What’s the alternative?

She and I are sitting in my living space that’s undergoing a lot of construction. It’s right before we peel each other’s clothes off or maybe right after, I can’t remember now. I’m fairly practiced in this scenario by now, the one in which a girl’s actions and a girl’s words don’t quite line up. It’s always the actions you want to listen to.

And to her credit, yes, she’s about to offer herself to me (or already has) but. There’s other actions leading me or any pinhead to conclude she’s not interested in pursuing anything more than this little tryst–ship. If she thinks she’s pulling one over on me, she’s an equal-sized pinhead. There’s clear signal she’s got at least one other dude who she’s boinking. Her actions reveal another man. Sometimes even her down-there reveals another man. “It’s my ph,” she insists. I’ve been around a fair number of down-theres to know better. “Of course it is,” I say. I go down, anyway.

I don’t care. Some guys, they care. Guys like this (Andrew) Tate guy on the social media. Man, he cares. I can hear him in my ear: fuck her, man. She doesn’t want you, leave her. I’m paraphrasing. Not much, though. He’s angry.

I’m a little different. It could be my age, too. I wasn’t like this years ago. But now, there’s a different guiding principle that helps me navigate this millennial morass between men and women that began around the time women decided they want to be exactly like us. It’s my north star this principle, that the majority of good looking women have anywhere between two to three men at any given time: her primary husband or boyfriend, a guy at work or the gym, and some complete mystery man, say, the mechanic, me, or contractor; one you couldn’t see coming from a mile away, someone you’d have never expected. These same women are likely to sleep with two of these at the same time, but if not, they’ll at least keep one on immediate standby, consciously or even subconsciously looking for any excuse to run to him.

I’m not jaded or cynical. I’m liberated. I’m resigned to this after years of being single. It’s a calm place to be. It doesn’t detract from my hope and deepest prayer that she’s still out there, my “person.” My person is still out there.So I stay in it. The game. The hunt. Cynical dudes don’t. They quit.

She’s cute, I tell myself. She likes me or she wouldn’t be sitting in my living room and sometimes that’s enough. Plus the fact I’m counted among one of the few dudes she’s chosen to be with–aren’t there lousier places to be?

Ya gotta meet em where they are, this sage advisor on the facebook once postulated. Or, I guess, follow Tate’s advice and ditch ’em. I’ll just meet ’em where they’re at. Make sure I put myself in the right head space in order that I function properly and don’t paralyze. Some do that to a man.

To stay in complete and utter control of the situation, then, I tell her about my north star. I mean, in a manner of speaking. “Ya know,” I tell her, “I don’t suppose you’d be down for a throuple?”

She laughs. She doesn’t take me seriously. I laugh back. I don’t take her seriously. We hang out a few months more.

She’s gone now.

-tmc