Monday met some interesting people part 2

Since this is part 2, it should go without saying that you should probably read part 1 below before continuing; but hey, feel free to partake if you don’t want to read two very long posts of absolute drivel involving things like feelings and friends and lacking things like sex and wild sex acts.

P.S. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging for so long; however, I fell asleep watching South Park on Netflix at around 9:45 pm or so... I’m like a month away from being a geezer, so I guess I’m just starting early.

So, after finding the messages on his phone via Grindr, I immediately texted Denice to get her take. She reminded me that I was being crazy; but I couldn’t immediately shake the opposing ideologies of bringing a guy to meet your friends and banging other guys on the sides. As you have probably guessed, this whole debate stems from the fact that I’m not banging other guys—for some asinine reason, I’m not even looking for other guys…

Once he emerged from the shower, I was engrossed with messages from Denice repeating the fact that I’m not supposed to know they exist, so I can’t ask about them (because that conversation only ends one way—with me looking like a psycho-jealous dude that breaks into a guys phone just to snoop—no, that whole, “Well, your phone was just there” defense doesn’t make it any less insane sounding if I were even allowed to explain my position on that one). Needless to say, I was a bit distracted/surely/sullen—but only mildly.

Yes, I seriously considered leaving—I was going to use the excuse that I’d met 2 of his friends, and he’d met 2 of mine; so we were even…and I didn’t want to impose on a birthday party for a guy I’d never met; however, we went—we were a bit late due to an unforeseen event.

While I know you’ve probably already noticed a distinct absence of sex in this post as well as the last post, we have had sex during all this…several times…plus, he’s touchy feely in between…we’re touchy feely, I should say…and I’m not mentioning it because I think it’s inappropriate to talk about it at this juncture…No, it’s not bad—but we’re ironing out the wrinkles. That makes it sound bad. We play the same position on the field—if you catch my drift; and he’s kind of into some un-vanilla activities (nothing too scary so far). And I have a problem getting relaxed and into it without the assistance of an inhalant…But we’re working through it; and it’s getting better (he’s no 8in of fun; but our sex might be as enjoyable eventually—this weekend was better than any of the previous ones)…Fine, I’m talking about it because I like the guy—which is why I’m getting crazy…I know better than to put my eggs in one basket, but he’s nice and cute and not crazy and not a loser and I wanted him to meet my friends…and well, when’s the last time I’ve had that combination?

So, his Friend J (and hold on to that one because there’s more than one J name coming up) is freaking out because no one is at Haruno; and they’ve reserved a room for the gathering… which I know how awkward that would be since I have that same fear surrounding my own birthday; however, as National Guard Guy said, the Facebook invite did say it was from 7-10…like a come-and-go event (he didn’t conclude the come-and-go part; however, he did state the hours of the invite; and I concluded the casual nature from that; NGG sped the whole way because we left his house at 7:12 and his best guy friend was feeling abandoned). Yeah, we get there and find Friend J and his girlfriend/baby momma S (again there are more than one S coming up as well) along with Friend J2 and his wife S.

Friend J and his girlfriend are obviously younger than me—and probably NGG who is one year and a few months younger than me. Girlfriend S just graduated from college—and looks and acts every bit of 22 or 23…as does Friend J—however, for a guy, that probably means that he’s 25-26. Then Friend J2 looks in his mid-40s (a mild exaggeration, but we’ll get to it a bit later); however, he’s either my age or slightly older (I’d give him 29-32). His wife S talks like she’s a country bumpkin and is probably in that 23-26 range—and her southern accent only makes her sound dumb, which I hate to say because she was pretty nice.

One thing to note is that no one flinched a moment when NGG came in with a guy. They were all happy to see him and acted like he was a good friend. I got warm handshakes and hellos all around…and lingering looks from J friends… But they seemed nice enough—they are nice enough, but they didn’t really put forth an extra effort to make me more comfortable due to the fact that they’re all on their way to getting drunk.

They’re so drunk that they constantly complain—with an increasing amount of volume—that the waitress is being slow at bringing them they’re next drink…well, the guys are. The ladies are ok…well girlfriend S is smiling naively as her husband cusses; and wife S’s accent is getting deeper as she gets louder with her inane story-telling. But hey, it’s a birthday; and I’m just an outsider.

Every cloud has a silver lining. This time it’s the fact that I got carded when I ordered a white Russian. Yes, that’s the silver lining here.

Now, I don’t want to sound like an elitist snob; however, maybe I’m just used to my fairly-well educated friends. I mean—Ambie, Alaina, and Shelly are all in graduate school; Denice has 2 bachelor’s degrees; also, Crystal and I both have our bachelor’s degrees; and Erica was only like 1 semester away from graduating when she decided to work for her parents…But all of my good friends have that education background… And of their husbands only Crystal’s and Erica’s don’t have college degrees, but they’re not constantly crass and stupid acting—neither is NGG…

Well, it’s a little too harsh—even for me. Besides Friends J&R don’t have a college education either, but were perfectly normal. Anyway, they’re all nice people…and they probably sound way smarter when their sober—don’t we all? So, yeah, after the sushi, birthday boy Friend J and Girlfriend S invite us all back to their house—they’ve got “plenty of booze” and we “should all go there and get shitfaced.”

And here is the aforementioned point in my typing when I fell asleep; and thusly losing momentum in my story telling.

Let’s see if we can get it back. At this point in the story I want to interject the fact that all of these people know and love Dog B which is cool because he’s quite charismatic. But I’m pretty sure that they know the dog because they’ve lived with NGG at one point. Well, I know wife S and friend J2 did because the wife told me that his cat was actually theirs in a drunken slur of a southern accent.

After we exited the restaurant, NGG wanted to go back to his house to make sure that he procured some alcohol that would be to his taste. Plus, he has a liquor store in his refrigerator; however, it doesn’t concern me that he might be an alcoholic due to the fact that he gets sleep after even half of one drink—that and he doesn’t have any empty bottles beside the bed, nor a glass of “water” that I’m not allowed to drink out of...

And I’m slightly irritated that I ended that last sentence with a preposition; however, I don’t feel like editing it out, either.

So, we get to Friend J and girlfriend S’s house. It’s on the far west side of town, and it’s ok. It’s definitely a first house—you know, tidy and sparsely furnished. Also, by the time we get there, the others are probably on their second drinks and are all hovering in the kitchen—near the booze. They’re loud but otherwise fine…very jovial.

