after ordering, the girl at the counter cooed.  My cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling.

We laughed till we didn’t need to do sit ups.  He kissed my neck.  We drove home with our food and our laughter and our happiness.  He shared his fries.  He gave me his biscuit.  His love was heavy with generosity.  We watched the hobbit.

“Is it better than the first one?”

“Way better!”

And it was.

*

I don’t know how to say I think this love might be hurting me.  I don’t know how to say that I might have been wrong before, that maybe my heart isn’t big enough to hold all the caring, that maybe my heart doesn’t have room for all the men.  I am a writer who is speechless.  I can’t say that I might not want him inside me, that it’s not so simple, that I’m confused about how I feel.  I think this extended love might be fucking me up.  This fucking might be damaging my good parts.  I don’t know how to say it because I let it happen.

*

“Get on top for a bit,” he says.

I don’t want to.  It hurts my knees.  I’ve told him I don’t like to be on top.  Why can’t anyone hear me?  I say things and no one sees me.  I’m spiralling.

I get on top, but I don’t want to.  I’m not in this place anymore.  It hurts because we’ve been fucking too long.  Or because my vagina is saying what I can’t.  Or because it hurts my knees.  My mouth feels dry.  Why can’t I say anything?  Why won’t you say anything?!

*

I used to write that we had duct tape love.  That our love would fix anything, hold it all together; our love was makeshift and beautiful.  But now I have stuffed my face with gauze, put duct tape across my lips; I am silencing myself for this love.  This is not love.  This is love.  I can’t see straight anymore.  It’s not so easy.

“Get on top, it feels so good,” he says and kisses me.  “You feel so amazing.”  And he means it.  It would kill him to know he was hurting me this way.  It would kill him.  It would kill him.  It would kill him.

It probably wouldn’t kill him.  I am not so special.  Why don’t I say anything?

I smile.  I try not to cry.  It’ll be over soon.  And then I almost vomit because of how much this sounds like rape.  But I haven’t said anything to him, I am the only one who knows I don’t want this.  I am the only one who knows that I am conflicted, that this doesn’t feel right anymore.  I am the only.  I am the only one.  Only one.  I am alone. My heart is tight.

Say something I scream inside my head.  Say anything.  Say no.  Say stopJust get off him.  He’ll plead; he’ll cajole.  He’ll say, “but you feel so good, you feel so great.”  He’ll try to convince me with compliments my ego doesn’t care about.  He doesn’t know that you’re falling apart inside.  He doesn’t know that you’re shedding layers with every thrust.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know.  You have to tell him.  You have to say something.  But, it’s my birthday and it’ll be okay, I think.  He already made me cum and I can’t leave him hanging and I love him.  I will always love him.

I do not say anything.  I let this ruin us.

*

Later, after he finished, and we snuggled, my head on his chest, his arms cradling me, I turned over in the darkness and cried.  At first, the tears streamed slow and quiet towards the pillow, but I am an emotional volcano, and I could not control it.

I cried because I fucked him past when I wanted to.  I cried because sometimes when I’m with him I can’t help but think of other men that I am dating, have dated, will date, and that makes everything feel so very complicated.  My mind never stops.

I cried because I thought my heart was big enough to hold everybody, but my arms are getting tired, and I don’t know how to say that maybe I was wrong.  I don’t know how to say that I am terrified about what life will be like if I am horribly wrong about how much space there is in my heart.  I cried because I don’t know if I want him like this anymore.

Everything feels so cramped and crowded.  I am heavy with diamond problems.  It’s hard to complain at the bank.

*

I do not say anything.  I let this ruin us.

*

The next morning he made me breakfast in bed, having already gone shopping for all my favourites.  He made me coffee because the last time I had visited we fought over coffee.  He didn’t understand how it was an addiction.  He didn’t understand how it was important.  I had thought it meant he didn’t understand me.  My friends said coffee was not such a big deal.  I said that after 40 years, arguing over coffee might start to wear on you.

My friends said that I am lucky to have such love.

It was hard to complain about coffee when he had paid to fly me home from Montreal for a visit.  He had paid to fly me across the country and I was complaining about coffee.

Ungrateful.  Ungrateful.  Selfish selfish selfish little…

*

I don’t know how to extricate myself from this love.

Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

 

This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

I’m Taking The Microwave

 

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  I’m Taking the Microwave

You drove out of town in a silver car that looked like all the others, on a Sunday like all the rest and I went to sleep that night and then got on with my life. You took the stereo and the blender and that bottle of champagne we’d been saving for the day I sold my first book. You left the dishes and the bills and all the reasons I didn’t love you to begin with. We had had a fight that didn’t make sense because of the way you rolled your eyes when I spoke and the way it didn’t even bother me. You broke a lamp while you stormed around gathering up shit like a vindictive teenager caught in a hurricane sized meltdown until I blew you over with one breath, just go. The lamp was my grandmother’s and the dust upon its shade meant more to me than you ever did. A statement I now wish I hadn’t said because I watched the way it moved across your face, a glow inside your veins, a dying light underneath your flesh, until it reached your chest and broke your heart in two, which was nine fewer pieces than my lamp. I counted, later, after you were gone.

“I met someone else” I said, to the wall before you got home. I was practicing for the dance we do where we pretend like the other person matters to us and we haven’t just been filling up this space in each other’s lives.

He smells like dim lighting and candles. The scent of 80s movies and something John Candy might star in. He makes me want to play mini golf or fuck on a bear skin rug. I want to record him on my VCR. I want to drive my box-cornered Volvo over to his house. I want to be a lifetime before any of this ever happened. I want to be the chapter in a book of mistakes, the one time it all worked out.

But that’s not what I say. I plan excuses like escape routes and give reasons like reinforcements.

You don’t really care about me.
We’re just wasting time with each other
When was the last time my touch even mattered?
Can you just get the fuck out already?

I sat on the couch waiting for hours long past when you should’ve been home. Long past the point when a phonecall to say baby I’m going to be latewould’ve made a difference. I ate Doritos for dinner and watched reruns ofGilligan’s Island. I wondered what it would be like to be stranded. I wondered what it would be like to be deserted. I thought about what it would be like to be stranded on a deserted island with you. I immediately started packing up your things. When you still weren’t home at midnight I piled the boxes by the door and left a note on top.

It’s over. You know this. 

Sometime around 3 a.m. or when I was dreaming about winning the lottery and wearing dresses made of cake, you burst in and woke me up. Stumbled around the bed, stubbed your toe on the corner, came over to my side, shoved the note in my face and slurred whatthefuckisthis? You smelled like bad decisions and weakness. You looked pathetic. But then you ripped off the covers and all my sympathy was swallowed hard.

I jumped up, chest puffed out, ready for things to get blurry. Is it wrong that my first thought was I could take you if I have to?

But there was no fight to be had. You sat down on the bed, in the warm empty spot my body had just left behind. You sighed a few times, like you were trying to get a grip. You wanted to know why? Face in your hands, rubbing your eyes and you wanted to know why I was calling it quits.

Because I hate you.
Because I’m aging at warp speed in your presence.
Because you make my face hurt.
Because I want to matter more than a placemat: a space to put your food, your heart, your dick.
Because I want love.
Because I want someone else.

“Because I don’t love you,” I say, “anymore.”

You interrupt, “or ever?”

You ask it like a question wearing a safety vest, full of trepidation, afraid of the answer because though you’re just guessing, you have a pretty good sense that you’re right and you already regret asking.

“Or ever,” I sigh in admission.

“You bitch,” you spit and get up from the bed; I turn to go into the other room. You grab my hand, my arm, my waist. Jerk me close against your body, look down at my face.

“I hate you”

“I know,” I say, “you’ll get over it.”

“Probably”

Your face expands into a smirk, and then just as quickly deflates, your warm breath upon my cheeks. Your hand eases up around my arm, runs its fingers up my back, and finds a home in my hair. Your palm presses against my scalp, fingers wildly searching for anchors in my curls. Forearm, bicep, your entire body tenses. You pull my face up to yours, hard, and kiss me. Search my mouth with your tongue for our future, come up empty. I let you have this one moment. You make a noise that sounds a bit like a hiccup, blink frantically and push me away.

“Fuck you,” you say, “I’m taking the microwave.”

Paper Airplanes

 

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Paper Airplanes

 

I want to see you, on a balcony across the way, and throw a paper airplane to get your attention.

I want our love to begin with your best set of binoculars.

I want to be ready for you.

