So…Your(sic) an art dealer

I am ready to be bad; I have finally figured out that I just want to have fun with boys.  I want to stop trying to force feelings and have a blast.  Everyone tells me the best way to have fun is to date someone fun. However not one of my friends has told me that dating IS fun but I shall soldier on.  Now this dating thing has been a mystery to me for as long as I can remember. Luckily I met Peter when I was a wee babe.  Until the day Peter died I had been on exactly one date.  One.  That is of course excluding the marital “date” nights and “girls” night dates.  My dating agenda has officially changed from “hopeful” to “fuck yeah”!  In the course of my Okcupid membership, I have come across a few funny boys. When I say funny, I mean the truest definition of the word.  Most of the boys were curious, strange, odd or peculiar and since I was mistakenly looking for a soul mate, those qualities conflicted with my agenda.  Now I am ready to have fun and, more importantly, be bad!  In my new and improved fun life I decide to start using words like “totes” and “awesome possum”.  My kids are unimpressed.  I also declare that I will live every cliche about living life to the fullest.

My first adventure, I decide I have to get high, on weed.  I had never done it before and I am reckless in my abandon.  Weed is as far as I can go drug wise, as I am afraid of drugs AND afraid of feeling out of control, which is why I have never smoked out before (smoked out is a term I learned while researching getting high).  As I mentioned, I have met several boys and as I try and figure out how to get high I remember one particular boy that asked me if I was 4:20 friendly. My response at the time was to say “well yes I am friendly with every…oh you mean…well I don’t judge, do what you want, thinking that someone who smokes weed isn’t right for me.

I quickly shoot him a text and ask him if he still wants to hang out; he does.  He texts back that he is cool to hang out soon, like that night.  Balancing my new carefree life with my life of a suburban mom turns out to be weirder and harder than I first thought.  My fellow widow friend K and I have plans that day to take our daughters to Oaks Park, a low rent six flags.  Normally an Oaks Park adventure is enough activity for me during the day but not for the new badass me.  The boy texts me while I’m sitting on a metal bench near the rides.  He wants to meet me at 9P.M. that night.  NINE O’CLOCK! Jesus Christ! This boy comes out of the gate ready to hook up and his texts reflect his attitude.

He asks me via text if I am ready for him, if I am horny and if I like to party.  I text yes to every question.  Really I’m just texting him the opposite of everything I am feeling.

No, I am not really emotionally ready to meet any boy.  No, I am actually extremely tired and don’t think I could look at a penis, let alone ride one and what do you mean by “party” because nine o’clock is awfully late to start anything especially a party.

He sends me a picture of his dick. Oh my God, not again. Clearly I have to accept that my new lifestyle choice will include pictures of erect penises.  I look at my phone and try to cultivate my best bad girl vernacular.  The whole day I alternate between yelling at my daughter to keep her hands in the ride and texting a perfect stranger that I am indeed DTF.  The duality of my life is not lost on me.  I arrive home from the amusement (I use that word lightly) park  just in time to kiss my kids goodnight and head to the mall to meet my new facilitator of bad.  At this point I would like to make it clear that I wanted to be bad, not stupid.  During this time I arranged a check in system with several of my friends letting them know where I am every hour during my date.

As I’m driving to the mall parking lot, I tell myself that his texting grammar wouldn’t matter to a bad girl such as myself.  So what if he continues to write “your” instead of “you’re”.  A bad girl just takes the compliment…your so hot, right?  I arrive at the designated spot a few minutes late.  OK fifteen minutes late.  He is there waiting and he looks harmless but so did Ted Bundy.  He steps out of his car and walks over to mine.  I insist that he kiss me even before he says hello.  I have to check for chemistry. Bad or not, I am not going to have horrible sex.  We have chemistry and I notice his forearms look and feel exactly like Peter’s. They also have similar kissing methods.  Uh oh, I might be in emotional trouble with this one.  We get in my car and all I want to do is kiss him. He pushes me away and tells me he wants to get to know me better before we officially leave on our date.

Date?  I thought this was just a hook up.  I have never had a hook up but I thought I was pretty clear in my intentions.  He tells me he knows I am not a bad girl because of the way I texted him, with my perfect grammar and delicate attitude. Whaa?  I reject his assessment of me and stand by my badass persona, for about two minutes, then I confess it all.  “OK I’m not really bad, but I want to be and you being 4:20 knowledgable can help me.”  Turns out he has a confession of his own.  From this point forward I will refer to this boy as the “art” dealer as not to incriminate myself or him, but I think we all know what “art” stands for.  He tells me that he is not a house painter but in fact he deals “art”, which is why he asked if I was 4:20 friendly.  I can’t believe my luck, I want to partake in “art” and he sell it.  Perfect!

I clap my hands together like some sort of evil doer in a science fiction movie and announce that I am ready to get this party started.   The “art” dealer however is not willing to participate in said party. He then proceeds to tell me that the dick pic and all of the DTF talk was just a test.  A test of what?  A test to make sure I was a good girl, which is what he is looking for. He then tells me that he won’t give me any “art” or even SELL me any “art” because he thinks I am pure and I should stay that way.  Oh and the final nail in my bad girl coffin is that he wants me to be his girlfriend and help him to be good.  HELP HIM BE GOOD? I scream in my head.

What the fuck is happening right now?  I can’t be a girlfriend, I am a bad ass bitch trapped in a good girl’s body.  This is my one opening, my one chance to be careless and free, get stoned on “art” and be rebellious in nature.  I’m forty for fuck’s sake; this is my last chance before I tip over the “you’re too old for this” line.

We continue to talk in my car, he wants to take this slow and see if we like each other before we have sex.  Well that is it!  I am done with him and I make that known to him in my outside voice.  How is it possible that in my travels I have met the only “art” dealer in the greater Northwest with a heart of gold?  It is at that moment where I realize that being me or good isn’t so bad.  Maybe I am supposed to be good. Maybe I am supposed to be in a continuous state of awe.  It’s obvious that the “art” dealer sees something in me that he wants to obtain, goodness or, as he would say, purity.  I am in no way pure however I am good and there is a difference between good and decent.  The dealer is decent but I am good and I guess I am done fighting that fact.  The “art” dealer and I eventually do have sex after he gets to know me better and even to this day he refuses to let me enjoy “art” with him.  He now will even take credit for my continued purity, among his “art” head friends.  Go figure.

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