It Turns Out I Cared. Quite a Lot Actually

Here is some dating advice—if the two of you haven’t had sex in four months…there is probably a reason. And you might not like what it is.

I learned this reason after several Gins, one excellently rolled spliff [courtesy of me], and four months of dating/seeing [whatever-the-fuck-we-were-doing] a wonderful man. A man who has been nothing but kind, respectful, and caring towards me and who I will continue to place high on the dating roster. I mean, Six foot Two, can you blame a girl?

The Six ft Two is crucial information that will bear relevance later.

A great guy let’s call him The Reviewer. I will give zero context as to why this nickname has been chosen; create your own story as to why. I was smitten with The Reviewer. Smitten. Not to say I wanted exclusivity or a relationship, I was enjoying my time and enjoying his company. But goddam. Wow. Shout out to his parents. Great job. Love your work.

I hadn’t seen The Reviewer in some time. The Reviewer texted me to ask if I wanted to get dinner that evening as it was his final night at university. Playing it cool, I instantly replied and rushed to put on a tiny black dress, straighten my hair and ‘natural makeup,’ shave, douse myself in the perfume he liked, and sweated bollocks walking to his.

But, like I said, super nonchalant. A cool girl. Literally don’t care. Relaxed… right?

Now a keynote is that The Reviewer and I had not had sex. Nada. Zilch. It felt like being fifteen again. And that was totally fine. It felt pure and romantic I saw it as a refreshing change. I saw it as self-care instead, unlike my previous conquests.

On the first couple of dates with The Reviewer, I was the one who said no because I didn’t see it as the ‘right’ time. Also mitigating factors, but that’s a story for another time.

And we continued to see each other‼ I thought I had struck gold. I don’t have to put out for things to keep going- what a gentleman.

Well. As Samantha says in Sex and the City… if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.

So, I go over. Totally chill and cool- I’m cool. We hang out, we laugh, we smoke, we drink, I’m joking around with his housemate, he puts his arm around me, sentimental music is on, and I am killing it. But that burning question is in the back of my mind. Why haven’t we had sex? I mean, it’s now or never, right? I’m treating it like the fucker has been drafted to Vietnam.

I, high and drunk, decided to ask him this. We’re adults, right? This is checking in. This is dating in your Twenties.

″Why haven’t we had sex? ″

I also follow up with:

″it’s okay that we haven’t, but is there a reason, or do you not see me in that way?”

Like I said, I’m super-duper chill.

The Reviewer is taken aback. I shoot from the hip. He should know this. He starts spluttering and says:

“Well, of course, I want to, well-no, of course, I don’t see you in a purely sexual manner… that would be wrong of me‭″

Feminist king.

So?

Mumbling dialogue that I don’t listen to because I am currently reveling in his previous answer and how I have bagged such a perfect man. I’m in my own Gin and Weed fuelled world. This bliss is then broken with:

″Please don’t throw your drink at me”

What? Oh, sweet boy, why would I do that? You’re wonderful‼ So respectful‼ God, aren’t you something…

Wait. What did you say? It then dawns on me that I may not like something that has been said. I am out of Wonderland and return to a grim student garden with a twatted Twenty-One-year-old man in front of me.

I ask him to repeat what he just said. The G&T firmly grasped in my hand.

″Well, there’s a girl back home, and I would feel disrespectful to her if I had done things with you and also disrespectful to you″

What. The. Fuck.

I am desperately trying to sober up to accept this news. Part of me is hoping that he starts laughing, like this is a joke, and everything is fine. I say part of me, I mean all of me, desperately hoped this was a joke.

It wasn’t. It was just a very unpleasant truth and the reason why we haven’t had sex.

Don’t Let Me Down by The Beatles was on in the background. Fitting. That was the joke.

I sit there in total disbelief. I didn’t know how to feel or what to say. Have I just been played by The Reviewer? Bastard.

Shit, am I the Other Woman? I was so angry at him but couldn’t decide what to say to this man.

But then, the other side of me kept repeating ‘Six foot Two, Six foot Two’ in my head. It seemed to even out.

I chose to go for a calmer approach. I interrogated him about her. Asking if she was his girlfriend and what the fuck was going on. You know, a cool girl approach, I don’t care, real easy going kinda gal. You absolute motherfucker.

I got told it was complicated that neither of them had acted on it, but ‘it’ was there. What the fuck is it?! But he liked me, and he loved spending time with me. But not just as friends. Oh, and he wants to see me after university and in the summer.

