I’ve been lurking around various Internet dating forums lately. Mostly because I like reading about the first hand experience of trying to connect with other people. I find it to be fascinating. Also it’s a treasure trove for inspiration for things to write here. The most recent forum I read was about DTR: defining the relationship.
Having been a fuck girl in Oakland for years upon years, I found the DTR thread to be quite fascinating. Nobody in Oakland ever defines their relationships. It’s part of the pleasant chaos of fucking each other. If you never have a boyfriend, then you’re never technically cheating. It’s a cheap way to hedge the moral high ground.
My last relationship was a study in the art of DTR chicken. Five years into casually fucking on and off and also saying, “I love you”, and meeting each other’s parents, and going to church together, I asked the guy if we were dating. It was a silly question. We went on dates. Of course we were dating. But I come from a generation of fuckers that will date you into the fucking grave and never put out, or who will put out forever but never want to go on a date. I was going on dates with this guy and fucking him all the time, but when I asked for a bit of, well, not DTR but more like clarify this relationship so we can be on the same page – I got rejected.
It was weird. I’m the type of person who doesn’t like to go around saying, “I’m dating so&so” if so&so tells people we’re just fucking. The reason I don’t like doing that is because I don’t like it when people I fuck think we’re dating. It’s bad form, and it’s also creepy and annoying. So I do unto others as I would have them do unto me. We’re not dating until it’s a mutual decision.
After I did the DTR thing with homeboy and he said we weren’t dating, I realized: well, I put myself out there. If he wants to date me, I’m sure he’ll let me know. Fast forward ten months (yeah, I can hold my breath for ten months), and he told me, “You always tell people that I’m you’re friend.”
“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” I replied. I had no interest in asking him if we were otherwise. Fast forward through one big argument, and he asked me to be his girlfriend. After damn near six years of fucking him.
We broke up two weeks later, but the point is: DTR is a petty mind game for weak spirited people. I fucked that guy for six years, had him coming over to my mom’s house for holidays and shit, but we only dated for two weeks. In my mind, two weeks is a short enough period of time to not even really count. He was never my boyfriend. He’s not even my ex. He’s just a person I used to fuck, and when my mom asks me about him I roll my eyes and change the subject. That doesn’t mean I never loved him. It just means we never had a real relationship, which is probably why I had no problem breaking up with him.
Two weeks? That’s nothing. Six years? Well, he was a consistent fuck so I do miss that.