Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance

by Brandi Glanville

  Now, this applies to most people—as soon as you don’t want them, they are suddenly desperate to have you. The Unicorn Chaser was no different.

  I crawled into the backseat of a cab and directed the driver to my ultra-sleek downtown hotel in the Meatpacking District. It’s basically a “come fuck me” hotel. I wasn’t going to let him take me to his Upper East Side apartment; this was going to be on my terms—or so I thought. He slid in next to me and put on his motherfucking beanie. Seriously, dude?

  But before I could think too much about it, he grabbed my face and started kissing me. He’s not a bad kisser, but he’s not the best. By the time we arrived at the hotel, we had found our groove and I was getting into it.

  “I’m coming up,” he said. It wasn’t a question and I didn’t appear to have a say in the matter, which totally turned me on. By New York standards, my room was enormous: I had a sitting room, kitchen, and full bedroom. Without invitation, he plopped himself on the couch and turned on SportsCenter. #SuperSexy. I announced that I was going to change into something more comfortable, which meant ripping off my dress and strutting into the living room in my Agent Provocateur lingerie with super-sexy panties. I placed myself on the couch next to him and said, “So?”

  Without saying a word, he pulled me on top of him and pushed my G-string to the side. We started kissing and I went for the belt on his jeans. I already had such a strong emotional connection that while the sex wasn’t amazing, I was crazy turned on. I was on top of him on the couch for maybe six minutes before he pushed me off to the side so he could finish himself inside his own jeans. Did I mention that his pants didn’t even make their way off his ass? He got up, tucked it in, and left.

  I don’t have enough space to dissect everything wrong with this picture. For starters, I didn’t even get off. The only reason I even entertained the idea was because I figured it would be mutually beneficial. As a woman in her forties, if I’m not getting an orgasm out of the deal, what’s the point? This isn’t a bullshit twenty-something drunken hookup. We’re adults and we all have needs. Let’s face it, a girl’s got to orgasm. #Right? Okay, fine. For the sake of argument, let’s just say the sex was so amazing for him that he couldn’t hold out any longer. I won’t fault him for that, not totally. But come on, you’re a grown-ass man who talks a big fucking game. You should really know how to find a woman’s G-spot—or at least make a solid attempt trying to. But at the end of the day, I should at the very least get a little oral action. Fair is fair. Apparently, pussy isn’t kosher. #JewishGuys.

  So, you can imagine my total shock when he got up to fucking leave. I was stuck horny as fuck in a hotel, thinking, Well, this sucks. I may not have had a unicorn horn, but I sure was a thoroughbred. Listen up, boys. Girls need to get off too.

  This guy apparently gets twenty-three-year-old hot model pussy and is terrible in bed. How does that work? I was utterly confused as I sat alone in my oversized hotel room in lacy lingerie. But then it hit me—how much did I know about my body, sex, and needs at twenty-three? Not much. That’s the kind of wisdom that comes with age and confidence—two things his frequent partners didn’t have much of. Plus, I spent more than a decade with the same man exploring our sexuality. For the Unicorn Chaser, his girlfriends were satisfied with a fancy dinner and six minutes of underwhelming sex. Sometimes I’m grateful I’m not twenty-three anymore.

  To make matters worse, we didn’t use a condom. All ended up fine at my next gynecologist appointment, but I still cringe whenever I think about it. But rest assured, ladies and gays, he had at least one of his heads covered, because he never even took off his fucking beanie.

  Much like a snowflake, no two unicorn chasers are the same. Men all have different ideas of their perfect unicorn. However, I have devised this foolproof guide to spotting a potential unicorn chaser in the wild:

  1. He lives in a full-service condo or luxury hotel. The unicorn chaser needs to be waited on hand and foot.

  2. He never waits in line. The unicorn chaser is the most popular guy in town.

  3. He has an impressive list of ex-girlfriends, but his relationships never last longer than a few months.

  4. He’s an only child. For the unicorn chaser, it’s all about me, me, me.

  5. He doesn’t want children. Once again: me, me, me.

  6. He has performance problems in the bedroom. The unicorn chaser doesn’t have to fuck like a rock star. He thinks you should feel lucky that he’s fucking you at all.

