Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  I love this part of a make-out session, the part when you know the guy wants more, and you know you have the option to give him more, but you tease him instead. I am more than satisfied with his kisses, but they are so good I do, in fact, want more. But I don’t want to be the woman who gives more this easily. And then I remember I am on my period. Never have I ever been so thankful to be on my period. It is as if my worst enemy has suddenly become my greatest ally, keeping me from taking this too far, too quickly. I need to remain strong, and I can’t do it alone. I abruptly end the make-out session and tell him I have an early morning and need to get home. He begs me to stay. I don’t. Instead, I play the power card only a tease of a woman can have and go proudly home.

  The next day, I awake to a text from him saying good morning. I type back, “Good morning.” He asks what my plans for the day are, and I tell him I have no real plans. Then he asks if I want to come hang out. The player side of me wants to make him chase, but the infatuated side has me saying yes. It isn’t long before I’m back on the couch in his apartment, only this time, I’m clothed and sober. We spend the afternoon cuddling and making out. We spend the next day doing the same thing. And the next and the next.

  And just like that, what started out as a favor to Jess has turned into the beginning of a relationship, I think.

  all men should go to hell

  The Yankee and I have been inseparable over the past two weeks. Pretty much whenever he’s in town, I’m over at his place. Well, that’s how it started, at least. In the meantime, I’ve been completely ignoring my Mr. Seattle. I’m sure he’s taken the hint, because his texts have ceased completely. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have blown him off so quickly. Despite having spent so much time together, I know the Yankee and are aren’t going to last much longer, let alone forever.

  Our downfall began shortly after we had sex for the first time. Surprise, surprise. Sex always seems to change relationships; it makes them either sink or swim, and there’s not a lot in between. I waited about four dates before finally giving up the goods. I couldn’t resist any longer. I was out drinking with Ava, Jess, and Emily when the Yankee texted me asking if I wanted to come over. I say yes, of course. And then I do what any drunk, horny woman would do: log on to my Amazon Now account, which is basically like Amazon Prime on steroids. Instead of waiting two days for shipping, this version can have things delivered within the hour. I type in “condoms.” And what do you know, there on my screen for sale is a box of condoms available for delivery within one hour. I add it to my cart. I go to check out, only to realize there is a twenty-five-dollar minimum. So I add another box. Fuck it, twenty-five dollars is a hell of a lot cheaper than the cost of having a child.

  Shortly afterward, I drunkenly make my way to his apartment, stumbling through the lobby and up to the doorman who regularly works the night shift, who now recognizes me, and ask if there was a delivery for me. He goes in the back and brings out a brown paper sack. He’s got a smile on his face. He definitely peeked inside. I thank him and head to the elevator. I take a peek in the bag. Two orange boxes of condoms. I can’t help but feel like a fucking badass as I knock on the door. The Yankee opens it to see me standing proudly holding up the brown bag of condoms.

  The sex ends up being pretty good. Nothing mind-blowing, but then again, I’m not exactly in the clearest state of mind when it happens. I’m a firm believer that the first time you have sex with a man shouldn’t dictate your future sex. You’ve got to give it a couple of tries before giving up. Plus, I’ve learned from firsthand experience that sex isn’t everything in a relationship. Hell, look at the Canadian—best sex of my life and also biggest asshole in my life.

  It’s not until the next morning that the Yankee gets his first strike. With a pounding headache, I look over to my left to see something peculiar: a U-Haul box turned upside down being used as a nightstand. I look around the room. Is this the first time I’ve been in this room? Now that I think about it, we’ve always just hung out in the living room. It’s so bare. There is a bed that we are sleeping in and a television on top of another, bigger upside-down U-Haul box. Is this the new wave of modern decor? It can’t be, right?

  I get out of bed and quietly make my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water and then tiptoe around the apartment to do some investigating. I open one door to find a bathroom. I move on to the next door, where I find a completely empty room, a large one. There is a closet off to the side that has men’s clothes strewn on the floor along with some boxes of Ferragamo dress shoes, Gucci shopping bags, and a hanging Burberry garment bag. Wait a second, this has to be the master bedroom. But there’s no bed in it. No furniture. No artwork. Nothing. If there’s a master bedroom, why in the hell are we sleeping in the guest bedroom? I remember him telling me that he’s been living here for six months, so how the hell is this place not furnished? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. So what the fuck is going on?

  My head is pounding as I gulp the water. I’m hungover and confused as hell. I’m so turned off that I’ve been seeing, and just had sex with, a grown man who has money but who can’t bother to even pay someone to furnish his house. It’s one thing if the guy doesn’t have taste in decorating. In fact, I actually find that kind of endearing, and it allows me the chance to decorate on someone else’s dime. But seeing his half-empty apartment reveals a laziness about him that has me not even wanting to wake him up but instead calling an Uber to take me and my pounding headache home. I get dressed, leave him a note that says “Didn’t want to wake you, have a good day,” grab the remaining condoms, and head back home.