Within the next 30 minutes, they get really talkative—well, wife S does anyway. In the span of that time, she has told me that she didn’t like NGG before she knew that he was gay—because they thought his secret life included being a serial killer or something bad; also, she’s told me that she’s slightly jealous of his relationship with her husband. From the guy’s perspective, we get into a casual debate about which guy that NGG came out to first—I settle it with Friend J being the one because NGG told me on the drive over to their house.

Now, Friend J2 is a mess. He reminds me of my friend Beau who I’ve known since he was 15; and while that doesn’t mean much to any of you because I don’t generally talk about Beau…but he’s a drunken mess these days and has probably done every drug known to man several times. In fact, the parallel goes deeper because Friend J and wife S pull me aside to warn me that Friend J2 is wanting someone to do Xanax bars with and that I shouldn’t feel peer pressured into anything that I don’t want to do.

Yes, I did tell them that I was 29 and didn’t succumb to peer pressure anymore; however, they still cautiously hovered around me while Friend J2 engaged me in a tale about how he’s ok with gay people. Also, I feel the need to interject that this was all after his very long personal medical history that includes being hospitalized for drinking too much—but he doesn’t feel the need to quit because of his tragic, abuse-filled childhood.

No, I’m not making fun of that situation; I’m merely using the example to illustrate how drunk he was while he was telling a perfect stranger all these deeply-private issues.

If you can imagine, I’m not drinking. Other than the single white Russian at the restaurant, I’m passing on the alcohol which I think is making them self-conscious because they’re constantly offering me something. While I’m politely declining, I’m thinking that someone here needs to stay sober to call an ambulance when this all ends disastrously. Yes, some old habits die hard; and while some of you may not know this about me, I used to be the sober responsible one quite a lot in the olden days because back then I was usually afraid that someone was going to get raped (and after several questionable incidents involving CB2 alone, I feel justified in my position there).

In the absence of a more responsible alternative, I can step up to the plate—and I definitely didn’t feel the need to join in on the fun here because I wasn’t sure where I would end up. No, I’m not implying that someone was going to kill me—they all seemed very happy to meet me. In fact, wife S confessed that I’m the only guy that NGG has ever brought with him to anything. Anyway, I didn’t join in because I strongly felt that this would end up like the El Presidente night; and while it was fun at the time, I don’t think I know any of them well enough to expect them to clean up my puke from the side of their car or my beard (or to “Baby wipe me!”).

After probably another hour of the festivities, NGG tells me that he’s ready to go. Instantly, I feel badly because I’m afraid that he thinks that I’m not having any fun around this particular group of friends—which isn’t the case at all…I think it’s funny—like a stage show, or a circus side show…or a train wreck…I just can’t not look. It was great people watching. In short, this group definitely has an interesting dynamic. Between the chick in the knee-high hooker boots and Friend J sneaking off with wife S to “talk about” friend J2, I couldn’t help myself but to enjoy the view from the safety of the far side of the kitchen table.

Once we were in the truck, NGG confesses that he actually wanted to leave because things were progressing as per usual—and he didn’t want to witness the carnage. Yes, I interpreted that as he was embarrassed for me to see his friends that way; however, he played it off nicely. Yes, I confessed the reason I wasn’t joining in was because I was afraid that I’d have to ride in an ambulance to fill out paperwork because no one else could write—which he took lightly.

The next morning NGG told me that his friends R&J were wanting to hang out. Again, he included me in an “Of course you’re coming.” Then he took us to breakfast before Bass Pro and lunch with his friends. Since we were already out and about, we got to the lunch restaurant—Bamboo—early. While we’re sitting there, NGG gets a call from friend J2.

The conversation epitomizes why we left early… fJ2 was asking NGG is he could remember where his keys were. At one point in the night, someone must have hidden them from him. After NGG tells his friend that he wouldn’t know where the keys were, fJ2 confess that his hand is bloody from hitting a fence—he thinks; and there’s a scratch on his back from something he definitely doesn’t remember… and there was some incident involving the neighbors.

After the conversation, NGG confessed that they’re always like that which was the actual reason that we left when we did. Then we went into the restaurant to wait on his much more mature acting friends. I’m not going to lie here; I think that they were somewhat surprised to see me with NGG when they met us for lunch. But not so surprised that I could read it on their face.

Also, not so surprised that they didn’t suggest that we all go get custard and go to a movie afterward. After the movie, they asked what we wanted to do then; and NGG confessed that he needed to study—and I think that they were disappointed… At one point, friend R confessed that NGG and I had to stay together because he liked us together; his wife suggested something similar.

However, they didn’t appreciate my take on gay marriage. I mean—I thought the benefits of being gay were that we didn’t have to get married, have children, or join the military. But I think I made up for it later, but who knows?

When we got back to NGG’s house, I re-packed my overnight bag (for once, I decided that I should probably bring clothes to his house because he usually wants me to stay for the entire weekend)…and I was going to leave after hanging out for a few more minutes. He had to study anyway—and I felt that it might be nice to see if we could just hang out for a little bit alone.

Well, I fell asleep for a few minutes, maybe? When I woke up, he was watching me sleep…then I fell asleep when he started to study. The next time I woke up he was suggesting that we go to bed. He’d studied, cleaned his kitchen, and started a load of laundry while I was out cold on the couch. Part of me wanted to protest, but part of me felt that was probably wrong—so we slept together and didn’t have sex for once—which didn’t make me feel odd at all because we had sex Sunday morning.

Then we showered together before he went to work; and by the time I drove home, I had forgotten why I was pissed about finding the message in the first place. Even now that I’ve obsessed about it in print, I don’t feel self-conscious about it. It will either work itself out or it won’t…

Monday met some interesting people part 2

Monday met some interesting people pt one

This Friday I had a date with National Guard Guy. He invited me up on Monday…or Tuesday without any real agenda—meaning that he didn’t tell me what we were going to do; however, on Friday he bombarded me with food-related questions. During our text-message exchange prior to my leaving the house, he asked me if I did mushrooms which I took ambiguously since at that point I didn’t know if he was going to cook for me or take me on a psychedelic trip.

