I live in a pretty major city on the East Coast. There are plenty of different districts downtown and each offers its own variety of people. The drunk college kids have a place that they typically hang out, as do the middle-aged divorcees (of which I most definitely am not). I tend to spend a lot of time in a specific district frequented by older 20-something, young professional, hipster type people. There is frequently live music, local beer, and cute boys. Lots of cute boys.
The problem with this is that I have a type. A very particular type. And, well, this type of boy tends to frequent the same bars, restaurants, and venues as I do. Normally, this would be okay seeing as it would provide me with prime pickings. The issue, however, is that I am starting to run into boys that I have come to know. And it usually happens that I run into these boys when I am out with other boys. As you can imagine, this makes for a very awkward introduction.
Perhaps now you can understand when I tell you that the name of my city rhymes with Smalltimore.
Enter Mr. Teacher. Again.
A couple of weeks ago Ginger BFF and I drove down to DC to go to a concert. It was at rather large venue that I had never been to before. I feel I should mention that we were experiencing torrential downpours, flash flooding, and tornado warnings. I would have been wise if we had just stayed home, but the pull of adventure was drawing us in. Once we finally found parking, we had to walk about 10 minutes through the pouring rain in order to get to our destination. This wasn’t entirely a bad thing. For one, it was a freak 70 degree night. For two, we had brought a bottle of wine that we chugged in the car once we were parked. What?!? Beer is expensive at concert venues and I’m a single lady with a budget now!
So, basically we walked tipsy through the rain in a city where we know absolutely nothing. We finally found will call where we needed to pick up our tickets. Will call was a tiny little room with standing room for about 4. As we were waiting at the ticket window, I was vaguely aware that there was a couple in the room with us. I didn’t really look at them because I was too busy ringing out my dress and wiping off my running mascara. That’s when I heard it aloud: Mr. Teacher’s last name being called by the lady behind the glass.
Mr. Teacher does not have an ordinary last name. In fact, I’m still not even sure I know how to spell it correct. So when I heard his last name, I knew it had to either be him or someone related to him. Obviously, these thoughts are all going through my head in a matter of seconds as I slowly turn around to glance at the man with the last night of my hot teacher. Much to both my surprise and relief, it wasn’t Mr. Teacher after all. But there was no denying that the man in the room was a close relation–the resemblance was uncanny. I know Mr. Teacher has two brothers, so I just assumed it was one of them.
I decided not to say anything because, really, what would I have said?
When I got home that night, I decided to drunk text Mr. Teacher and tell him what happened. This was our very brief conversation the next morning:
(He had used him own name where I blacked it out)
Talk about a disappointing reply.
Fast forward to this past Saturday. I went out to grab a drink with a male friend that I haven’t seen in over 10 years. I walk into the bar where we were meeting and Old Friend walks up and gives me a hug. Then he tells me that he was just sitting talking with a friend of his that he ran into, Mr. Teacher. I look over and sure enough, Mr. Teacher is sitting at the bar. He waved and smiled (uuuggghh!) at me. Apparently, my instinct in this situation was to act as if I had no idea who he was. How mature is that? I just looked away and went and found our seat at the bar.
He was there the whole night–or at least for the few hours that I was also there. The entire time I was acutely aware of his presence in the room. He sat in a place that afforded him the ability to look at me, but that would make it quite awkward for me to look at him. I’m not insinuating that he chose that seat purposefully, just that I was conscious of the seating arrangement and how nervous it made me feel. But nervous in a good way. Nervous like butterflies in my stomach. I hadn’t imagined it, he is definitely as hot as I remember. And had he asked me to go home with him that night, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.
But he didn’t ask. He didn’t even exchange a word with me. Or a “nice to see you” follow-up text. To be fair, I didn’t either. I think I need to wean Mr. Teacher from my thoughts. And if I’m being honest, I also need to let go of the secret hope that he’ll be interested in dating me again. Against my best intentions, it seems that I fell for him harder than I intended to. I don’t know if it’s a genuine crush or simply because he was the first guy I dated after breaking up with my husband–back at a time where I had the emotional dating capacity of a 17 year old.
Either way, the point if moot. He clearly doesn’t reciprocate my feelings or desires. So I am left here to deal with my first rejection. Well, you know, besides the major rejection I suffered when my husband left me, but that is another post for another time. Chances are that I will run into him again and I am thinking that next time it’ll be best to play it cool. I can say hi, inquire about his well-being. And maybe flirt, just a little. In the end, however, I know that it would behoove me to accept that he’s just not that into me. All the signs there. And yet, even as I type that sentence I know that I’m not ready to leave it alone yet.
I know what I should do, but then I also know myself well enough to know what I will do. I’ll keep pining over him, daydreaming of things he could do to me, the way he could touch me. The dirty texts he could send. Those lips. Those eyes. And that smile. The secrets he told me. My regret at refusing to ever have a sleepover with him.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my heart is broken–things never got serious enough for that. But I will say, that it might be ever-so-slightly bruised.
The Sub-Fertile Slut 