Trouble With (ahem) Love

I slept with him on Friday. The barrage of text messages which followed were for the most part ignored, the calls deliberately unanswered. Yesterday while I was shopping, by some crewel stroke of coincidence, I was accosted by the fellows flatmate (I had met briefly before the night's naked wrestling commenced) who pleaded with me to get in touch with the guy. "Um. Okay?' I said, before beating a hasty retreat.

Last night, inching down to sleep, I heard a siren. Flummoxed in my duvet, I twisted, reached over, and looked at the blinking screen of my phone:

...what did last weekend mean? Was it just one night, or something more? You never answer my phone calls or reply to text messages... tell me what you want from us... I think about you alot, please give me some answers.

What did it what? With all the words in the English language, how can you choose to arrange those 45 or so into such a clichéd, maudlin whine, with seemingly so little effort? I blame the proliferation of poor melodrama on set and screen: if Jennifer Anniston wasn't ejecting this crap from her mouth, I wouldn't have to deal with it now.

In the four conscious hours that I knew him, he seemed a nice sort. Balanced? I couldn't really say, but nice. He had a nice cock, certainly; and it was nice of him to drive me home in the morning; but I mean really, have some self-respect man: "sometime" does not mean every hour, on the hour. Those are time-s. Presumably, up until the time we met, those 10 hours previous, to when he started this little digital-stalk, he had a life independent and free sexual obsession. What's stopping him from returning to it? Perhaps my lack of response: silence is being interpreted as a quite pining.

So this morning I sent him off a text, that was (I hope) a polite, firm, let-down. Much like our pick-up, come to think of it; but, maybe I should have sent him back this:

I'm a hooker. The first one was free. If you wanna go again it's going to cost you; and no discounts.