Before him, three other men wasted: eight months, a year and a half, and three months respectively. I'd slept with all of these losers because we were exclusive and I thought somehow I was on the road to an engagement ring, the wedding of my dreams, and my happily ever after. I wanted something serious and real, and I'd thought I was doing everything right.
After a couple of weeks crying into pints of ice cream and torturing myself with rom coms, I decided I was done being played and used and kept as a placeholder in some guy's life until something better came along. I started following different dating coaches online until I happened upon what I was sure was the solution to all my problems with men.
Men had game? Well, I now had Lady Game. And it was air tight. No man would ever screw me over again because I had decided instead of focusing all my attention on one man at a time while he waited around and kept me on the hook and made me crazy wondering if he really wanted me like I wanted him and if this was going somewhere, I would date multiple men. Indefinitely.
And I wouldn't sleep with anyone until someone put an engagement ring on my finger. I know that sounds crazy and extreme, but I was fed up and I had about seventeen testimonials of women this had worked for. And if it didn't work, I'd planned to get about five cats and settle into a cranky cat lady future.
I've been keeping a rotating dating roster for the last six blissful low-stress months. I never have to wonder anymore... where is this relationship going? What did he mean by that text message? Why didn't he call me? I just don't care. I don't have to find a way to make it work with the one guy all my focus and energy is on. Because it's not just one guy. I have other options.
And if one treats me poorly or just isn't that into me, I drop him and find someone to replace him. Men have been dating this way forever, and it's fucking brilliant. If men dated like women, honing in and falling into accidental monogamy by the third date we'd have total romantic gridlock while the whole world lived lives of quiet desperation with the wrong person.
Yes, I am now the CEO of my own life. Since I started this new strategy I've been taken out on real dates, treated with respect, and wondering why every woman in the world hasn't figured out the magic of keeping several men in rotation. When they know you aren't just seeing them, somehow magically the check gets paid without complaint or making me feel like a supervillain for just wanting to be cared for.
But it does get exhausting. I found out the hard way that five men is just way too many. I had to drop a couple of guys I actually liked to make it manageable. But three works. I can handle three.
But tonight is a night off from dating. It's just me at a new opening at the downtown art museum, nobody else. And I find it strangely relaxing to be out for a night in my own company. I meander through the recent exhibits and bump right into probably the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life.
“Excuse me,” I say. I manage to steady my glass of champagne just in time before the contents can escape the elegant flute to assault my new lavender dress.
He isn't nearly so lucky and unscathed.
“I think you owe me a date for the damage,” he says, pointing at the wet stain on his jacket.
Well that's forward. I'm not sure what to say to this. When it rains it pours. Apparently the universe has decided I need another man to date. Oh, that's a fun side effect of dating like this. You never look desperate or hungry, so of course men are intrigued by this uber confident energy you're throwing off. It's almost like I put some kind of pheromone into the air now that men latch onto as I drift breezily past them.
But even though I'm already shuffling things around in my mind to figure out how this could work, the words that come out of my mouth are: “I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly go out...”
“I don't see a ring. Do you have a boyfriend?”
I have a roster.
But I don't say that out loud. “No... but...”
“Ah. I see. You normally date super multi-billionaires, and I just don't make the cut?”
Any other man might make this sound passive aggressive and angry, but he somehow says it in the most endearingly playful tone. Just banter. Nothing serious. He really is nice looking, and he probably does have money. And one of the guys on the roster hasn't called me in a week; maybe he's realized I wasn't kidding about no casual sex and dropped me. It wouldn't be the first guy who's fallen back when he couldn't con his way into my panties.
And if that's the case, there's room for this man who is a definite step up. I'm not saying it's easy being celibate because it isn't. And I've seen this roster dating thing done in such a way where one doesn't have to act like a blushing virgin, but I can't take the risk again of falling for a douchebag, of betting everything on some piece of shit who will just string me along indefinitely wasting my time and all my good years and eggs.
If men think many of us are marriage and baby hungry, it's only because year after year we watch as man after man wastes our time knowing he has all the time in the world, but we don't. If I hear one more smarmy asshole talk about how women are focusing on their careers and waiting too long to settle down and make babies, I might have to punch someone in the throat. That is not why we are “waiting”. We aren't waiting. Men are just stringing us along because they can get the pussy for free and see no need to commit to it. It's a free pussy gold mine out there. The hookup culture is ruining our lives. But we're all pretending it isn't and that we feel empowered by this treatment.
They've figured out they can be our boyfriend for ten years and refuse to settle down, and we have no cards to play.
I look back to this new shiny prospect standing in front of me with a wet champagne stain on his dinner jacket.
“I really do owe you for that damage, don't I?” I say, playing along with this ridiculous date debt. I ignore the voice in my mind that says he's definitely going to want sex by the third date. It's an opportunity to improve the roster—just to have a taste of something a little fancier even if I have to let him go in a few weeks.
He nods gravely. “I'm afraid so.”
What the hell? Why not? “I'm Livia,” I say, flashing him what I hope is my most demure and charming smile.
“Soren,” he replies.
Two minutes later I am somehow on a date with this guy. Right here, right now. I thought he'd get my number and call me later, but nope, he's now squiring me around the art museum as though we planned this in advance. What was supposed to be me time has turned into an interview for the position Charlie just vacated. Maybe. We'll see.
Livia
Persuasion
Six and a half months ago. Early December.
I don't know how I've run three blocks, both because I'm wearing heels and this isn't the best dress to run in, and because I'm not exactly an endurance cardio girl. I duck between two buildings and lean against the wall, trying to get oxygen to circulate properly through my lungs again.
It only takes a couple of minutes for me to realize just how fucking stupid this choice was. I could have and should have hailed a taxi to go home. But I was so flustered I couldn't think straight. I just needed to get away from them. I needed to move. I needed to get somewhere so I could think.