Part 3: Magic Mike and the Mixed Messages

Nov 5, 2015
10 min read

In part 3, let’s just say things get weird as Magic Mike, the hottest man on the face of the internet, gives me some mixed messages.

This is where shit gets weird.

We’re texting back and forth, same as before, cute things, and sexy things, normal things, and fun things. Then, wham.

“Do you think I would treat you well?”

I am not often at a loss for words, but I had no idea how to answer this question. Does he mean like, as a person? Or… as a couple? I’m walking on dangerous ground here. I don’t want to assume anything, but what the hell else could he mean? I go with a cryptic, thought provoking response:

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like if we were together.”

Oh Jesus. Oh sweet baby Jesus. What happened to casual? I am catapulted into unknown territory, again. I mean, we definitely hit it off, there’s a lot of chemistry, but I really don’t know this guy that well… except, you know, in the Biblical sense. Am I ready for this?

“Hmm, I don’t really know you that well. But I think you would.” Then, feeling daring, “Do you think I would?” “Yes.”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say. Is he trying to actually date me? I hear my phone again.

“Would you like to get to know me better?”

I’m staring at my phone. My mind is blank. Instinct takes over. “Yes.” “Ok.”

I put my hand on my forehead. I’m warm. Why am I so warm? And now I’m sweating.

It’s the week of Christmas, which also happens to include his birthday. I wish him a happy birthday in the morning and he tells me about his plans. Then, sometime around 1 AM, I’m awoken by a text reading, “Wish you were here” accompanied by a picture of him in his buddy’s car all dressed up and obviously a little drunk. Normally, this might be a drunk-text-turnoff, but a guy that good looking, going home alone on his birthday, and remembering to text me? Really, who am I to complain?

Then, Christmas, he texts me from his parents’ house a few states away, just to say hi. I’m impressed he keeps gently reaching out over the holidays. Now, mind you, he hasn’t mentioned anything about being “together” once since that last text, and Lord knows I wasn’t bringing it up. Just thinking about it makes me sweat. Then again, just thinking about him makes me sweat. He texts me again Christmas night, and we chat way into the morning, about all kinds of stuff. Family, food, things he wants to do on our next date, yup he said it again, a real date. I fall asleep with the phone in my hand. I wake up smiling. Merry Christmas to me!

You’re probably wondering where shit gets weird, so let’s just take a second to recap. We meet, there’s chemistry, it’s hot, he’s hot, I’m sweating. We agree on casual, I play it cool, he brings up “together”, he texts me on Christmas and his birthday. These are all good signs, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.

We make plans to get together when he gets back, but last minute, he needs to cancel for a huge interview early in the morning. He’s nervous about it and he seems it through his texts. I send him a good luck text in the morning, he sends, “Thanks babe” with a smiley face. You know it’s cute when there’s a smiley face.

The next afternoon, presumably after the interview, I text him with, “Hope it went well! Safe trip home.” He responds, “It didn’t. I’m on my way up now.” Uh oh. “Want some company?” “Thanks, but nah. It’s gonna be a bottle of wine and football until I pass out.” Oh boy. That’s bad. “That sounds like a good night to me. Hope you feel better.”

“Thanks babe.” No smiley face this time.

And then… nothing. Absolute radio silence for six days. Sometimes a bad interview can throw you off a bit. But, I was beginning to think “bad interview” was code for “not interested.” Now, six days is really no time at all in the grand scheme of things, but one of those days was my birthday. I went out with friends, had a great time (wore an awesome outfit, by the way), and nothing from Magic Mike. Another few days go by. It’s New Years Eve. We both had separate plans already but I’m dying to text him. I don’t. I refrain. I ring it in with a few of my good girl friends (wore another awesome outfit), but I’m not going to lie, I was missing him at midnight as I made out with a tall glass of champagne instead.

