The Lucky are Confounded

I’ll admit to anyone who asks with a big. childish grin on my face that I am lucky. I won the boyfriend lottery.He’s sweet to me, considerate, loves to cuddle, and says that even on a bad day the few evening ours we have together brighten his day, remind him where his priorities lie, and melt his troubles away.  I get homemade chocolates, cookies, monstrous brownie/cookie combinations that make me gain 20lbs. He doesn’t notice the extra 20lbs, except when my boobs look especially squishy and alluring. He picks on my friends mercifully, laughingly, and in all the good humor that friends should be picked on.  We cuddle, we snuggle, we cook together, we talk, we stumble, we watch movies and anime and silly SciFi TV shows. We get high, sometimes we drink (or I drink), and we have lots and lots of sex. And in two and half years we have never had an argument. We’ve had discussions on sensitive topics and not so sensitive topics, and many discussions about how satisfied we are sexually.

See? I won the lottery.

So when I see my female friends going through guy after guy, jerk after jerk, I really don’t understand.  While I know that it’s true my boyfriend is not really of average character (though he tells me he is), I am stuck wondering how it’s possible that my friends can attract so many unseemly ones.  My friend Nightly in particular.

Nightly and I have an odd sort of history.  We were high school friends (both in our early-mid 20’s now and moored in the common purgatory of bad jobs, college, work, and adult drama that encompasses that time period) of the same “clique”.  We spent lunches together surrounded by other outcasted girls.  She had her set, I had mine and we mingled companionably.  She dated my dad (story for another post) for a few years after high school, and we got to be very close while living together. I have watched her waste her time with unwashed douchebags (not my dad), men who never grew out of their late teens (my dad), nearly move to Boston to be somebody’s full time submissive, meet her knight in shining armor and find him to be no more than a cheating drug dealer who needed a full time nanny, and flip through the deck of varied men she’s met at school and online.

She tried to date for awhile after mister cheating-lying-prude, but somehow she always seemed to find the guys who wanted to go too far too quickly, either wanted their hand down her pants and vice-versa on the first date, or started saying ‘we’ and buying her expensive things, planning for a future.

And then she meets this guy through a friend in her welding classes (yup, lady-welder).  He’s shy and sweet and funny. He likes to come over and talk and be lazy and can be easily badgered into cuddling. He tells her he isn’t looking to become anybody’s “something special”, and she’s okay with that…

…Until she’s not.  Because she’s falling in love, a month and a half in.  When she asks me what she should do, when did I know I was falling love?  I tell her that puppy love lasts about 4 months to set a bar.  When she starts talking about maybe ceasing contact I tell her she should talk to him because making that decision for him would be rude.  Maybe my advice was wrong, maybe I should have held my tongue.  But when she got drunk and the temptation the was too strong, the need to speak her feelings too urgent, she spilled and he left.

We sprung an impromptu New Years party on him at her apartment.  She gave us permission but him no warning.  Still, everything was going swimmingly despite the 7 people in a very small one bedroom apartment.  There were Girs and White Russians, girls flashing the party, the Man Friend in question dropped trou and showed off his undies for reasons I can’t remember, there was a brief but intense showdown with the Nerf Mavericks.

Nightly danced.

It was a wonderful day and evening.  Nightly danced in her bellydance garb, and flirted with the veil.  She did a tarot reading, fell into a serious psychic trance type thing.  Energies were high and strange and the air danced or maybe that was the screwdrivers.

And then she decided to talk to him. And then he left.  And nothing I could say would stop her from blaming herself.  An hour or so later he called and they talked.  Then he dropped the bomb, and only I was left there to see.

The guys in the weld shop at the college, her buddies, most of them claimed to have slept with her.  The friend who introduced her to her Man Friend made her out to be the class slut.  She was shocked and sick. Physically sick, heart sick, soul sick.  She asked me questions for which I have no answer, cried because she had none either.

Why do they only want her for sex?  Why is a pussy on legs all they see?

A few things to know about my friend.  She could care less about sex, but exudes sensuality. She aims to please in all ways, wants always to satisfy her partners to whom she is unflinchingly loyal.  She is tall, big breasted, big hipped, and small of waist.  She is intelligent, nerdy, and enthusiastic.  I’ve called her a hurricane before as a compliment, but she often lately takes it to mean that she is overwhelming.  She tries to tone herself down. She needs company, despises loneliness, and is living alone for the first time in her life.

To me she is the embodiment of the goddess.  As I am my own goddess in my own ways, there she is across from me, the corporeal symbol.  Everything the goddess stands for I see in her.

So why is it that not one man, even ones who have known her for over a decade, can see her as more than warm body with greats tits and ass?  Or really, why is my dad the only one, despite how unsuited the two of them are?  Why can this only be seen in hindsight?

Am I really so good at manifesting the things I want that I made the perfect boyfriend? If not then why does she have so much trouble?  Is it the fundamental differences in our character that make me repel the sex-crazed douches?  Because I’ve never tried to date one.  Not once.  I’ve turned down some very sweet, very interested guys before because I just wasn’t feeling the chemistry.  Am I picky?  Should I tell her to be pickier?  Is it the curse of the giant boobs?

I really just don’t know.

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