For the past few weeks, I’ve been getting texts from a guy I dated briefly in college. Not the one who recently got hitched, but someone whom I dated off and on toward the end of college then the following years somewhat casually. This particular fella actually ended our “non-existent” relationship via texts a couple years ago.
Since long before “Danny” got married he has pursued me. It comes and goes in waves, like any disease that can only be dormant for so long, and just when I think he’s gone for good, he pops back up. Unfortunately, there is no antibiotic to take to keep Danny away forever. When he does make an appearance in my life, it’s always done in this dramatic display that you wish the love of your life would have done instead of letting you go, but they never did and you have a disease named Danny making the grand gesture instead. I used to find charm and mild excitement in it, but now I’m just sad for him. Actually, mostly I’m sad for his wife, because I can’t imagine I’m the only one from his past he may be trying to contact. But as I stated in my “Dating Hijinks” about him, I truly believed that day when he “dumped” me, he was gone for all eternity! But like any proper disease with residual effects, he has come back for more.
When the texts started around the beginning of July, I immediately knew from where they were coming. Although I had deleted him as a contact long ago, his number, because of all its sixes, is pretty hard not to recognize. I did respond initially to ask how he got my new number — I changed it this past February — to which he answered: “How do you think?” I sent a mass email to all our friends we have in common trying to figure out who had spilled the beans about my new digits, but no one came forward.
During his first evening of texts that soon spiraled from “How are you?” to “I’m so hard for you right now,” I assumed he was drunk. So I texted back at one point: “You are drunk.” Because the best way to deal with a drunk person is to point out just how wasted they are. Also, had he forgotten we had “broken up?” Did he not recall the Sunday when he proceeded to send me packing because our “love needed to be left in the winter?”
What followed were more texts assuring me he wasn’t intoxicated, and he was going to march to the bathroom to jerk off while thinking about me. Considering the rampant misspellings, I still stand by the fact that he was drunk. I didn’t want to play his game, so I figured my two texts that, in my opinion offered zero interest in him, would send him on his way — they did, but only for a couple days. If only I had a penny for every time he’s texted me to tell me he was “hard” (apparently, his extent of dirty talk is limited), I would be a very rich girl. According to his incessant texts, he’s been “hard” about 20 hours a day and is jerking off in bathrooms all over the state in which he lives. Good for him!
So the texts are coming in several times a day, and I’m deleting one after the other like a responsible person who doesn’t give a fuck about his need for attention, when they go from mere words to dick shots — yet again, like the good old days when I still didn’t care to see them. These pictures are intermittent with exactly where he’d like to put that cock of his, and let me tell you, not a single orifice was overlooked in his quest to turn me on — at least I think that’s what he was trying to do.
Again, I stuck to my guns, not that it was difficult, and ignored him. But then he started calling. At first he didn’t leave messages, but when he finally started to they were long and drawn out about the sound of my voice and the smell of my skin, which you can obviously smell through my voicemail greeting, and how he was going to leave his wife so we could run away together. I can’t say for sure, but I’m almost certain he was even slightly weeping in a few of them, all while swearing he wasn’t drunk, but just missed me. Yeah, sure, sweet cheeks.
Here I am now with an aching thumb from hitting delete so many times, and eyes that have practically rolled out of my head from popping with disbelief at some of his texts and photos, and I’ve yet to come up with a solution. One would think the silent treatment would work, but we are technically dealing with someone who just might be crazier than me, so perhaps that’s not the best way to handle it. I know that if I were to respond, it would just be opening up a world of drama that I really don’t need in my life right now. I could change my number, but I’ve already done that once in the past six months, and I really don’t want to do that once more.
I’m hoping that, yet again, this is just one of his passing phases and a desperate need to be entertained by the thoughts of something or someone outside of his everyday life. But honestly, I think if I told him to come to New York City, he’d be here in a heartbeat. Granted, he’d probably be drunk when he left and sober enough when he arrived to know enough to go back home, but that’s not going to help anyone — especially his wife. In the meantime, although the incoming texts have dwindled a wee bit, I’ll just continue working my thumb muscles on that delete button. I’m going to kick everyone’s ass in a thumb war by mid-August.