Four strikes and one score

One down:

My mom's questioning earlier this evening was telling. "So whatever happened with that art show?" she asked.

"What art show?" I inquired.

"The one where you had to turn that guy down as your date. You know, the guy who had no time for you!" she said, incredulous that my frivolity allows me to forget such things. She was talking about Mr. Dapper. "Oh. I just didn't go."

I realized then just how much faith my mother had in me in terms of dating and self-respect. She knew in her heart that I would never put up with someone who was careless with mine; making it harder to admit to herself that actually, I am.

After that, my friend called. "What were all those emails about?" he marvelled. "What do you need?" I'd emailed him probably five times earlier that day. I'd been invited to see a band - the guy I've been sleeping with. The one who isn't into me. And, I was on the guest list (plus one). I needed a partner in crime. A partner to hold my hand when the inevitable happened.

I explained to him my request. "I wouldn't have helped you with that anyway," he answered. "You only like this guy because he thinks he's a rockstar and he's all rockstar-asshole to you."

"No, it's better now," I heard myself say. "I just have to keep my expectations in check." I would lecture my friends if I ever heard them speak like this.

"Oh, brother," was his answer. He may have said something more enlightening, but I wasn't listening.

It was the same thing I said to my mother an hour earlier. She'd sighed as though she'd heard it too many times already - which, really makes sense considering that I have two older sisters. She has heard it all before - just never from me. What I meant was that I know he doesn't have as much time for me as I'd like; nor does he reassure me that I am anything special to him. Yet, the sex is great. When we do hang out, I feel incredible. I pretend he's a trusted companion; right up to the point where he disappears out my apartment door. I lock the door behind him and begin wondering if I will ever see him again in a context anything similar to this.

My consolation is in that I'm not sure I would date him given a fair opportunity. But, at least 40 per cent of me knows that's not true.

He said he'd call me when he finished packing away his gear. I desperately wanted him to, but wasn't sure he would. I tried to feel indifferent.

Two down:

Mr. Dapper's so-called rockstar demeanor makes me feel the need to look busy (and popular) in his presence. Just tonight, I invited an old friend to join me at the show. As he already knew the band, and the people in it, he was a prime and enthusiastic partner in crime. He is, in fact, one of the cursed. You know what I mean. He's the guy who's friends with everyone, but never anyone's boyfriend. An untouchable man-about-town. Always a bridesmaid. Never gets laid.

Ultimately, it was his behaviour that made me realize just how much Mr. Dapper ignored me. After an entire evening of band-watching, two after-show beer, a mid-show mention by the leading man (and even a brief kiss good-bye), he still thought I was available. That means everyone thought Mr. Dapper was still available, too.

After buying bagels at the all-night bakery during the walk home, he said, "All I ask is that you share my bed tonight."

"No," I said, crushed. "But, take some bagels. You'll want them in the morning." He conceded that I was right, and we swept up our pride, dusted off the snow and walked our own directions home. His ego was hurt because of how easy it was for me to say no, and mine was damaged by the ease with which he asked.

Two to go:

I checked my email when I got home. I'd written a note to an acquaintance about my concerns that he might be thinking I was interested in sex with him. He'd invited me on a company-comped vacation for my birthday weekend. It had occurred to me that his intentions might not be so innocent when he said we should rather go alone than with another couple as originally planned. Clearing the air about any sexual expectations would squash awkwardness, I thought.

Wrong. WRONG. Wrong. By contemporary standards and email trends, his response was violent: caps, red text and copied-and-pasted quotes from my original email. According to him, I had suggested he was capable of "rape", that he was desperate for both friends and "pussy", and that I was just using him for a "free vacation" - which, to be fair would have cost me $200.

This is why my friends didn't want me to go. He's an asshead.

Last man standing:

The email made me angry and I was steeping in it when Mr. Dapper called.

"Hi," he said, with a smile in his voice.

"Hey," I said, and the anger swam to the background. "You want to know if you are still invited to come over? You are."

"Okay, I just ordered a cheeseburger but I'll be over as soon as I get it."

I come second to a cheeseburger, I reasoned, irrationally. I can live with that. The man is hungry. As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again.

"Hey," said another familiar male voice. It was the art-man checking in on me. "You didn't come to the show."

Earlier he'd called to see what I'd be doing that night, forcing me to be vague and avoid telling him about the plans to see Mr. Dapper rock out at another gig. He'd gone to another diversionary gig I strategically mentioned, and missed me. Now, at 2:15 a.m. he was making a booty-call. Opting for the "oblivious out" we hung up politely with breakfast plans in the imminent future. He called back minutes later to make it clear he wanted to come over. Mr. Dapper was already on his way. "I don't think so," I said. The disappointment in his voice was clear and I was reasonably sure he wouldn't be calling again for sex. Still, when the doorbell rang I wasn't sure who'd it be.

I knew who I wanted it to be, and how I wanted him to be, but it's never really that easy. Is it?