Seducing an Insecure Woman is So Easy
In my case, it was by a hot man…
We met on Tinder (surprise, surprise) and on our first date he turned up twenty-five minutes late, announced immediately that after one drink he’d be off to a party that he wasn’t going to invite me to, and insinuated that I was “square” because I hadn’t organised something else to do that evening other than our date.
Despite all of these terrible signs, we had a sparky, off-the-wall conversation where he quizzed me and what books I’d read (fortunately a category I felt pretty confident about), flattered me, and kissed me so seductively that I felt ready to take all my clothes off in front of him.
Unfortunately, he had to leave for his party though, his “real” event of the evening.
I should have left when he was 15 minutes late.
Maybe if I had more respect for myself, I would have left as soon as it hit 10 minutes late.
He sent me a message later that evening saying that his party had been rubbish and that he wished that he’d stayed with me. I took this as a compliment.
I shouldn’t have done.
He had met me and still left to go to the party, believing that it would be more fun than spending more time with me, and he knew full well that he could do it and I’d still be interested because he was hot and I was mediocre and insecure.
You may be asking — why would I be interested in a guy who had so far seemed so up himself?
Not just because he was good-looking.
Because rather than find his behaviour rude or disrespectful, I found it intriguing. Because I was so outrageously flattered that he would even deign to go on a date with me. Because I secretly hoped that I would be the one to change him.
We arranged to go on a second date, and this time he promised that I would be the only event of the evening. I was honoured — even when this should be the norm. I don’t remember much about the second date, only that I felt intensely nervous the whole time and desperately wanted to impress him, to appear cool to him. I had never been so intrigued by someone.
The third date I do remember more clearly.
It was in another pub and we talked about how planting wheat had been the downfall of mankind. He also said at some point that he’d propose to me now if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t believe in marriage. Even though I also don’t really believe in marriage, I could barely contain the smile that crept across my face.
Now imagine for a second if a girl said that to a guy on a third date, he’d probably run a mile. But this guy knew that an insecure woman like me, in the hopes of a long-term relationship, would eat up words like that and be putty in his hands.
Reader, I slept with him.
And it was disappointing, to say the least. But as he curled up around me, all I could feel was elation at being in his arms. He told me how he didn’t usually act like this after sleeping with someone. Again, rather than seeing this as a sign of a dysfunctional prospect, I lapped it up, and added it to the jar of “I can be the one to change him” reasoning.
And that’s as far as we got. After the third date, I spent days and days desperate to see him again, to hear from him again, checked my phone like an obsessive lunatic, only to find a message five days later saying that he really enjoyed hanging out with me, but was going through some things that meant that he couldn’t see me anymore.
I was devastated. Even after three measly dates, I had been ready to fall in love with him, to worship him, and quite possibly to have my heart broken in the process.
And here’s the worst part.
He did get in touch with me again, about three months later, and I met up with him in another pub (of course) to hear the sob story — he’d been about to lose his job, so stressed, had made a mistake and was now ready to be with me in whatever way I wanted.
What was the mistake he’d made? He’d met someone else on a date two days after first meeting me and had gone out with them for three months, but now she’d broken up with him and he was lonely and looking for a booty call (he didn’t say it exactly like that, but reading between the lines…).
And here’s the next worst part: I was tempted. I was really, really tempted.
Part of me wanted to walk out. The other part of me wanted to be with him, at whatever cost.
It didn’t matter that he’d met someone else and preferred her over me, ditched me, probably safe in the knowledge that I was so desperate that he could pick me back up again at any time. Here he was. Surely that meant that I meant something to him? Something other than being an easy fuck or an easy ego boost.
I don’t know how, but I managed to make it out of the pub alone. I was reeling. I was in two minds, but managed to tell him that I wanted to think about it first. Recognised somewhere deep down that this wasn’t right. There was nothing in this but pain for me.
We continued to exchange messages for a while, even a phone call or two, but each contact left me with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. He’d always have the power. I’d always be on edge around him, worrying that I wasn’t cool enough, beautiful enough, skinny enough or interesting enough for him.
That wasn’t really a solid basis to start a relationship. Although I’d only ever seen him four times in life, trying to forget him was harder than ending a two-year relationship.
