Me and Brian* had slept together once or twice last year.
We actually met in real life, at a bar one night in Hell’s Kitchen. Later, we realized we were neighbors after seeing one another on a few of the apps.
I enjoyed his company, but he ended up trying real hard to get me back in bed. Sexting me on the apps or social media at odd hours of the night, obviously looking for a booty call. I wasn’t really here for that, so I declined his advances.
Time went by, but because he walks some dogs on my block, we kept bumping into each other and he kept guilt tripping me for not being more responsive. I told him flat out: Text me at a normal hour and you’ll have my attention. But I ain’t here to be your booty call. Use my number instead of Instagram messenger.
Then last Friday night, sleepy with no plans of leaving my neighborhood, I messaged Brian when I saw him on one of the apps. He responded right away, and we soon met up for some pancakes at a local diner.
This go-around, I found him to be even more charming than before. I enjoyed our pancake banter, and ended up opening up about a few personal things.
He brought up his recent vacation in East Hampton. This had me puzzled. How is a dog walker with four roommates leisurely vacationing in the Hamptons? I was curious. So, I inquired about his stay in the Hampton’s, asking who he was staying with.
He immediately got shady. The fame whore in me was convinced he was house sitting for some celebrity. Or maybe he happens to be chummy with Andy Cohen or Kelly Ripa. He insisted that wasn’t it that and would only say he was there with friends.
We move on, and he comes home with me. We end up having sex and it was good. I was into it, and in the back of my mind, I willfully entertained the idea that Brian could be dating material. Not because of his house in the Hamptons, but because maybe, unlike lots of men who came before him, he was persistent enough to actually stay around despite all my hang ups and annoying habits.
Covered in sweat, we jump in the shower. As we’re lathering each other up, he admits that he was staying with his 53-year-old boyfriend in the Hamptons.
“But we’re open.”
I felt disappointed. I felt lied to. I felt foolish. Not only should he have told me this before we had sex, but he really should have told me this when the topic came up in convo.
I should have kicked him out of the shower right then and there. Instead, I jumped out, put on my white terry cloth robe, and got back into bed. It was still warm from our sex.
He entered back into my room and sensed my change in energy. He asked what it was about, but I brushed him off. A white robe isn’t the strongest suit for a dramatic moment.
I went on Instagram and scrolled through pics. I had trouble finding the boyfriend, but I did see evidence of his bougie stay in the Hamptons. I then hit block. I went on the apps and blocked him there, too.
Dramatic yes, but I just didn’t feel like interacting with him anymore. He messed up, and blocking him felt good.
But, is blocking ever the answer? Is it a sign of strength? A sign of weakness?
Brian ended up using my number the next day. First to ask if his glasses were at my place — which they weren’t — and then later to tell me how fucked up it was that I blocked him.
My blocking you was a reaction. Albeit a dramatic one, it was a reaction to you. I reach out to you, we hang, we have fun, we fuck. Maybe it’s not a big deal to you, but stuff like that matters and I actually do find you charming. So then to find out you: a) withheld information I asked for until after we hook-up, and b) you’re seeing someone, is wrong. You should disclose that stuff before you go to bed with someone. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have fucked you. So I’m sorry your feelings were hurt and I hope you found your glasses but next time: Be honest. I don’t have the capacity to let people in who can’t be honest with me. That’s a deal breaker, boo.
But still, I’m left with these empty feelings. You may able to block the man, but you can’t block the feeling of disappointment. Now that’s a button I would happily trade a bougie house in the Hamptons for.