anatomy lesson of the worst kind

So you know the first time a man officially, officially asks you to live with him, you think it will mean something, you think it will matter. So when a man, a man I had only knew for a few weeks, a man I had met on the streets of the Upper West Side while he was working, working construction, asked me, asked me to move in with him, I was moved. Not moved in my world stood still, or my heart skipped a beat, but more like my stomach turned and my lovely dessert with chocolate always chocolate lost its flavor. We were sitting across the table from each other, in a tight intimate table at Café Lalo, famous for you’ve got mail. I always loved this time, dessert, and would rush through dinner just for the sweets. And now, I wish dessert time was over. Immediately. With his New Yorkesque accent, he says, so you can live with me and cook and clean and you won’t have to pay rent.

Mind you I currently was living on the Upper West Side, on Central Park West, an address most people would kill for, an address someone might give up a limb or an appendage over like a toe or a finger. I was there not because of my own connections not because of my own family but I was a dog walker for a cute little Tibetan terrier. The same terrier that helped me meet men in New York, the way I had met this man. So he wants me to move to Westchester, to his shitty one bedroom apartment and leave New York, and my home a 10-minute subway ride from my grad school. The only price I’d pay other than leaving Manhattan, my view of Central Park, being right next to school and all my friends is cooking and cleaning. And I’m not even good at cleaning. I would have failed miserably as 1950’s housewife. This is not the life I dreamt for myself as a child in the 1980’s and then in 2005, there had to be something better. My grandmother and great-grandmother’s realities are not mine. Truth be told it would have made more sense if he cooked and cleaned and I was the breadwinner. But some guys just don’t get it.

Sad thing is I still saw him. Because I give things a try even when I should let them die. So when we slept together, I figured I might as well see what I was signing up for in the realm of dating not the living together part. I had a rude awakening. Now I am all for talking, I am pretty verbal in my everyday life, almost every aspect of my life- I even talk in my sleep- anyone who knows me can attest to this, but during sex not so much. In my over verbal life, I slow it down during this time. So when he began to repeatedly let me know what was going on between us, down there- my cock, your pussy, my c, your p, my c, your p. What is going on? Why is the guy giving me a play by play? I am in shock. This had never happened. Even though I am what I would consider a sexual novice in the amount of partners I’d had at this point- this can’t be normal. It isn’t. Either this guy watched too much porn or needs to let himself know what’s going on, because it’s doing nothing for me. Nothing at all. It continues my c, your p, my c, your p. Over and over again. I just want it to stop. Stop. This is an anatomy lesson of the worst kind. My c, your p, my c, your p. So needless to say that between the pitiful attempts at asks for cohabitation and sex, it is over between us. If I had to do it again I would have been more bold than not returning his calls, I would have told him thanks but no thanks me and my educated vagina are finding somewhere else to call home. But if he would cook and clean and not talk out of turn, maybe just maybe this would work out just fine.