  I hadn’t seen the Yankee for a day or two when we find ourselves hanging out again. I ask him about the furniture situation, and he gets a little defensive, so I decide to just pretend that living in a guest bedroom despite having a spacious master bedroom is perfectly normal.

  Each hangout seems to be as monotonous as the last. Eventually we get into a routine where we spend our days doing our own thing, then I come over at night, we hook up, and then I leave either in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning. I will say the hooking-up part has gone from decent to pretty damn good. Not Canadian good but certainly good enough to keep me coming back each night. But the more time we spend together, the more I realize this “relationship” will never be anything more than a physical one. We never talk about being exclusive or calling each other girlfriend and boyfriend. Hell, we hardly talk at all. Which is fine for now. I feel bad saying this, but I’m kind of just buying time until the next man comes along, and I think he is too.

  The physical touch of a man has a way of fulfilling me right now. Hell, the other day I texted him while I’m out on a run to see if he’s home. He is. I tell him I’m going to come by and get some water. I walk in the door, don’t get any water, but do get him. I leave and continue on my run without feeling even the slightest ounce of guilt. I figure, it’s a win-win, he gets laid and I get my run done, leaving both my body and my libido satisfied.

  The truth is, even though I know he isn’t the one I will spend the rest of my life with, he’s all I have right now. Maybe sometimes you can just date without needing love, date for companionship, for passionate make-outs, for snuggling. At least, until you meet the real thing, right? Whatever was happening, as shallow as it was, seemed to be fine.

  Until strike two comes. The Yankee has just returned from being out of town yet again and asks if I want to come over. I’m at a bar so I ask if he can just swing by and pick me up on his way. He tells me just to meet him at his place and he will even send a car for me. We go back and forth a little bit. I want him to come get me; he wants me just to come over. He’s being lazy and I’m being stubborn. We are in a stalemate. Part of me wants to abandon him for the night, but I know that will only bring more drama come tomorrow. I want to win this transportation war, but eventually I cave when he tells me that he told the doorman to give me a key to his apartment.

  I’m tipsy and irked
when I arrive at his building. I check in with the doorman and wait for him to hand me a key. He doesn’t. Fuck, this is awkward.

  “I think there was supposed to be a key left for me.” I’m definitely slurring.

  “Oh, right, follow me.”

  I follow the doorman to a room filled with silver mailboxes. They aren’t labeled like the ones in my building, but they are much shinier. Rich people. The doorman takes out his ring of keys and opens one of the mailboxes. He reaches in and grabs another ring of keys. He slides one off and hands it to me.

  “I’m not even going to ask how many times you’ve done this.” I try making light of the awkwardness of it all, but it blows right over his head. But really, how many times has he given out a key? I wonder as I ride up the elevator.

  Now, with an even saltier attitude, I make my way down the hall and toward the Yankee’s apartment. I take the key, turn the lock, and burst through the door. I’m determined to curse him out and then withhold my body from him. The first happens, but after one apology, the second doesn’t. Whoops.

  The following day, I think everything is fine, but I don’t hear from him. Two more days go by, and still nothing. I’m at happy hour when I finally get the liquid courage I need to text him.

  Me: “Hey stranger.”

  The Yankee: “Hey, what’s up? ”

  Me: “Not much, u? ”

  The Yankee: “Going to dinner.”

  Me: “Nice!”

  An hour passes . . .

  Me: “Everything okay? ”

  The Yankee: “It’s fine but not gonna lie, didn’t appreciate your attitude the other night.”

  Me: “Well I didn’t appreciate you not making an effort to come get me. Why do I always have to be the one to come over? ”

  The Yankee: “I told you I’d send a car.”

  Me: “It’s not about sending the car. You could have just picked me up on your way.”

  The Yankee: “And you could have just taken a car.”

  Me: “That’s not fair.”

  The Yankee: “Your attitude wasn’t fair. I’m not looking for someone with that kind of attitude.”

  Me: “What does that mean? ”

  The Yankee: “Just what I said.”

  Me: “Well, I’m not looking for someone who can’t even bother to pick me up.”

  The Yankee: “I’m out to dinner, you’re clearly out, so let’s just let this blow over and we will talk about it tomorrow.”

  Me: “K.”

  Four days pass, and we haven’t said a word to each other. Part of me thinks it’s probably over for good, even though it’s only been two strikes, but the other part of me thinks we are both just being stubborn and any day now we will be reunited and ready for strike three.

  Three more days go by, and just as I expected, we have our strike three. He texts me to say that he is sorry for getting upset with me and that he wants to go to dinner. I tell him I’m sorry, too, and that I think dinner would be nice. We make a date for Sunday evening. The morning of our date, I go to my cousin’s house in Brooklyn to visit with her and her newborn baby. A few hours pass, and no word from the Yankee. I make my way back into the city at around five and start to get ready for our date. Seven o’clock rolls around, and still no word. By eight, I’m pissed enough to fire off a text.

  Me: “What’s up? ”

  One hour later . . .

  The Yankee: “Out to dinner with my parents, u? ”

  Me: “Huh? I thought we were doing dinner.”

  The Yankee: “My parents are in town tho.”

