A Side of Tongue

So, um, I'm still dating Memphis.

I saw him the Tuesday before Christmas, the day after I went ice skating with Valdosta. I barely returned his texts and the poor thing wasn't even sure I was going to show up at his place at all.

He cooked me dinner, which was hot. Apparently I like sitting on a bar stool and watching the man do all of the work. It was good food too, and that may explain his weight. I don't know if I'm just used to looking at Valdosta or if it was his clothes, but Memphis looked easily 15 pounds heavier from the last time I had seen him. He had gone from chubby to the kind of fat where he suffered from slap-face disease—he perpetually looks like he's just been slapped in the face.

He offered to open a bottle of wine, but I declined. Then he opened his fridge to grab some ingredients for his salad dressing.

"Ooh! I'll take a Yuengling," I said, spying the carton on the shelf.

He looked back at me, "You said you didn't want anything to drink."

"That was before I knew you had Yuengling," I beamed.

He grabbed the bottle from the fridge and popped the top. Then he took a swig out of it to enjoy it in front of me. I didn't say anything. I was tired from work and didn't feel like playing games. When he saw his game wasn't working, he grabbed another beer from the fridge and handed it to me. But anytime I made a joke or teased, he'd point to the door and tell me to leave. It was funny the first time, but by the fifth time, I was considering it.

Dinner was good. The boy can cook.

Afterwards we move to his couch. He leaned in and began kissing me. Normally I am able to be present in the moment and with the person, but I felt like I was being disloyal to Valdosta.

Memphis uses a lot of tongue. I'm a fan of the tongue if it's done right, but Memphis uses it with every kiss. My mouth began to fill with saliva. He used so much tongue that my body thought I was eating again.

I pushed him off of me, "I'm full."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He paused for a moment. "I was hoping we would go further tonight," he said.

He had already rounded second base; how much further did he think it was going to go? My entire relationship with Memphis has been dinner. That's it. We go to dinner, or like tonight he made me dinner, and then he'd drop me back at home. We don't hang out. We don't communicate between dinners, which is largely my fault. It's like we're in our 50's and he's my companion. So was he thinking dinner and sex? Dinner and a hummer? I don't know!

"Not tonight," I responded quickly.

Memphis shifted uneasily. "You don't know how hard it is to put yourself out there like that and then be rejected."

WHAT? SO AM I SUPPOSED TO PUT OUT JUST BECAUSE YOU ASKED?!?!

"I didn't reject you, Memphis. I said 'Not tonight.'"

He couldn't distinguish the difference. To be honest, I'm not sure there was much of one.

Memphis tried. He told me that he liked me and wanted to spend more time with me. He wanted to talk to me in between our dinners.

"It's just... you always give me such a hard time," I answered. He looked at me expectantly. Finally, I was honest. "I called you when my grandmother died. You didn't answer and that was fine. But when I did hear from you again, you were all 'Why did you call? Why did you call?' I told you, but you wouldn't let it go and the way you asked was like you thought it was a booty call and maybe if you kept asking my answer would change. I was like, She's still dead"—Memphis put his head in his hand and groaned out of embarrassment when I said this—"You made me feel really uncomfortable and made me wish I had never called you about it."

He responded apologetically. He told me he couldn't believe that a pretty girl would call him and he couldn't figure out why. And when he found out it was about my grandmother, he said he was honored that I would call him. He never actually admitted the thing about the booty call, but I know I was right. He said in the future for me to call him out on it.

"But what do I say? 'You're making me feel uncomfortable?'" I genuinely asked.

"Just say, 'You realize that you are sounding like this'. But you have to say it nicely or else I'm going to get angry and defensive."

I immediately knew I'd never be able to sugarcoat it the way he wanted me to. What I don't understand is that he dishes it out so aggressively, but he can't take it. At all. He wants me to be all sensitive around him while he points to the door and orders me to leave. It's an annoying an unfair double standard that I'll never be able to abide by.

I took the ending of the conversation as a cue for me to leave. He asked me to stay longer, but it was after 10 p.m. and I had to work the next morning. I felt better about things after our little talk and I left his apartment feeling optimistic, but then Valdosta showed up on Christmas day.

And Memphis is nowhere near Valdosta.

Negotiation

Phone call received Thursday at 7:05 p.m.

"Hey." It's Memphis.

"Hey." I still haven't decided what to do about the Memphis situation. The couple of commenters who said to give him another shot seemed to stick with me.

"How was your day?"

I groaned, "Long. I am just now leaving the office." I switched on the windshield wipers. Everywhere else in the country gets snow. We get rain. Humbug.

"I was calling to see if you wanted to get together tonight," he offered.

