In 2005, I had a brief lapse in judgement (one of many) and decided that I hated Baltimore so I dropped everything and moved to London, England. I moved in with some Irish guys, got a job and eventually went on some fancy dates with British dudes. It was a rollicking good time.
I love the British accent and whenever a British guy approached me, I swooned and I swooned hard. Ladies, here’s the thing–just because it has a British accent, does not mean you should accept all date offers. There needs to be a filter. I didn’t have a filter, so when 32-year-old Peter Mahoney approached me for the first time and said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and we were going to get married some day, I enthusiastically replied, “YAY!” and three days later we went on a date.
The date was nice, but something seemed kind of “off.” I thought maybe it was because he was trying too hard, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My reaction at the end of the date was “eh.” We went on a couple more dates and each was as “eh” as the last. There was no spark and I couldn’t tell if he was quiet, boring or asexual. He finally kissed me on the third date. It was awful. We went back to his house and he kissed me again. It, too, was awful. He gave me some tea and we stared at the wall. No one spoke. Then, when we went up to his room, I wasn’t allowed to turn on the light. How odd. When I asked why he told me not to worry about it. Then, he asked me if we could just cuddle. It was all very weird.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, the very first thing to catch my eye was a tiny wooden marionette. I looked at the shelf above it and there was another, but it was larger. Then I saw another. And another. One was dressed as a clown but it didn’t have a face. Then I realized that none of them did. Wooden marionettes were everywhere and none of them had faces. There were at least 25 of these things. Why?! Fear built within me and I shook him awake. I needed answers. “So, I couldn’t help but notice these faceless marionettes,” I noted casually. “I make and collect them,” he responded, “and I also have some puppets downstairs.” It was time for me to leave.
When I got to the bottom of the steps I received a surprise greeting from his mother, and guess what? She had made us fucking breakfast. His dad poured me some coffee. I ate as quickly as possible, went home and never talked to him again.
I had no clue he lived with his parents. I had no clue he made faceless marionettes. You know what? If you’re into puppetry or you want to make marionettes, you make those creepy fuckers and then share it with the world because that’s what you do and you love it. Own it and you’ll find someone who is loving and proud to own it with you.
I, however, was not going to be that girl. I know I can do better than “asexual Geppetto.”