Warning – long post!
One of my friends, let’s call her Vivienne, has recently started internet dating. Vivienne is a good soul. She’s 39, divorced, has 2 daughters, and a steady job. She is pretty, and funny and likes sports. I think she’s a catch for any decent guy. Yeah, she’s a little crazy (frankly, aren’t we all) but as long as she takes her meds like she is supposed to, she’s fine. And look, I’m in a glass house, so I don’t dare throw any stones. I just encourage her to take her meds and find a nice guy. One who won't beat the shit out of her and call her a "cunt", and one who makes her feel like she's worthless (she has had men in her life who have done all of those things). No, definitely not one of those guys. Actually, the direct opposite would be a great start.
Nice Guys are a problem for Vivienne, though. She is attracted to “Bad Boys”. "Who isn't?" is my usual response to that one -- but Bad Boys are not guys you get married to. Bad Boys are not guys you take home to meet your mom. Bad Boys are the guys you fuck in your car in a crowded parking lot, and the ones you let do things to you in a movie theatre; they’re the ones who command you give your panties to them over dinner at a restaurant, and the ones who you give blow jobs to while they’re driving. They’re the boy that you do all the things with that you never thought you’d do with anyone, but there you are, doing them – all because he’s a Bad Boys and your Inner Slut comes out to play with Bad Boys. Bad Boys never ask permission.
Nice guys are different than Bad Boys, though, we all know this. Nice Guys are the ones with the respectable jobs, who make decent money, who treat you like a lady when you’re in public by opening doors for you and letting you order your dinner first. You're excited to introduce your Nice Guy to your family, because your dad/mom/grandma is going to love him. Nice Guys are the ones who ask you if it’s OK to kiss you goodnight, and the ones who, if you eventually marry, will make sure you save money and have a retirement account and will buy you a nice house and give you some nice children and all of your family photos will be so nice. Nice Guys will make sweet, slow love to you and always make sure they’re not hurting you. If you marry a Nice Guy, everyone you know will tell you how “lucky” you are.
Personally, I once had a choice between a Bad Boy and Nice Guy. I was in college, dating Husband. One semester, I ran smack dab into the middle of Bad Boy and he was like a magnet, drawing me to him. We became friendly (after some brilliant maneuvering on my part). We became a little more than friendly, and that’s when my guilt set it. Here on one hand, I had this Bad Boy who was fucking gorgeous, made my heart leap out of my chest and thrilled me to death. He also promised me nothing, never called when he said he would, and was rather undependable. On the other hand, I had my Nice Guy. Nice Guy swore he would love me to the ends of the Earth, wanted to marry me and live out the rest of his life with me. He wanted me to have his children and wanted to grow old with me. My choice was to break with Nice Guy and throw away all of the lovely promises to have hot-monkey-sex with the Bad Boy.
Where’s the dilemma, right?
This is where we return to Vivienne’s story.
A couple of weeks ago, she met someone named Greg. Greg and Vivienne exchanged cell numbers and started texting each other one night. They exchanged pictures and chatted. Greg was at a bar with some friends watching baseball or football, or whatever sports game was important at the time.
Through the course of the evening, the text messages from Greg got more aggressive and sexual in nature. Let me remind you, Greg and Vivienne haven’t even met yet. They had planned to have lunch the following day at a local restaurant. As the evening wore on, Greg’s text messages started asking if he could come over Vivienne’s: Please? We can just cuddle? No sex, I promise? I just want to see you and feel you. Vivienne, please? I want a relationship, just like you and when I am into someone I’m all over them. Please let me come over. You’re so fucking hot I just want to see you….
Can you see where this is going?
Ah, don’t worry. Vivienne isn’t THAT crazy. She told him no, that she was looking forward to their lunch and then they could see what happens next. And secretly, on the inside, Vivienne was giddy with these texts. Point is, Vivienne loves sexually aggressive men. She loves dirty talk. She loves to be under a man's command. She's your classic submissive.
You’d think that the forcefulness of his text messages would have been a red flag, right? Or at least a yellow one? Of course not. Women make all kinds of excuses for men and their shortcomings, and Vivienne just said he must have drank too much. The fact he drank too much was obvious in the next several texts he sent her that said something about him having to sleep in his car because he was in no condition to drive himself home.
Now, in my book, this should have been red flag #2 – she had not only been drunk texted (and graphically, I might add, by someone she hadn’t even MET YET -- a deal killer FOR SURE in my book, because that is just WEIRD), he was so drunk he was going to have to sleep his buzz off in his car. If he had been 21, I would have laughed it off because only irresponsible young men do things like this. Not a 38-year-old grown man. Do they?
Yes. They do. That much is apparent.
Vivienne told me all of this and we made jokes about whether he was going to cancel lunch with her. Or whether he was going to show up in crumpled clothing, reeking of last night’s beer, cigarette breath and unshaven.
Surprisingly, he did show up to lunch. And he was clean, and smelled nice. And from Vivienne’s account, “was really nice”.
Fast forward to a couple of days ago. Vivienne invites Greg over to watch TV. One thing leads to another, and they start to make out like teenagers. I’ll spare you most of the details, but the most tantalizing ones are that Vivienne gives dear Greg a blow job, and while she’s doing it, he asks her to stick one of her fingers up his ass.
Back up. WHAT?
I’m not shocked because he asked her to stick her finger in his ass…I’m shocked that he doesn’t even know her and he’s asking her to stick her finger in his ass. I mean, what is he going to ask for on date #2? For her to put plastic wrap on his face and her to shit on him? I mean, SERIOUSLY?
