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It"s bad enough that I never know when and if someone likes me but it is perhaps worse when my delusional brain, encouraged by my seemingly supportive entourage, makes me believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, someone is totally into me. It's bad because more often than not I get to find out - usually seconds before I'm about to dive into the shark tank - that actually, the one thing she really is, is not into me.
When I scan back on my dating record, it doesn't look so good!
Ever since I entered lesbianhood, I have dedicatedly pulled one pristine dating career assassination move after another.
The problem is that I am stuck in some kind of a Catch 22 situation. Either I am the last one to know I am on a date, or, conversely it is my so-called date who never gets the memo.
In both cases the outcome is invariably the same: I get absolutely no-fucking-where.
But because I am smart, I took a pro-active approach: out of the problem and into the solution. I called my super sexy therapist.
Quite frankly, as I was melodramatically weeping my heart out trying to convince her that the whole lesbian community was plotting this massive conspiracy against me, I was expecting her to offer a little respite of peace a la "you'll find another girl in a jiff."
Instead she rudely declined the cordial invitation to my pity-party and brutally belched out "The jig is up Mona!" What the fuck? How dare she not feel sorry for me?
"Can you please tumble back into reality," she continued slightly exasperated.
Excuse me! Surely it would behoove her to immediately stop pissing off the one who's got the checkbook, I think to myself, but evidently don't say out loud.
"What's the common denominator?" she asked in a patronizing way.
I wanted to say "Jesus, Mary, Madonna and Angelina Jolie" but I didn't think my smart-ass cockiness would have been very much welcome at this critical juncture. So I gave her the answer I knew she wanted to hear.
"Me," I declared with the same apologetic puppy-eyes as a child who's just been reprimanded - for emotional blackmail effect of course!
So ok, the world doesn't entirely revolve around me and I guess my lesbian fellows are not collectively conspiring to ensure I spend the rest of my life dateless and terminally single. The thing is that I am mortifyingly terrified at the thought of being rejected. And to prevent myself from the serious psychological damage of getting the boot, I have brilliantly made it a habit to apply myself at meticulously executing all the pre-asking out ground work to make sure there's no room for failure. Obviously the only thing I am executing is myself and, clearly the only ground work that is successfully accomplished is the digging of my own grave!
While I am busy mentally gathering undisputed evidence that the object of my affection is into me, my competitors - the fearless scavenging vultures -- are busy fiercely moving in on my target. But it's not my fault if I am paralyzed with numbing fear; nor am I to blame for the abnormally irrational behavior that takes over me as a ripple effect. It's a "survival of the fittest" instinct, which I absolutely have to blame on a psychological childhood trauma called "daddy."
Because I am fatally allergic to rejection, I refuse to approach a woman unless I know that my chances of being turned down are impossible or at least less than zero. And to measure the probably of success, or lack thereof, I practice the art of observation - a technique that can, and does, take hours, days and sometimes weeks! I need to see that she is giving me all the right signals and that her body language is inviting.
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(continued)
I know, it's all part of the dating game, blah blah blah... Everyone gets rejected at some point and no one should take it personally - but I do!
I just don't want to be presumptuous because sometimes, even when I think I am getting a good reception - the kind that says "Hey sexy, pick up the call" -- the signals get mixed up courtesy of static or cross talk and ultimately the call is dropped - and so am I!
Lately, I've had my eyes on -- I shall call her -- Nikki. Single, smart, funny, sexy, feminine looking, geographically desirable and securely employed, Nikki is perhaps one of the last few survivors of this endangered species called "dateable lesbians."
All right, I'll confess I wasn't paying much attention to her at first until my Belgian cousin and his Belgian boyfriend (recently visiting me) pointed out her "dating material" assets.
So I promptly put myself in chasing mode and asked her out without really asking her out.
What I mean was that I came up with a variety of idiotic excuses to take her out. And because my restless brain never ran out of ideas, we covered all the gastronomic breaks: breakfast, lunch, snack, happy hour, dinner and nightcap. Of course I never officially declared it a "date" per say, but convinced my intentions were obvious and very much expecting her brain to put two and two together, I operated on the premise that she knew.
Each rendezvous was like a murder investigation with my silly ass trying to pick up incriminating clues that she dug me. Many scenarios kept racing through my head as I was meticulously dissecting her every word, gesture and tone delivery. I'd then rush back home to report to my boys and spend an inordinate amount of time pestering them with the usual tangle of "what did she mean by ...?" questionings. This charade went on for a while and each time the boys would reassure my psycho maniac self that she was indeed into me.
Cut to a couple of weeks ago where we unexpectedly run into her at some random lesbian party. Nikki greeted me with a lingering full frontal hug followed by a persistent caress up and down my back. The minute she moved away I called an emergency consultation with my boys to decrypt the hidden meaning of her obvious public display of affection - for God's sake, who on earth greets a friend like that? My boys unanimously concurred with me and gave me the green light.
Although still hesitant with apprehension and trepidation I was nevertheless brimming with confidence and somehow convinced myself to go for the kill. But when I turned around to approach her, I was dumbfounded to see she was passionately engaged in a steamy making out session with some butch-looking bozo.
"Where the fuck did this one come from? And who the fuck is she? Doesn't she know who the fuck I am?" I infuriatingly asked my boys.
"At least that answers the question! Now you know," they both replied in sync.
Oh now they suddenly changed their minds? What happened to "she totally likes you Mona," they confirmed a minute ago? I've been royally duped and fabulously dumped - seemingly!
Of course, by then I was blaming my boys, mildly resented Nikki, and absolutely despised Miss Studly Stud who totally bruised my ego.
What was I thinking? Evidently, too much! Obviously, while I am busy mentally mulling over a potential reaction, others are busy getting lots of action!