Once the fungi question was over, I got the distinct impression that he was going to cook for me which he did. Then just as I was getting into town, he informed me that he was also making his own deodorant and hair gel (or hair styling product). Both have a beeswax base and are all natural and lightly scented. No, I had no clue that he was so industrious.

When I arrived, he had finished his homemade products; and he was cooking spaghetti squash and starting a sauce. In all my years of dating, I’ve never had a guy cook for me—and no, I don’t count that time Prince Albert’s mom cooked us dinner; and I’m not going to lie—I liked it. It was cute all the way up to the point when I heard the door bell ring.

Just after I got in the house, NGG casually mentioned that he had “friends in town;” and that singular reveal came after I referred to his phone buzzing on the counter as he prepared dinner. So after I heard the ring at the door, I knew it wasn’t as much of a surprise as he let on that it was (Me: “Are you expecting company?” Him: “Um, no—I don’t know who it might be…” Me: [thinking to myself] “Sure”).  Yeah, so in walk two of his best friends.
Okay, I know I’m “socially awkward”; but we can make this work with two words: “Fake it”.

So, he introduces me to them as they enter the house; however, I’m left on my own to find out who they are—no, I didn’t immediately assume that the guests were the previously talked about friends. But they were, and I got through it with a, “I’m sorry. I know he gave you my name, but I didn’t get yours.” And it led into a playful conversation in which I was able to tell them that I was “socially awkward.”

The guy…Friend R is cute—he’s darker completed with matching hair; I’m guessing Latino because his girlfriend, Friend J is of Mexican-American decent. They’re nice, but not so overly nice that my face is aching from all the forced smiling. Also, they’re both very familiar with the house and NGG’s dog—Dog B, a yellow Labrador-mix with a sparkling personality. Additionally, I inferred that Friend J had lived with NGG while Friend R was stationed overseas—he was active in the Army before working with a sub-contractor, I think; and they used to live here because Friend R mentioned coming over on leave to steal Dog B.

Anyway, we all casually engage in light conversation before it’s mentioned that the other plans for the evening include us all going out with some of their other friends. But it’s ok. I know I didn’t sign up for friends yet; but this has to be a good sign, right? Right. Plus, Saturday is Springfield’s city-wide garage sale at the fairgrounds; and I planned on introducing him to C(B1)C—Crystal is afraid that if I have a boyfriend that she’ll never see me again…but it’s not in a “I don’t want you to have a boyfriend” kind of way…it’s more of a “another friend bites the dust” kind of way.
So, I figure if I introduce her it will sort of lighten that mood. Plus, she has never really met any of my other guys before; so I fell that it’s her turn to be the first friend to meet NGG. But I’ll get to more about that later.

Back to Friday night, and the conversation about us all going out later… Yeah… Since we’re getting ready to eat dinner, Friend J wants to go take a nap before our mutual outing; however, Friend R says he’s not tired at all from the drive and would like to hang out with us some more before we go out. Yeah, I felt that it was a bit odd for him to inject himself into our romantic situation; but c’est la vie, right? Right.

In the end, Friend J decided for him that he was going to go back with her before we all went out; and they left so we could eat dinner. Despite NGG being self-conscious about the squash being overcooked, it was actually pretty good. Yes, I was surprised; well, I suppose I have no basis to be surprised…but I was prepared to have to fake it—and it was nice to not have to, anyway.

Then after we’re done eating, we head out to Dublin’s Pass—this Irish-themed pub on the south side of town to meet up with his other friends. At this place, I meet Friend B—a co-worker and former military guy…Well, like, all of his guy friends are former/current military—mostly, army or national guard. Also, I meet Friend B’s girlfriend who is also NGG’s Friend S—who, also, lived with NGG at one point. Plus, Friend S’s sister is the one who gave NGG Dog G (this is probably going to get confusing here in a minute).

Now, Friend J isn’t here—but Friend R is with his Cute Friend C (RCFC for short). Friend J is with RCFC’s ex girlfriend at her house; and Friend’s R&J are staying with this chick… But, anyway. Friend B isn’t much to look at, but I think he’s going to be nice/funny since the first thing he tells me is, “Don’t believe anything you’ve heard about me.” Yes, I downplayed the fact that I hadn’t heard anything about any of them prior to meeting them that night.

True, NGG has mentioned his friends before; however, nothing specific was ever said—we hadn’t really gotten that far yet... So, I played off Friend B’s comment. I think Friend S had thought that I was some little secret of NGG’s because she was somewhat interested in how long we’ve known each other. Also, she was interested in personal details about me which was a little bit more than a polite interest. I do want to note that she and her boyfriend Friend B were the only two to make a point to tell me how they felt about NGG’s being able to come out after the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell—but it was a mild—“Duh” comment, in a happy way.

Then Friends B&S left—S had to work the next morning; and we remaining 4 continued with friendly conversation. Friend R definitely made an effort to keep me engaged in their conversation and invited me to occupy one of the empty seats left by the exiting couple. The two guys—Friend R and RCFC shared their “war stories” which included tales of divorce (including a personal note about RCFC’s divorce) and life on base. Even though I’m not really inclined toward knowledge of the military, I kept up with the conversation.

Then a little bit later, we decided that it was time to leave; and RCFC left and Friend R came back to NGG’s house with us since he wasn’t quite ready to go back to his wife. We watched some bad television (tru TV), they had a drink, and NGG drifted off to sleep. Other than cute, he’s pretty nice and eventually his wife came to collect him.

Shortly afterward, NGG and I went to bed. Dog B climbed into bed with us; and I’m pretty sure his cat slept on my pillow beside my head. I never sleep well at someone else’s house, but I think I managed a good few hours. Then the next morning, NGG and I took a shower and got ready for the city-wide garage sale.

While we were stuck in traffic, he expressed a mild dismay at what he’d gotten himself into by agreeing to come with me; however, once we were in the place, he seemed to enjoy himself. Also, he seemed to enjoy meeting Crystal as well as surprise visitor Erica—she even got a babysitter for her baby. He even took it ok meeting my Great Aunt—who is more like my Aunt—Connie and 2^nd cousin Sandy. No, I didn’t plan on introducing him to my family; however, it’s kind of awkward to just let him stand there silently when all I have to do is say, “Hey, this is my friend [NGG]”.  
       
