Late Night Texts (and other issues of a hot chick)

I was having a conversation with a dude friend of the mine the other day through text messages regarding the state of my current relationship; a relationship that has no doubt had some extremely rough patches the passed half year, but (possibly in vain) my boyfriend and I are attempting to push passed that and make it work.

The conversation started off innocent enough. He sent me a text saying “So I heard you and Mike were back together” and I responded with the traditional “yeah, we’re trying to work things out.” We went back and forth for a bit about it, nothing too interesting or thought-provoking, and then when we had exhausted the conversation at hand, I received this text from him: ”Well, let me know when you want me to tie you up and you want to cum all over the place.”

Oh. That’s clearly the obvious next transition after a lady says she’s trying to work things out with her boyfriend and you’ve offered her advice. But, of course. At this point, I have no choice however, but to ignore the offer, delete the whole text conversation, and assume that everything that was said prior was just simply… bullshit.

Cut to a few hours later while I was sitting on Facebook instead of doing the umpteen homework assignments I should have been doing, and a young gentlemen I used to wait on over the winter at the Sushi Bar begins chatting with me. Once again, it starts innocent enough as he asks me about what I’m studying in school, if we’ve been busy at the ski mountain I work at and other general questions about me and then he offers, what seems like a platonic invitation to go down to NYC and hang out on his speed boat. I respond with a nonchalant reply, saying that my boyfriend and I would love that. To which he responds “I was thinkin just you could come. The only reason I want to get you on the boat is to see you in a bikini. Sorry to be so blunt. haha.” I reply with a ‘haha’ of my own and then block him from being able to see me online while on Facebook, and once again have to assume that any supposed interest in my life and accomplishments and anything aside from me in a bikini was… bullshit.

Alas, the day is hardly over yet … I still have to get through work. Work goes by relatively calmly and slowly with little attempts to get me to take off my clothes. Until the very end, of course, when another upstanding example of the male gender, skipping all the initial ‘I am interested in you’ hoo ha, leans down and whispers in my ear “I wanna see your butt.”

And nothing finishes off the cycle of perpetual sexual harassment like waking up the following morning to three text messages from a drunk dude who takes and blends all of these other comments into one long-winded, drunken attempt to woo me naked.

This, my friends, are the daily trials of a hot chick.

I would assume at this point you’re probably thinking something along the lines of you poor thing, you while rolling your eyes. There is no doubt that I think that to myself, too. Yes, of course there are worse lives to live and worse fates to endure. Honestly, for the most part, I enjoy these little daily tribulations that occur merely because I’m not half-bad looking, regardless of the fact that I typically have no interest whatsoever in the deliverer. To put it ‘bluntly,’ they make me feel good… and reaffirm what I have been telling myself for years: holy shit, you’re desirable.

I am not the only hot chick in the nation who deals with this and I am certainly not the hottest chick. (Maybe in southern Vermont… ? Our numbers are down drastically as younger generations choose to leave and move elsewhere.) Women all over the world deal with this, and most, like myself, tend to enjoy it on some level. Some, like myself, even have certain people that they hope will sexually harass them. You know, the late night text that you wake up with and you’re like “he loves me, he really loves me,” only to later realize he was just hammered and probably banged another chick two seconds after in some drunk passion fest that you did not get to partake in because you were sound asleep. (oh. Damn.) And that’s my point (you can stop thinking ‘what’s this cocky bitch getting to’ now)… it usually means nothing.

Hot chicks all over the world are wandering aimlessly with nothing but an inbox full of messages declaring their utter hotness. That’s it. Declarations void of any actual connection- unless you count the sweaty loin kind- usually riddled with misspellings and bold attempts to someday, any day, get them naked, but not get them to the alter.

And now, we have a bunch of hot chicks wandering aimlessly not only with meaningless late night texts and voice mails, but they’re confused. What is love? (Baby, don’t hurt me.) You’re told as a little girl when you meet the right dude, “you’ll just know.” That’s crap. You will not know. You may almost know. You may think you know. You may sincerely be hopelessly in love, but you will not just know. The woman (my mother) who told me that upon meeting the man I’m supposed to be with I would be certain, was also a woman who ran away to get married, was happily in love and positive he was the right guy for over ten years, until one day she woke up and said “wait, I don’t know.” Now she’s getting married again. Does she know- regardless of what her heart says? Nope, but that is the chance you take, and a valiant chance at that. (No girl in any fairy-tale got the happy ending without taking the chance.) The fact is, nothing is certain forever, and although love can withstand the test of time and jam-packed instant messaging chatter boxes, it is not guaranteed.

Add to that the daunting task of deciphering what’s real and what’s not. Weeding through the ‘full of shit’ versus the sincere is a challenge one must undertake, whether you’re hot or not. You do not have a choice in accepting this mission; you just have to, and now, with intercultural communication being as easy as hitting send, bullshit travels farther and inboxes remain fuller.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my father sat me down for what was intended to be one of those ‘talks.’ Not a talk where he describes to me in great detail the biology of how sex is performed, but rather the kind of talk where he prepares me for being hot chick. He fidgeted nervously across the table from me, a beer leaving rings of condensation on the cheap wood top, as he stumbled through one of the most awkward conversations I may have ever been in. I don’t remember much of what was said; most of it was probably not important. However, one thing has stuck with me through every confidential tète-à-tète I have had with a man since then:

“Listen Becki, all I’m trying to say is that a man will say anything to have sex with a girl. He will tell you that he will cut off his own head just for the chance. He’s most likely not going to cut his own head off so just don’t believe everything they say to you. Capiche?”

So hot chicks (or any chick or any dude for that matter- because girls lie, too), while being bombarded with compliments and offers of late night fornicating and bikini fashion shows, just know that- from advice only a father could give- in the end if the only time he sends you a text is when whiskey is talking for him, or he turns every conversation into a sex reference, or he’s already in a relationship, or whatever, he’s probably not going to cut his head off for you. Or watch Free Willy with you. Or get you in to meet the Rolling Stones. And when you meet the dude that will watch Free Willy with you, you won’t know for damn sure if he’s “the one” and your relationship is going to last for the rest of eternity…

But hey– what’s life without a little mystery? And seriously… there are worse things in life than someone thinkin’ you’re a hot chick.

(Feminists around the world, please note: I’m using the term sexual harassment lightly here. Please refrain from burning your bras and realize I am not talking about unwanted groping or actual harassment the likes of which sincerely make someone uncomfortable. Thank you.)

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This entry was posted in a contradictory life coach, a romantic commitment-phobe, an aimless ranter. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Late Night Texts (and other issues of a hot chick)

  1. Dennis says:

    great. really great!

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