  7. He invites you on a date with twenty other people. The unicorn chaser can never have too many options.

  8. He brags about all the famous people he knows. If you don’t already know how cool the unicorn chaser is, he’s going to tell you.

  9. He isn’t the most attractive guy. Typically, the unicorn chaser spent his adolescence being picked on by the kinds of women he now uses and discards. He’s making up for some troubling high school years.

  10. He has a house with a water bed. #NuffSaid.

  I no longer see the Unicorn Chaser. We still talk on occasion, but I won’t ever be his unicorn. I can’t make myself ten years younger, and I can’t help that I like relish. I’ll probably never go to college, I’ll always want orgasms, and I can’t un-give birth to my two beautiful sons (although my vagina did). I’ll never be perfect, and I don’t think I ever want to be. My imperfections are what make me, me. I have realized that I don’t any longer want to chase an unattainable man, because I’ll never win. He was my first true heartbreak since putting myself out there again. I’m not sure if I loved him, or if I just told myself that I did, but surviving it was important. It showed me just how strong I had become—something I sometimes fail to see.

  Heartbreak, failure, and loss are the times I learn the most about myself. It’s true that sometimes you need to get up to get down, but occasionally you need to get down to get up.

  • 12 •

  My “In Case of Emergency” Contact

  “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY” CONTACT (NOUN)

  The ridiculous paper you are forced to fill out at the dermatologist’s office when you are just there to get a zit injected that makes you feel like shit because you realize just how alone you are.

  Example: Her hand froze as she was filling out the form and came to the dreaded line, “In case of emergency, contact . . .”

  Every time I’m at a doctor’s appointment, I struggle with the question: “Who should we contact in case of emergency?” For a few years after my divorce, I named my ex-husband’s parents. My mom and dad still live in northern California, so I would most likely bleed out before they could make the six-hour drive to Los Angeles. My former in-laws were nearby, and I knew they would be there for me if shit ever truly hit the fan. They told me as much. Sadly, though, regardless of their offer, they’re not my family anymore, and it doesn’t feel appropriate to list them as the people I would depend on if something catastrophic were to occur. My former in-laws will always have a special place in my heart, but no longer a place in my life.

  Truthfully, I didn’t really know who would show up for me in case of an emergency. I’m sure the doctors’ offices didn’t intend to send me into a philosophical free fall, but they did—every time. I’m a single mother who does everything for herself. Thankfully, I was forced into becoming this independent woman, and I was proud not having to ask for help, but this silly little question made me feel like absolute shit. Truth be told, I did want someone to be responsible for me. But I just hadn’t had any luck finding him yet.

  I had a few names in my “ICE” rotation: my gaygent Michael, my best friend Trina, and my fake ex-husband Darin. Of course, I know that my friends love me, but they are all busy living their own lives and raising their own families. A lot of times, I would just leave it blank. Seriously, I don’t foresee any “emergencies” happening during my facial appointment, unless you count a ridiculous acne breakout or a needle-happy aesthetician (nothing a muscle relaxer or a cold glass of pinot grigio couldn’t fix).
Ultimately, I worked so hard to create this independent life that I decided I was my own “in case of emergency” contact . . . right? #TotallyRational.

  The Latino and I have been dating off and on for more than a year. We broke up and got back together more often than hormonal high school kids. To say our relationship is “complicated” would be generous—it’s royally fucked up, six ways from Sunday.

  He didn’t meet most of my criteria for what I was looking for in a man (see chapter 2)—but he was tall, dark, and handsome . . . and damn near perfect in bed, which always kept me “coming” back for more. But the sex wasn’t the only reason I stuck around. I could never put my finger on it, but there was something about him—and us—that excited me. I couldn’t walk away. And above all, he was in love with me. It took him more than a year to confess, but I knew it right away.