Another concern of mine throughout the day was that he was going to feel left out because Crystal, Erica, and I tend to talk in code sometimes—we have a lot of inside jokes, stories, and innuendos; but he seemed to take it well (he actually told me later that he didn’t mind since he knew that I had a life outside of how he knew me; and he liked how “real” Crystal and Eric seemed even around him). Since both Crystal’s and Erica’s first impressions of him were good as well, the whole day turned out to be a success because he actually ended up purchasing the most crap at the sale than any of us (and wanting to purchase even more)—well, I’d say Crystal was pretty close; but I think that NGG spent more money.

After lunch, we went to the Springfield Leather Company to check out their leather selection. He has aspirations of opening a fetish-leather store—at least he’s got a dream. Then we went back to his house…and he told me that he had to go to a birthday party for another friend later in the evening. Since he’d never told me about this nor did he actually invite me to go with him, I asked him if he wanted to go alone—no, I didn’t say it in such a way that would imply that I would be angry with him either way.

His answer was quite simple—yes, he wanted me to go with him; and he said it in an “Of course you’re coming” type of way. Even though I was riding a pretty good self-confidence high, I still felt a pang in the back of my head. Yes, my neurotic-self-sabotaging flaw kicked in because I work in best worst-case scenarios. Plus, while he’s non-verbally communicating that we’re together, he’s made no verbal assertion of that fact.

Now, believe this or not, I’m not a snoop. No, I don’t normally go through someone’s phone when they’re not looking trying to find evidence of infidelity. Having said that, he does keep his phone in the console of his truck; and I happened to notice that he had 2 unread messages from Grindr. Yes, I happened to notice those messages without snooping—it was there, and all I did was glance down at the screen.

Those unread messages leapt out at me—like they wanted me to read them, or ask him about them…Well, they nagged at me until he was in the shower getting ready for our 2^nd outing in as many days with his friends; so I picked up his phone and discovered that he’d hooked up with some random guy on Thursday…All I read was, “I forgot the black-jock strap” sent from the random (or not so random guy); and his response of, “The front door is unlocked”.  The unread portion consisted of, “I had fun.” And “We should do it again sometime” from the random guy.

Believe it or not, I’m not a jealous person; and I will fully admit to what Denice pointed out to me when I texted her my internal struggle—we’re not exclusive…I could be doing the same thing…and he has not told me that I should expect us to be exclusive at any point in the future. Now, the last time we hooked up and were driving around, he did refer to me as a “Future partner”; but that’s not anything except a subtle suggestion that we might be more serious in the yet unknown future.

So, now, I have two pieces of information that I cannot react to because they’re not in our equation—I’m not supposed to know that the Saturday that Ambie and I stalked his house that there was an unknown truck in his driveway (p.s. I’ve met almost all of his friends and none of them drive that truck so far); and now, I know that he hooked up with a guy the night before he cooked me dinner and started introducing me to his friends. I know I get crazy about these things (and I know I’m wholly ridiculous, Denice); but when I’m faced with two opposite notions, I tend to think crazy.

No, I tend to get crazy. And I’ve painted myself into a corner because I can’t ask him about either of the things…which I probably wouldn’t do anyway. But why is he hooking up with guys on the side and introducing me to his friends… Why isn’t he asking me for sex if he wants a random encounter? Yes, I know that I live a good distance away; and I’ve implied that I can’t drop everything to come up to see him; but he never invites me up unless he’s going to be off for the next couple of days.

I guess you’ve got to take the good with the bad…

Monday met some interesting people pt one

Wednesday is breaking its promises

So, I told you all in my last post that I wasn’t going to blog about National Guard Guy anymore…however, I felt the need to tell the 2 of you who read this that don’t know me (and that I haven’t told via phone conversation) that things with NGG are fine. In fact, it’s actually progressing better than my job hunt. Besides that, I don’t think the blogging activated the crazy within myself; instead, I believe it was the fact that I had his actual full name saved in my phone.

I know, right? I shouldn’t have named the puppy, but the error has been corrected now; and I’m slated to spend this Friday night with him. No, I didn’t ever find out who’s truck that was in his driveway when Ambie and I stalked him; however, we did have a discussion about his farting that proved positive—he’s not going to do it in front of me anymore (and who says you can’t change a man?). All is right with the world again.

In other news, my mother is going to go to Nebraska this weekend to clean out my uncle’s apartment because he’s in jail for (“allegedly”) slitting some guy’s throat in a road rage incident two years ago. Yes, that’s all I know; and yes, that’s a bit of crazy from my family tree that I thought I’d share. But here’s an article complete with mug shot—it’s bad—the mug shot, and no, I don’t look a thing like my mother’s brother.

Apparently, his oldest son—and one of only two cousins from that side of the family (the other one is in jail, as well, for drug charges)—was arrested and released in connection with the incident. And look at me using phrases like I’m a crime reporter. This is the Grand Chahee signing off…

If only (I were signing off), I were a crime reporter. Anyway, I don’t exactly know how to take this. True, if you look at the mug shot, there is an unmistakable amount of crazy (and confusion) in his eyes. Also, according to this article my uncle sold the truck soon after the incident; however, according to that same article the victim claimed that there were three obese Hispanic perpetrators. So, since my uncle and his son are both unmistakably white, take that as you will--and the third man alleged to be in the truck has yet to be identified; however, knowing the girth of the two already recognized, I can't begin to speculate about the third man in the truck.

My somewhat chubby, white uncle is being charged with first-degree assault and with using a deadly weapon to commit a felony. His bail is either $200,000 or $250,000—I’m not really sure. Feel free to email me if you’d like to make a donation—personally, I’m not; however, something makes me want to start a Free Uncle T campaign—so let me know if there’s any interest, and I’ll get some shirts made (that mug shot would make a killer t-shirt). His son, obese-white cousin-Jayme, is free on bond? Well, according to my mother who heard it from his mother (my uncle’s crazy, first-ex-wife), he’s not in jail.

My mother is a fixer-type person and is trying to help out in any way that she can (let's hope she doesn't get arrrested in the process). My father believes that she has a bleeding heart and should cut her losses; however, thankfully, he’s not saying much either way this time because we all know that will blow up in his face. However, mom is planning on visiting her only brother in jail on Friday and then again on Sunday because they need to figure out a way to get him a better lawyer which translates to Uncle T wanting my mother to pitch in some cash to hire him a better lawyer.