Writing this down and reading it back doesn’t sound great to him or me. You weren’t there! You must learn not to judge me when reading these stories. Oh, piss off; hope this makes you feel better about yourself.

I grab my phone and text my friends about this revelation. I am Moses carrying some really shit news down to his followers. Clawing at the screen to be coherent. It’s only seven pm. Christ. I felt so embarrassed. I had hyped this man up, and he had let me down.

Let me down despite The Beatles encouraging him not to. John Lennon warned you, Reviewer! This isn’t fair. I was so happy, and he fucking ruined it. This is so typical. Such an arsehole. God, they’re all arseholes. I can’t believe I fell for this shit- AGAIN.

He skips in after me, concerned I’m running off. I assured him I wasn’t, as my KGB-style interrogation was certainly not over. I was just starting. I dug through my bag to find a pack of cigarettes.

The Reviewer tries to lighten the mood by saying, ″I thought you quit?’

Big mistake, Comrade! I hit him with this incredible line: ″well I thought you were single; things change”. Is this my ‘frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn’? I like to believe so.

Hold onto that remaining shred of self-worth, Queen.

I chain smoke as I inquire further. In my head, we’re in the USSR, I am a hardened Russian agent, and The Reviewer is a conspiracist threatening the Motherland. How dare he! Wonderful symbolism; I then realize I’m high as shit. I’m promised that he is not with her in any capacity, and it’s a complicated situation that he needs to sort out.

This is all from memory; I am just confused as you are. Who knows if what he said is the truth? I’m choosing to believe it because I really don’t like the alternative.

″Six foot Two, incredible kisser, kind, hilarious, great body” is ringing through my head. Every moment shared, every rom-com-esque memory is flooding any sense I had. I hated him for that. I hated myself for that.

And with such burning hatred, I went for dinner with him.

Don’t. Just don’t. I know.

After a bottle of saké, everything seemed okay. Naturally.

I felt I could tolerate this. I said I was sorry for overreacting before that I didn’t care, and I had no hold on him and didn’t mind. That it’s totally fine. No, like seriously, so fine.

With a mouth full of sushi, I did choose to remind him that I was NOT an option. To cling to some remaining self-respect. He agreed. If he had wholeheartedly agreed with that, there would have been no one else.

He walked me home; we messed around and realized we were both still very drunk. I knew it was goodbye. And I would make sure it was a solid and memorable goodbye.

The painful truth as to why we had not had sex and the actual reality of this very fucked up situation between The Reviewer and myself seemed to melt away when he held my face, looked into my eyes, and said:

“I have had the best night with you and the best four months with you″.

I don’t remember what else was said; the Saké really did not help.

The kiss goodbye gave Casablanca a run for its money. I remember that.

Arsehole.

I remember neither of us wanting to stop. He would pull away to say, “Maybe things will be different this summer″. It was painful, but it felt so good. I didn’t care that I had been wronged. I didn’t care that he was going to hurt me. Because it felt so good.

I realized I really have not learned anything in the last three years of university.

I chose to kiss him on the cheek and then his lips and ask, “is this a convincing argument? ″ I attempted to suggest to The Reviewer to choose me causally. I hated myself as soon as I said it.

He agreed it was ″very convincing”. I hated him for being a great kisser. I hated him for how he held me. I hated him for being handsome and funny and perfect. I hate him for being 6ft-fucking-2. I hated him for ruining it. I was very much happy being delusional. What a prick. God, couldn’t we have just pretended for a bit longer?

We finally stopped after I held his face and told him that he should go. Yeah, not even Jane Austen could write that one. We agreed to see each other in Edinburgh.

I know it’s beyond stupid of me, but I couldn’t help myself. I read One Day once and have tried to base every romantic interaction at university on that book- pretty subpar results. I hold out hope for Graduation.

But as I said, I’m chill. I don’t care if I see him- I see him pfft I don’t care.

I pulled my dress down, turned away from him walking down the street, and walked up the stairs of my shitty student house, grinning. God, aren’t I good? What a kiss! Look at me fucking killing it.

I broke down crying.

I called my best friends, sobbing into the phone for them to come over immediately as Saké slurred my words.

It turns out that maybe I did care. In fact, I cared quite a lot. Annoyingly, I still do.

Guess I’ll see you in Edinburgh.