Objects in mirror are far more unstable than they appear

I have a new admirer.
It's a total fluke, stumbling off a curb, landing in a pile of diamonds accident that I even met him at all.
I actually only agreed to meet him out of spite.

See, I also have a lover.
I'm a greedy, greedy girl.
And he is the bee's knees.
Gorgeous. Intoxicating. Intriguing.
He's my buddy and my orgasm inducer and I adore him immensely.
However.
He's about as committed to me as Hugh Hefner is to anyone with boobs.
My passionate rendezvous leaves much to be desired.

It's not even the label, I crave, though it certainly is good for the ego to feel someone has claimed you.
It's not the feminine pride of being spoken for or the inane Facebook relationship status I'm after.
But simply, Clear. Concise. Consistent. Clarity.
It is difficult to relate to someone or play by the vague naughty rules if actions and words are at odds with one another.
Find me a man who says what he does and I'll show you my soul mate.

So, being immersed in a state of delicious uncertainty I found myself reacting irrationally.
I thought I saw something with some tart of a sprite so I did the only thing that made sound, reasonable sense.
I made a date that night with someone else.

You're shaking your head right now, I know.
Now you know how my entire family feels.

But in my spiraling state of zero control it seemed the sanest way to handle things.
Play or be played.
I refuse to ever again be any man's weeping ex lover.
You don't like me?
Then fuck you.
I've a sea of men waiting to be pleasured.

So on my way to my date I called my lover to make sure he knew exactly what I was up to.
"That's fine. Have a good time."
'Oh. Really? I hope you know I'm going to walk in there and he's going to tell me how beautiful I look and how amazing I am.'
"Yeah and he'll probably be really rich too."
'Yeah. And HUGE.'
"Mmhmm. And I bet he wears bow ties all the time. Sounds like the perfect guy."
'You make me crazy!'
"What am I going to do with you?"
And I hung up the phone with the emotional maturity of a tutu clad six year old wiggling her butt, tongue sticking out, chanting naa naa na na naa naa.

Oh I was going on this date and it was going to be fucking fantastic.
Or I was at least going to drink my weight in champagne.

Miracle of miracles, the date was surprisingly wonderful.
I was so indifferent about the whole thing that I was my most outrageous self without trying to impress.
He was older and intelligent and instantly taken with me.
He walked me to my car and made a point to give me two hugs.
Someone didn't want me to go.
And that felt incredible.

He texted me after the date and the next day when he had youtubed my movie trailer.
He asked for a second date and I was reminded of when I first went out with DB and was about as excited over that date as I'd been with this.
DB too, was captivated by me from the first night, following my online ventures, flattering me with texts to know I was on his mind.

It all felt so familiar, so right.
Another guy. Another infatuation.
Someone who actually knew what he wanted and went for it.

And yet, juxtaposed, because Timing is a most fickle whore, I grew closer to my lover in the same week than I had since we first met.
Maybe something was growing.
Or maybe I was holding onto something that never was.

But for the first time, since Prince Charming once crashed upon my fairytale, I had a man in my life who provided me the comfort to feel free to be me.
And that seemed to mean something, to count for more than compliments or paid dinners or relationship parameters as clear as the diamonds on my fingers.

I'd found someone I sincerely connected with.
And I realized I didn't care what he called it.
I knew it.
And I am far too savvy for any man to ever truly label anyway.