"No." It came out loud and clear before I had a chance to filter it. "It's just it's been a long day and I'm pissed off from being at work so late, and I really just want to go home, relax and have some me time."

"Well that's the thing," he tried again. "I thought we could just hang out and open a bottle of wine."

"I really can't," I said again. "I have all of these knitting orders to fill before Christmas, so I really need to sit down tonight and work on them."

When my mother went through her second divorce, she found empowerment through reading the same self-help books my therapist had me read. They focused mainly on drawing boundaries and protecting yourself against abusive situations. After she read all of the same books I did, she then read every book on the subject.

"When men say no," she once told me, "It's the end of the conversation. When women say no, it's the beginning of a negotiation." For some reason, I remembered that line as I was driving home in the rain. I had said no clearly, stating that I wanted to be alone. It wasn't good enough for Memphis.

"I see," he said. "You don't have time for wine or me."

My stomach twisted. Negotiation. And now his tactic was to revert back to passive aggression. I also remembered the commenter who advised me to call him out on it.

"Um, there is nothing wrong with spending a night alone," I said slowly.

Memphis began stammering, clearly upset, "I, uh, I mean, I was just giving you a hard time."

I felt bad for making him so uncomfortable. It didn't even matter anymore that it began with him making me feel uncomfortable.

He quickly got off the phone with me. I felt like crap.

Mumford & Sons

"And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears."

--Mumford & Sons, "After the Storm"

The first time I recognized Mumford & Sons, I was sitting in the passenger seat in Memphis' pickup truck. It was raining and he was lazily driving back to his apartment Uptown.

"Wait. Who is this?" I asked, staring at his radio.

"Mumford & Sons. I think this song is called 'Little Lion Man.'"

"Turn it up. I like it."

***

The second time I heard the band, I was lying naked atop The Hungarian's bed. As soon as I realized things would never go anywhere with him, I accepted his advances and slept with him. I had yet to meet Valdosta and I still wanted to get my jollies while the opportunity was there.

For awhile I would show up at The Hungarian's doorstep, strip off of my clothes and walk naked up the stairs to his bedroom. I never felt so empowered as I did while he followed me up the stairs.

We'd have sex and listen to music. If either of us smoked, we'd be doing that too because it so perfectly fit the scene. So we were lying naked on his bed and The Hungarian would play me music from his iPad on his Apple TV.

He turned on Mumford & Sons. This time it was "The Cave."

I inhaled sharply. "I love this band."

"I know. It's good."

***

On my second date with Valdosta, he had the Mumford & Son's album playing while we were driving through town in his car. I had switched it to "The Cave" when I first kissed him in his car.

Because that ended up being the epic 10-hour date as we drive to dinner, heavy metal karaoke, my apartment, pancakes and his apartment, we heard the entire album. Val turned up the volume to "Timshel." "This is my favorite song," he told me.

***

For Thanksgiving, Government Mule gave me his old 20 GB iPod and filled it with music for me. I had used it for my drive up and down the East Coast. As I travelled North again for my Grandmother's funeral, I was listening to the iPod.

He filled it with the music I love. Really terrible music from the 80's and 90's. I was singing along with Jon Secada, Milli Vanilli, Erasure, you name it. I would just put the iPod on shuffle and squeal with every new song. I don't think Government Mule realizes that his gift made my entire Thanksgiving and weeks after.

I had just finished rocking out to Skid Row when it shuffled again. Mumford & Sons' "The Cave" began to play.

"What? No way!" I said to myself.

I about swerved off of I-95 as I scrolled through the iPod containing 2,500 songs and discovered that Government Mule had put the entire Mumford & Sons album on there weeks ago. I called him.

"I can't believe the album is on here. I just discovered it this week. I looooooooove it!" I cooed at him.

"You are the only person I can share my taste of music with," he answered. "Listen to 'White Blank Page;' that's my favorite."

On the car ride, I could not grasp the role this band has so unexpectedly and so significantly played in my life. Every man had brought it to me within days of each other. I turned up the volume.

***

Valdosta was sitting in front of his lap top as I came out of his bathroom. He turned on the Mumford & Sons album again.

"So I discovered that I already had this album in my iPod. I listened to it for 5 hours straight as I drove through South Carolina and North Carolina."

"Did you think of me?" he asked innocently.

"I did. I couldn't remember which song was your favorite."

"The one with his buddies' last name: 'Timshel,'" he said.

He stood up and grabbed me by the waist and began kissing me. Long, good kisses. The music continued to play. I pulled away.

"I know this song," I said. "It's called 'After the Storm.' It's one of my favorites on the album."

He smiled at me. "It is." He began kissing me again. I began to feel unbalanced so I moved my foot. And that's when I realized it.

