Part 5: Magic Mike and the Final Blow

Dec 3, 2015
7 min read

As promised, this is a story in 4 delicious parts. But, here we are at Part 5 and it is not so delicious.

This is probably a good time to recap. I meet Magic Mike, the hottest man on the face of the internet, on a cold and rainy night. We already agreed on a casual type of relationship, although truthfully, I’m still trying to figure out what the heck that means. He’s hot. Real hot. So hot. And I’m sweating. I get the full tour of his apartment, the couch, the counter, the bedroom… I dress like a hooker, he’s still hot, he talks about dating. He disappears, he comes back, he asks me about my religion. He says he likes my butt – probably too much – I almost shit my pants (NBD), and Magic tries to take casual to a whole new level. Also, there were burritos.

Now, we’ve already established that I have it bad for this guy. But he wasn’t the first man I had dated since I gracefully reintroduced myself to the dating world, in fact, I had been on a few good dates. But this guy – this fucking guy – was just something else.

Let’s get serious for a second (but really just for a second, I promise). I had been through some shit when I became Ungaged. I mean, one does not just prance through a field of wild flowers as she decides to leave her fiancé. It kind of sucks. But then, there was Magic Mike. A hulking mass of a man with clear blue eyes and an alluring sideways smile who couldn’t hurt me a) because we weren’t supposed to get serious, and b) well, because he was a little dumb.

Conversation was easy because it generally revolved around food and football, but also because I wasn’t trying to impress him and I didn’t have to worry if I was being too goofy or if I sounded too nerdy. All I needed to worry about was how to be dirty hot, which for me proved to be quite a challenge… a challenge that I handled like a champ!

After almost a year of battling through a toxic engagement, it was nice to get all fancied up like the hot, young, single woman that I was, be treated like a lady, and then get thrown around a stupidly good looking man’s apartment. I will take it, please and thank you! Being with him was simple, you know, when he wasn’t trying to reintroduce me to Jesus or discuss whatever “together” means. We had a good thing going.

And with one question, poof.

In the two weeks after our last, um, romp, Magic became engrossed with work again. But this time, I couldn’t be bothered with worrying about it. This guy couldn’t figure out what he wanted! He’d call, he’d disappear. He’d talk about taking me to dinner, then he’d send me sexy-time texts. He’d talk about being casual and in the same breath he’d talk about being together. But, me? No ma’am, I knew exactly what I wanted, and as long as he wasn’t knocking on my backdoor or dragging me to church, I was getting it. Dirty hot wins again!

And then, Valentine’s Day. Now, I generally like Valentine’s Day because it’s all about bringing the love. I’m the kind of girl who brings flowers to work and bakes for my friends or brings home a cute game and a silly card. I think it’s fun, and I definitely don’t think this is the most romantic day in the whole wide world. That’s just not my style.

Unfortunately, because of it’s hype, it’s also pretty darn difficult for a single girl to make plans on this day and it especially sucks when it’s a Saturday. Can’t I just go out and eat? Does it have to be prix-fixe? Do all my friends really have boyfriends or husbands? Shit.

Just as I’m toiling over my weekend plans, I get a text from Magic. “I want to see you again soon.”

Eureka! I’ve got nothing to loose here and I’m about to turn this into the best Valentine’s Day ever. “Wanna get together on Saturday?” “Yeah sounds good.”

Excellent. That was easy enough and I’m sure we won’t have to worry about fancy dinner plans since, well, we’ll probably be staying in. This makes me giggle. He probably doesn’t even know it’s Valentine’s Day. Oooo, I am devious.

Then, a follow up text.

“Isn’t Saturday Valentine’s Day?”

Well, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Now what? I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t realize, I couldn’t retract, and I wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it. Time to power up those creative writing skills.

“Worst day of the year to try to get dressed and go out. Good reason to not get dressed and stay in all night.” Wink face. “Those are good plans. See you Sat.”

Whew. I mean, really. It’s just a day. Doesn’t have to be this difficult?

Apparently, the promise of spending a night locked inside was all Magic needed to power up his own creative writing skills. My inbox was packed with vivid descriptions of what Valentine’s Day would entail. There were more audio clips and whispery desires. And then, there were pictures. I could imagine climbing around those shoulders like a spider monkey in the depths of the jungle.

