a love story (kinda)
12 February 2007
I had sort of a low-key weekend, so I must relay a friend’s story for your entertainment. At first, he wouldn’t let me write about this because of the potential repercussions. However, once I assured him that I am a writer of the highest caliber and capable of handling such stories with utmost delicacy, he relented.
(Translation: He said I couldn’t write about this but I’m doing so anyway. I’m pretty sure our female lead doesn’t read this site, and my buddy rarely does. So whatever. Also, this is a great love story, perfect for Valentine’s Day.)
My buddy Frank (not his real name) used to hook up with a girl named Joyce (not her real name). Their relationship was one that most guys dream of, because they hung out every couple of weeks only after 2am and had sex. No dinners or dates or anything like that - just booty calls/text messages and making out. They got along famously and did it. Really, perfect.
(I was involved in a relationship like this and when it ended it devastated more than the end of most real relationships I was in. I’m serious – I couldn’t believe how bummed out I was; even though I had constantly had a blood-alcohol level of at least .05 at all times when we hung out, I really did kinda like her. While we’re here, if anyone is interested in this sort of relationship with me, please send resumes and pictures to either myself or Site Guy Brendan at your earliest convenience. Thank you.)
However, the situation Frank and Joyce had did not last more than a few months, because, as you might guess, Joyce grew weary of the situation and realized that Frank was quite the opposite of weary – I think the word is "pretty fucking thrilled." Joyce told Frank that she could not see him anymore. Frank accepted and understood. Against the advice of his friends (including yours truly), he sent her one or two post-2am text messages after the "break up" to see if she maybe had changed her mind, but she didn’t respond to these. So Frank lost the Upper Hand, but got over it, mostly because he’s not really into "feelings." Nor is he into "paying me back the money he owes me," but that is a post for another day.
All this shook down around Thanksgiving. Since then, Frank and Joyce had occasionally emailed but hadn’t seen each other. Life goes on.
Last week, Frank decided that he wanted to see (read: sleep with) Joyce again, so against the advice of his friends (including, again, yours truly), he emailed her saying as much. The email, which he later forwarded to us (you’ll see), did not explicitly say the thing about the wanting to do her, but warned her that he would be contacting her late at night over the weekend, so she should be prepared to deflect his advances. Considering the delicacy of the situation and the sheer show of desperation, it was a pretty solid email (and this comes from someone who has written his fair share of "Please have sex with me again" emails).
About an hour after Frank wrote his email, he received a reply from Joyce. In her email, Joyce asked, in a very nice way, that Frank not contact her because she was…seeing someone (hey-yo!). Joyce then included your typical "final end of relationship" disclaimer in which she said that Frank was a really great guy, that she enjoyed hanging out with him, and that she wished him luck in the future.
Frank was disappointed upon receipt of Joyce’s email, but, well, what are you gonna do? He responded to her immediately, saying that he thought that might have been the case but that he had been thinking about her recently and wanted to contact her. He closed with a similar "final end of relationship" disclaimer, wishing her good luck as she did for him.
At this point, knowing that I do little to nothing in the course of a workday, Frank called to tell me what happened. After hearing a recap of the story, I quickly offered an "Oh well – what are you gonna do?" (see above) before immediately turning the topic of discussion back to me - particularly in regards to my fantasy basketball team, which is making a serious run right now - as I am wont to do. While lamenting the fact that Jose Calderon has lost the starting point guard job in Toronto now that TJ Ford has recovered from injury, I heard Frank say, "Holy crap!" He then laughed and said, "Wait a minute – I gotta call you back."
What made Frank use such foul language and abruptly hang up on me when I was in the middle of a terrific story? An email had popped into his inbox. The email was from a girl he didn’t recognize named Christine (not her real name). The email said something to the effect of: "Very well handled, Joyce. Honest, mature and awesome. I LOVE that he wrote you and I KNOW he was not expecting to hear what you said. Great job."
The email then concluded with Christine apologizing for not being able to get together during the week, but suggested they should "try to hang out next week."
Hmmm…
It took him a few seconds, but Frank figured it out.
Joyce had bcc’ed her friend Christine when she replied to Frank, blowing him off and saying that she was seeing someone. Christine, not being very good at the whole "email" thing, accidentally hit "reply to all" when she sent her congratulatory "You showed him!" email, instead of replying only to Joyce. The result was that this email, which was only intended for Joyce, was promptly read by Frank.
Zing!
In arguably the most impressive display of decisiveness in his life, Frank did two things immediately:
1) He responded to both Joyce and Christine, writing, "I’d say 8.5 out of 10, if only because the second paragraph is a little too schmaltzy. Otherwise, great job."
2) He forwarded the entire email chain to eight or so of his friends (including yours truly), with the preface:
"Read from the bottom. First email: Me telling Joyce that I’m going to contact her for sex this weekend. Second email: Joyce telling me she’s seeing someone and asking me not to. Third email: Joyce’s friend Christine, who I guess she bcc’ed, accidentally replying to all. Fourth email: my response.
Girls
are
so
dumb."
