Jan
26
Posted by admin on
January 26, 2008
The following submission is completely un-edited. Vote for this story by leaving a comment.
Jilted
By Valerie
http://stdworld.com
I have waited many, many years to share this story. But I hope that you will learn something about love and how shitty it can all be.
Since young, I have always been taught that I should honor my body and not just let it be used for other’s pleasure. It made sense to me. So, when I started dating in high school, I never went beyond a kiss or two. And I never wanted to, until I met James. I was graduating and James was a senior who helped me with some of my weaker subjects.
He was nice, kind and really smart. After a while, everyone knew that we were an item in the school. I was really happy. He respected my views about our physical relationship and we were really growing into a loving, giving relationship.
But he started asking for more when I was a sophomore. By then, he was into his third year and I guess he was feeling quite a bit of peer pressure. I knew that I loved him, but I did not know whether or not I was ready to give myself, body and soul to him. We were too young to be married.
Me and my friends talked about this, I agonized over it. Then, I decided. I picked the day. It was going to be a date that he will never forget. It will be the beginning of the next phase of our relationship.
That evening, James was very quite. I was nervous. Too nervous to notice anything wrong. After a nice, romantic candle-lit dinner, I suggested going somewhere quiet to talk, and he agreed. Once he parked at our favorite spot on top of the hill overlooking our campus, I started to kiss him. But he sighed and told me that we really needed to talk.
You see, he has been really bothered about where we were headed. These past weeks were tough for him. He has been getting encouragement and support from his friends. One of them, in particular, had been really supportive. In fact, he felt that he was falling in love with her. But he felt obligated to our relationship. I really could not remember the rest of what he said. But I think I got the key points.
Back home, alone in my bed; with my eyes red and bloated, I realized that I almost gave up my most precious to someone who was “in love” with another person. And all this on Valentine’s Day.
I have never, ever celebrated Valentine’s Day since.
Jan
19
Posted by admin on
January 19, 2008
The following submission is completely un-edited. Vote for this story by leaving a comment.
Anxiety On The Border
By Denise Grier
http://internetmarketingreview.org/blog
My sister dubbed him The Pillsbury Doughboy. But Greg wasn’t fat; he just didn’t look anything like the guys I was normally attracted to—those thin, dark, dangerous James Dean wannabes. However, I had had my belly full of that sort of character, so when the rosy-cheeked, cuddly teddy-bear of a man started talking to me at the Valentine’s party, I paid attention. And I was glad. He was funny, his laughter sweet and inviting. Besides, who wants to be lonely on Valentine’s Day?
We became lost in conversation as the rest of the party milled around us, dancing and drinking. Then he asked if I wanted to go grab a bite to eat. I didn’t think twice before saying yes. I blame Jose Cuervo for jumping out of those margaritas and gleefully declaring what a great idea it was.
It’s too bad that once we got to On the Border, Jose abandoned me and reality took his place. There I sat, on Valentine’s Day with a total stranger. What made it infinitely worse was when friends of his-a couple with a baby-stopped by our table. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole and I was half loopy. The man and his wife pumped Greg for information. Who was I and where had we met, was I his new girlfriend? It was embarrassing and awkward for me; I can imagine for him it was torture.
I waited until they moved on before I excused myself to the restroom. I was in panic mode. Like a robot I bypassed the ladies room and honed in on the exit. I had waited tables before, so I figured the back door would be in the kitchen. I was right. When I tumbled through the silver swinging doors, the staff looked at me as if I’d been dropped into their private movie. I nodded and fled into the night.
The restaurant was in a shopping mall. I ran up to two girls walking out of Kroger and offered them ten dollars to take me to my car. All I had on my mind was getting home and crawling into my warm, safe bed, alone. The party was only a few blocks away. They were leery, but when I told them what I had done, they laughed. They believed my story because they gave me a ride. Or maybe they just needed the money.
The party was still in full swing when I got back. I didn’t care. A monster of a headache was forming behind my eyelids. Of course I felt guilty for running out on Greg. I pictured him sitting at the table, wondering what was taking me so long. But more than guilt, I felt as if I had escaped some horrible fate. Maybe it was the married couple and everything they signified.
As I was opening my car door, Greg drove up. He jumped out of his truck. “Are you crazy?!” he shouted.
How could I explain to this nice stranger why I had done such a despicable thing? How could I make him understand that I’d had a full blown anxiety attack without him thinking I really was crazy? All my life I had done the right thing, or what I considered the right thing; raising my kids, being a good wife, while my husband spent his time fishing or hunting, playing softball with his buddies. And what did I get for it? He ended up sleeping with my best friend.
When I met Greg I had been divorced for a few years, but what I had found out in the single world was more of the same. Cheaters, liars, dark, dangerous overgrown children looking for a mother, a free ride; hell, I don’t know what they were looking for, but they found it in me. It was as if I had a neon sign painted on my forehead that said Sucker, take me; use me up.
I didn’t tell Greg any of this. At the time, I didn’t know it myself. All I knew was that I would never be trapped again; never give it up for that killer called love. Maybe that was what scared me. He was a man who might actually love me, really love me. I couldn’t take that kind of chance. With the bad boys, at least I knew what I was getting into.
Believe it not, we dated exclusively for six months. As I look back now, instead of the Pillsbury Doughboy Greg could have been called Tolerant Man. I doubt he realizes it, but that incident at the restaurant and his reaction to it taught me something. I had never walked out on anybody like that before and I have never done it again. But to have someone still want me after doing something that nuts; well, honestly, it made me feel very desirable. And he kept making me feel that way. He would call me on his lunch hour, he took me back to On the Border and we laughed our heads off at my little escapade. He helped me see a side of myself I hadn’t seen before. He helped get over my bad taste in men.
Then he met a blonde spitfire and fell head over heels for her. I wasn’t so much mad at him as disappointed. But he was clearly in love, or at least he thought he was. I remember thinking how unsuited she was for him.
That was over five years ago.
I ran into him not long ago. He grabbed me as if I were a life raft, so very glad to see me, flirting with me. I had heard from friends of his — not the rude married couple, single, guy friends — how his wife’s grown kids had almost driven his insane, sponging off of him, and how she was divorcing him and trying to take the house his mother had left him before he had ever met her.
I told him I was happily married and had been since not long after our relationship ended. He told me he should have married me, which made me feel good. I offered him my friendship. I had no desire to offer him more.
But I should have thanked him for opening the nice guy door for me.
