The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 2)

Kissing

 

Continued from… The Scientist:  Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

They say a kiss is worth a thousand words.  Or is it a picture?  What about kissing on a light blue velvet couch while trying not to spill your water?  That’s gotta be worth at least 50, maybe even a hundred words, no?

So there we were, the Scientist and the juggler, making out like teenagers, until I finally broke us apart and said would you mind setting this down for me on the table? like some kind of romantic savant.  We laughed and he set my glass down.  He suggested we move to the bed.  I said I had to go to the bathroom (which is where I whipped off my spanx and replaced them with sexy red lace undies – if you’re not picturing me as a sex-goddess-superwoman-clark-kendra I don’t even know what’s wrong with you).

I came out of the bathroom and within seconds our bodies were pressed together.  We drifted over to the bed and before I knew it we were making out hot and heavy and he had a nipple in his mouth.  Er.  Um.  Okay well actually it probably went a bit slower than that but in many ways it felt that quick.

Though I had changed into the red lacies, I had every intention of keeping it ladylike.

(sidenote:  I use the term ladylike here facetiously, and also incorrectly.  I know that you, my beloved readers, will understand what I mean by ladylike and also forgive my lexicon for having no other word to convey that I wasn’t going to be giving him the goods in a quick fashion…and YET, that you know without a doubt that not only do I use the term without judgment but that I firmly believe women should not be judged by their sexual experiences nor that those experiences are even a thing that is rationally judgable as the relationship between sex and a woman’s value is zero, they are not correlateable.

So we were making out, and the kissing was…mostly good.  You see, men can tend to get excited, and often when they do their kissing goes to shit they can get a little carried away, and like a good puppet master (is that an offensive thing to say?) you have to reign them in, guide the pace, and keep things all good.  After all, if I’m being honest, most men are fucking clueless (at least in the beginning).  And as I’ve said before, that’s why I feel the need to set the pace to slow.

Nonetheless, when the kissing was good, the kissing was good.  Our hot mouths, our soft lips, a lick here, a nibble there, this is what passion tastes like.  And then before I knew it, my bra was off.  With one hand like some kind of clasp magician, a real life Joey Tribiani if you will, he undid the clasps on my bra (which by the way, with these breasts and this body, was a 5 clasper).  All I’m saying is that’s some serious dexterity there, and it was duly noted for the future.

That being said, it wasn’t all smooth moves and hiccupless humping.  I’m all for the dry hump, in fact, I’m a huge fan of a good healthy hump, a sensual slide, a rigorous rub, a body bump.  But, when things get weird is when you feel like a stuffed animal being humped by a dog rather than a luscious lady being rubbed in all the right ways.

While the Scientist may have the upper hand when it comes to academic intelligence and adventure travel, I definitely knew, from very early on, that sexually speaking, I was on top (figuratively, if not always literally).  Now, obviously, sex is no competition, and if anything, this feeling of experiential superiority only made me more relaxed and, for lack of a better word, forgiving, of his misteps.

So like I said, the dry humping, it was often um…detached?  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  Actually that’s a lie, it’s completely just occurred to me how to characterize it.

It’s as if the dry humping was only for him, like there was no concern about my bits and how they might want to be rubbed.  Now, in his defense, I had said I wanted to take things slow so maybe he interpreted that as don’t touch my vagina, but hey…man…I mean, if you’re going to pump and thrust and throb against it, it doesn’t matter if we’re fully clothed or not, YOU BETTER HAVE MY GODDAMN CLIT IN MIND.

And then at some point, after the thrusting gained momentum and then peaked, it stopped altogether.  Had he gotten tired?  Was the ceasing just an awareness that his balls would remain blue?  Or I mean is it possible did he cum from all the banging against my vag?  We continued to make out for awhile longer and at some point I thought, ya know, I’d just take a quick feel, and see what he was working with.  Ya know, just give big ol’ johnson a quick, outside the pants stroke or two to see what kind of fun the future held.