As you might imagine, for a group of guys that do collectively very little at their places of employ, this was the highlight of our Friday afternoon. We traded a few emails back and forth and waited in joyful anticipation for either Joyce or Christine to respond, but sadly, neither did. At that point, this appeared to be another story that only further illustrates that women simply can’t be expected to operate certain things, like forklifts, remote controls, and state or municipal governments.
But this was not the end.
Friday night passed uneventfully, but on Saturday night, Frank received a call. From Joyce.
(Note: I must admit that the following events were told to me on Sunday, as I did not hang out with Frank on Saturday night. Instead, I stayed in my apartment that night, drank nine Bud bombers and a 40 of Coors Light, watched "Jackass 2" twice, and, of course, listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac. Again, ladies, I am still single. But you should really act now.)
Joyce called Frank around midnight on Saturday night and told him that she felt very bad and embarrassed about what happened. She was, as Frank later described, "pretty drunk but not bombed." She said that Christine, who Frank later recalled meeting, was a good girl but a ditz but she was silly to include Christine on the email in the first place. But, after all, Christine was her best friend.
Frank told Joyce that it wasn’t a big deal. He said that he was not offended but rather that he found the whole thing funny. This relieved Joyce and made her happy. They shot the shit for a little while longer, Joyce continuing to say how bad she felt, Frank assuring her that it was ok, and Frank finally ending the conversation by wishing her good luck with her new man. After they hung up, Frank felt like all was right in the world. He continued to booze and enjoy his Saturday night.
Two or three hours later, Frank’s phone rang again. It was Joyce. Again.
Joyce was significantly more intoxicated this time around, as was Frank. Without getting into too many details – details which Frank thankfully spared us from – Frank and Joyce talked for a bit and decided to get together that night and do what people do at 3am in NYC when they get together. That is, they had sex. Apparently more than once, and apparently (partially) in Frank’s kitchen – while his roommate was asleep in his bedroom. So there’s that.
(I just read that over and realized that I guess that is a lot of detail. Oh well.)
The next morning, after getting a nice morning romp in, Joyce asked Frank, probably with a bit of a smile, not to bother her again. Frank said that he wouldn’t be a problem. Joyce left his apartment to get a taxi and Frank went back to bed.
When Frank told myself and some other friends all this on Sunday afternoon over a table of wings, nachos, and half-price pints, I nearly applauded (I would have too, had I not been holding a delicious mushroom-onion-Swiss burger). Even though it did not happen to me, no story has more perfectly described my life and my friends’ lives over the past six years.
Emails, alcohol, casual sex, infidelity, and, above all, games and mistakes. These are the trappings of love for the twenty-something New Yorker.
(And in my case, Fleetwood Mac. Can’t forget them.)
(Translation: He said I couldn’t write about this but I’m doing so anyway. I’m pretty sure our female lead doesn’t read this site, and my buddy rarely does. So whatever. Also, this is a great love story, perfect for Valentine’s Day.)
My buddy Frank (not his real name) used to hook up with a girl named Joyce (not her real name). Their relationship was one that most guys dream of, because they hung out every couple of weeks only after 2am and had sex. No dinners or dates or anything like that - just booty calls/text messages and making out. They got along famously and did it. Really, perfect.
(I was involved in a relationship like this and when it ended it devastated more than the end of most real relationships I was in. I’m serious – I couldn’t believe how bummed out I was; even though I had constantly had a blood-alcohol level of at least .05 at all times when we hung out, I really did kinda like her. While we’re here, if anyone is interested in this sort of relationship with me, please send resumes and pictures to either myself or Site Guy Brendan at your earliest convenience. Thank you.)
However, the situation Frank and Joyce had did not last more than a few months, because, as you might guess, Joyce grew weary of the situation and realized that Frank was quite the opposite of weary – I think the word is "pretty fucking thrilled." Joyce told Frank that she could not see him anymore. Frank accepted and understood. Against the advice of his friends (including yours truly), he sent her one or two post-2am text messages after the "break up" to see if she maybe had changed her mind, but she didn’t respond to these. So Frank lost the Upper Hand, but got over it, mostly because he’s not really into "feelings." Nor is he into "paying me back the money he owes me," but that is a post for another day.
All this shook down around Thanksgiving. Since then, Frank and Joyce had occasionally emailed but hadn’t seen each other. Life goes on.
Last week, Frank decided that he wanted to see (read: sleep with) Joyce again, so against the advice of his friends (including, again, yours truly), he emailed her saying as much. The email, which he later forwarded to us (you’ll see), did not explicitly say the thing about the wanting to do her, but warned her that he would be contacting her late at night over the weekend, so she should be prepared to deflect his advances. Considering the delicacy of the situation and the sheer show of desperation, it was a pretty solid email (and this comes from someone who has written his fair share of "Please have sex with me again" emails).
About an hour after Frank wrote his email, he received a reply from Joyce. In her email, Joyce asked, in a very nice way, that Frank not contact her because she was…seeing someone (hey-yo!). Joyce then included your typical "final end of relationship" disclaimer in which she said that Frank was a really great guy, that she enjoyed hanging out with him, and that she wished him luck in the future.
