My Problem Is Finding What I Want To Date, Not Who I Want To Date
I don’t want a boyfriend, but a little male attention never hurt anyone…except for me. Initially when I made the move to San Francisco, I was 100% positive I would find the skater of my dreams. Per usual, the joke was on me. With the loss of my ego, I thought the SF boys were right and I was all wrong. I would frequent the hottest bars in districts across the city, exchanging awkward glances with a dude across the room leading to a drunken eye fuck that neither one of us would actually make use of. Hookups: 0. Insecurities: 100. With every discouraging weekend came even more self doubts.
I’ll admit: dudes came up to me, but nobody that truly fit my extremely narrow criteria. That is, until Craig. I met him during his shift at a hip coffee shop in the city and he quickly became my Prince Charming. I don’t like coffee, but I definitely liked him. I began to meet friends there, read a book solo or work on my laptop, all the while sneaking glances at the perfect creature in his glorious environment. After three weeks of unfulfilled desires, I gave up hope…and coffee. I walked to a nearby bar, drowned my sorrows in a few (many) beers, and with the swivel of my chair noticed he was sitting right next me. One conversation lead to the next and he finally asked for my number. Butterflies in my tummy, weak in the knees and unable to form complete sentences, I inserted my digits into his phone.
I’d never met anyone like this. I thought about him every day, incessantly checking my phone for missed texts and wishing for him to not just like me, but love me. But everything that goes up must come down, and that’s exactly what my perfect idea of him did. With just one date, I learned of his coke habit, newly broken heart and saw his smaller than average penis. What was worse than his tiny dick though, was his shitty personality—he thought nothing was cool unless he was doing it, he didn’t offer to pay and was less than interested in my life. He cared about his new tattoo and what “crazy” shit happened at the dive bar he worked at part time. I couldn’t care more, he couldn’t care less.
Even after a series of let downs, waking up next to him in my bed felt amazing. But as he walked out of my door, so did my feelings of security. Sure, we were just using each other, but the guy I had built him up to be in my head would NEVER not call or text the next day. My version of this guy would actually do the complete opposite of what he did, and treat me like the Goddess that I am. Emotions scare me more than a bad boy does. The reason I selected him was because of his inability to trust in somebody new so soon after his latest heartbreak. The reason I selected him was because he gave me less emotion than I could give him. He gave me nothing.
My perfect guy: Skinny, tattoos, skates, well-dressed, gives no fucks, gentle, funny, and wants to enjoy copious amounts of sex at all hours of the day and NOT Craig. The thrill of the bad boy chase, or just feeling like there’s a chance he may not want me is what draws me in. The thing about a hottie who gives no fucks though, is that he really doesn’t give a fuck about me. When men want someone, they get who they want using many, many fucks. Wanting who I can’t have isn’t healthy, but that’s not my issue. My problem is finding what I want, not who I want.
SHOUT OUT: I actually want to thank this guy for showing me all of the things that I don’t want in a partner. He will never be forgotten no matter how hard I try. To him I say, thank you for the coffee fuckboy.