Tonight is when The Pedant is (ostensibly?) coming over and making up for being too late to come by the other night. But he’s late again.
ETA was originally “nineish.” At 8:30 or so he texted me to say he was running late and would be here closer to ten. I figured he must have remembered my previous spiel to him about needing more of a heads-up on this stuff – I don’t like hearing that someone will be late to see me after their planned arrival time has passed. So he gave me a heads up and I was frustrated by the change in plans but happy he was communicating with me. But at 10:47 I hadn’t heard from him again. I texted “…Dude you’re killing me.” It’s now 11pm and the message hasn’t been read yet. He’s probably in transit, I’m guessing, but who the hell knows.
People being late is one my my hugest pet peeves. There’s almost nothing worse to me than the feeling of waiting around for someone and not knowing what’s going on – especially when sex is at stake. I fucking hate it. And so now I’m once again stuck in a situation where I miss The Pedant – it’s been, I think, over two weeks since I’ve seen him and I’m way backed up for sex and snuggling and touch – but I’m also totally pissed off to have been kept waiting and so I don’t know what to do when he gets here. Normally I’d just jump on him the second he came in the door but the whole feeling-neglected-and-ignored thing makes me feel like I’m more into him than he’s into me (not entirely rational, but that’s how it works with me) and this makes me feel reticent. The women on sitcoms always seem to genuinely snap out of any sexy mood if something pisses them off during foreplay or whatever*, and they go ahead and have the fight until the pissed-off feelings are resolved. My libido doesn’t turn off like that so I end up not wanting to fight because then I won’t get laid, but the getting laid kinda sucks because I’m repressing all this anger.
Okay, The Pedant just texted and then called me. Work issues, blah blah blah. He didn’t actually apologize in words but he had that sheepish tone he gets when he knows I’m upset. I think the call itself was meant as an apology, and I’m taking it as one, but it doesn’t make me magically not have spent the last hour wondering if he forgot about me or what. It doesn’t magically make me feel better. So shit’s still gonna be awkward.
*I’ve never specifically spoken to my chick friends about whether anger makes them not wanna fuck, so tv and movie examples are all I have to go on.