Frank was disappointed upon receipt of Joyce’s email, but, well, what are you gonna do? He responded to her immediately, saying that he thought that might have been the case but that he had been thinking about her recently and wanted to contact her. He closed with a similar "final end of relationship" disclaimer, wishing her good luck as she did for him.
At this point, knowing that I do little to nothing in the course of a workday, Frank called to tell me what happened. After hearing a recap of the story, I quickly offered an "Oh well – what are you gonna do?" (see above) before immediately turning the topic of discussion back to me - particularly in regards to my fantasy basketball team, which is making a serious run right now - as I am wont to do. While lamenting the fact that Jose Calderon has lost the starting point guard job in Toronto now that TJ Ford has recovered from injury, I heard Frank say, "Holy crap!" He then laughed and said, "Wait a minute – I gotta call you back."
What made Frank use such foul language and abruptly hang up on me when I was in the middle of a terrific story? An email had popped into his inbox. The email was from a girl he didn’t recognize named Christine (not her real name). The email said something to the effect of: "Very well handled, Joyce. Honest, mature and awesome. I LOVE that he wrote you and I KNOW he was not expecting to hear what you said. Great job."
The email then concluded with Christine apologizing for not being able to get together during the week, but suggested they should "try to hang out next week."
Hmmm…
It took him a few seconds, but Frank figured it out.
Joyce had bcc’ed her friend Christine when she replied to Frank, blowing him off and saying that she was seeing someone. Christine, not being very good at the whole "email" thing, accidentally hit "reply to all" when she sent her congratulatory "You showed him!" email, instead of replying only to Joyce. The result was that this email, which was only intended for Joyce, was promptly read by Frank.
Zing!
In arguably the most impressive display of decisiveness in his life, Frank did two things immediately:
1) He responded to both Joyce and Christine, writing, "I’d say 8.5 out of 10, if only because the second paragraph is a little too schmaltzy. Otherwise, great job."
2) He forwarded the entire email chain to eight or so of his friends (including yours truly), with the preface:
"Read from the bottom. First email: Me telling Joyce that I’m going to contact her for sex this weekend. Second email: Joyce telling me she’s seeing someone and asking me not to. Third email: Joyce’s friend Christine, who I guess she bcc’ed, accidentally replying to all. Fourth email: my response.
Girls
are
so
dumb."
As you might imagine, for a group of guys that do collectively very little at their places of employ, this was the highlight of our Friday afternoon. We traded a few emails back and forth and waited in joyful anticipation for either Joyce or Christine to respond, but sadly, neither did. At that point, this appeared to be another story that only further illustrates that women simply can’t be expected to operate certain things, like forklifts, remote controls, and state or municipal governments.
But this was not the end.
Friday night passed uneventfully, but on Saturday night, Frank received a call. From Joyce.
(Note: I must admit that the following events were told to me on Sunday, as I did not hang out with Frank on Saturday night. Instead, I stayed in my apartment that night, drank nine Bud bombers and a 40 of Coors Light, watched "Jackass 2" twice, and, of course, listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac. Again, ladies, I am still single. But you should really act now.)
Joyce called Frank around midnight on Saturday night and told him that she felt very bad and embarrassed about what happened. She was, as Frank later described, "pretty drunk but not bombed." She said that Christine, who Frank later recalled meeting, was a good girl but a ditz but she was silly to include Christine on the email in the first place. But, after all, Christine was her best friend.
Frank told Joyce that it wasn’t a big deal. He said that he was not offended but rather that he found the whole thing funny. This relieved Joyce and made her happy. They shot the shit for a little while longer, Joyce continuing to say how bad she felt, Frank assuring her that it was ok, and Frank finally ending the conversation by wishing her good luck with her new man. After they hung up, Frank felt like all was right in the world. He continued to booze and enjoy his Saturday night.
Two or three hours later, Frank’s phone rang again. It was Joyce. Again.
Joyce was significantly more intoxicated this time around, as was Frank. Without getting into too many details – details which Frank thankfully spared us from – Frank and Joyce talked for a bit and decided to get together that night and do what people do at 3am in NYC when they get together. That is, they had sex. Apparently more than once, and apparently (partially) in Frank’s kitchen – while his roommate was asleep in his bedroom. So there’s that.
(I just read that over and realized that I guess that is a lot of detail. Oh well.)
The next morning, after getting a nice morning romp in, Joyce asked Frank, probably with a bit of a smile, not to bother her again. Frank said that he wouldn’t be a problem. Joyce left his apartment to get a taxi and Frank went back to bed.
When Frank told myself and some other friends all this on Sunday afternoon over a table of wings, nachos, and half-price pints, I nearly applauded (I would have too, had I not been holding a delicious mushroom-onion-Swiss burger). Even though it did not happen to me, no story has more perfectly described my life and my friends’ lives over the past six years.
Emails, alcohol, casual sex, infidelity, and, above all, games and mistakes. These are the trappings of love for the twenty-something New Yorker.
(And in my case, Fleetwood Mac. Can’t forget them.)
