...like a woman you took on a "date"... and then painted an unflattering-but-accurate portrait of in your blog.
And herein is the lesson to be learned in this day-and-age where romance, culture and technology have combined to turn women -- I'm sure it does it to gay men, as well --into stark, raving lunatics. Pay attention, Men.
A certain lady that I briefly met, and to whom I then suggested we perhaps never meet, briefly or not, ever again, apparently was under the mistaken impression that I just didn't get to know the "real" her, and that I was too hasty in declining her invitation for a second encounter. This is a common trait in single women these days, and it apparently gets worse with age; I wasn't turned off by her manners, demeanor and drinking habits, I just wasn't prepared to do the work of peeling back all the layers, and so I missed the "real person" beneath all the bulging spandex.
Perhaps if you ladies would help us out a bit by not presuming to turn the whole relationship thing into a mind-fuck by making us work to "peel back the layers" of anything, life would be considerably easier for all involved. I'm not your fucking psychiatrist, and I don't like being made part of your little head games. There's a point beyond which some of it surpasses "flirting" or "protecting yourself" and this lack of communication on intimate matters -- defined as personal feelings/beliefs, not sex -- becomes a fucking ridiculous exercise in vanity and stupidity. Don't be surprised that when a man believes you're hiding something (or trying to), the thing you're hiding looms ever larger and more dangerous in his head the longer he can't discover what it might be. A little honesty would be refreshing.
I know women do think this way all the time (I've listened to them whine in group therapy about just this sort of bullshit), and apparently don't believe that men do, too. But we do. At least the ones who don't consider a woman to be just a convenient place to park a boner every now and then do. On the other hand, some women set far too much stock in simple possession of a vagina, and believe that having one is a license to be insufferable. That was, naturally, the driving idea behind Modern Feminism, a truly mentally-destructive ideology if ever there was one. Trust me; Vaginas are notoriously easy to come by, but Ladies are hard to find, because for every woman who is judicious in the bestowal of her Favors, there are at least five who are dumber than dogshit and would fuck anything without a thought about commitment -- or even of calling you the next day -- for a Jimmy Buffett t-shirt.
And believe it or not, that sort can typically at least fake more modesty than you when she tells you, with a straight face, "I've never done this before..." as she opens your zipper...with her teeth. (Yes, I have lead an interesting life in that regard. It's nothing to be proud of, really).
All the Sexual Revolution did was make that which was somewhat-difficult to obtain (Sex), low-hanging fruit for the opportunistic Neanderthal with an erection and no conscience. But I digress...
And really, it wasn't about me missing anything about Her. I think I got everything there was to get; If I wanted a bitter, immature, borderline-personality barfly who has probably been down on everything but the Titanic and probably killed or wounded a lover or two, I know exactly where to find one. Several score of them, actually. They're not all that hard to find, and great many of them won't even ask for as much as a cocktail or a hotdog for the pleasure of their company, either. Then again, I can see where she might want to keep that maladaptive personality thing under wraps. If I wasn't supposed to "peel back the layers" and find that out, then I guess I didn't do my "job" (to be willing dupe and adoring lapdog with bedroom privileges) properly, and it's not as if she didn't make it all-too-easy to discover.
I was polite the four times she requested the pleasure of my company after that initial meeting in saying "No, but thanks". I tried to be nice and show a level of patience and forbearance that was, in my estimation, far more than she was entitled to. I thought I was particularly and unmistakably definitive during the fifth and sixth rounds of "negotiations" (she was actually bargaining for a second date!) with her when I not only said "No, I don't think we should see each other again", but embellished this basic premise with "Would you please leave me alone, you fucking psycho?" when my temper finally got the better of me. I was totally within my rights when I asked the "service" to block contact with Her. I would have thought the message would get through, and she would eventually give up and inflict her nonsense upon some other loser.
But I guess that by that time it was no longer just a question of a desperate woman clinging to the idea that she can make you love her (trust me: that mindset never gets you anywhere, Sunshine). No, there was a revenge factor brought into play, primarily because I rejected her, but mostly because of what I wrote about her here.
This moonbat hired another "service". This one tracks people down online by picking up the electronic "trail of breadcrumbs" that we all leave behind in cyberspace. Nevermind how a) presumptuous, and b) fucking creepy, this sordid idea is, it's all legal. The records in question are Public Domain. This "service" also found my blog, and brought it to her attention. She read it (frankly, I was surprised that she could read)
She realized that one of the failed "dates" I had blogged about a week or so ago was HER, even though I did not use her real name in the post.
Guess who found my address with the help of the same "service", proceeded to hop on her menstrual cycle and then peddled her skinny ass on over to the Lunatic's Compound to do the full Glenn Close routine? Thankfully, there were no sharp objects involved.
Oh, it was a scene. The only way it could have possibly been worse would have been if I had actually taken her up on her offer(s) and Made the Beast With Two Backs with this pig. Then there might have been some sort of obligation to her on my part, and a real emotional attachment on hers.
It began with "What's wrong with Meeee? Why don't you like Meeee?" Oh, where to begin! Let's start with the fact that you're such a psychopath that you dropped $99.95 to hire the electronic equivalent of a Private Detective to get my phone number and address...and I'm a complete stranger who never took anything from you, nor laid a finger on you. I'm not your cheating husband; I'm not your Baby Daddy skipping out on child support; I have no connection to you AT ALL, except that I spent a few hours in your company strenuously avoiding any physical contact or making any sort of unwarranted commitments that might be misconstrued for exactly this reason -- you showing up on my doorstep to make a fucking spectacle/pest of yourself. I don't remember inviting you over.
It then progressed to "What? Is there someone else?" Umm...there wasn't even an "Us" to begin with. I had three or four drinks with you, that's it. During that time you spent the majority of the evening showing me off as some sort of trophy to your girlfriends (the first indication that there's something wrong with you!) then you did in speaking to me. In fact, I found most of those other women to be far more appealing than you are. At this point in time, Sunshine, ANYBODY ELSE would be as good, and probably a fair sight better. Mussolini in a cocktail dress, Pol Pot bearing Valentine's Day Wishes with a Whitman's Anthrax Sampler, a Bullwhip, and a 55-gallon drum of KY in hand, would turn me on more than you do. And besides; it's none of your business if there were anyone else. Boundaries, woman; respect them!
She was especially upset about the blogging, even though I didn't use her real name. Apparently, the description I gave was accurate enough for people to infer who she might be-- I got the impression that someone might have already -- and was quite unflattering. Well, if the shoe fits. I tried to explain that I hadn't really "done" anything to her, and that only brought on the predictable eruption of two-fisted, full-blown, estrogen-fueled fury. I figured the best thing to do was to let her have her say, let Nature take it's course, nod my head a lot, and just agree with her that, yes, I am a fucking dick, and then let her leave. If it meant she just went away, she could have her pound of flesh.
Which is exactly what happened. With any luck, she'll be well-and-truly out of my life, but I expect she'll stop in here to see what's being written about her, because, well, let's face it; the whole episode was all about her, wasn't it?
Maybe if you read this Sweetheart, and take a second to reflect on what you've done and how you've behaved, perhaps you'll realize why I would rather lose a limb than see you again. And get some help, will ya?