Lie #1

Lie: I’ll call you.

Truth: Oh, he’ll call you alright…just not on the telephone that you wait impatiently by, in the same outfit you wore to that wonderful date, where chemicals flew, chatter was spewed, and endorphins were flying. He’ll call up his best buddies or just one, b/c if the ass is capable of leaving you hanging; he’s probably only capable of keeping one relationship at a time. Bygones. Back to that “call”. So not that the one cocktail or beer that he imbibed was even enough, he’ll pick up a six pack, and his buddy, and they’ll go cruising or settle themselves on the worn out couch in the basement where Guitar Hero and play station wait to be fingered. That’s right; play station, is being caressed, prodded, and gripped, not you, but then again, who wants to be “prodded” nowadays? Sounds so, “alien” and I’m not even going to touch that subject. So, he’ll call you a prude, a dud, a waste of the thirty-five bucks that he forked out, hoping to get forked himself. He’ll be calling you and you’re ears are ringing but that phone, that sits on your end table, will not, and I repeat, will not ring. So where did it go wrong? Did you have something stuck in-between your pearly whites? Was it the not so revealing outfit you wore, b/c you like to keep them guessing? I say NAY! Even if you did have something stuck in-between your teeth, I’m sure that didn’t detour you away from the string of cheese from the mozzarella sticks that lingered on his “manly scruff” or like we in the “know” like to call, peach fuzz. So what was it? What exactly did you do to be called a prude, a bitch, or that word, that all women HATE to be called…you know, it starts with a huge, palm to the face, slapping, "C"? That's right, i went there.

I’ll tell you what you did. You realized that you weren’t going to just give it up to the first dud(e) that’s come along in a long time and even though you were probably itching to be itched, it wasn’t going to happen. Not in that parking lot and well, your place was a mess. So ladies, what I’m trying to say is this: You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. He assumed and we all know the old adage so I won’t even take the time to type it down. He figured he looked amazing in his muscle tee and he chewed on some gum and when he went for that kiss and you returned it, the deal was sealed. However, as he opened the car door for you, oh how quaint, you asked to be driven home. The slam of the door and the jut of his jaw should have been warning enough, but no. He dropped you home, even walked you to the door, and whispered, “I’ll call you.” But as we all know, from watching Hitch, (please don’t sue me!) that if you didn’t dangle your keys, stalling, he should have gotten the hint in the first place. Did you meet him a quarter of the way? Please! He wasn’t invited in, because you’re not that girl. You like to wait, maybe three dates, maybe fourteen, but if he’s worth it, than he’ll wait. He won’t sit on his lazy ass and play video games, no wait, they’ll do that until they lose their eyesight and sensation in their fingers, but he’ll know he’s found someone worth taking home to mom.

So get off you butts, ladies, disconnect the phone, take a shower, after all you have been stuck in that same outfit for days, and go out and mingle. Grab a few of your girl friends and go have some drinks. Let it out. You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. He let you slip through his fingers because you wouldn’t put out. His loss and some hooker’s gain. Amen, sista, amen.