  I’ve had a long-standing theory that the most successful relationships are those in which the guy loves the woman just a little bit more. It’s a widely accepted theory that men cheat more than women because of some innate biological need to “spread their seed.” (#Gross. Personally, I think it’s their need to spread some whore’s legs, but whatever.) However, if a man is in a committed relationship with someone whom he feels is a constant challenge or he considers out of his league, his interest will be held longer and more firmly. #TWSS.

  It’s the same reason that I have zero interest in the random guy hitting on me at a party, but as soon as I see he’s moved on to flirt with some twenty-five-year-old bimbo, I’m eager to get his attention again. It’s all sorts of fucked up, but it’s life. The same thing goes for the guys; if you decide to get married, make sure he loves you just a little bit more. It’s not a surefire way to protect yourself from problems or infidelity, but it can’t fucking hurt.

  This is what I told myself about the Latino: he was more committed to making our relationship work than I was. Or so I thought. I definitely cared deeply about him, but it wasn’t love. To quote my life guru, Carrie Bradshaw, “I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.”

  Did that even exist anymore? Could love be different the second time around? Was I expecting too much? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  When we first met, he wasn’t interested in me, so naturally, that only made me want him more. Yes, we made out in a children’s bathroom at my friend Kyle Richards’s White Party (#SueMe), but we were torn apart by the hall monitor Lisa Vanderpump before anything good could actually happen—especially if we had a little bit more time and a lot more privacy.

  Then, poof, the Latino disappeared before we could exchange names, numbers, and clearly any bodily fluids. I knew he worked with Kyle’s husband, Mauricio, in the real estate business, so I did a little digging on the company’s website, found his e-mail address, and shot him a note:

  “Hi. I’m the girl from the bathroom, in case you were wondering.”

  That was it. #ShortButSweet. I gave Kyle permission to give him my number but only if he asked for it. She was not allowed to just offer it up! While I was definitely the one pursuing him, I still had to attempt to play the game. #KeepItSexy.

  The Latino reached out to me a few days later, but it was clear I was some kind of afterthought. He told me he rarely checks the company e-mail, so he gave me his phone number and personal e-mail account. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Like most women, I’m not immune to becoming the “needy girl” (#NotHot), so the more dismissive he was toward me, the more desperate I was for him to pay more attention to me. We started casually spending time together, but it would always be a last-minute invite like “Maybe we can grab dinner later,” which usually meant that I was cooking while he watched TV on my couch. It never felt like there was any forethought involved. I was just filling holes in his schedule (or, rather, he was filling mine). Either way, I always jumped at the opportunity to be around him, thereby breaking one of my own very important rules in game play. Okay, I was actually breaking two.

  First of all, you should never accept a same-day invitation. It usually means that the inviter had other plans that fell through and that you’re on the B team. Also, it sort of looks pathetic if you’re available on such last-minute notice. Second, don’t ever accept a “maybe” invitation. Clearly he’s waiting to see if he gets a better offer—and if that happens, you’re sitting home alone on your couch while he’s out for a fabulous meal with someone he considers a better use of his time than you.

  Meanwhile, whenever I tried to make concrete plans with more than a few days’ notice, it seemed like every day was occupied by some event:

  “Oh, I’ve got a wedding this weekend.”

  “Oh, my mom and I have dinner plans that night.”

  “Oh, I’m going to stay with friends in San Diego.”

  Spending time getting to know me wasn’t a priority for him at all—or so it felt. Welcome to Being the Backup Plan. I was so hungry for his attention that I began doting on him, hoping it would ignite some desire in him to be taken care of. #DoAsISay. #NotAsIDo. If he sent me a text saying, “Work is so crazy . . . I haven’t even eaten anything yet,” I would show up an hour later with takeout from his favorite lunch place. After the Latino pointed out a $1,000 John Varvatos sweater in a shop window while we were walking down Robertson, I went back, had it wrapped in a big red bow, and gave it to him for his birthday. #ImACatch.

  After dating for a few months, we actually made plans (gasp!) to spend Halloween together. He scored an invite to my billionaire ex-boyfriend’s epic annual haunted house party in Beverly Hills. (The real estate business is a small world in L.A.) After four years of being on the guest list, I figured I was grandfathered in to this epic bash. It was by far the best and most exclusive invitation in town—we’d be fools not to go. Plus, my costume was already decided: a slutty cunt-ry music singer.

