Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

My phone rang. Well, not so much of a ring, as Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good”. It was Noah.

“So are you fucking for money yet?” He said laughing into the phone. “I bet you’ll make more money. You might as well. Everyone in this city already thinks you’re a big whore.”

I hung up. And then I cried balled up in my bed. Hiding under a mountain of toile. Not really because of what Noah said, but because, it’s true. I hear what they say about me. I’ve heard them whispering in the bathroom stalls. Not knowing I am there. It’s impossible for me to date. As soon as a guy hears I’m a stripper, he runs the other way. I’ve stopped telling them. I just pretend I don’t do anything. Merely a student. Eventually, he’ll find out. He won’t say anything, but when he knows, I know. His point of view of me changes. Like that scene in “Girl Next Door” where Emile Hirsch’s character finds out that Elisha Cuthbert is a porn star. He treats her differently, no longer the girl next door, but the whore in the hotel room. She knows and he knows, so she plays the part. I don’t have the patience to deal with it. So I walk away. Stop answering phone calls and texts. I spend my nights alone. Pretend I am tied up with other plans.

I still make dates. But I wise up. Cancel. Forget. Make myself busy with writing. Enjoy the quiet, the peace. Then I actually go on a date with someone I like. Really like. Who knows what I do. But it scares me. Makes me nervous. So I back away. I try to keep walls up because I am sure it will turn out like all the rest, but it’s hard. I find myself singing in the car thinking about him. Thinking about him in the small everyday moments. It’s not like Dixie to let go and genuinely care about someone. So I might take the risk and give it a chance, but I’m still afraid of what might happen. The always terrifying unknown.

If I want to put up with dating woes and assholes, I’ll go to work and at least get paid for it. I can listen to the other girls bitch about their boyfriends. Spend time with assholes at work. Pretend to like them. Faux dating.

“Wanna go on a date?”

“How about you buy me another drink and a quesadilla and we’ll sit in that corner and that can be our date?” I poked him in the chest and sort of laughed to myself.

“No. I wanna take you out.” He said with much conviction.

“Ok. Take me to Le Bec Fin.” I said smartly.

“Which corner?”

Asshole.