(TItle’s NOT a euphemism)
So. Waking up this morning was… an experience.
And YES, I did wake up alone. In my bed. No one else in it.
After passing out in a formal gown, full face of make-up, looking like a freshman after prom.
You know what that’s like, right?
Oh. Just me?
Cool.
Anyway, this morning’s highlight reel is sponsored by the Pseudo-Girlfriend experience (see Update 11):
- ONE me
- ONE him
- ONE couch
- ONE queen of wishful thinking and emotional damage control, giving out plausible deniability like it’s candy
I prayed–genuinely, devoutly–that Sir DrinksALot sobered up and peaced out like a respectful “drunk-night stand” with situational awareness.
But nope. No such luck.
Because there he still was—Sleeping Booty—sprawled across my couch like a goddamn Calvin Klein ad. Wearing pants. And a shirt. Mostly.
One arm slung over his face like he’d just survived a war—or several Jack and cokes. Shirt unbuttoned. Chest and all twenty-seven abs? Fully deployed. Highly disrespectful.
Honest, Mr. NCOhMyGod looked so angelic, I could almost forget… he’s the devil.
And the problem with the devil? He’s clever. Doesn’t kick the door down—he knocks soft. Slips in through the cracks. Makes himself comfortable in your head before you realize he never planned on leaving.
Or maybe he was always there.
(Yes, I’m aware how insane that sounds. No, I don’t want to talk about it.)
I still gave myself six seconds to ogle him–respectfully–before tip-toeing to the kitchen in full stealth mode to caffeinate and ruminate.
The dress. The Prince. The ball. The Boyfriend Experience.
Mr. NCOhMyGod is DIABOLICAL.
And confusing. But mostly lethal.
For someone who “doesn’t do relationships,” Mr. SexEmAndLeaveEm is surprisingly good at pretending to be in one.
Like I said in Update 11: even I almost believed it. Or maybe I wanted to believe it?
But even if I did, I’m a realist. I don’t believe in fairy tales. Especially at my age. Because men who look like HIM, aren’t looking for chicks like ME.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a whole snack tray. A keto charcuterie board. A healthy, sensible, good for you lifestyle. With a variety of dips and sauces–because we all have a little spice.
But let’s be honest—most men don’t want charcuterie. They want the dessert table.
You know the one I’m talking about—The Venetian Hour. Endless towers of cream puffs and mini cupcakes, cannolis and chocolate fountains, all dressed up like edible drag queens.
And yeah, sure, it’s not the healthiest choice—but it’s pretty. And fun. And sweet in all the predictable ways.
Meanwhile, I’m over here with prosciutto and olives and protein-forward personality traits.
Look, I’m not saying I’ve never been dessert. I had my frosting era. But at some point, you trade sugar for substance. And men? They rarely make the same trade.
They chase the sparkle. Not the shelf life.
And that’s the thing about Mr. NCOhMyGod.
It’s not that he doesn’t like healthy. Please. Have you seen his body? Of course you haven’t–but take my word for it.
Those muscles aren’t made of sugar and scones. That man lives on protein and iron. Probably does push-ups when he’s bored and dreams in macros.
But dessert?
Not a lifestyle.
It’s a cheat day. A moment. A memory. Something you indulge in, then walk away from with a smirk and a protein bar.
And me? Not a permanent fixture in the fridge. Just something pretty on the table, fun to taste, not part of the meal plan.
Because no one ever says, “God, what I really want is a summer sausage with emotional availability.”
I know what I am. I’m solid. Seasoned. Balanced. I’m what you feed your soul with when you’re done chasing frosting.
But let’s not pretend frosting isn’t prettier. Easier. A hell of a lot more fun at parties. Something you can walk away from after those parties.
And when Sergeant SexyMcFlex wants to challenge himself—go for that personal PR—he’ll try to take a summer sausage and turn it into a Boston cream pie.
Not a euphemism. It’s a literal dessert.
Soft. Sweet. Full of surprises. Delicious.
But that’s what the last seven weeks has been. A PR challenge for his ego. I’m the summer sausage. I think I let myself forget that.
Because the man that was on my couch?
He’s been to the Venetian Hour.
He’s tasted everything.
Probably didn’t even think about the summer sausage. Until someone told him it wasn’t on the menu. Not for sale. At any price.
It’s me. I’m the someone.
Getting the boyfriend treatment from Captain WorkFriendNoBenefits is diabolical.
A mind-fuck.
Make me want something he thought I didn’t want: him. Take what he can, then ghost out like it never happened.
Clocked it.
The game.
Him.
Well, once the dopamine hangover lifted.
He’s wrong, though.
I did want it.
Him.
Master O’Manipulation even made me want him more.
The Boyfriend Package—complete with optional upgrades, long-term warranty, and the Commitment module.
I was ready to click add to cart.
Nothing made that clearer than last night.
But it wasn’t real–it’s NOT real.
And it’s never going to be real.
Not with him.
So now?
I’m keeping my summer sausage to myself. (Also NOT a euphemism.)
Next time he wants to “play pretend,” with his eclair, he can take it to the bakery.
Stuff it in a cupcake.
THAT’S a euphemism.
Send a blow dart. For me. Not him.
– XO, Char-Cutie Lifestyle, Allulose Dreams.
P.S. Fully aware that I’m the problem. Could say it’s because I was “dick”-matized.
P.S.S. I never actually saw his. It’s a reference to him being a total dick.
P.S.S.S. Not that he’s like that all the time, just a lot of the time.
P.S.S.S.S. Leaving the chat now. So I don’t dig myself deeper.
P.S.S.S.S.S. NOT A EUPHEMISM.
P.S.S.S.S.S.S. fuck.
