Updated: Jan 27
As a 30-something who has a criminal record of dating supreme douches, I have made a concerted effort, guided by my therapist, to expunge my offenses. To a degree, anyway. Now, in the About Me section, I do make a reference of having a dark side.
For years, I’ve had an on-going battle of stuffing my dark side in the back of the closet along with broken high heels and overly stained white t-shirts. For the past few months, maybe it’s only been weeks but whatever, I now choose to date nice guys. OCD Oscar is a nice guy, for example. Opens the car doors, yes. Makes me orgasm? No. See where the plot begins to thicken here?
This past Sunday I went out with another nice guy. You know, the type that not only paid for everything graciously, but practically hung onto every word I said that I honestly couldn’t help but feel somewhat flattered. Was there chemistry? Welp, when you’re almost 100, you’re supposed to look for more “substantial” qualities.
Anyway, as our date progressed, that dark side began knocking her way out of the depths of the back of the closet and into the cerebral cortex of my brain.
She whispered, “Text him.” The wise side of me tried to stuff Dark Side back into a pair of leopard print pants that didn’t fit, but the dark side wasn’t having it. “Do it. Do it in the bathroom,” Dark Side purred in my eager ear.
“Excuse me,” I said, and slipped to the lady’s room where I fired off a quick text, “Did you die?” It wasn’t long before him texted back and said, “No, I was just out of town for the weekend.” We exchanged those stupid dancing around the real subject texts such as:
“Him: Where ya at?
(It's a lychee martini, FYI)
You know what happened to the nice guy I was actually out with? I told him I had a 9pm curfew. I really had intended to go home early and straight to sleep. But when him said, “Ya wanna stop over?”, Dark Side was about to tear the closet apart with anticipation. She made me enter my real address into the Uber and give the Nice guy a kiss good night. But then.
“We’re going somewhere different,” I said. I changed the address from my real one to Him’s address.
We all know how the story ends. There was no curfew. There was only a late night and a desire to act on impulses I would have months earlier, but Wise Side did her best to tame Dark Side that night. But, why even go to Him’s place? He’s extremely hot and charismatic, but a supreme douche magoosh with an even more supreme alcohol consumption problem. But my Dark Side has a soft spot for Him. She always has a dark spot for the Hims of the world - no matter what closet she’s stuffed into in any corner of the world.
“So what is it?” my therapist asked, regarding my Dark Side always yearning to come out to play. “It’s just that some level of excitement is missing or something and then I start craving it. Before I know it, I’ll ravish down anything to satisfy it.
The problem is, once the Dark Side is satisfied, she leaves the rest of me in a heap of unnecessary drama and disappointment.
So when Monday morning rolled around just hours later and we resumed watching Yellowstone, the Dark Side might have been fed, but the rest of me had an emotional hangover. Monday morning at 12pm (so afternoon I suppose) and I’m sitting semi-hungover watching an addictive tv show with a very non-recovered, highly active, although functioning, alcoholic. Clearly I’m not working. And I’m definitely not proud of skipping my early workout which is my tool to start the week off with a bang.
I look over at Him sitting on the couch, his shaggy hair effortlessly rudely hanging in waves with perfection… as I comb my fingers through my hair searching for nocturnally formed dreadlocks. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I think, now touching my particularly oily nose.
No, I’m not okay.