If you missed Part 1 or 2, catch up by reading them here: He Was a Writer (Part 1) and here: He Was a Writer (Part 2).
Or, the TL;dr of part 1 and part 2 is this—he was a writer and I was a woman who gives too much credit to men’s careers. He was a writer and I was desperate for a writing partner. He wanted to lick my pussy and I already knew him irl. Did I mention he was a writer?
I arrived at his apartment and tried to hide that I was a little out of breath from the walk and the stairs and my nerves. I hadn’t seen a man one on one since before March 2020. I hadn’t been on a date with a man let alone kissed one or let one touch me in almost 3 years. He opened the door and we hugged (I think) and then I asked to use the bathroom because I had to pee. I live in the suburbs so if I’m meeting you in the city, I’m always going to have to pee.
With the cold plastic toilet seat against my ass and my bladder nearing freedom, I looked around his bathroom to see nothing but one threadbare beach towel. I can’t remember if there was soap but his bathroom absolutely left the impression that there wasn’t. And while I know it’s not true, if you were to tell me that there was sand on the ground and chin hairs in the sink, I’d believe you. That’s the thing about memories, it’s so often feeling not fact that sticks with you and I’m not sure one matters less (or more) than the other.
I peed in his threadbare bathroom and tried not to fart because the apartment was in abject silence and I couldn’t reach the faucet to run the water lest I let a little tootie escape.
Walking into his apartment for the second time in five minutes, I looked around to see a bag of golf clubs, a soccer ball, a couch, and a desk. The apartment was so sparsely decorated, I was shocked later to find out he had a bed frame. We sat on the couch together and he offered me water (I think). It’s funny how quickly all the details slip away these days. Is it because I waited too long to write? Is it because it wasn’t memorable enough? Is it because I smoke too much weed to help me sleep? Is it because I’m over 40? I have no answers, only questions.
We sat on the couch and briefly talked. I told him about protecting my parents during covid, how he was the first man I’d been near in years, how I wasn’t even really going to restaurants yet. He told me about this upcoming writing project of his, how he’d taken the week off work to write, how the deadline was looming and he was panicking. I’ve already forgotten what it was about. We talked about meeting at a party, how long we’d known each other even though we didn’t really know each other. He got up for a beer, which seemed fine enough but when looking back is just another red flag in a pile of red flags.
I’d agreed to hangout if he stopped drinking because I don’t like hanging out with drunk men—they’re terribly boring when you’re not also drunk. I don’t even really like hanging out with men when they’re stoned but in this one case I was willing to make an exception—because he wasn’t drunk (I think), because I’m sure he’d still be interesting high, because I’m 41 years old and still making terrible decisions.
We talked for awhile on the couch and it was cute and sweet and fun. It was nice just talking to someone again, and it was nice talking to someone who had creative ideas and sometimes banter. Occasionally though, while flirting, I’d joke about something that I’d said that he hadn’t laughed at as being funny, and he would just say that it wasn’t. And maybe that was him, making a joke right back at me but I’ve always found it jarring when men (or women) do this thing in situations where they’re supposed to be on their best behaviour and they refuse to give an inch. Like they don’t know that you’re supposed to smile when you greet someone, and you’re supposed to be extra kind when someone is nervous and you make sure your guest is comfortable in your house. And hey, that’s their right. We’re all allowed to behave however we want, but his seriousness in that moment was just another threadbare beach towel hanging in the bathroom for me. It was just another sign that things were not alright, that he was not for me, that this would not go well.
But who among us hasn’t seen a red flag and immediately put their hands over their eyes instead of acknowledging it?!
We started watching the new Top Gun which he’d heard great things about but was so unbelievably bad that we stopped watching after about twenty minutes and switched to some stand up comedy on Netflix.
We smoked the weed I brought. Standing by his window, he stood behind me and for the first time that night I began to feel a little spark. You know that feeling when a man is standing behind you and kind of pressing his whole body against yours, and you wrap your hands back around him a little and he wraps an arm around you above your waist but under your tits—and ya’ll just stand there, touching each other (while smoking out the window on a hot summer night), that shit is fucking electric.
I was reminded how fun men could be.
We kissed on the couch and it wasn’t as good as I had hoped. I couldn't help but wonder if I had become a bad kisser in the three years I’d gone without having one. I used to be a wonderful kisser and before kissing him, I had worried that I wouldn’t even remember how to do it. I did remember as it turned out. I found my rhythm quickly but in some ways it seemed like he never quite found his. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was dragging my lips down. These babies deserve to shine, ya know?
