What to do when you’re heart isn’t in it.

So here’s how it goes. You meet someone in a bar. Cute. You exchange contact info. “Can I call you sometime?” You get called sometime. You go out some other time. The date is a flop. No stimulating conversation, no nothin’. Just a quick adieu and a, “see ya around.”

Then an hour later, a text from tre boring boy: “I had fun, we should do it again.” Seriously!? The conversation had persisted interview style for the better part of the afternoon. “What books have you read lately? Seen any good films?” Not exactly what one would call a good, or even “not bad” chat. It had been painful.

But.

You haven’t gotten positive attention from another human being for 3 months. You hadn’t even taken a shower that day. And you were still appealing? Most certainly a boost to the self esteem if nothing else. So you agree, tentatively, to try again. “Yeah. We should.”

The textual relationship continues. Tre boring boy is less boring via a medium. He’s still a cutie, despite the lack of personality. One mustn’t judge a book by a first date. You invite him over to drink.

Drunk.

You make out and let him touch you up in an alley. Your conscience kicks in. “Okay you can go now,” you state matter-of-factly. His confusion is palpable but your own desire to retain a shred of dignity is stronger than your libido. He leaves. You sleep. Alone.

It’s a week later. He’s still not giving up. Persistence has its place. One can be “worn down.” Movie and dinner? A real date. Alright. Surprised, you have fun. You think. OR maybe the loneliness has just kicked into a level of desperation. Either way, it is enjoyable. You don’t invite him home.

Why?

It’s been so long since you’ve had good sex, and this is your only prospect. If this blows, there goes any chance for getting anything worth getting for another 6 months. God only knows college sure as hell isn’t. So you hold back, scared. Does good kisser mean, good sex? Not necessarily. But bad kisser means definitely bad sex, so at least we’ve crossed that bridge.

There is no subtlety left. The texts have turned blunt and expectant. “Are you alone tonight? Should I come over?” So what do you do? Out of options.

Fuck.