Like my father, I’m staying out of this one—like New Jersey out.

And just so we’re all clear, this blog is strictly being posted for entertainment purposes only. The Grand Chahee is in no way speculating about either the guilt or innocence of the parties involved. Any implied claims made to the innocence or guilt of the parties involved is strictly at the speculation of the reader. Additionally, The Grand Chahee makes no claims to any knowledge not already presented in either local news or facts pertaining to the case made readily available via the local court records both obtainable via the internet. As the Grand Chahee has not been made aware of his Miranda rights, no part of this blog can be used as testimony or counted as fact in the eyes of a court or any judicial proceedings.

In regards to National Guard Guy, the Grand Chahee has revoked any prior claims to stop obsessing over his behavior and will blog about that subject matter until we’re all sick and tired of it.

Wednesday is breaking its promises

Sunday is going to blame the blogging.

It was over an hour before I received a response from National Guard on Friday. Since I deleted all the text messages in my phone, I can’t exactly remember it word for word; however, I can assure you that it wasn’t the response I was wanting. Maybe I should just say that his response isn’t what I wanted to talk about right now.

Overall, Saturday was a pretty good day. I knew that National Guard had his massage class—so there was no way we were going to hang out during the hours of 8-5. So, shortly after I woke up, I texted Crystal. Long story short, we ended up going to the zoo (the pics are posted to Facebook); and overall, it was a great time. As we were driving home, it got to be after 5…and there was no text from National Guard.

Eventually, he texted me…and just as I was about to think all was right in the world, it turned out to be some nonsense. He sent me a picture of his tax return under the heading—“Look what I got before tax season.” Again, it was not the response I was wanting. On our way home, Crystal was preaching to me to not take everything so seriously—if I didn’t get anything from him, I should “take matters into my own hands” (her code for masturbation); and simply, relax.

So, instead of chiding him for not immediately inviting me to have sex with him, I texted National Guard back some random compliment about how “cool” it was that he’d already received his refund. Then I asked him about his day… So, long story short, I did not receive the invite I was awaiting. However, since I knew that Crystal was heading to dinner with her husband (and I’m not one to interrupt marital harmony), I texted and then called Ambie.

Ambie is really good to vent to because she never tells me how crazy I sound. Also, she’s good to vent to because she doesn’t make me think I’m sane when I tell her how crazy I feel. However, she does have a different outlook on things than Crystal—she likes to know. Or maybe it’s better said by stating that she doesn’t like to not know. Long story short here—we agree that maybe Crystal is right; maybe tonight just isn’t the night for National Guard and I to get together.

Crystal was right about that. During our conversation Ambie and I decide to drive to Springfield to pick up some supplies—Ambie knows what those are; however, I don’t feel that the rest of the world needs to know, as well. And during our journey, we happened to drive by National Guard’s house. Now, I think I have to admit that not knowing is better…

In his driveway, we saw a truck that I didn’t recognize; and his vehicle was gone. As Ambie pointed out, the truck in his driveway is something I’m not supposed to know about and thus can never mention. So, I denied myself the immediate gratification I craved and ignored the immediate urge to text him (and question him about his whereabouts).

Yes, this led to me emotionally overeating and obsessing about why he didn’t invite me over.

Somewhere during my gluttony—and pick the overeating or obsessing—I had an epiphany. I was perfectly sane before I blogged about him. I was perfectly sane before I took to this medium to confess to the world that I kind of liked this guy and implied that I wanted something more than just that single nice weekend with him.

However, since I started this cycle, only I can end it. But before I sign off on the topic of National Guard forever, I will tell you that he did text me, “Hey sexy” at 4:08 pm this afternoon…I replied back with, “Howdy.” And I have not received another reply since.

Yes, his “massage class” should have been the same hours today as they were yesterday. Yes, I have been wondering why he texted me at all if he wasn’t going to continue the conversation. But, no, I did not text him anything else—nor do I intend to until I receive another message. I am going to conclude that every guy—even one I might be interested in—might want some time to himself on occasion; and that maybe he’s dead asleep or walking his dogs or studying. If he wants me to know, he’ll text me.

No, my strength won’t last forever; however, I won’t be blogging about him again…

Sunday is going to blame the blogging.

Friday thought it was time

I know it’s been a while. No, I’m not going to skirt that issue this time. If you look, I think it’s been like since October since I last posted (no, I didn’t look before I posted; however, I think I can remember my own blogging correctly). And I’m not going to lie here and tell you how much I missed it…And don’t lie to me and tell me you missed it. But, “je ne regrette rien”—I’m not sorry for anything (which I just posted to my Facebook as my new personal slogan for 2012).

Before I start to sound bitter because I don’t have an audience (because I’m sure that’s not the way to get one), I will tell you that I’ve been dedicating my time to other deeds. No, I’m not going to elaborate what that means; however, I will tell you that those endeavors do not include sex with men. Well, up until the end of 2011—and that brief, unfortunate rendezvous I had after 8in of fun told me he got caught by his wife—I had not had sex.

No, I didn’t really miss it. That being said, I didn’t really miss it until I had it again; and now, after two different men in the past week—or so—I’m back to craving it like a zombie craves human brains. Maybe that’s a little inaccurate—I’m not being as mindless as I would imagine that a zombie is; however, it’s the best analogy I could come up with as I typed. Yes, I realize that there’s an editing process where—if employed—I could have all the time in the world to come up with something more dynamic; however, that’s just not how I roll.

Now, we all know I’m not very good at resisting the urge to have sex for validation—how many years have I been blogging? That’s not the point. The point is what’s new for 2012 is that I only want to have sex with one man—well, I suppose, I should say that I want to have sex with one of two men. This is not a sign of the apocalypse…this is…Well, I’m not sure what it is…I was going to say it is the “wisdom that comes with age”; but that’s about as accurate as the whole zombie issue earlier…

Bachelor #1—only number one because he was the first in this timeline—is some sort of social worker. He had a nice home on the north side of Springfield. We bonded over a shared love of obsessive fascination with knowledge of Battlestar Galactica. What? It was all his idea to put on the soundtrack from all 4 seasons while we messed around—don’t look at me like that. He’s in his early 30’s and a nice guy, however, self-described as shy—which he is… (leading me to call him Mr. Shy…wait, I’m going to throw a Battlestar reference out here and call him “the Fraker”) He doesn’t text me; but he will return my messages within a somewhat suitable period of time.