We were dancing.

The "Nice" Guy

When I first wrote about Memphis (Date #6), several people remarked that maybe it wasn't the age difference that bothered me about Memphis. Maybe it was something else. I thought it was the fact that he was so optimistic and eager that he couldn't be able to relate to me at all.

So I spent time with him. I took him to meet my friends. We met for pizza. We met for sushi. And as much as I tried trying on the younger and earnest date, I could not stop myself from getting annoyed by him.

The first time was when we were going out for pizza. It was a rainy, cold Monday night. The weather was such that I contemplated canceling just so stay warm and cozy in my apartment. I decided what I needed to jump start my night was a hot shower.

Memphis sent me a text saying he would be at my apartment in a half hour. I had only just walked in the door. I sent back could he please give me just 10 more minutes.

What if I said no? he wrote back.

The shower was running and I was trying to strip off my work clothes. Instead of hurrying up and getting ready, I was now stuck texting.

Then you'll be waiting. I typed back decisively. I was not leaving this apartment without a shower.

Or the train might leave the station.

I groaned and hopped in the shower without responding. If he wanted to play chicken, we could play chicken.

***

While we were out that night, he asked if I was free that weekend. I ran though my mental calendar. Friday was my heavy metal date with Valdosta, Sunday was my company Christmas party at the metropolitan museum of art. I had the option of bringing a date to the Christmas party, but in the spirit of friendship, I decided to take Katie as my date. She had just bought a red cocktail dress and was antsy for an occasion to wear it. I thought cocktails at the art museum was a perfect occasion.

"I'm booked all weekend, but I think I am free Saturday," I offered.

"Saturday? Saturday is prime dating real estate. I'm not sure if you're a big enough deal for a Saturday," he joked.

Even though he was joking, I was taken aback. "Hmm, good point. I'm not sure you're worth a Saturday night date either."

He started kissing me. He leaned in romantically and whispered in my ear, "You're replaceable."

It made me laugh. I accepted the Saturday night date. Only when I got home and logged on Facebook, I got a reminder that Harvey's big, annual Thanksgiving party was that Saturday night. It's one of the best parties of the year where all the friends get together and bring Thanksgiving dishes and celebrate our friendship. This party is a big deal to me. (On a side note, that was the morning my grandmother died and I still went to the Thanksgiving party and company Christmas party before heading back up the East Coast. That's how much I was looking forward to it.)

Knowing he was already asleep, I still typed out a text when I knew I had double-booked myself. The next morning I received this response:

No worries. I'll have to line something else up for Saturday night. Maybe if I'm free we can do something next week.

Er, that seemed awfully passive aggressive to me. I'm the busy one, not him. I knew he was trying to turn the tables on me.

***

When I got back in town after the funeral, Memphis asked me out for later in the week. I accepted.

"Okay on two conditions," he added.

I'm sorry, but did he just ask me out, and then apply conditions after I said I would go out with him?

Nothing is easy with him. Everything has to be turned into a bit. Would any of this annoy you, or am I really just not that into him?

Comparisons

On Laughing:

In the early days of The Hungarian, when he had me pinned against his black leather couch with his roaming octopus hands, I would giggle at his advances.

He sat back against the couch and huffed, "You laugh too much."

I thought about this for a minute. "Laughing is a mechanism," I quietly answered.

"For what?"

"Nervousness."

***

Memphis (Date#6) stood beside me as I tried to fit my key in the lock of my front door.

"Live well, love much, laugh often." He read off of my front door mat.

"Yeah," I bought that back in 2003 before I knew it was this huge cliche. And now I'm too cheap to replace it."

"Sure, Whatever," he teased.

I rolled my eyes.

***

Valdosta stood beside me as I tried to fit my key my front door lock.

"Live well, love much, laugh often." He read. He put his toe under the laugh often part. "That you definitely do," he grinned.

And this time it didn't feel like an insult.

On My Lack of Dodgeball Prowess:

"I'm sorry, but I jacked up my hip playing dodgeball this week. I was a half hour late this morning because I couldn't put my pants on and I'm currently sitting on a heating pad. Can we reschedule walking through the art gallery and do something else instead?" I asked Memphis.

"Sure. Pick you up at 7 at your place. Wear some running shoes. We will get a practice 5k in too. Sound like fun?"

The guy can't be serious about anything. So I tried to give him a taste of his own medicine. "Cool. And if I'm not there, it's not because I'm standing you up, so you just wait there as long as you need to."

"Serious? Because I don't play that waiting business."

***

"Are you limping again?" asked Valdosta.

"New week. New game. Now it's my hip instead of my ankle. There was a loud pop followed by stabbing pain. I don't know what that's all about."