What happened? Why was this guy stuck in my head? And why hadn’t I heard from him? It would have been one thing if he disappeared right after our second date, but he didn’t. Instead, he brought up “together” after our second date. I’ll admit, I thought that was a little soon, but to go from that to nothing was odd. You know how you go to your girlfriends for advice when you’re being stupid over a guy? Well, this time, even they thought it was odd. I wasn’t being stupid. This was weird. Apparently, I should call him Magic Mike because he’s a magician who can make himself disappear. Asshole.

And then, again, wham. I realized it. I got played.

He didn’t want to take me to dinner. He didn’t want to be together. He wanted to have sex. Lots of sex. Again, who am I to complain? But you know what? I am going to complain! We agreed on casual! I didn’t need the relationship! I’m the one who wants to have sex! Lots of sex! With the former college football player with the blue eyes and massive shoulders! Is this really a thing? Do guys tells girls they want to date them- even though the girl doesn’t want to date- just to have sex? Son of a bitch. It worked. Asshole!

It’s January 1st. A new year. Figuring I’ve got nothing to lose, and tempered with a bit of sass, I think, hey what the hell, I’m going to text him. I’m still in bed, wearing my glasses, and I’ve got my sheets wrapped around my shoulders. I set the filter to one of the morning tones and snap a cute I-woke-up-like-this selfie. Of course, on January 1st, this means it’s about one in the afternoon.

It’s a good one. It’s got that casual sexy thing going on, and since casual was our thing, I send it over to Magic Mike with, “Happy 2015. Here’s hoping you want to see more of me in the new year.” See what I did there? Cheeky bugger I am sometimes, eh?

I get an immediate response. “Happy New Year beautiful. I would love to see more of you.” Smiley face.

That fuck. That fucking fuck. Don’t “beautiful” me! And oh, we’re smiley facing again? I was expecting him not to respond. I didn’t really think this one through. How do I respond? I didn’t have to. I hear my phone again.

“What’ve you been up to?”

Ohhhhhh no you don’t. You do not get to play like you didn’t disappear. I’ve got to be smart about this. Think, Michele. Think. Got it.

“Just putting some stuff away. I got new heels for my birthday so I need to make room.” Mmm hmm. I know you’ve got a thing for heels AND it was my birthday, jerk.

“Oh, I want to see them.” Then, “I’m an asshole. I missed your birthday, didn’t I.” “Yeah, you did” “I’m sorry. Happy birthday, Michele.” You’re not getting off that easy, Magic, but I don’t want to pry. I simply write, “Thanks.”

“Can I call you?”

Seriously?

Now I’m really confused. The worst part about this whole thing was that, even though I knew I was being played, I still got all giddy as soon as I read that. I met the guy a month and a half ago. That’s it! But damn, he was in my head. Constantly. My fingers were itching I wanted to text him so badly. I thought about him so much I couldn’t get work done. I thought about him as I fell asleep, dreamed about him, then there he was on my mind when I woke up. And it wasn’t just the crazy earth shattering sex, either… although, yes that was certainly part of it. I just couldn’t shake this guy. The things he said, the conversations we had, the way he held my head against his chest and played with my hair. What was wrong with me? I hadn’t gotten this crazy about a boy since I used to walk my dog past Robby Lakon’s house every day in 3rd grade. What can I say, I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. Or maybe just hopeless.

My phone rings. It’s him. Whoa! You didn’t give me a chance to text you back! Who do you think you are thinking you can just call me anytime you- oh my God. My parents. I sprint down the steps into the basement. They couldn’t know I was talking to a boy! They’d have so many questions. It really was third grade all over again. Third grade with boobs.

“Hello?” Of course I answer as sweetly as possibly, concealing how out of breath I am from barreling through the house.

“Hey, it’s Michael.” I know that, you asshole, I have caller id on my newfangled iPhone. “Oh,” as indifferently as possible, “hey.” “I feel like such a dick.” You are a dick. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you on your birthday.” He even sounds sexy on the phone! “Yeah you went a little MIA for a bit.” I decide not to jump down his throat just yet. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. I continue, “Everything ok?”