You have a story to tell, I can see it.  Yesterday I went out and bought my own set of binoculars, just so I could see you better.  I watch you pull back the red curtains in your window, watch the sun wash over your body, watch the corners of your mouth turn up and then you lower the binoculars.

You look shy.  Kick imaginary rocks around with your feet.  Blush.  From the sun.  From the heat.  From my gaze.  You look like chewing caramel to a jazz ballad.  You look like the beat slowed way down.  I bet you smell good.  I think you’re on the 20th floor.  I tried to count exactly but I kept losing track.

Draw the binoculars back up to your eyes.  This time it’s me lowering mine.  I’m nervous.  I squint from the glare of the setting sun off your building.  A smile spreads across my face like a flood, the movements uncontrollable.  I’m awash with uncertainty.  I giggle.  Look away, down and to the left, but raise my arm, my right hand, and offer a gentle wave.  And then I look back, and see you, without binoculars, waving.  Big sweeping motions.  Like you’re acting out a silent movie.  I want to be in black and white with you.

I blink.  I breathe.  Something catches my eye and you’re gone.  I grab the binoculars and whip them up to eye level.  I search for a Lion on the Safari.  I seek a bird in flight.  I look for the last piece of cookie dough in the cookie dough ice cream.  But you’re gone.  I close my drapes, the night feels heavy.  I tell no one.  This is not my secret to share.

Morning comes.  Drapes are opened.  And there, across the way, something catches my eye.  Big.  White.  A sign.  Nestled in between those red curtains is a sign for me.  You’ve thrown a message in a bottle.  You’ve put your hand in the wet cement.  You wrote Dave was here inside the desk of your first year college dorm.  My knees get weak.

Where did you go?  It says.  I’m sorry I left, I thought you knew I would come back.  Your smile is more beautiful than my heart can stand.  Come back tonight, at 10pm.  David.

I can’t think straight.  But I have a life and it must go on.  The day happens, things get done, time does not stop for me.  I go out and buy big white poster boards and colorful felt markers.  Evening comes and I peek out of my window.  I stand off to the side.  Shy.  Not ready yet.  But I wonder if you’re there.  You are not.  I remind myself you said 10pm and spend the next two hours acting like I’m getting ready for a date.  I clean up my apartment, I shower, I do my hair and makeup.  I try not to think myself insane.  I write my name in Red.

At 10pm I open my curtains, it feels like opening night, and there you are.  Sitting.  Waiting.  You jump up in excitement and I know that you see me.  I hold up my poster.  Show you my name.  I’m watching through binoculars.  You clap your hands, your mouth opens to form an O and then a smile.  You hold up a hand that looks like STOP! but I know really means wait.  I kick myself for not knowing this last night.  That I should wait.

I can see you scribbling furiously, bent over a table to your left.  I can see into your apartment.  It’s very nice.  And I’m instantly glad I took the time to clean mine up as you can probably see everything.  I think about my apartment, imagine what it says about me, wonder if you’ll think me juvenile for the IKEAness of it all.  Wonder if you think it looks like doll furniture.  Wonder if you would judge me.  Decide that you wouldn’t.

I look back at your apartment.  And wonder what kind of man has red curtains.  Floor to ceiling, rich and deep, your curtains are the centre of a cherry, the place where flesh meets pit.  I wonder if we’ll ever meet.  I look down at the street and think it could be that easy.  Two elevator rides, two swinging doors, two strangers on the ground.  But it feels right to stay here; to write our story in signs, to write ourselves pending in poster boards.  I’m not ready yet.

And then you’re back, and holding up your sign.

I want you to know it says and after a few seconds you fling it behind you to reveal the next poster.

That you’re doing just fine.  And then you lower the boards and just look at me.  The sun is going down.  Dusk is hovering.  The night waits in the wings.

I quickly turn to my own table laden with paper and markers.

Dave?  I write.  How do you know???  Hold up the signs for you to see.

Again you turn to write something and then come back to show me.

Because the board says and then you reach into the back pocket of your jeans and bring out what looks like a piece of folded up paper.  You open it up and place it flat against the glass with your palm.  It reminds me of Good Will Hunting.  I can hear Matt Damon say, how do you like them apples?  I’m not yet certain I know what this is.  And then you begin to fold it up, you make it into a paper airplane, and make airplane flying motions with it until you’re sure I recognize what it is.  You put it down and pick up more signs.

