I’ve always envied the guys who can get laid easily, you know, the rock stars, the assholes, the Hank Moody’s of life. We all want to be that guy, I want to be that guy. But its not who I am, and as much as I wish it was, I’m also grateful for not being that guy, because I’m a different kind of guy.
I’m the guy that girls fall in love with. Not every girl, grant you, but over the years, some genuinely amazing girls, and women, have fallen in love with me, and I with them. All of them, without exception, have been the type of girls, and woman, that many men would kill to be with. Some (more than I’d like to admit) have been young, some have been smart, some have been girls-next-door, some have been wild-ones, some have been MILFs, some have gone on to great success, some lead interesting lives that will one day be the stuff of legends.
I honestly cannot say what it is about me that causes this. I’m terrible at picking up women. I cannot see a woman a bar, or store or on the street and strike up a conversation. I’m not wealthy or connected or a sharp dresser. Yet, every so often I meet someone, usually because they approach me, and it happens – we start dating, the sex is great, then it becomes more, and boom! Love.
Eventually, it ends, usually badly, because I attract women who don’t do gray areas. There is either love or loathing, and not much in between. At first, I either feel grateful to get out, or totally heartbroken, then, over time, be it days or years – and it has been both on different occasions – I settle into acceptance and forgiveness.
I miss all of them, on any given day. Each is special to me, and brought something unique to my life. Then I feel lonely and wonder if that lightening will ever strike again. Sometimes it takes years, during which I just float between long periods of enforced chastity and casual sex. During those times I wonder if I’ve finally gotten too old, to jades, too whatever to ever be loved like that again.
I console myself with the thought that I have probably been in love and loved deeply, by more of the most amazing women than any man has a right to hope for in his life time. If it never happens again, then I should still count myself lucky, because I have had more of the best in life that money cannot buy, than almost anyone.
It is a poor consolation when I’m lonely. Perhaps when I’m truly old, in some distant time, it will be enough. Maybe then I will regale younger people with my stories of romance. But not yet. Now it feels lonely to not be loved in that special way by someone I love back.
I never know when or where it will find me next, except to say it will not find me at home, alone with my cat, on my couch, writing or reading or watching TV. Yet when I go out, to a bar or shopping or wherever I may go, with the vague or specific hope of finding that next great love, I always come back home empty and unfulfilled.
Until the time that I don’t. The time I least expected it – and I hope the last of those times has not passed, not yet. I don’t feel like I’m finished. Not yet.
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