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You've been dating Bob for six months.

It's not like you're looking for someone extravagent and super-spectacular. You tried those guys before and they usually try to choke you in some twisted sex experiment or set your hair on fire. You've moved on from the so-called "extreme" and just want to find someone nice, someone who won't accidentally call you at 3 AM when they're really trying to get hold of their coke dealer. It turned out that one morning you woke up on an unfamiliar futon, your breasts mysteriously coated in seltzer and gin, and finally decided: enough is enough.

You met Bob through a friend of a friend and shared a plate of linguine chicken tettrazini at East Side Mario's. He's the middle manager of something-or-other at a local plastics manufacturing plant. You ask for details but don't really listen to his business jibberish - you're carefully checking his face for scars and other evidence of knife fights in the distant past. He's clean. You frown and then smile and then grimace. Bob thinks you're entranced by his supply-chain management initiatives.

When you ask him to describe himself in a single word, he thinks for a while, fork jittering, before deciding on "solid." Solid sounds okay to you. Get the check, Bob.

You promise yourself that everything is going to be different this time around. After three dates in Bob's Jetta (it's good on gas), you decide that his willingness to let you make all the decisions might not be so bad. You've always wanted to watch Sex & the City with your boyfriend, and Bob cheerfully submits to hours at a time.

He's always on time and you get flowers each and every week. Bob has somehow discovered that you love lilacs. He doesn't know that lilacs remind you of getting fucked on the sandy banks of the duck pond by your college boyfriend. You decide not to tell him because he'll probably cry, and nothing turns you off more than watching a grown man weep into your lap.

Your friends tell you that six months is an appropriate amount of time to "wait" with a nice guy. You "wait" and "wait" and finally a half-annum of abstinence is discarded as Bob ravages you for three minutes on his living-room couch. It's depressing, and you choose to watch Late Night's Conan O'Brien while Bob doggedly thrusts away. You idly think about asking Conan to pull your hair.

When the ecstacy is over, push Bob off the couch. Tell yourself that if Bob goes into the kitchen and comes back with a bouquet of lilacs and some take-out East Side Mario's, you'll wait till he's asleep, curled up on his side of the bed in the fetal position as always. Then you'll find a carving knife and give him some much-needed scars.

Bob rolls to his feet, tells you he loves you (again) and meanders towards the kitchen. He's got a surprise for you, he says. You sigh. It's a good thing that Bob has a knife sharpener.

So predictable.

Posted by Chris at 03:30 PM >> Commentations (2)