You hold up the because message one more time.  This time a second message follows.

It’s enough that you want to.

My stomach flips.  My heart fills.  My head spins.

I remember the paper airplane.  I remember the day I threw it, months ago.  On a Wednesday in December I stood on a balcony covered in snow and looked down at a city blanketed in white and I threw my hopes and dreams in the shape of a paper airplane.

I just want to make you smile.  That’s what I’d written inside.

He must have found it.  Must have kept it.  All this time.  How did he know it came from me?  Had he been watching that day, when I had thrown it?  Had he been watching other days?  Had he run down to get it?  How did he find it?  And then of course, why?

He watched with his binoculars as I slowly put it all together.  And then he wrote one final message.

I want to be the person who makes you laugh.

Saving The World, One Valentine’s Day at a Time

Hearts
[dropcap]I LOVE BEING SINGLE.[/dropcap]
No, seriously.  I really love being single.  And not in that knee-jerk-look-at-me-I’m-so-Carrie-Bradshaw type way.  And not in that I’m-so-broken-that-I-hate-men-and-relationships type way.  And not even in that he’s-just-around-the-corner-and-I’ll-hold-my-romantic-breath-until-he-gets-here type way.  But in a real, honest, I’m enough, for this very moment type way.

I’m not sure if it’s an inherent thing.  Or a way my parents raised me thing.  Or a logical because I know life takes work thing.  But somewhere along the way I figured out, you have to be enough.

“You have to be enough.  By yourself.  Just You.  Enough.  Whole.  The rest has to just be icing.  Amazing beautiful delicious icing But just icing.”

Because here’s the thing of the thing.  Nothing is guaranteed in life except that the only person who will be with you forever, has to be with you forever, will never leave your side, not for anything…is You.  As gloomy as it is to think, marriages fail, people leave, people die, and feelings fluctuate.  And I’m not saying you should spend your life alone, a hermit in a cabin, putting up walls long before anyone ever thinks of climbing them.  But if you want to have a good life, the best life, how can you neglect the one person who has the biggest starring role?

Now I’m not saying it can happen overnight and in fact, I’m a huge proponent of the fake it till you make it attitude, but you have to start somewhere.  And there are a hundred somewhere’s to start.  

 

There’s list making and goal plotting:

You could make a list of things you love about your life.  Though, don’t make the list you think everybody else has.  Because while I adore my bed, roomy and solo.  That might not be your thing.  You might just be the world’s biggest cuddle monkey and pretending doesn’t help anyone.

 

And then there’s physical strength and personal growth:

You could hit the gym to get that svelte physique and seek out a therapist to talk out your issues and get to work on that CBT (cognitive-behavioral therapy, aka change your behavior change your emotions).

 

And don’t forget finding your passions and seeking out hobbies:

Maybe you develop a love of knitting, or maybe you realize that oblivious to you all these years is a hidden talent for the back-hand badminton serve and before you know it you’ve joined a club and won a few hundred trophies.

 

 

But to be completely honest.  There is an easy two step method that supersede’s all these options.  The first is to simply accept who you are.

“Be exactly who you are, in the moment that you are it.  And in that moment, realize that you are enough.  Whole.  Complete.  Just you.  Enough.”

And the second is to change the world.  Because here’s the thing of the thing.  It’s not all about you.  I know I know, you didn’t get a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day but guess what…the world is overpopulated.  I know I know, you’re filled with rage because Hallmark thought to capitalize and commercialize this holiday which is supposed to be about love but guess what…there are actual wars going on right now, real wars, with guns and violence and people dying.  There are big wars, little wars, oil wars, civil wars, wars of tyranny, wars on ideas, wars on women’s rights.  Pick a cause and do something.  Or at the very least learn something.

And I guarantee you’ll start to realize that the fact that you’re embarrassed to buy your own chocolate on Valentine’s Day seems pretty stupid when you consider how monumentally lucky you are to be able to get to a store that sells chocolate without fear of violence or danger and then that you indeed have money to buy yourself some chocolates.  In fact, maybe go ahead and get a box for someone else.  Your mom, a stranger, whoever.  Because #ThisJustIn the world isn’t all about you.  That being said, this diatribe isn’t about shaming you.  It’s about getting you to stand up.

