The thing about playing hard to get, is that it gets easier and more enjoyable with every passing day.
Stop- sorry. I do this. I get ahead of myself. I am by no means qualified to write a paragraph about playing hard to get because this is honestly seriously the first time I have even attempted it. My previous idea of playing hard to get was avoiding saying “I love you” during sex and then pretending to be offended if the guy in my bed asks for a sandwich, when hello? feeding men to make them like me is my favorite. So this right here, this not contacting him for like four days is a new record for me, in fact no, it’s like… this is the moment we start the records.
This is like when the weather people say “THE WETTEST SEPTEMBER SINCE RECORDS BEGAN” and you’re like holy shit no way I can’t believe I am alive to see this, I’m gonna need more than three tins of chickpeas to tide me over although hooray, food shortage = look amazing in jeans, but then you realise records only began like a hundred years ago or something so in the grand scheme of things, you aint witnessing SHIT. Our ancestors lived through a fucking ice age, put that into perspective bitches (I think. My history knowledge is akin to my science, scrappy, wikipedia-based, and often inspired by movies and dreams.) Except that’s irrelevant, so let us swiftly move on….
Now, after initial restlessness in my pants, and some internal wheedling when I tried to pretend I wanted to message him just to “ask him a question I have about engineering” (I did have a relevant question about engineering but I also have the internet, and knowing someone who knows shit is barely even useful any more) we have arrived at Thursday- the day I previously allowed myself to contact him for some wonderful booty call.
And I spent last night- 3 hours, mind, de-hairing my legs with what can be desribed to menfolks as a mechanical tweezers and to women as an epilator.
That’s right. You know the concentrated yanking sensation of pulling out one hair at a time with a tweezers? No? I don’t know what men do to pass the time really, maybe you have never pulled out a follice in your life. Bastards. In that case, you rugged manbeast creatures out there reading my narcissistic ramblings, it is kinda like pulling out a splinter from when you were cutting large swathes of lumber, topless. Except splinters are a little bit more satisfying to pull out.
Anyway, pulling out one hair means you can uproot a pretty damn short hair like the little bastards I have going on right now, but it takes too fracking long to do all your legs that way, especially because I have long legs and also before you think I’m being a vain bitch, there are a shitload of hairs on them. So the solution here is to make a whole bunch of pinchy tweezer things that rotate and you run it over your body like a little mechanical piranha machine going “om nom nom nom nom” and it’s really sore but you can get used to it, you just need to get in the zone, grit your teeth, knock back some whiskey if you have any, and ride that mother til you hit the crest of the pain wave and hit the plateau of feeling where you don’t even know if you are in a lot of discomfort or excrutiating pain or if you are even attached to your body any more.
It took 3 hours and I was pretty fucking lucid for most of it.
I quaffed some pain killers first, being all out of whiskey (to be rectified this evening. Man I have no alcohol in the house at all right now, it doesn’t feel right.) but I didn’t notice any improvement.
My legs are considerably better than they were yesterday, although they are still crying rape and I’ve put as much nappy rash cream on them as will sit on the skin without coming off on the hand that is applying it, but still they punish me with redness and a sensitivity to cold and my tights.
Anyway tonight I will have to tackle the remaining stragglers but if I get some booze on the way home it will be much better, also there are not a whole lot of hairs left especially compared to yesterday.
And I wonder what I will say to Fabio when I finally cash in my 4 day Desperates Anonymous chip?
I don’t know, but I feel kind of like I should play it like Susan Sarandon in Alfie. I’m not going to buy him expensive gifts or end up going for someone even younger than him though so I need to rewatch that movie to remember what else she did. She kicked ass though. I also don’t know if I should lay down some “oh by the way this is just a sex thing, I don’t want you to kiss me or hold my hand anywhere outside your bedroom or my apartment, and I don’t mean avoid eye contact but if your eyes catch mine, make it brief and to the point. There will be no gazing at me.” and also he knows a lot of the people I know, including his flatmate who knows my husband-separation story, so I don’t know if I should just drop the H-bomb straight away so he doesn’t hear I’m married from his flatmate and think wtf?
I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything or not. I’ve had fuck buddies before but it has always been a complete farce, like I have been really into them but too afraid of them not liking me enough for proper relationship stuff so I have just gone along with the sex only thing until it has blown up in my insecure face and left them thinking I was a total freak. I have never worn the pants, I’ve always just waited for the dick I’ve been hanging around with to define the terms of our interaction.
Anyway I am on the verge of sending him some message to initiate round two and see what fun and frolics may be instore: but I am sort of dreading it too. Because the moment I hit send on whatever over-wrought message, you know, 2 hours re-writing a sentence to hit just the right level of nonchalant, then it is OUT THERE and I have just thrown away all the cards I was holding. Right now I am hard to get, or as hard to get as you can play after fucking the guy the first night you met. The moment I send that message, whatever it may be in the end, I will be right back at the holy crap it has been six minutes and he hasn’t replied, maybe he hasn’t seen it yet? OR Maybe he is laughing at me and he will never reply and I won’t know what the fuck is going on and he doesn’t like me because of my low quality boobage and all the weird and irrelevant stuff I said.
So I like the mental peace I have right now. I don’t want to throw that away, but then I don’t want to be too aloof and miss out on sex. And also, the poor dude has low enough self esteem, he’s probably weeping into a tub of Ben and Jerrys right now (actually they don’t sell that here I don’t thnk) whimpering “oh god I am SUCH A FAT PIG now wonder she doesn’t like meeeee”
This is possible.
I should put him out of his misery.
But my precious upper hand!
What to do?
What to write?
AND if I do wrangle a meet up out of him, what the fuck do I wear?
Stupidly weak, I can’t stay away from shops lately… I’m just so surprised I can fit so much stuff that would have looked so shit before.
I tried on a pair of super slutty hot pants. I didn’t buy them, but I fell in love with myself all over again. They are the kind of shorts a slutty girl might wear to hand out free samples of Red Bull on a main shopping street or something. You know. Yeah.
Anyway I made myself not buy the shorts because they were basically underwear, but I got a new bra (it’s nice, leave me alone… all my other bras sag on me now because along with dropping jeans sizes comes the unwanted side effect: no more fatty cushioning under mah breasts either. So I need new bras. Hence, justified. Booya. See how I do that? And also, and I haven’t got a justification for this purchase yet, but I’m working on it- I got a little see through cropped lace jacket. It serves no purpose except I could wear it with my new bra underneath and look terrifically slutty.
Then I went into the tights and socks shop. I can’t resist tights, I have probably got over 100 pairs of tights. I am a disgrace.