Now, I need to tell you that I haven’t texted him since I met Bachelor #2.

Bachelor #2 was the last guy of 2011 and the first guy of 2012. Yes, I spent New Year’s Eve with him. Yes, that means that we went out on a date for New Year’s Eve, I spent the night with him, and we continued to hang out until Sunday evening. He’s also a nice guy. I like his build and personality a little better than the Fraker; however, he is a bit shorter. But before I let this turn into a comparison chart, I should tell you that this guy is in the Missouri National Guard (which means that I like his hair cut), is currently studying to be a massage therapist, and is just a year younger than me.

Now, we’ll compare. After a few drinks, the Fraker did not disappoint in the bedroom department; and having said that, neither did National Guard, but it seems that we like to play the same position on the field—however, we made do with our individual talents. Also, National Guard seems like he’d be up for just about anything—which is always fun because variety is the spice of life. Yes, National Guard is the clear winner in this debate (Ha!); however, for reasons I haven’t mentioned (like he’s kind of awkward to talk to on the phone; and since I told him I’m unemployed, I think he’s lost interest in me) I’m not going to completely rule out the Fraker.

*Update*

I just texted National Guard and pathetically asked, “When do I get to see you again.”

His response: “Tomorrow? But I need time to study.”

My response: “I thought your test was tomorrow.”

And I’m awaiting his response to that.

Hmmm. I suppose what I have to say next sort of hinges on that response. Anyway, the Fraker and I had a great time; and I think we actually have more in common—plus, I lied and told him that I still had a job. I know lying is deceptive—but it’s not really any of his business. I mean—it’s not like I’m asking him to support me.

So, upon waiting like 5 minutes and typing the above paragraph, I still didn’t receive a response; so I uncertainly texted, “Well, at any rate, I’m happy to help you study ;)”

Yes, I feel dirty for that text emoticon—a winking smiley reeks of desperation; however, he is a massage student… I’m sure “studying” for a test would involve him putting his hands on me at some point. What’s so wrong with that? I know—I can’t even type what’s wrong with that…

Fyi: National Guard isn’t very good at quick responses—even when we’re involved in a back-and-forth conversation; so, I have no response as of the publication of this blog. Yes, I’m aware that I could hold off on publishing until I receive one; however, I feel that waiting would cast me in an even more pathetic light that I already have.

No, I doubt I’ll get around to posting his reply—should he reply at some point in the near future; je ne regrette rien!

Even after googling “je ne regrette rien” and finding out that it actually means, “I regret nothing” according to a translation site—while wiki still says it means, “No, I’m not sorry for anything” (I know I’m just stalling and splitting hairs there)…What? Oh yeah, even after all that, I still haven’t gotten anything…like a time, a place, or even a confirmation that his test is tomorrow like he said it was earlier in the week…

I’m going to be strong, though. There will be no repeat of the “K…WTF…35 missed calls from you? I woke up to find that” in National Guard’s future. But the longer I wait, the more I want to keep texting…then you know I’m going to call…then you know that’s not going to be good. Now, I’m going to say something that I’ve probably never said before, Pray for me, ya’ll…pray for me.

Friday thought it was time

Friday kinda saw this coming

In all honesty, I started this yesterday, but fell asleep. Well, I did fall asleep before completing it; however, to say that’s a direct line (I started this then fell asleep while writing) would be a little deceiving. As I think I’ve mentioned before, my sleep patterns have been a little off lately. I’m not going to elaborate further—it’s just as a writer, I like to build suspense by going off on tangents.

I doubt it’s an effective means of creating interest; however, it’s a process more than a means. But no matter, I’ll get back on track in a few sentences (this is not it). In between posting my “teaser” yesterday and starting a whole new post today (it was all in the present tense; and now, it’s all past tense—so I had to scrap it all), I got sidetracked by some bad cologne.

Well, I got covered with the stench of bad cologne while searching for a replacement for 8in of fun. See, not all of my tangents go that far off track. But now, you’re wondering why I needed a replacement for 8in of fun—which is the point of this post; well, the general point anyway.

Anyway.

Yesterday, at 8:39 AM (by the text’s time stamp), I got a text message from 8in of fun. I’ll save the buildup and just tell you it wasn’t the text I was expecting.

“Hi, how [are] [you]? Me, not so good. [I] lost my job, and [my] wife kicked me out.”

It’s a thing I have correcting text shorthand; however, that was the message I got. Obviously, I was expecting something along the lines of “house is free at []. I want to [] you”. He had texted me last Friday (in the afternoon, after our usual dalliance); and told me his wife was expected to be out on Thursday and Friday (I inferred that she was going out of town).

On Tuesday, I saw an interesting Craigslist posting (I think it’s safe to say that you all know I check those out regularly—if only for entertainment value). A 40-year old Bolivar man had posted about his wife being out of town for the weekend, and he was looking for some fun. Now, despite the poster describing his member as “8in of total fun” in the ad, this had him written all over it (I didn’t come up with his nickname on my own, you know).

And I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t respond to it. And I’m not going to pretend that I just responded to it to make sure it was him—I knew it was him. What I wanted to know is if his other arrangements would/could affect his plans with me. My findings in that area were too obscure to be totally certain (I think he was trying to work around me; however, to be totally honest, I think if my fake offer was presented in such a way—my real offer would have been deferred). But within two emails, I did have his number—the same number I have for him in my phone (I told him I couldn’t give out my phone number due to my being married and the need for discretion).

His text on Thursday confirmed a suspension I had about his posting on Craigslist not centered around petty jealously—it could get him caught. I didn’t just stop the conversation with him telling me that he’d been caught and expelled by his wife. I tried to extrapolate as much information about the event as possible—as much for my own fascination as for entertainment value. Wow, that sounds kinda cold. But I’m not going to delete it.

His account of how his wife was informed wasn’t exactly without holes—part of it didn’t make sense to me, but maybe we’ll examine that here in a few seconds. He said someone had responded to his ad and then forwarded the emails to his wife. This someone (who is not me—I just felt I needed to say it, incase the entertainment value comment cast this in that sinister light) said that they liked “busting married men”.

