Elaine: Yes, well....
Molly: So get back to bed. Spa can wait. The nerds are always freaks in the sack!
Elaine: ...I’m picking you up in 20. Be ready.
Molly: He’s bad in bed? That’s a damn shame.
Elaine: He’s a sex prodigy, but…
Molly: but ??????????????????????????
Elaine: No more texting. I’ll fill you in on the drive. See you soon.
I’VE NEVER PRIDED MYSELFon my relationship prowess with women. Casanova, I’m not. I’ve had a whopping total of two girlfriends, so I’m no expert on the ladies. But I know a brush off when I read one. And I just read one.
Elaine: No cops. :) Heading out for a girls’ weekend at the spa. See you Monday!
Yep, that’s a brush off.
And, ok, I’ve been let down before. Hannah Metzger turned me down for Junior Prom, and Abby didn’t last a month as my girlfriend sophomore year of college. I can’t even remember her last name—Vogel? Voight? Volk?—but she taught me the valuable lesson that some girls expect more of a date than leftover pizza, a Call of Duty marathon, and a makeout session.
But this is no ordinary brush off.
This is a brush off after hours of the hottest sex I’d ever imagined followed by a simple “See you Monday!”
And I get that she has every right to be done. I’d never force my affections on anyone. I’m not an asshole. And I know we never made promises. It’s hard to make promises in a span of twelve hours, particularly when you’re either schtupping or sleeping for said twelve hours. But still. There’s a world of difference between “Thanks for the fucks!” and “See you Monday!”
And I’m a curious guy. I drove my mom crazy asking “why” when I was a kid. So her textSee you Monday!prompts the questionsFor what? At work? For more sex? A little of both? An awkward conversation at the vending machine?
I need to know. Maybe some other guy would just take her lame-ass text and let it go. Maybe send a thumbs-up emoji. But I can’t let it go. And maybe, for someone else, I could (I’m looking at you, Abby). But Elaine is not just anyone. She’s the girl I can picture myself with long-term. The one I want to be with. And no, I’m not ready to propose just yet. But I’m ready for a second date. And more sleepovers. And fights about where to put my Star Wars figurines. And no, they’re not dolls. They’re figurines. And I’m ready for joint ownership of a pet. Or maybe a Keurig. Best to start with appliances and progress to living things later on.
Her text left no room for a response. Well, at least not anything beyond “See you then!” But as my four older sisters can attest, I’m persistent.
And, step one in the “Figure Out What the Hell is Going on with Lainie and then Have More Sex with Her” plan is calling in reinforcements.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Molly and I are on our way to Serenity Spa in Newburg. As driver, I get to pick the tunes, so my car is filled with the mellow, longing tones ofSnow Patrol. Oh, early 2000s, how I’ve missed you.
“Seriously with this? The sex could not have been earth-shattering if we’re doing wistful and mopey only hours later.” Molly pipes up from the passenger side.
“The sex was insanely good. I just love this band.” As if on cue, “Chasing Cars” pipes through the speakers.
“So if the sex was so unbelievably amazing, why are you sitting in a car with me, driving far away from the source of many orgasms?”
“I wanted a spa day. Sue me.”
“I call bullshit.”
“Ok, so perhaps there’s a bit more to the story…”
“Perhaps… So what was Wonderboy’s response to your hasty escape?”
Silence fills the car as the song ends in time with Molly’s question. Shit.
“Hello? Elaine? Was it bad? Did he cry? God, I hate the criers. I was with a guy last month who bawled after sex. Weirdest thing ever.”
Thankfully, the music cranks up again. But, really, it’s moody 2000s angst, so “cranks” is a relative term.
“Uh, definitely no crying.”
