Two girls for every boy?

(After much deliberation, I felt that it would be infinitely wiser to make a separate post about my trip to Toronto. The main post, to be made available at the end of the month, is all about the travel and the Fan Expo stuff and yada yada yada. This post, however…well, just read on.)

Women. The ultimate mystery of the universe. What is it that draws the weaker half of the species to them so consistently? The way they look? The way they sound? The way they smell? The way they’re built?

As a 43-year-old virgin, I couldn’t goddamn tell you to save my life.

When it comes to women, I have fantasies about the things I’d love to do to, with and for them, but as vast as my imagination is, that is how weak my wherewithal to act on these fantasies is in real life. I’m not a bad looking guy, I guess. I don’t think I’ve gotten many compliments on my looks over the years. But it doesn’t matter much when I don’t have any game. I have zero game. Negative game. I don’t even know where the game is being played. I would need a giant neon sign to know if a girl was showing some kind of interest in me.

Sometimes I wish I could find a way to just drop all the mental and emotional barriers and just have sex with a girl. Of course, I could never be that brazen except in my dreams.

The Airbnb I stayed at last month was quite different from the others I’ve had in the past primarily because there would be guests in an adjoining room on their own trip. (For all intents and purposes, I’m not counting the place in Chinatown I stayed at in 2017; that was less an Airbnb than a hostel.)

I was made aware of the fact that there would be other guests in the house when I messaged my host ahead of time about a 'hypothetical' situation of me getting back late. I hadn’t seen any of the guests on Thursday. The only hint I had that there was anybody else there were the pairs of shoes near the door; We were instructed by the host to leave our shoes near the door. I guess she didn’t want us tracking up her nice house.

On Friday morning, however, one of them must’ve left their door open because, from a distance, I could see a brown-haired stranger looking in a mirror.

She had a dress on.

Yes. She.

There were girls staying in the next room. Not since the class trip to Virginia Beach in the eighth grade had I been in such close living proximity of girls I hadn’t been related to...and, in some ways, I'm still that same socially awkward 13-year-old boy.

My mind is going a mile a minute. Who is she...they? Who are they? Where are they from? Where are they going in Toronto? Would they be interested in a pity fuck with some poor schlub from Buffalo? Okay, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

Later that day when I return from taking care of my business and settling in for some viewing material online, I hear a thump. My natural curiosity compels me to check out the next room. "Is everything all right?", I ask. "Yes", the voice responds from behind the door. Okay, that’s some progress.

Saturday comes and goes and - besides waiting too long to use the bathroom, resulting in the girls getting in ahead of me - not much happens. Then comes Sunday. Hoping to pick something like my moment, I managed to open my door at the same time that their door is open. I say "Hi". The brunette and her blonde friend say "Hi". That is as much conversation as the three of us share and given that there were three pairs of flip-flops near the door, they must’ve had another guest with them. I have no idea if it’s a man or a woman.

By the way, when they spoke, they had accents sounding like they were from somewhere in Europe (perhaps it’s kismet that I re-watched Eurotrip the night before I left). If I have learned anything from almost half a century on this dirt ball, it is that any woman with an accent is automatically hot.

I am of two minds of this situation. One: I feel like God was just teasing me with these girls right near me, knowing I would never do a damn thing about them. On the other hand, Two: what if I had done something? What if I made a friendly gesture that was misinterpreted as something not so friendly? I could’ve caused an international incident of some kind. I just wanted to do something so I'm not considered a loser...by myself, probably.

I really don’t know what I want or what the universe wants from me. I thought I did everything right. There's a line from "Star Trek: the Next Generation": "It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life." And you can bet whoever wrote that lost their V card by half the age that I am now.

I even brought condoms just in case. If it didn’t happen over that weekend, it probably never fucking will. Goddammit.

I think what it boils down to is I never had the proper training when I was a child, which is to say I can’t recall a sex education class in any form of schooling that I took. I don’t even know if I ever got The Talk from my parents.

Thinking about it, I’m pretty sure I can pinpoint my issues with women down to two incidents from my youth.

In fifth grade, there was this girl in my class. Not a bad girl, but kind of stuck-up, as per my vague memories. The exact details are lost to the ether of time, but suffice to say that it involved a letter, a rather insulting one that was found by a teacher and brought to my home.

In ninth grade, there was another girl. It was the first couple weeks of high school. I tried to make her acquaintance, but I must’ve come off too strong because she thought I was stalking her, which got me quite a bit of trouble.

Both of these girls were white.

And some people may be thinking, "Well, that’s your problem: you’re chasing after white girls. Why don’t you be happy with a nice black girl?" Having grown up with black girls in my home and on my street and in my classes, none of them treated me with very much respect, so no thank you.

I probably shouldn’t blame these incident solely, but they certainly didn’t help. I pretty much retreated deeper and deeper into myself never bothering to pursue any sort of relationship with people beyond the few greeting words. I can’t tell you how miserable it feels to want some thing but know, you don’t have the confidence or skills to pursue it.

Sometime ago, I mentioned potentially selling my soul to the devil to give me the skills to be able to hook up with any woman I want. I don’t know. Nobody reads this blog, but that offer is still on the table, because let’s face it, I don’t really have anything to worry about. Does anybody really listen to me, anyway? If they did I probably wouldn’t even be in the situation now.