“I had that shitty interview and when I got back, I kicked into high gear at work. Did a ton of training. I felt like I had fallen behind a little and I never do that.” I was beginning to soften up a little. I heard him nervously laugh, “I got a little distracted this past month or so.” Did he mean by me?

He continued, “I was hoping you’d understand. You’re easy to talk to. When you text me this morning, I realized I’d been shut off from everyone for the past week. I feel really bad. I really do want to see you again.”

Stop it, Michele. Stop turning to mush.

Then he says, “So tell me about your birthday.”

Alright, cut a girl a little slack here. He hadn’t been one to sugar coat things, trust me when I tell you he did not shy away from getting straight to the point… about anything. No reason for him to be bullshitting me now. If he wasn’t interested he could have just ignored my text and if he just wanted to have sex, this next part wouldn’t have happened.

An easy half hour passed before he asked me a question no man has every asked me before, which would turn out to be a pattern with us (don’t forget, I was already engaged, so you know that’s not where these questions are going).

“So, I really need to talk to you about something. It’s kind of important.” Oh god, please don’t be herpes. “Are you religious at all?”

Um. What?

This is one of those off-limits topics, so delicately I reply, “Well, I was raised Roman Catholic, but I’d say I’m more spiritual.” “What do you mean, spiritual?” “It’s kind of complicated.” Guys shy away from complicated, he won’t ask anymore. “How is it complicated? Can you explain it to me?” “Why do you ask?” And why was he pushing? “Because I’m kind of religious, and I couldn’t be with someone who didn’t at least have similar beliefs. It’s something that’s important to my family so I’d want to be with someone who understood that.” I heard him laugh nervously again, “I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while.”

Wow. Just wow. Holy sh… nope. Not appropriate right now. I’m regretting that Biblical joke from earlier.

For the next half hour we talked about religion and how we were both raised. I told him how studying the Bible as a Literature major raised a lot of questions and shed light on different kinds of answers. We gently debated, and the football player with the blue eyes and massive shoulders kept up in a theological and literary discussion. Swoon.

“Listen,” he sighed, “I’m going to Texas for work conferences all next week. Can I please see you when I get home? I owe you a date.” “Yeah, that’d be nice.” “Ok good. I’m not going to be able to talk much while I’m out there. But at least you’ll know I’m not MIA this time!” He laughed. Too soon, Magic Mike, too soon. “Goodnight, Michele. And hey, happy birthday.”

I hung up my phone and was melting. Again. Halfway liquefied, I thought, wait a sec. This still doesn’t make sense. I’m decent at deciphering man code, but this one totally stumped me. There was only one thing to do; seek man advice. I called the guy friend who had seen everything in the dating world, the guy whose stories are gross and true, the guy I can always count on but wouldn’t dare set up with any of my friends. I told him the story. The whole story.

“Well shit, girl,” he started. “Nobody asks about religion if they’re just trying to laid.” “I know, right?” “Then again, I don’t care how busy you are, if a guy wants to see you, he’ll text.” “I know, right?!” “This guy sounds like a douche. If you start knocking on doors together on Sundays, we can’t be friends anymore.” “Deal. So what do you think I should do?” “Those are some serious mixed messages, but is the sex really that good? Like that worth it?” “Oh, so worth it.” “Then you have two options. Wait for him to get back from Texas. If he wants to see you, he’ll text you. Or send him a sexy cowgirl picture while he’s there and remind him what he’s missing. He’ll text you when he gets back if he wants in. It’s fool proof and you’ll have your answer.”

Because I like to torture myself, I decided to wait. No texts. Could I hold out? Would he text me first? Did I even have sexy cowgirl clothes? I hate boys. Seven days, that’s all. How fucking Biblical.