  Me: “Then why’d you schedule dinner with me? ”

  The Yankee: “I forgot.”

  Motherfucker!

  I decide not to respond. I am done. So done. And the thing is, I’m not really angry that it’s over, I’m more just annoyed that I did my makeup for nothing. I guess the fact that I’m more upset that I put on fake lashes for no reason than I am at being stood up tells me that the Yankee is far from “the one.” I know that I was never emotionally invested in him. I never saw us really working out. There was a major void in our conversations, there was a difference in our maturity levels, and it was a relationship that was fun but nothing more than that. I have zero regrets about it, nor do I despise him. He is what he is, and he served his purpose until he could no longer serve. And that’s what happens when the only thing you really enjoy about a man is his penis.

  Looks like I’m headed back to the land of the Single Ladies. But I probably won’t be alone for long. Turns out my relationship isn’t the only one headed out of style. Jess’s is, too.

  Jess had invited me and Sarah to her parents’ house in the suburbs for Sunday dinner. I love Jess’s parents because they remind me of my own family. They’re outgoing, funny, and warm, and they like to drink wine. And given the fact that the oven in my apartment is currently housing my sweaters, I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for a home-cooked meal. But this Sunday dinner was going to be different. This was going to be the night Jess introduced her boyfriend to her family. I couldn’t wait. The only thing better than a home-cooked meal is a front-row seat to the awkward introduction of a new boyfriend to a girl’s parents.

  We get to Jess’s parents’ house, with one notable absentee, Mike. Jess doesn’t so much as mention his absence, though I can see the disappointment written across her face. I don’t dare bring it up. I know Jess well enough to know you can’t push her to talk; when she’s ready, she will, and now is not the time. We have a typically lovely evening with Jess’s parents, sharing tidbits of New York gossip while making sure we all stay just on the right side of parent-appropriate.

  After dinner, Jess rides the train back with us. As we settle into our seats, Sarah can’t hold her tongue any longer. “Okay, so what the fuck happened with Mike? ”

  Jess takes a deep breath. “I don’t really know. He said he woke up and the dog was vomiting blood and he had to take her to the vet. I guess that’s what happened.”

  Sarah and I stay silent for a moment. I mean, what can we really say? If we call him a liar and the story turns out to be true, then we’re the assholes.

  “I know it sounds like an excuse, but maybe it’s true. And I’m sure he’ll make it up to you.”

  I sound unusually optimistic. So much so that Jess is looking at me like I am a stranger.

  “Or he’s a total asshole!” I quickly revert back to my usual man-hating demeanor.

  Jess’s face fills with relief.

  “Everything else going okay with him? ” I ask.

  “He’s just been weird lately. I get the dog situation, but then last Friday, he was supposed to go to the Knicks game and come over after, but I didn’t hear from him all night. Not a word. He texted me the next morning saying his phone had died.”

  “Ummmmm, that’s sketchy as fuck, not gonna lie.” I suck at playing the optimist friend.

  “I know, right? ”

  The three of us begin a heated debate about whether or not Madison Square Garden has cell-phone chargers. I put my lawyer hat on and argue that if he was sitting courtside, he obviously had access to some sort of suite, which undoubtedly had a cell-phone charger. Sarah makes a solid point that even if there wasn’t a charger in the suite, certainly at least one of his friends had a portable charger. We all come to the conclusion that the “dead phone” excuse just isn’t going to cut it. I want to say, his phone died and so did his relationship along with it, but I resist the urge.

  Instead, I just reserve an extra chair for Jess for when she’s ready to come back in the Land of the Single Ladies.

  twenty-nine calls for a good time

  With the Yankee officially off my roster, I am more single than ever. I am also on the brink of twenty-nine and looking for a good time. If that good time happens to be with a man, then so be it. But it’s going to take more than good sex and a good job to tame this soon-to-be-twenty-nine-year-old woman!

  What started out as a casual get-
together with some of my girlfriends like Ava, Jess, Michelle, Sarah, Emily, and even Kelly, who had flown up from Atlanta, to celebrate my birthday turns out to be nothing short of yet another epic night. I decide to go casual, since I figure reaching the milestone of twenty-nine isn’t something to go all out for. I mean, twenty-one, yes. Thirty, hell, yes. Twenty-nine, not so much. Plus, I’m not one of those chicks who celebrate their birthdays for an entire month. I can’t stand those girls. I don’t get why birthday celebrations are a big deal to begin with. It’s like, congratulations, your mother endured hours of pain while you just popped out and then got to do absolutely nothing but eat, sleep, and poop in your own pants for a year while your parents cleaned up after you. Birthday celebrations really should be reserved for the women who give birth. And then to be the type to celebrate that for an entire month? Plus, with no man to shower me with gifts or plan a party in my honor, I was good with just a girls’ dinner.

  We are eating at a trendy place in the Meatpacking District when I notice the somber mood Jess is in. I can tell the Mike situation is weighing on her, but I don’t know who else knows about it, so I keep quiet. It isn’t until Jess and I go to the bathroom that she breaks her silence and breaks down. The instant the door shuts, tears start streaming down her face.