We kissed on his couch and it was nice and I was stoned and he kept drinking beer which was fine, like I said, except you know how these things pile up on one another. He laid down on the couch on his back and then looked up at me, gesturing, as if to say come lay down and cuddle with me. Except there wasn’t anywhere for me to lie. I couldn’t figure out if he lacked the ability to understand how much of his couch he took up and how much room was left for me or if he wanted me to flop all 350lbs. of myself onto him. The latter seemed ridiculous, but in that specific way men love to do it where they want a thing without at all considering how it will feel for you. And I don’t even mean feel emotionally. I wasn’t afraid of squashing him (if we’re being honest, I’m years beyond caring about that shit). I didn’t want to be uncomfortable and I’m sorry but just straight belly flopping on a man is not comfortable. My tits alone would make it so I couldn’t lay flat on him anyway, so my head would be propped up like a seal waiting to be thrown a fish. One day, I will meet a man who thinks about other people.
Eventually, we Tetris-ed our way into a comfortable position on the couch and things were good for a little while. We watched stand up comedy and we laughed and cuddled. Smooth sailing. He kept kissing me on the forehead which is sweet if you care about someone and absolutely psychotic if you don’t.
And then he did a couple weird things that made me wonder if he was chugging beers while I used the bathroom again or if I’d just been blind to how much he was drinking. I don’t totally know how to describe it except that it reminded me of the many alcoholics in my life (before they got sober). He’d tell stories that weren’t very good and think them ridiculously funny, he’d tell the same story more than once, and one time completely out of nowhere he even started to ramble about how he had a friend who’d been abused by a boyfriend (also a friend of his) and how he hadn’t done enough and also how he was basically in love with her. He told this story while I was laying on his chest. I thought he might cry. I did the only thing I could think of which was to encourage him to shoot his shot with her. It was all very awkward and uncomfortable and he didn’t seem even the tiniest bit aware, which only weirded me out further.
In my defence, I was also stoned so if you’re thinking how could I possibly allow this weird man to kiss me again, you’ve obviously not been stoned in a long while. Also, did I mention his abs? And how he was a writer? And how I hadn’t kissed a single fucking soul since pre-covid times when I was back in Montreal and living my best sexy life? and how I’d already kissed him once and risked covid so I might as well enjoy my evening? also how all I could really think about was how we could be friends who hook up occasionally and so him moaning over some other woman didn’t really bother me (outside of the fact that the whole thing made him seem rather pathetic).
NB: please note his emotional spilling and sadness is only gross in the context of our relationship (barely knowing each other) and the moment in which he was spilling it (while I was cuddled on his chest). In all other moments and in good, well-boundaried relationships, I encourage all men to speak their feelings, to feel their feelings, to spill tears, and to look for support and community while providing the same in turn.
And so we kissed again, but I’ll be honest, we were in an extremely uncomfortable position and while I had zero intention of letting him go down on me on this evening, I was definitely up for some making out and dry humping so good it might burn a hole in his pants.
“Do you want to go to your bedroom?” I asked.
He did and we did. On the bed, I happily climbed on top. We kissed for a while and I did what I love to do which is tease. It’s absolutely unfathomable to me the way so many men appear to have missed the memo on foreplay and how enjoyable teasing things out, going slowly, creating tension, all that is. And not just for women. I’m sorry but that bullshit that foreplay is just for women is just that, bullshit. The truth is, people who don’t enjoy foreplay—aren’t any good at it. I will not be debating this in the comments. I’m sorry you’re a bad lover but I don’t have time to get into it with you. I’m too busy making out with absolute train wrecks.
One super fun thing about the whole affair was that because I already knew he wanted things to go further, or perhaps it’s just because it’s who I am now (a badass, confident, fun bitch!), I told him to talk dirty to me. I had absolutely no shame and no embarrassment. I straight up asked a man for what I wanted. I asked him prodding questions to help him out and while his answers were somewhat fun, they weren’t exactly creative and that alone was another red flag.
A writer who can’t talk dirty?! Honey, what?! Absolutely not.
But he did his best and we kissed and I moved my hips around on his cock that I could feel through his shorts, and I held his hands down on the mattress (with interlocked fingers like we were holding hands not like anything non-consensual). Before long he was moving his hands up my legs and realizing I had my high-rise shorts pulled up near my bra (under my dress). He kind of laughed and asked what I was wearing and while the laugh didn’t bother me (I’m well beyond caring if a man has any opinion on honestly anything about me), it was clear as day that he had not been with a fat woman before. No man who’s been with fat women would be confused by control or anti-chaffing undergarments and no man who’s been with a fat woman would dare laugh about it. Not a good one, at least. Before long he was suggesting I take my shorts off. I said no. Then he suggested I take his pants off. I said no.
If I could give only one piece of sex and dating advice to all men it would be this: do it three times longer than you think you should.
Should I ask her out during the first conversation? No, wait three times longer than you think you should.
