Not That Kind Of Girl, by Doris

So the Russian is supposed to get in touch this week. Two days after the hickey incident, I got a text (seriously, I always get a text exactly two or three days after we hang out. It's like the guy's living Swingers) saying he had a great time, he was busy the next week, but did I want to hang out the week after?

As luck would have it, I was charging my phone and didn't see the text till the next morning, so there was none of that should-I-text-him-back-now-or-wait-a-few-minutes? anxiety. (Hm, maybe I'VE watched Swingers too many times). I told him I'd had a great time too, and that sounded good.

Well, it's only Monday of the aforementioned week. And maybe I'm burned out or paranoid or something, but I'm not sure if I'm going to hear from him again.

And I'm a little sadder about that than I'd like to admit.

It's not that I wanted to build some emotional foundation. I mean, the guy's married for God's sake. And I can't say I'm really hankering for another ten-minute description on how Hitler screwed over the Russians in WWII. I can only pointedly play with my phone for so long.

True, the guy was a grade-A blowhard.

But he was a really good kisser. I could do with another makeout.

Whatever. We'll see what happens.

I tell you what, though: I'll eat glass before I become one of those whiny Grey's Anatomy-type neurotichicks who stress about not getting texted by some douche.

I'm not that kind of girl.