Confessions of A Female Player: A Playa Is Born

Slut, whore, skank, and cum dumpster are terms with such a negative connotation and I don’t feel describe me in the least. I don’t charge for sex. I don’t dress provocatively. Most importantly, I am particular on who dumps their cum on me (safe sex kids). For lack of a better term, I am going to refer to myself as a female player. The fact that women don’t have a better term that expresses they don’t give a damn about these “suckas” is a shame, but that is a blog topic for another time. For the time being, player is the best way to describe my current need for sex and my utter avoidance of commitment. To better understand the root of my “playa status” I should briefly describe my past relationships.

At 17, I moved in with my boyfriend after a long 3 month courtship. After a nearly 4 year abusive relationship, I returned to our little apartment from a work trip only to find a young woman in our bathroom. She was still dewy from the shower she took and her clothes were still in the dryer. Bless her heart. She had laundry to do after fucking my boyfriend. Following frantic apologies and rushed efforts to have her leave without me going ape-shit, we agreed it was over and I moved out.

At 23, I met another young man with a lot of promise. He had a genius IQ, was the executive of a payment option company, and my dad thought he was bright. Two years into our relationship he gave me the “It’s Not Working” speech and we broke up. Three months later I found out that what was not “working” for him was being a two-timing bastard. I found out through lengthy text messages from the “other woman” that they were sleeping together for 8 months of our relationship.

After these two disastrous tramples with cupid I went through a minor playa period. I avoided anything serious and dated casually. I knew I wasn’t ready for another serious relationship but I had faith that since I was a good person that would find a good man.

Then, I met disaster number three; a tall, dark, and handsome man that made me drop all my walls only to break up with me, get back together with me, break up with me again, get back together with me, and then break up with me again. This emotional roller coaster was what officially catapulted me into full on player-hood.

You can say I am suffering major posttraumatic stress disorder of the douche-bag sort. As much as I’d like to say I am not jaded, I can’t help but think every guy is a jerk. I have managed to build fort-quality walls up in an attempt to protect myself, and the “deal-breakers” I discover persistently dwarf any perspective relationships. To say I am a heartbreaker is an understatement and at the same time I wish I could say I care that I hurt them.

-Cue Rick James: “Coooold Blooded.”

So as I chronicle my dating life, know that you are reading the thoughts of an extremely scarred woman. Should I ever say, “This guy is special. He has won me over,” be prepared to RSVP to a miracle wedding. Pigs will fly, the Devil will have frost on his car, and I’ll be wearing white.

PS. Honorable mention will be made to the follower who can create a better term then “female player.”