The Good Time Girl

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Being the Good Time Girl is the hard part of having lovers and not “real” relationships.  I don’t get to bring my problems to either of my lovers.  (Look calling them “E” and “P” is getting weird.  E: he does something with computers, I guess, so let’s call him Sexy Dilbert.  And P: Pacinetto.  He’s an ex-cop, and I suspect a cop-like force under the goofy, relaxed exterior. I’ll see how long the names last.)

So today I have another long, hard discussion with my husband.  I’m terrified of leaving him and starting out on my own again, but then he says something patronizing and I just want to head out the door.  I need to buy a car.

However, I’m sad, and I can’t text the boyfriends really to cheer me up. Pacinetto would probably do it, but he doesn’t want anything serious and also has said he’s scared of me falling in love with him.  Which is the best way in the world to prevent someone from falling in love with you. I mean, who in the world would want someone who makes it clear they don’t want you?

But the Good Time Girl is a type. I met a woman once from Cameroon.  She was beautiful and the life of the party, and she was going out with my husband’s friend, a sweet alcoholic.  For me, it was easy to see why this knock-out of a woman was with our barely washed friend, twenty years older than her.  With him, she didn’t have to be “on” all the time.  She could relax.

Then there were the Polish ladies I worked with for a time.  We were having an interesting discussion about politics when a man walked in the room.  The two ladies batted their eyes and changed instantly into pretty little baby dolls.  Men required being “on”.

Being “on” is a lot of work.  It takes effort and some carry it further than others.  Some will not be seen by men without make-up, or without sexy clothes.  Some will denigrate all the other normal women in the room, “Look at me!  I’m so much more fun than those other ladies. Everyone wants to be with me!!”  And the normal women purse their lips and pull on the sleeves of their husbands before they slide into the Venus flytrap.

We are the Good Time Girls.  We are not like wives and mothers, sisters and daughters.  We aren’t real.  We give the impression that we only want to have fun, although in another fold of time, we are also wives and mothers, sisters and daughters.  We never cry, except in the rain to hide our tears.

 

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