So you’re sad?  Or feeling alone?  So is someone else.  There is someone else out there, feeling just like you.  Someone else in the world is feeling sad, and alone, and that’s scary.  So band together.  Find a charity.  Find a cause.  Donate your time.  Donate your money.  Donate your ideas.  Whatever you have to give, it has value.  You have value.  And I’m telling you, I promise, even if you can’t see it, somewhere within you is a person who is enough, inherently.  And it’s about time you let them shine.  Today.  Tomorrow.  Because the time you have to shine is limited, so you better make the best of it.  So go head and save the world, One Valentine’s Day at a Time.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

The Ex-Files: Can You Stay In Contact After a Break Up?

Hearts

So I should warn you right now.  This post.  It’s not going to be funny.  Because it’s about Mega Love.  And he’s nothing like the “somethings“.  He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.  Sure I’ve had other relationships.  But the feelings were never love.  Not like with Mega Love.  To be brief (because the advice I’m seeking is needed asap) here is a quick timeline of our relationship.  And by quick.  I mean relatively.  Because we all know I’m queen of the epic.

We met in January 2004.
We were exclusive almost right away.
We broke up in October 2009.
(That’s just under 6 years for those that want to skip the math)
We broke up because I couldn’t take the long distance any longer (and may have just been unhappy with the relationship in general) and he wasn’t 100% sure about marriage yet.
I’ve since realized it’s likely I’ll never get married and/or have babies (it’s not really what I want out of life)
I don’t really know his thoughts or feelings on the matter at current.
He wanted to be friends and have contact.
I did not (nor did I think I could handle it).
We essentially broke up over the phone.
During Christmas break 2009, I went shopping in seattle.
We met up for an hour or so.
Had some much needed goodbye kisses and hugs.
I was in a good place.  I still thought we might get back together.  So did he.
In January he came up to Vancouver for work for a weekend.
We met up.  We had closure sex.  A couple of times.
I only spent one night at the hotel.  It was hard to sleep.  The next night we just had sex and then I split.
(I don’t think he was too happy about that).
For me, the closure weekend really was closure.
I no longer wanted to get back together.  I was happy we had split.  Things were good.
I have no idea how he felt about it.
I told him I would call after my exams in April.
Just before I leave for my friend’s Vegas stagette, he emails to say he’s coming up and do I want to hang out.
I’ll be away at the stagette so I can’t (whew for having an honest out).
When I return home and after writing my final final I send an email.
Basically saying, I’m moving on.  Hope things are good.  I can’t be friends.  etc.
He emailed back.  Clearly upset by the moving on bit.  Said that though he wasn’t “moving on” that he was keeping his heart open and hoped that I would too (you never know who might come into your life) Acknowledging he figured I wouldn’t be able to stay friends and thinking it was fine and probably best.  But he was finding it hard to come up to Canada and not think about me, and it would be weird to come up here and not let me know.
I said fine.
We’ve had no contact since.

Skip to now.  I get back from my weekend of wedding festivities on the island and there’s an email from Mega Love.  Telling me he’ll be in town the 7th/8th (tomorrow) and also the 24th/25th.

And now I’m.  Well.  Uncertain.

Does this email need a response?  I’m thinking probably.  Is he just letting me know he’ll be in town so that if I were to run into him at the mall I wouldn’t be like “I can’t believe you just showed up”?  Is he telling me because he wants to hang out (but leaving it in my court since I’m the one who has been…can’t hang out…can’t have contact…this whole time?  What is he hoping for?

And before you say well why don’t you just email back and ask?

Because I don’t know what my answer would be if it’s anything other than him “just letting me know.”

I know I don’t want to get back together.
I would love to have some wild and crazy sex.
I would not love to have sweet sex and/or make love.
I would not want to hear about him dating/dated/kissed/anything other girls.
I would love to have sex if I was able to convey to him exactly what I wanted and have him be okay with that.
I would not want to hang out/go to a movie/have dinner/have coffee/etc.
I would not want to hurt his feelings.
I would not want to get rejected.
I would not want to go back to that sad place right after we broke up, and again 2 weeks later when I realized we weren’t going to be getting back together.
I would not want to lead him on.
I would like to get my freak on with someone I know isn’t retarded.
I would like to get my freak on with someone who has ample equipment and skill/technique.

So here I am.  Asking for advice.  Pretty Please.  Don’t worry though, I promise to take it with a grain of salt.

*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*