So. I met the perfect guy for me. Yay! He's everything I've imagined for myself, and then some. He is attentive, thoughtful, honest, polyamorous, affectionate, sexy, very handsome, generous, sweet, and romantic, among other amazing attributes. He's the kind of guy who will drive almost an hour after work just to give you a foot massage, even though he just got off work himself.
He's expressive ("I want you to be my girl"), not judgmental ("does sex work make you happy? I don't care then. It's not my place to tell you what to do"), GGG (slow, sensual, amazing, worshipping things were done with my body), and he cooks and cleans! I'm dating a sous-chef, how amazing is that? He's the kind of guy I imagined for myself in my wildest, most embarrassing romantic dreams. He never pressures me to do anything. He's open with his emotions. He doesn't get turned off when I tell him I started bleeding on our first date. We still haven't had intercourse. I still haven't given him head (though my urine-soaked pride crotch got some from him, props to you Mr. Perfect. That was a valiant effort).
He's also the kind of guy who I can discuss things with. One conversation we had involved my good friend's love of Gingers (he's a ginger), and how, since she was in a monogamous relationship with my other good friend, hitting on her might not be such a good idea. This was understood.
And so out we went for his first Pride. It wasn't my first time, but this year I was determined to make it perfect. I had my shiny new man by my side, loving me up every chance he got, and my closest friends were there. The booze and chemistry freely flowed. He was a bit apprehensive at first, but very quickly relaxed into the Pride attitude. When some cute man came up gave him a kiss, we all cheered! It was magical. We drank, and danced, and kissed, and laughed, and everyone had such a good time. I manoeuvred a beer out of the beer tent... in my bra!
Every other year I've been to Pride, I usually leave in tears (for a multitude of reasons). I pulled it off. I was beaming joy outwards, and everything felt possible. Romantic love really was the missing piece of my Libran Horse puzzle. And as we're walking, I grab his hand and kiss it. He smiles sweetly at me and says "I've been giving your friend the tongue all night. I'm not sure if she likes it or not" and I laugh. He's joking! He must be joking! We discussed this. And everything slows down. And I feel the panic build. I feel it all crumbling away. My heart starts to ache. I stop walking. "Are you joking?" I ask him. "No" he says, looking sad. I want to scream. I think maybe he's still joking, so I go and whisper in my friend's ear "sorry my dude's been hitting on you". "Ya. I was gonna tell you later. It's creeping me out". And the tears are on their way down from wherever they come from. It's over. I know that even though I will try to salvage this later, that it is over. We're too new, too fragile to endure this kind of disrespectful bullshit. "It's Pride!" I shout at him, "there are millions of people you could hit on, make-out with, whatever! And you hit on the one person I said it would not be cool to hit on? Fuck you!"
We walk a bit, me fuming, when I spot my friends. I walk away from him and go to them. The dam is about to burst. I inform them that I was wrong about him. I apologize to my friend and her partner. In total disbelief, I start bawling and making my way through the crowd, desperate for a taxi. In the cab, angry texts are sent. Who fucking does that, and why? And who does it repeatedly, all night, when no hint of reciprocation is given?
And the Pride tradition continues for another year.
I like to think my positive thinking got me that close to the kind of relationship I want. I'm trying to stay positive, and hopeful, that I will meet someone who will care for me as fiercely as Mr. Perfect did, but also respect me and boundaries that are agreed upon.
And that is the story of why I am no longer dating a sous-chef!