What I don’t get is how the internet avenger knew who his wife was. That’s the hole I could never fill. While 8in of fun isn’t as discreet as I would be, he doesn’t have his name on his email—nor does he offer it readily. I only knew his first name because that other guy told me; I only found his last name from context clues that I found while visiting his house several times over the past few months. I mean his age in the ad wasn’t even correct (he’s still saying he is 40).

He was adamant that he tried to pursue the fellow who was responsible for forwarding the emails to his wife—that she then used to get him fired from his job (he admitted that he worked construction part-time; however, he mostly got paid through doing the books for his church—which as I posted before, he’s an associate pastor). The mystery man never showed for him “to beat his ass” as he texted me (he continued that if he ever finds the man he’s going to “cut his balls off”).

I don’t know what he emailed the internet avenger; but like I said, based on what he emailed me, the only identity vulnerable piece of information I gleaned was his phone number. Unless the avenger knew him from that, I don’t know how you can connect the dots from his emails to his wife. While the thought seemingly never crossed his mind, this had to have been perpetuated by his wife; and from what that guy from up north has told me, isn’t that far off base to think (supposedly, he’s almost been caught before).

Now, I’m not sure if I’m the one who should post this conundrum; however, it’s on my mind, so I’m going to type it. Never in his many texts on this subject did he ever admit to his own culpability in the situation. Never once did he admit that cheating on his wife was the wrong thing to do, and that dishonesty led him to his present situation. I expected the “revelation” to hit him during our text exchange—that this was all his fault. But he continued to blame this nameless internet avenger for “ruining his life”.

Maybe that thought is just on my mind because his getting caught means that we probably won’t have sex again (while he wasn’t clear what he was going to do yesterday, he did suggest that he would go to stay in Oklahoma with some family). And that is something I do blame him for because I’ll probably miss the excitement. To get back on track with this post, when he was texting me about his predicament, he did not suggest that we meet up and hook up one last time (which is one reason—probably the main reason—I kept texting him back). And this leads me to the tale of how I got enveloped with the smell of bad cologne.

Friday kinda saw this coming

Thursday doesn’t think I’m going to get laid as originally planned…

Well, well. Just as I was publishing the previous post (yes, that whole analogy about bread/cake was so I could type, “Let them eat cake.”), I received a text from 8in of fun. I thought it was a time for our little meeting; however, what I got wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be.

I’m waiting for it to all play out here, but I don’t know that cake is on my plate anymore.

Thursday doesn’t think I’m going to get laid as originally planned…

Thursday doesn’t consider it failure

I went out on a date—an honest date. It was kind of random; however, still somewhat planned. It was a dinner date. I paid for myself. And then we went back to his place where we watched a movie on cable.

He wasn’t a bad guy. Yes, he was kind of short. Yes, he was kind of balding. Yes, he seemed to like to complain about his life. Yes, I felt the entire time that I had the upper hand; and no, it didn’t make me any more interested. He is 40, I’m 29. I can say I’m better looking than he is with out being conceited. He likes ballroom dance and talked about his musical-theatre experience. He liked the fact that I can crochet and talked about me making his nephew a hat.

That’s when I knew, you see—that’s when I knew I had that upper hand.

Well, isn’t it obvious? It wasn’t the difference in age (I’ve dated guys far older than me that I never even saw a hand in those trysts)—same can be said of looks (ugly guys can make me feel almost as self-conscious as the hot ones). The dance and vocal history thing just make me far less gay than him—basically, only serving to make me more disinterested (however, just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean they are—so it doesn’t immediately give me power). It was the hat request.

Simply, we’ve know each other in real life for all of 30 minutes (maybe), and he’s already concocting a way to be with me again. It’s not like I had my yarn with me (believe it or not, it’s not something that I usually bring along), so I’d have to have some further contact to implement the hat-making scenario. He likes me. He likes me far sooner than I could even develop a like for him. And that’s a feeling I can control in myself to control the situation (our date), so the more I tourniquet my positive responses—the more power I gain.

It’s a game. It’s a lot like economics—well, supply and demand. Price in economics will translate to power this situation. Say I’m bread—just as an example. If there’s a shortage of bread, the price of bread increases. When there is an excess in the bread supply, the price of bread decreases. The more he likes me equals the more power I have.

Now, economics isn’t exactly that black and white—maybe bread is in short supply, but there’s lots of cake.

Some would say “Let them eat cake”; however, when someone is 40, bald, short, with an eccentricity of not liking to wear socks, they’re not going to hold out for cake. Let’s face it, cake is tastes far better—sure—but we can’t all eat cake, can we? We can make cake—but who has the time? (Especially if you consider cake mixes cheating—because anything worth having is worth waiting for. And bread could arguably take even longer to make—when you count all the kneading and rising and punching down and rising and baking times can vary by oven.)

When you’ve got a slab of bread in front of you—waiting to be paid for (that’s far more masculine and has much more hair than you probably ever had—we are taking about bread, which shouldn’t have hair at all—but what if you like hair in your bread?), why would you want to go back to the store and wait in a cake-line to buy a slice of cake that will probably laugh in your face without the courtesy of going out on a date with you in the first place be sold out once you get there (meaning that you’ll have to pay an even higher price for the bread once you get it out again—not to mention tuck another shirt into you’re too tight jeans just so the tails don’t stick out from under the sweater…and don’t get me started on those damn socks—or lack there of, anyway.)?

Yeah, so that’s the game: if you know someone likes you, that’s the hand; and if you know someone likes you more than you like them, that’s the upper hand. So when the guy I’ve met just 30 minutes ago is prematurely manufacturing ways to be with me again before we’ve even had dinner, I know I’ve got the upper hand. It’s the hand I’ve been dealt, and I can only play the cards I’ve got.

Say what you will, but everyone wants the upper hand. It usually takes several tries to get it; but once it’s had, everyone plays it. I didn’t make the rules here, I’m just the one that’s willing to admit that I loose interest when I know I don’t have to play that hard (because who doesn’t like to keep playing?).

