So I Dated a Douche (And I’m The Douche for Dating Him)

First of all, let me start off by saying I love menz. Lovely, incredible, and amazing dudes out there, I salute you. Unfortunately, that’s not what I happened to stumble across at my local dive bar. Herewith, the tale of the douche:

Antoine was a tattoo artist who asked a mutual acquaintance to introduce us. I was flattered and a little giddy – Antoine was FINE – super tall, lean, handsome as fuck. Tats galore, of course. Little mohawk action going on. He was super sweet and attentive, told me how beautiful I was, could we hang out sometime?

Well of course, Antoine. I’ll take you over Doritos and a Kardashian any day. So we started hanging out. Antoine was pretty broke and didn’t have a car which can be a death knell in this town. But he’d ride his bike over, he’d make me dinner, he’d buy me little gifts, he’d draw pictures for me. And I loved it. One night I didn’t feel well, and he showed up, unannounced, with chicken noodle soup and the movie 16 Candles. Heaven!

Antoine really, REALLY wanted to get in my pants. Which I understand. My pants are pretty cool. And usually quite easy to undo. But I liked this guy, really really liked him, and didn’t want to go too fast, too soon. So I waited. And Antoine got a little more pushy, a little more frustrated. Don’t I like him? Aren’t I attracted to him? Aren’t I a grown-assed woman, fully in charge and comfortable with her sexuality? Oh for fuck’s sake. Really? Red flags were waving, but sadly I thought it was a parade. Soon the pants flew off and we went to town.

First time – pretty damn good. I mean, how could it not be, after all that build up. Subsequent pairings: meh. He mewled loudly for blow jobs, like a two-year old whining for candy at the grocery store. He was a lazy, selfish lover: two-pump chump, then fall fast asleep. I would lay there, willing myself to get up, go home, delete his number, throw away the charcoal sketch on my fridge. But…he was so beautiful, so sweet, so attentive, so…?

I became chauffeur, social activities director, personal shopper; in other words, a doormat douche. I’d go over to his filthy hovel of a studio apartment, just for the privilege of hanging out with him. “I need to go to Best Buy,” He’d bark. Not please, not would you mind? So I’d take him to Best Buy or wherever. Gone were the cooked dinners (and sadly, I can’t cook for shit) – when I’d say I was hungry, he’d be like, “me too – but I got no cash,” So I bought dinner, bought groceries. And instead of being grateful, appreciative, he just grew more obnoxious, more self-centered, more…douchy.

“I know he USED to do nice stuff for you – but what has he done for you LATE-LY?” That Janet Jackson song would scream in my head. But I couldn’t let go. I had seen such a beautiful, considerate, adorable dude before, I just held out hope I’d see him again. OK, here’s where I have to be honest and confess, shamefully; the main reason I couldn’t let go was that he was fucking gorgeous. I got off having someone like him on my arm. We’d walk into places and girls would nudge each other, giving me the laser-beam death stare and him the angelic, wide-eyed O-face. My friends all ooohed and ahhhed over his general hawt-ness. In other words, check me out bitches, I have arrived.

Now, if I could only make him go back to the guy I had first met…

The final straw came when I took him across town to check out an art opening (poor baby, with no car he couldn’t get to go otherwise, see how good I was for him?!?). On the drive over he barely made conversation and was just texting someone the whole time – Oh gad, who is he texting?!? Is it another girl? Do I ask? Do I try to look at his phone, grab it when he’s not looking? I was going nuts, nearly driving off the road with anxiety. Then we get to the opening and he’s blatantly checking out other women. Yeah, so much for owning that eye candy.

After buying him drinks all night we headed home. “So, do you want to stay over?” I ventured. Yes, my pathetic ass still wanted to sleep with this motherfucker.

“I’m pretty tired. Just drop me off at home.”

Emboldened by a few PBRs, I began the dreaded “where is this going?” conversation. Needless to say, the answer, which I’m sure you all know, is NO-WHERE. He was sullen, he was defensive, he offered no effort to work it out, nor enthusiasm to continue, just this speech: “Look, I got a lot going on, I really don’t have a lot of time to hang out, and I never said I wanted to be in a really intense, serious relationship. I’m fine with the way things are, just nice and casual. If you want to hang out, fine, just text me or whatever, and maybe we can do something, go see a movie, or whatever. Other than that, can’t really say.”

Oh RLY? If I’m lucky enough, if I get the winning lottery ticket I can pick your BROKE ASS up, take you places, and pay for everything?!?! And if I’m SUPER lucky, I might get to suck your measly pencil-dick?!? Goody!

Light finally, FINALLY! dawned on Marblehead. I dropped his broke ass off and deleted his number. Unsurprisingly, I haven’t heard from him since. Do you think I learned my lesson to stop being such a douchy-douche magnet? Me and my broke-ass bank account sure hope so.

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