Should I try to touch her boobs after we start kissing? No, wait three times longer than you think you should.
Should I try to go down on her after making out in a bed for five or ten minutes? No, wait three times longer than you think you should. You get the picture.
Should I stop eating her pussy? No, keep doing it three times longer (and also don’t stop until she cums, obviously).
And while it may come as a surprise to some that I wasn’t letting this dude lick my pussy and be done with it, others will recognize that it had been ages since I’d been with a man and all I wanted out of this evening was a little bit of making out. I was already taking a huge step outside of the boundaries I’d held close these past three years, and I was allowed to take my time. And maybe there’d be pussy-licking in the future, but it just wasn’t what I wanted this night. And given that I’d expressed that multiple times to him previously, it seemed bonkers to me that he would even try to push for more (bonkers because I had thought he was a “good guy” and not one of the hundreds of men who had pressured me throughout my whole life).
We kissed a bit more before he suddenly jolted and I’m not sure if it was just my body weight or the way he moved his arm or just old people’s shoulders in general, but something we did hurt his shoulder and we abruptly stopped making out. To be honest, I was also beginning to sweat (it being a hot august night and this man having no fans NOT A SINGLE FAN IN HIS APARTMENT WHAT KIND OF PERSON DOESN’T HAVE A FAN!?!?). So, we moved back into the living room to chill out while I fanned myself to cool off. I thought we’d chill for a little bit and then I’d head home and tomorrow we’d get to work on the writing.
He went to bathroom and then returned to the couch looking like a sullen little baby. It was mere seconds before he was pulling out his phone and dicking around on it which was rude AF and a clear sign for me to gtfo. That’s the thing about people, most of them are assholes who act like shit as soon as they don’t get their way.
The irony is that he likely would’ve gotten what he wanted (my pussy on his face) the next time we met up. Men are forever talking themselves out of getting what they want by being little assholes when it doesn’t happen on their timeline.
I told him I was going to take off. He asked if I wanted him to walk me out. I rolled my eyes to myself and said, “Naw, I’m good. Hit me up tomorrow when you want to write.”
He mumbled something about hitting me up in the afternoon, and I was out the door.
The next day I texted around 4pm when I hadn’t heard from him.
Heya are we writing tonight or no?
He didn’t respond but as everyone knows, you can see when people are active on facebook messenger so when he didn’t respond and I saw his little icon with that damning green circle around it, I knew he had seen his phone, and I was being ghosted. And here’s the thing, while you can’t stop someone from ghosting you, you can absolutely let them know what you think of them and their behaviour, which, of course, I did. I don’t encourage a long diatribe but a quick and to the point 0-star review feels great. 10/10 would recommend.
This is such a shitty way to treat someone.
A final statement, no answers needed.
Except that’s not totally true because I did send him one final message a week or so later. I gave him the opportunity to write his side of the story. He didn’t take it of course, people are rarely cowards one day and courageous the next. If a man can’t bring himself to text a rejection, he’s hardly capable of writing an entire tale about the experience but given that he was a writer (my god is he even a writer?! lol) I had to take the shot.
Looking back now, and after having had my therapist talk some sense into me, I’ve realized that he was a red flag right from the very start.
“He took the week off work to write and then spent the day getting drunk?” my therapist said incredulously a few weeks later waiting for me to see it.
I’m not even totally sure why I ignored all the red flags or maybe it’s not one reason but a culmination of several. Was it just because he was a writer? Was I really so desperate for a writing partner? Was it just because I’d met him in person one other time and he’d seemed like a mature and funny adult? Was it just because I was forever optimistic that a man would be capable of communicating and treating others with at least the very basic amount of decency?
Talking it over with my therapist (god I love therapy!!!) it became very clear that while I generally have hard and fast boundaries for romantic relationships, I have literally none for friendships (and that could be why I regularly have friendships with people who do not value my time nor even me as a person). The silver lining to all of this is that I’ve finally seen this flaw in myself and will no longer allow men the work around of friendship when they’ve proven incapable of anything else (nor allow women to treat me poorly as friends either).
I will no longer ignore red flags in friendships, in whatever form they appear.
That’s the thing about red flags, sometimes they appear as threadbare beach towels and the feeling of no soap in the bathroom. And while I have to admit, being ghosted by a man with no-soap-vibes has not affected my confidence one bit, I do think it makes for a hilarious story, which I will forever tell at parties (should anyone ever invite me).
“I was at this dude’s apartment a couple months back and all he had in his bathroom was one threadbare beach towel and I can’t remember if there was soap but his bathroom absolutely left the impression that there wasn’t. That man ghosted me. A man with no soap vibes said hard pass on all this. Absolutely psychotic. Could never be me. So what do you do for work?”