But as I put my hand on what had only moments earlier been the gate to pound-town, I was shocked, he was soft.  What?  What the?  What?  Unacceptable, I thought and immediately began to offer my best caresses, my top notch technique, to bring that sad sailor back to life.  But as I rubbed, and caressed, and smoothly seduced this beast, and it ever so slowly came, what I can only hope is “somewhat” back to life…I thought a lot harder about whether or not he had come during humpfest 2013.  At this point I was actually hoping he had because otherwise I’d just started dating a dude who wasn’t super hard for me (something I’m not at all used to – whether by sheer luck I don’t know).

So eventually he got semi-hard, and I got semi-giving-uppy, because after all what is the point of getting him super hard when I had no intention of even giving the fellow a handy (since boys are the worst at driving the pressure train and somehow a handy way too often ends up with a blowy or a bangy and dammit I like stages and like I said earlier, most dudes suck at sex in the beginning).

So I left blue balls (or not blue balls, depending on) lie and our kissing slowly progressed into a cuddling-ish lie about.  At some point though I swear he was about to fall asleep and it seemed like a good time to make my exit.  We talked about the next day, and he informed me that he had to get up at the crack of dawn to head to the lab.  Now, while totally reasonable, and not being a morning person myself I completely understand in the rational part of my brain, I admit I felt a tad jilted that he didn’t say something along the lines of but you should stay a bit longer.

I went to the bathroom to fix my ridiculous make-out hair, except unfortunately I forgot to bring my purse in with me.  My purse with my spanx.  My spanx which keep my thighs from rubbing (read: chaffing) when I walk.  And I couldn’t very well come out of the bathroom, only to grab my purse and go back in, what am I, a lunatic!?!

When I came out of the bathroom, we talked for a little bit longer, and then he pulled me in for a kiss goodbye, which ended up lasting several minutes (and I must admit made me feel a lot better about his not having asked me to stick around longer).  And then I was out the door.  And into the elevator.  Where I hoped with all my might that in the drop down of 18 floors to the lobby that there wouldn’t be a single person wanting to get on the elevator.  And like Clark Kendra I put my spandex shorts on in the elevator – like some kind of sexy magician (read: hot mess), and then was off into the night.

 

The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

Smart Guys

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e had had our first date on Thursday night and now it was Sunday and I was headed over to the Scientist‘s place for dinner.

I arrived right on time.  He opened the door, we hugged, and his wet hair pressed against my cheek.  He seemed a tad rushed, which was substantiated when he told me that his day had run long at the lab and so he hadn’t had a chance to actually cook anything yet.

No worries I said.  I wasn’t even that hungry yet.  He showed me around his place (which is smaller than mine, if that can even be possible) and then he presented the view, which was stunning.  He partially faced the “mountain” (mont-royal), as well as the stadium, and had a clear view over the city.  It was beautiful while it was still light out and then magical once it had gotten dark (did you know that there’s a huge lit up cross on Mont-Royal?  I had no idea but apparently there is, so much for Quebec’s new attempt to ban religious symbols eh?).

Unfortunately, unlike my balcony which is solid cement and at least feels sturdy, his balcony felt and looked like it was constructed for a 7th grade science project.   And before you think me a huge scaredy-cat of illogical reasoning, try to remember that this is Montreal after all, and you can’t trust anything here.  Corruption is real and infrastructure is terminal.  I mean, I’m still a scaredy cat, but like bear that in mind is all I’m saying.  Thus, while the view was cool and all, going out there was kind of terrifying and I don’t think he was impressed by my sensitivity to…ya know…dying.

We continued to talk for awhile, particularly about travel as his apartment had a large map and was decorated primarily by the knick knacks and souvenir trinkets he’d clearly picked up along his travels.  Eventually though, he had to make us dinner, so he told me to make myself comfortable and he’d finish it up.

I, of course, took that as an excellent sign to read his science textbooks (don’t worry, I asked first). 

