The Surest Way to Kill a Lady Boner

Part of – the majority of – the curious case of Vanilla Robbins is that for the past four months, half the time I want to throw him out of a window and half the time I mostly enjoy is company – as banal as it may be. I was hanging out with my best Asian and Ginger last weekend when Ginger exclaimed, “I read your post and I’m so happy for you!”

"What?" I responded, fairly confused. I had no idea what she was talking about until she informed me about reading my latest blog. I tried to paint a fair and even portrait of Vanilla Bean, but what she seemed to read was that I was falling for him. Not the case. Although, to be fair, she may have just been hopeful he would be another man to keep me here like the Turk, because when we went to the basement a bit later to check out my camping supplies, she broke down realizing I was actually leaving this time. Sorry Ging, Vanilla Robbins will not be keeping me here because he mostly still drives me nuts. 

Case and point: Friday. After a fairly obnoxious back and forth about dinner and the fact that all I had to eat that day was grapes and that he picks the same fucking three places to ask me out to dinner to, he suggests I pick somewhere. I said mussels and gave three options (because I’m not paying, I don’t like to have final say). After texting me, “You seem mad” and “I’ll eat dinner with you but only if you’re pleasant,” we can say my hunger irritation hit a tip, but I keep my cool and he says he's on his way.

He comes over with a bottle of wine. Points for him! Only, nope, no points. He refuses to open the wine before we go out. With all the public transportation options, he wants to drive. I know what this means: this means we’re going to dinner and coming straight back.

Hi. Hello? (Semi)Reformed party girl here. DO NOT send me out on a weekend and not expect me to stay all night with vodka and dancing. 

When we returned from dinner – over which he complained for an hour about losing the password to his external hard drive – he took off his shoes and plopped down on my bed. “It’s 10:30p! Don’t you want to go shoot pool or something?” I asked.

“No, I’m old,” he responded, shifting his hands under his head, which was now laying on my pillows.

“Well, I’m not,” I shot back, irritated at the drag down. “And I don’t want to waste my life going to bed at 11pm on weekends!”

“Well,” he said in a baiting little huff, “I’m sorry that you think spending time with me is a waste of your life.”

“WHOA THERE, LADY BITS,” I exclaimed, agitated and wondering how men can accuse women of such melodramatics when this shit exists, “Don’t put words in my mouth!”

I should also point out that he has begun to leave things at my house. First, a contact case – because that doesn’t fit in his pocket? And now, a travel bottle of saline – because I wear contacts and have plenty of solution? Do people really do this: Leave a trail of their things to try to establish – I don’t know, a territory? Don’t do this, people.

After taking a shower and going out for an hour for a boring dinner and directly returning home, I relented the fight and laid in bed. I put on a movie I’d already seen and poked around on my phone a bit. That is, until he told me how rude it was. We weren’t talking. Or snogging. We weren’t even touching. And yet, he had decided that the movie needed my undivided attention. (Fast forward to Sunday and he’s on his computer while I’m at his house, to which I point out it is the same thing he told me was “rude” two days before.)

Now, let’s wake up on Saturday, shall we? Okay. 8am, which if you know anything about me is a ridiculous hour for me to be awake at, but considering I went to bed at fucking 11:30p, totally reasonable. Due to the fact that he bitched about my TV being on when he was trying to sleep before, I got up and left the room to watch TV while he was still in bed. I relocated to the living room with a cup of tea and early morning television. An hour later he texts: “Where are you?"

“The living room.” So, naturally, he gets up and comes out to the living room to say hello. Haha! I’m just kidding, no no, he texted me:

“Why?”

“Because I was done being in bed.” About 20 minutes later he ambles out grumpy and grumbling. He asks (for the 9^th) time if I wanted to drive three hours to Busch Gardens that day, somehow expecting a different answer. When I said no, he begrudgingly informs me he would be going and meeting up with his brother and his brother’s kids there. Suddenly, it occurred to me that he had been asking to go to Busch Gardens for weeks as a way to hoodwink me into meeting his family. NOOOO THANKS, TRICKY BITS! A few minutes after that I get ready for yoga; put on my shoes.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“WELL THANKS FOR TELLING ME! I NEED TO GET MY STUFF TOGETHER!”

“You know I go to yoga every Saturday at 10a. And you know where the damn door is!”

“That’s not the point,” he said, as the lady bits fell back out of his boxers.

“Oh my god,” I responded to myself, but loud enough for him to hear. “This is fucking ridiculous” I said as I slammed the door shut behind me.

Ginger was there when these came though;
she thought it hilarious enough to screenshot

While in yoga, he texted me to ask if I wanted to do something, because the traffic was too bad for Busch Gardens. This ‘relationship’ was getting seriously bi-polar, even for me. As a break from Vanilla, I met up with the Turk on Saturday night after he texted me for the third Saturday in a row (and I had spent the day drinking with Ginger and the Asian so maybe it seemed like a good idea). Out of curiosity and fodder, a friend and I went to meet up with him. I don’t know what I expected, but it was incredibly blah – and his hair looked terrible.  His friend was a dick and they left in the two seater they had, while the Turk, mildly torn at my solidarity (since my friend had stayed behind because she also disliked the Turk’s friend) gave me 38 dollars for a cab. 

For the record, I came back with 10 more dollars than I left with that night. Go me!

On my way home, Vanilla texted that he was at my favorite bar, and not to waste and outfit (see: recovering party girl above), I went there, demanding a bourbon ice be waiting. I ended up back at Vanilla’s house, but needed to get back in the morning. After a quick hook and sporting some free shades, a black mini skirt, a large man's shirt turned inside out, and heels in hand, I walked back into my house at Sunday AM, greeting my friend from the night before who was in my bed.

Later in the day, with nothing better to do, I headed back to his place. Laying on the couch, I was feeling a certain kind of way; asked if he wanted to make out. (Hello. Dudes. ALWAYS SAY YES.) He said no. So I took a nap. We woke up and went to dinner. Just after dinner was finished, he said, “I have to go to the bathroom again.”

“Stop announcing it!” I pleaded. Then I sat there for 15 minutes while he pooped and I stared, embarrassed at a paid check, contemplating leaving. This damn kid was seriously ALWAYS pooping and has absolutely no poop etiquette: any single will tell you, you wait to poop; hide it. It’s common damn courtesy. No romantic interest finds poop appealing, mk. So, I was going to head home after that, but he offered a back massage, which I’m never against (or so I thought). We went up to his place and I sat on the couch. Moments later he said the most unattractive thing a man has ever said to me:

“My butthole hurts,” he announced without prompt.

"Why would you tell me that?!" I questioned in mild horror. I'm usually all about overshare but this crossed a line I didn't even know I had. 

“It hurts because I pooped four times today.” And then he opened his legs and patted the couch before him like this was a good introduction to back massages and foreplay.

“No, I don’t want you to touch me now! Why would you tell me that?!” I replied as I pulled a blanket tight around me.

“Because I pooped four times today,” he said as he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP.” I protested.

An hour later I left, still horrified, and as he tried to kiss me goodbye, I couldn't.“I can’t kiss you; all I can think about is your butthole now.” I opened the door as he tried to figure out if I was serious and continued with, “Just so you know, the surest way to kill a lady boner is to talk about your asshole. Byyyyeee.” As I walked out and down the hall, hoping desperately now to not go back.