...you know, you may want to get some popcorn and wine, this story is about to get REAL.

So, here we are on Valentine’s Day morning. I bundle up for a brisk jog (hello, it’s February), and get prepared for what promises to be a steamy night. I rifle through my closet and reach waaaaay in the back of my top drawer to find the pretty lacy sets that I’ve maybe worn once in my whole life. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would make twice. Then, a text. I look around before I read it. With what he’s been sending recently, I can’t be too cautious. Looking over my shoulders, I’m alone.

“Can I call you?”

Um, YES! I run down the stairs, grab my keys, and head out the door to my car. “I’ll be right back! I’m just going to the store real quick!” He was getting more creative by the hour and I wouldn’t be caught dead on the phone within earshot of my parents.

Safely down the block, I pick up when he calls.

“Hey gorgeous.” Very creative… really. “Hey. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

There’s a pause.

“Listen, I have to cancel tonight.” I swear, I could hear all my sexy lingerie exhaling a deep sigh of sadness and consoling each other with “maybe next year, guys” as they nestled back into my drawer.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” I reply. There were so many other options there to express my disappointment, but I wasn’t about to let on. “Yeah, nothing too exciting. I have to go somewhere early tomorrow morning with my family. I’m driving down to Pennsylvania in a few hours. I’m really sorry.” “Hey, that’s okay. Maybe we can together when you get back.” “Yeah, that would be nice. There are so many things I want to try with you.”

Thank goodness I was not in the house because, let me tell you, he was not stingy with the details. Then,

“So there’s something else I really want to ask you about. Do you mind?”

Well, this obviously wasn’t about church this time and he already knew my backdoor policy. How bad could it be? I, regretfully, tell him to go ahead.

“Would you wear a strap-on?”

…

Having an unnecessarily overactive imagination is a great thing when you’re a writer. It is a FUCKING CURSE when a hot guy asks you to wear a strap-on! A. STRAP. ON.

I must have heard him wrong. I must have. He couldn’t possibly want me to wear one of those… and do that to him… oh, the images won’t stop! No, no, no! He’s manly and tough and I get to be the girl! He can’t, he doesn’t want me to pretend to be a… and put that in his… Oh, no. No, no. I’d rather be trying to dodge the advances of The Wife Hunter! That was far more preferable than this!

“Michele?”

I look at myself in the rear view mirror… seriously? The rear view? It has to be called that and I have to notice right now?! My jaw is essentially in my lap and I have no idea how to respond. I don’t want to respond. I want to be home, in my bed, cuddling with my kitties the way a good single girl is supposed to celebrate Valentine’s Day!

Get it together, damn it! Ok, breathe…

“Is that something you’re into?” Why would you ask that? Do you really want to know that answer? “Yeah, I think it would be fun.” Not for me, it wouldn’t! “Is that something you do often?” Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to! “No, never actually. I’ve just been wanting to. Wait,” he pauses, “It’s not like I’m into dudes.”

No, of course not. You just want me to pretend I have a penis and then do you in the butt. No big deal.

I muster up some kind of quick and subtle way to get off the phone that didn’t make it sound like I was running from a fire. But, in my head, I was running from a village fully ablaze. And in the smoke were all those delicious memories of intense kisses, and dirty whispers, and sigh, the couch. I didn’t want to make him feel bad or embarrassed. I mean, everybody has their preferences, their “thing.” Just because my backdoor was locked, sealed, and boarded up didn’t mean his had to be. It could be wide open! But that was one door on which I would not be knocking. Sorry, Magic.

I went back home, blew right passed the drawer with all those pretty lacy pieces, and went straight for the sweatpants. Up went my hair, out came my contacts, and open popped the beer. Then, I called for delivery, fired up the Netflix, and waved goodbye to my parents donned in their Valentine’s Day best. Ah yes, this is the way to spend Valentine’s Day when you’re single.

Snuggled into my couch and flanked by Bo and Samson, who were sleepily purring, my phone rang. An unknown number. I don’t pick up. Again, it rings. Same number. Oh, what the fuck now?! I pick up.

“Hey! What are you doing home alone on Valentine’s Day?!”

I recognized the voice immediately. He must have gotten my number from Sexually-Braver. Oh, I am going to kill her.