So, I went to dinner. I made the casual small-talk. I drove him back to his place; and once we were back at his apartment, I let him dim the lights. I agreed to watch a movie on cable (Pay-per-view was offered; but I declined because even though I knew it wasn’t my $4.99, I still thought it was a waste of money—and wouldn’t go back in time and buy me dinner). And I let him do his little couch-scooting dance up to the point that I was hugging my side of the couch so much I thought my arm was going to fall asleep while he petted my other arm and casually rested his bald head on my shoulder.

And his profile said he was a top. Please. This man doesn’t have the throw down to be a top—if he did, I wouldn’t have been able to walk away so easily in the middle of Saturday Night Live (it came on after the movie). If he were a top, I wouldn’t have known SNL was on; and I wouldn’t have been able to leave so easily because I wouldn’t have had my clothes on.

Please

That’s just like every picture he has on his profile he’s in a hat (even in his semi-nude one). Too bad he didn’t wear a hat on our date—it wouldn’t have bought him a second chance; however, I wouldn’t have been subjected to the desperation of him trying to use what he had left to cover what isn’t there—the hat would have done that (those lonely shoots springing up and banding to gether) . A bald man wearing a hat to compete in the dating pool is deceiving. Let’s not forget, omission is betrayal—and while covering something up may not exactly be omitting it; however, he knew it wasn’t right—that’s why he covered it up. Let me say it again, Pa-Leeze (pardon that misspelling).

I’m going to keep eating my cake, thank you (cake is 8in of fun—for those of you who don’t follow this set-up). It’s probably not good for me. It definitely won’t sustain me forever. I’ll never be able to have it and eat it. But it’s on my plate for now; and when the only other alternative is a stale piece of white-bread, cake tastes pretty damn good…

Thursday doesn’t consider it failure

Thursday’s chickens hatched.

(editor’s note: this was started last Friday and I forgot to post it)

Who knew all I had to do was ask and I would receive? Hell, I didn’t really ask—it was a casual suggestion. Fine, I’m not sure if I said, “Hey, that hot tub sounds good.” Or if I said, “Hey, what about that hot tub?” I know one is a suggestion…one is a question. I know the inherent difference between the two.

I’m not going to lie here; I’m thinking about knocking one out, but don’t know if I have it in me after my meeting with 8in of fun. He met me at the door in a robe. Obviously, you get that his hot tub was a factor this time. It’s like a magic hot tub—he slipped right in…we didn’t just fool around in it this time…we finally managed to fuck somewhere other than his bed.

Well, we hit the bed, too. He was in the mood for a backdoor action himself. It may have been my playing with his ass a little while in the hot tub. I don’t know. I wasn’t really suggesting it; it was there—and I was in a position to play around with it while he was playing around in me.

Usually, when he suggests I plug him, we get right down to it (I always thought the sense of urgency stemmed from his not wanting to lose the nerve). But I let him squirm a while. Then I asked him to flip over, and I plowed him doggie style. This is a deviation.

We also went at it for over an hour and a half combined…I can’t take all of the credit there. He ended up going at me three times (one hot tub; two bed—no, I wasn’t doggie for either, but I did push him back in the hot tub and he was sitting for a little bit of it…I think he likes to have my mouth available to kiss me is why we’re constantly doing it missionary…and I suppose I can’t begrudge him that; however, I enjoyed the doggie—there was something sexy about his back). I think he was just excited to see me.

Continued from last Friday.

I received the text on Monday afternoon asking if Friday would work for me. By some twist of fate, I wasn’t able to respond until Tuesday (my sleep pattern is again fucked up). He hasn’t responded yet; and I’m not sure hot to take that. The text from Monday asked if I was ready for “hot tub and bed” on Friday, so I’m guessing he liked the hot tub.

I noticed the last time that the road is only too visible when we get out of that hot tub to dry off. He doesn’t seem to mind this—going so far as to suggest that some of the ladies drive down his road for the specific purpose. I suppose none of his fellow church goers live down his road.

On a different note, The Shot’s celebrated their 2-year anniversary on Monday. Congratulations. They had a party this weekend. It was fun. Then they left Monday for a bed and breakfast in Branson (I haven’t heard from them; however, I’m assuming they were going as planned).

I would continue more; however, I just realized that tomorrow is trash day; and I still haven’t done that—if I don’t do it now, I’ll forget it and then I’ll have to hear that we have trash backed up.

Thursday’s chickens hatched.

Friday doesn’t feel good about counting chickens and all that

Well, just like a watched pot never boils, you shouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch. Last week I did as I was regaling you with a pointless post about how mundane my encounters with 8in of fun were getting (really that was a cry for help—and by help, I do mean Dr. Sexy; Dr. Sexy, where have you been anyway? You know I make a point of never texting a man…are you testing my resolve?).

That (the part in the parenthesis) was a tangent (or a sign of desperation—no, I don’t consider Dr. Sexy a desperate choice—far from it; the fact that I actually typed that, may very well be…because you all know I’d never beg for sex…well, I’d never openly beg for sex…I hope that doesn’t come off as insulting, because the point I’m trying to express is that I want Dr. Sexy to text me in an effort to reestablish communication with the end result being him leading me to his basement and putting me up in that sling. Or filming the much anticipated sequel to our first and only sex “tape”; or at the very least, his texting me to tell me he’d like to do it all again). But, again, I digress.

Back to the matter at hand—counting chickens that haven’t hatched. Well, 8in of fun actually cancelled last week. It was far enough in advance to not trip my “last minute cancellation” trigger; plus it was so flattering, I couldn’t find a way to be mad about it.

“Sorry, this is our day, and it’s messed up; I wait all week for you.”

Well, part of me figured that this might be the beginning of the end for us (you all know I’m quick to jump on that bandwagon). It all starts with a haphazard cancellation, followed by another and another; and then you just sort of “lose touch”. I’m half surprised that he hasn’t found somebody new already anyway.

At any rate, I got the text Thursday morning (yesterday). I’m supposed to meet him at our “regular time” 8am. I got the text at about 8am, so I wasn’t as witty as I could have been. I meant to suggest something dirty for us to do… or maybe to encourage the use of his hot tub again—anything really to just liven things up. But I didn’t—I just confirmed that the 8am time would work.

Remind me later today when (or even if) I get his text giving me the final invite to suggest something dirty. Or maybe I’ll just drop to my knees when he opens the front door. What do I have to lose?

Friday doesn’t feel good about counting chickens and all that