Over the coming weeks, The Philosopher would text message me randomly before disappearing again. Mostly the conversations degraded quickly into some kind of sexy talk and I would try to redirect, deflect, or just terminate the conversation all together. It was clear what the Philosopher wanted and it definitely wasn’t more than a roll in the hay. He spent much time trying to convince me our next date should be at my place, in front of my fireplace. I knew that was badly disguised code for “I’m not going out with you again unless you give up the goods.” I agreed to nothing.

He came back in town about a month after that first date. I had had my limit of the sexy talk and the blatant goal setting he was attempting to do. I bluntly asked him why he was so determined. He bluntly answered why not. I rather bluntly told him it wasn’t ever going to happen. Alas, this story would not be so long if I’d stuck to my guns.

What The Philosopher didn’t know is that I was pretty raw and vulnerable in those moments, due to other things going on in my life. There was lots of upheaval and I was rapidly reaching ground zero in the stress department. That night I told him how cryptic and weird he was. He told me how evasive I can be. And I don’t even remember what crack I made that did it, but he took it out of text messages and called me up. It was a fascinating conversation, but in the end, he did not get an invite to my place.

Around 11:30 that night, I needed a Phillips head screwdriver. It was actually a screwdriver emergency, if you can imagine such a thing. It was too late to ask the neighbors for help, and I could only find flat head screwdrivers at the time. I tried to get the job done with those to no avail. I was stressed, I was tired, and I was at my breaking point. I texted The Philosopher and told him if he could produce the needed screwdriver and give me a back massage, he could come over. He was in my house in under an hour.

He did indeed have the screwdriver and proceeded to handle my crisis as well as I looked on. He also came through with the lamest backrub I have ever received, but at that point I was just grateful to be taken care of at all. Of course, the backrub moved into the bedroom (to allow him to do a better job, you see) and then clothing started coming off. Yep, we did the deed.

And it was BAD. I mean just…… bad. He did not do anything that would allow me to get what I needed from the experience. He got all sweaty and started to stink. And inexplicably he kept shoving his thumb in my mouth. After he got his, it was quite late and he decided to spend the night. I was surprised, but gave him back a few points for that. As we all know, spending the night scores big with me.

The next morning he woke up feeling as all men do when they wake up. And since I was there, we had a repeat performance. I imagined maybe it would be better. It was not. This time not only did I not get anything, but neither did he. He seemed satisfied with that and rolled away to head to the bathroom. I got up to look for clothing. That’s when it happened.

The condom had broken. This might be a crisis under different circumstances, but there are two important things to note here. One is that he didn’t finish. Two is that I am on birth control. There was literally next to no chance of any danger from this. I went down the hall to root around in a closet and heard him call from the bathroom “How do you feel about abortion?”

Now, it was early. I was tired and unhappy with my experience with him. And as we already covered, The Philosopher frequently asks such questions out of the blue without reason. So, without thinking twice, I answered honestly. (For the record? I believe in a woman’s right to choose, but I’m pretty sure I would exercise that right by not getting one.) This was not the correct answer. What followed was a large scale panic attack on his part. I repeatedly explained all of the variables working in his favor. I told him over and over that I simply wasn’t pregnant. I swore on whatever I thought would matter to him. Finally I simply promised I would let him make the decision if there were one to make and shoved him out the door.

He text messaged several times in the coming week or so. All concerns about my impossible pregnancy. I told him when my girly time was due and promised to alert him as soon as there was definitive proof of my lack of baby. Finally, in a last ditch effort to shut him up, I texted him with “I promise to abort your hypothetical baby!” He fell silent at last. And true to my word, when the monthly visitor arrived, I let him know immediately. He thanked me and disappeared.

Since then, he has called every single time he comes into town. I have not seen him since that morning when I shooed him out of my house. I have told him I’m busy. I have told him his booty calls are transparent. (which, by the way, led to him calling me inexplicably on his way to IOWA to prove he was not doing exactly what he was in fact doing.) I have told him I have no time for him. I have even flat out ignored text messages and voicemails. Still, he calls. He called this week. I did not answer. I never will.

Hopefully, that is the end of this story. If not, next time I will tell him the sex was bad and I’m never going to sleep with him again. Hopefully that will be sufficient damage to his ego to make him disappear.

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