Again, in my book, red flags were waiving so hard, I swear a flag pole broke. It took me YEARS to fart in front of my husband, and here is this guy, whom Vivienne has only JUST MET IN PERSON not 2 hours ago, and he's asking for digits up the bum? I'm no prude, but that's fucking forward as all hell, far as I'm concerned. There's just some stuff you wait to ask for. Anal penetration of any sort just happens to fall in that category.
The next day, Vivienne didn’t even hear from Greg. As I mentioned in a text message to her, I think it’s only proper etiquette that if I had your dick in my mouth less than 24 hours ago, a “Good Morning” text message is quite in order. (Let this be a lesson to you guys out there.) It’s only common fucking courtesy. (I swear. Miss Manners needs to update her book for situations such as this.) First the ass play an now the morning-after silent treatment. This man has absolutely no manners.
Anywhore, Greg does text EVENTUALLY, and I’m already getting that uneasiness I get when I figure out that someone is a complete douchebag. Trust me – I totally have this skill. I have excellent Gaydar and I can spot a douchebag from 200 meters. Swear. I know human nature.
Good thing you’re still reading because this is the part of the story where it finally takes a crazy turn.
Vivienne invites Greg over to her place again, for a little cuddling and what-not. Although she’s sworn that she’s not going to have sex with him – because we’ve both determined that first date sex has killed many potential relationships – she caves. She caves and describes to me that they had sex for about “3 minutes” before he moves into the fetal position in pain – as he has “kidneystones” and he runs out of her place like it’s on fire.
Now, I don’t know if the kidneystones are for real, and that’s not the pertinent part of this little tale. Because later on in the evening, Vivienne receives the following text message from Greg (oh, and a little backstory…Greg had told Vivienne he used to be a police officer, and is currently unemployed):
Greg: This is not going to work. I’m sorry. Leave for Iraq on Thursday. You know how important this job is to me. This really sucks for me.
Me (in my head): WHAAAAAAT? Are you kidding me? You’re being shipped off to IRAQ? Ohhhhh, OK.
Vivienne responds: It’s ok. You don’t have to lie….(she writes some other shit but it's boring and not important to this story.)
Of course at first, Vivienne and I are dumbfounded. What happened to Greg in between the 3-minute sexfest, and the text message – that was he was so desperate to break things off with Vivienne that he had to make up a story about going to Iraq? IRAQ? You realize he MADE UP A STORY ABOUT GOING TO A WARZONE, right? A FUCKING WARZONE? THAT IRAQ.
Here are the important things we figured out:
Vivienne asked him for his last name and even spelled him back to him. He told her he was on Facebook, and when we looked for him, he wasn’t there. Obviously, he was lying either about the last name or the spelling.
That's odd, huh? How come we can't find him on Facebook?
Vivienne also told Greg that she’s been taking psychic development classes (Vivienne is convinced that she has some type of sixth sense that she is trying to develop. She told him she can usually "read" people and can figure out what type of person they are. Much more honed than my intuition I talked about earlier.) When Greg asked her what type of “vibes” was she picking up from him, she told him that the person that he shows to people isn’t the “real” him and that he uses laughter and jokes as a way to mask what is really going on inside of him.
Somebody want to yell “BINGO!” here?
Turns out, he was lying about the spelling of his last name (DUH). Vivienne googled him and he wasn’t lying about being a police officer. He used to be one, but was fired in 2007 for stealing money (about $1700) from someone he pulled over (he was convicted of larceny). Oh, and she also found out he had tried to commit suicide three times after his divorce in 2008.
I knew he was a NUTJOB.
So why this big long story? Vivienne has met another guy on the internet. His name is Ron, and he’s in his mid-40s and is the fire chief for one of the neighboring cities out here. He’s divorced and looks like you’d expect every mid-40s guy from Michigan to look – moustached, got a little bit of a gut, average-looking, but he doesn’t look like someone beat him with an ugly stick or anything. He seems NICE. Has a teenaged daughter, and is divorced. Vivienne has met him for lunch late last week, prior to the whole Greg fiasco, and her problem?
He’s too nice.
There’s no "edge". She didn’t feel like she wanted to fuck his brains out the second she met him. No immediate chemistry.
And it’s not that I don’t understand, because I do. But I’ve tried to tell her that sometimes chemistry is something that doesn’t happen in an instant, it happens over time. I have personally experienced it. The fire chief sounds like a good guy. He has a great job, he’s respectful (he’s not graphically texting her even before he’s met her) and he treats her like a woman should be treated. His flaw: he’s nice. I keep trying to convince Vivienne to give Fire Chief a chance. Because maybe he’s really a kinky sex freak in the bedroom (she’s hoping). Maybe all she has to do is TELL HIM that she prefers to the hard pounding of a hot fuck over the slow beauty of being made love to, and that she prefers dirty talk to sweet loving words.
But I know she’s not listening to me. I know she’s looking for someone like Greg again. Only minus the criminal record. She makes me want to smack her sometimes.
And take it from someone who actually chose the Nice Guy over the Bad Boy. There are days where I regret it, but they are few and far between. I have a responsible husband, one who takes his little ass to work everyday. He’s not an alcoholic, or a drug addict, and there’s no criminal record. He is polite and won’t ogle your wife/sister/cousin when he meets her because he’s not a pig (although trust me, he’ll only do it when he’s sure no one is looking). He’s dependable and is a rock in a crisis.
Last thing – he is a freak in the bedroom, sometimes more than I’d like. Although, I must admit, he’s never asked me to put my finger in his ass…but if he did, I’d do it. That’s love, baby!