"Here, use me as your crutch." He grabbed my side as I hobbled in the Chinese restaurant. "It sounds like you aren't stretching properly before these games."

"No, I don't think I stretched my hip, I remember doing my shoulders and legs though. Wait! Curb! This is the worst part." I gasped as I took a step upwards.

"Does it hurt when you move up and down or side to side?"

"Side to side. Definitely."

"It sounds like you hurt your [whatever he said] tendon. I'll show you some good stretches for that."

On Grandma's Death:

"Hello, [The Hungarian] calling."

"Hey."

"I was checking up on you to make sure you are okay. When are you leaving?"

"About a half hour ago."

"And how long will the trip take?"

"Almost 7 hours because I had to drop my dog off at my father's house. I'm set to get there at 2:30 a.m."

"I checked the weather and it's snowing up there, so take care, okay? Safe travels."

I got an identical phone call after I returned home from my trip.

***

Valdosta and I were standing on a curb while the Femme Fatale relieved herself in a bush.

"How was your day today?" he asked.

"Miserable," I answered. "I was tired from the trip, hurt from dodgeball and then got some shitty news at work. I almost canceled on you because I had such a bad day."

"No, never cancel," he said. "Just tell me what I can do to help."

***

I winced from climbing in Memphis' enormous truck. My hip was still bugging me. At my request, we were now going to eat sushi instead of walking around marble flooring.

"You don't seem like you're in a good mood," he asked.

"It's been a long, tough week," I sighed.

"Well you should be happy now because you are here with me."

Yes, because you totally trump dead Grandma, I thought.

After a few minutes of silence. "You know, I can just turn around and drop you back home and I can have a good time eating sushi by myself," he teased.

I cringed. "I'm sorry. I'll try and do better. I just have a lot of things of my mind."

"Well I was only halfway joking."

Date #6

I have been complaining—loudly—at my desk at work about the type of guy I want. Date #6 fit all the items I listed, no matter how fantastical I became. He's an SEC college graduate - check. He still has the frat-boy look about him: North Face, Croakies, etc. - check. Looks good in glasses - check. Has a dimple when he smiles - check. Taller than me - check.

A gentleman - check check. Stays in regular contact - check check. Has a stable career - check check. Doesn't have a roommate - check check.

Likes me - check check check.

So what could be the problem with someone who has so many pros? There's a con:

He's four years younger than me.

I am trying to be open-minded about this. I am. He interviewed and accepted his corporate job before he graduated from college. He seems to be at the same place as me.

But he sits across the table from me and he seems so eager and optimistic and bubbly, and I just think about how I could tear this person apart. I could destroy the good, wholesome part of him. Doesn't he know who I am? Doesn't he know what I have been through since I was 25? I have lived and experienced things that no one should have. The good, wholesome part of me is dead. Someone else took it. Just like what I could do to him.

I never before realized the similarities between a zombie and someone who's had her heart broken. We're all a little dead on the inside. We're afraid of being capable of contaminating others. We seek out others with similar souls.

I know I can't be with someone who hasn't had his heart broken. All the times I have loved in good faith and lost have come to define me. At happy hour a couple of weeks ago, I asked Schmoozer if he has ever had his heart broken.

"No," he grinned. "I always leave them."

I pressed my lips together. "Nope. I could never date you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust someone who hasn't had his heart broken."

It's true. And Date #6 chirps like someone who hasn't been crushed. Maybe that's why I was attracted to the coarseness of The Hungarian. He was dark, and I liked that I was the optimistic one. I like being the good one.

"I feel like I could corrupt you," I said to Date #6 as I took a swig of my beer.

He tried to smile devilishly, but failed at it. "Trust me, you can't corrupt me." He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. "Age is just a number to me. I usually hang out with people who are older because I act older than I am. But if my age bothers you, I'd rather know now and not later."

Damn, that was a mature thing to say.

So I did the only thing I could think of; I threw him to the wolves to see if he could hold his own. I invited him out drinking at Monday Night Football with my group of friends. And then I told my friends that this was a test.

Government Mule looked at me, "You know I am going to give him a hard time."

"Good. Let's see what he's made of." Government Mule has been engaged twice; I trust him.

Government Mule told Date #6 that we knew each other because we were prom dates from high school. I corrected GM. The girls were nice to him, but GM bristled at him. There were eye daggers, the bird made an appearance (I can't remember on whose side) and there were some good-natured swearing. It reads worse than it was; smiles were being traded concomitantly. Date #6 took it in stride, but I got a little worried over GM's behavior.

Date #6 was able to hold his own.

So I went out with Date #6 again last night. And I'm still just as unsure of him.

Doesn't he know who I am?

I am a zombie.