  A few days before the party, I texted my billionaire ex-boyfriend that I was looking forward to seeing him that Halloween. A few minutes later, he responded with a message explaining that it would be a good idea if I didn’t attend the party this year. Was he fucking kidding me?

  “I thought we were friends,” I responded. “Why?”

  Our breakup was a little rough, but nothing out of the ordinary. We remained close and even saw each other on occasion, so this felt completely out of left field. Had I done something to offend him? Something other than dedicate an entire chapter in my first book to what an amazing man he is? All of my friends were going to be at this party, my children were with their father, and I was going to be the odd woman out.

  Apparently his girlfriend (and now new baby mama) was uncomfortable with our friendship and preferred I not be in attendance. I found this rationale very odd—especially given that at one point or the other he had dated nearly every other woman who was going to the party. I couldn’t help but feel like the little girl in grammar school who was the only one without an invite to the dance. With my ego a bit deflated, I texted the Latino that we would have to find another party, explaining that my ex’s new girlfriend didn’t want me at this party.

  “That sucks,” he texted back a few minutes later. “But I sort of already promised my buddy I would take him. Maybe we can meet up after.”

  Excuse me? Was he seriously going to go to my ex-boyfriend’s Halloween party without me? I’m not sure what hurt worse: the fact that he would be at my ex-boyfriend’s house surrounded by every super-hot chick in Los Angeles strutting around in slutty fucking Halloween costumes, or that he didn’t care that I was going to be alone. Both, I decided, equally. (Side note: He went again this year even though I said if he did it would be over. He did, and it isn’t.)

  When his name started popping up in magazines and blogs shortly after, I began questioning his motives. I kept our relationship very private at first and never publicly spoke about him (until after the show aired), but yet his photo began sprouting up in every single celebrity weekly magazine. The Latino denied up an
d down that he had any interest in being in the spotlight, but I didn’t totally believe it. After all, we did meet while filming Housewives. I decided that he was just using me to gain a little bit of attention to help promote his business. But sorry, buddy, this is my life—not an episode of fucking Million Dollar Listing. He had a quick appearance on that show also. I sure as hell didn’t leak his name to the press or the details of one of our recent dates. This guy was one selfish motherfucker. It was time for a break.

  Okay, so I didn’t cut him off altogether (did I mention how great he is in bed?), but I began pulling back drastically—and began spending time with other people (enter: the Unicorn Chaser, the Criminal).

  Immediately, I felt a change in our dynamic. He began pursuing me. The less interested I seemed, the harder he chased. Maybe he missed the gifts and home-cooked meals . . . or maybe he just missed me. Like my mother says, “Men always remember where they have it best”—especially after you leave their shady fucking asses. I always knew how to play the game, but for some reason I hadn’t been playing it with him. Now, the ball was in my court.

  That’s when I switched back to Brandi. As soon as I could feel that he wanted me back, I began punishing him for all the times I felt lonely and used. Why couldn’t he just appreciate me from the beginning? But maybe if he did, I wouldn’t have been interested. #WhoKnows? I stopped returning his every text and started declining half of his date-night invitations—which now came days, not hours, in advance—with vague responses like, “Sorry. Already have plans. Bummer!”

  Eventually he got tired of my icy text responses or would see a photo of me online with another guy, and he quit trying. That’s when I would start warming up to him again.

  And so goes our exhausting game of cat and mouse.(It’s tiring even to write about!) We’re together; we’re not together. We’re fucking; we’re not fucking. He’s interested; he’s not. I’m over it; I’m under him. The smallest remark between us could snowball into World War III at the drop of a dime. I’ve honestly never bickered with anyone the way I do with the Latino. It’s so frequent and erratic that sometimes I even forget where we stand on a given day. Was it passion, or was it just a big old pain in the ass? I’ve always believed that the person you choose to love should make you a better version of yourself, not a nagging, untrusting bitchy version. #BrandiProblems.