Grounds for Dismissal

Had my first fight with The Producer last weekend. While sharing a cab with a couple guys (one of whom is dating my friend) he and his 30-something friend were giving the young-one girl advice. Mid-conversation, he mentioned having bagged an 18-year-old over the summer.

Word traveled quickly, and I learned of his conquest right before my rooftop party. Sickened at the thought that this 30-year-old guy slept with a teenager, I spent the better part of the afternoon discussing with my gals that this immoral behavior was grounds for dismissal.

He arrived at my rooftop with a couple friends and I greeted him with a cool reception. Talking with him and his friends, I casually eluded to knowing about the 18-year-old. It was dark, but I caught him off guard. As the evening wore on, I made enough references to the 18-year-old that he asked if I wanted him to leave. I responded with what I’d been repeating to him all night - “Eighteen? That’s just sick.”

At this point, he had enough of me not listening to his attempts at explaining the situation, and he pulled me to the side of the roof and kept repeating himself until I finally started listening.

"I met her inside a bar in Avalon. She told me she was 24. She used a fake ID to get past the notoriously tough bouncers and the bartenders. I had not idea until after the fact and I’m hardly proud of it.”

Alright, so the “hardly proud of it” line was a bit much, considering that he had mentioned the experience in a car full of guys. That sounds like bragging to me. However, the rest of his story seemed truthful enough, I had to drop it.

In all honesty, it worked out nicely, cause we’ve agreed that I’ll get over the accidental-18-year-old if he gets over this guy.

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I'm using this as a reminder that learning about someone new is a very long process. So in that vein, I am keeping my options open. Last night I met The Nudist for post-work cocktails, which led into a game of pool at another bar and more cocktails, which led into another bar and a 2am kiss at my doorway.

A gal needs options – right?