 

During dinner we listened to jazz music and he dimmed the lights so we could look out over the city.  The food was simple yet delicious, though I only ate one of the tortilla/fajita things.  At first, I thought he’d made 4 and since I wasn’t all that hungry to begin with (nerves, probably) when he’d eaten 2 and offered me another I declined, assuring him it was delicious but that I was good.  Then I found out he’d made 6, but I couldn’t figure out if it would be weirder to not eat very much or to change my mind now, so I stuck with the former.  Then he offered me ice cream for dessert.  At first I responded with no, I’m fine but then I felt like such an asshole for turning down all his food that I said sure, I’ll take some.  I mean, I’m nothing if not a polite houseguest 😉

We talked some more about travelling, and he showed me this video of his trip to South Africa.  He told me a story of how him and his friend had been camping off the beaten trail in South Africa and a car had pulled up and the driver pulled a gun on them.  He asked if I’d ever had any close calls like that with danger and I struggled to answer.  No, not really I’d said and immediately I found myself ashamed of my lack of adventure.  But then I realized that it could be because I was a woman and thus, had a very keen sense of which situations are safe and which are not and would then never have put myself in that kind of danger.  But, it did make me want to travel more, to be more adventurous, to make this life really happen, ya know?

We sat on this weird super tiny couch that looked like it was covered in light blue velvet, him drinking a beer and me drinking water.  It was pretty typical second date stuff, the two people slowly moving closer and closer together, the kiss waiting in the wings.  But there’s still an awkwardness at this stage, there’s still an uncertainty as to whether affection is wanted, will be accepted.  And so I did my best to indicate that it was and would be, by facing him and just like that…we were kissing.  Well…kissing, and trying to not spill my water.

 

To Be Continued…

Post First Date: Who Should Make the First Move?

Dating Questions

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

Who should text after the first date?

How long should you wait to contact someone after a first date?

Do you have to wait for him to contact you? 

I am a 32 year old woman and, no joke, I actually typed these queries into Google search the day after my first date with the Scientist.  With most of the men I’ve dated I’ve come to realize that no texty means no likey and that they want to be the one pursuing things.  But with a highly educated enlightened dude does all that stuff still apply?  And there I found myself googling dating advice (because though in some areas of dating I know my stuff, this was new territory and I just didn’t know).

The results of my search were all pretty clear:  go ahead and text him, these days guys like not having to always be the one making the first contact.  But, is this really true?  Do guys want you to make the effort to contact them?  Or is it really just in a dream scenario that every guy is hoping Megan Fox is looking up their numbers and calling them to declare her love?  And at that point it’s not really about who called whom first but instead that of course everyone wants someone fucking amazing to call them.  I mean hell, I barely know who Megan Fox is and I’d take her call.  But I digress.

Nonetheless, some of these commenters made some valid points, if only in theory, and given the Scientist being the enlightened nerdy guy I had gathered him to be, I figured what the hell.

 

And so I texted.

 

At 8pm on a Friday night.  (cringe).

 

Hey 🙂

 

And then I waited…

 

And I waited…

 

(I mean technically I got some work done, watched some TV, etc., but you get the idea).

 

I mean it was radio fucking silence.

 

No biggie though, I thought, maybe he’s busy and he’ll respond tomorrow or something.

 

But then tomorrow came and there was no text.  I was bummed.  I mean, I had thought our first date had gone really well, what with all the conversation and kissing and stuff.  Then again, Skinny Jeans had kissed me on our first (and last) date and had even gone out of his way to say it was good, only to never ask me out again.

 

Sidenote:  What is the deal with boys who don’t like me kissing me?

 

And just when I thought I had been unceremoniously rejected after my 2nd first date in a week’s time, I got a text from him that read:

Hey! 🙂  Sorry, crazy day yesterday, nonstop till 1am.  Did you have a good time on Thursday?

and then right away another message

By the way, do you have plans tomorrow evening?

I said that I’d had a good time, and asked if he had as well, and then said that no, I had nothing planned the following night.  To which, he responded:

It was very nice to meet you.  I really enjoyed our conversation.  I wanted to invite you over for dinner at my place.  Let me know if you would like to come.

And just like that…a second date was born.  Was it a good idea that I texted?  Who knows.  Would he have texted me in his own time if I hadn’t?  I have no idea.  What I’m saying is, while I can advise boys on how to stop being losers while online dating, I haven’t a fucking clue about the rest of this stuff.

WISH ME LUCK!!

The Scientist: Coffee, Conversation, and Kisses

First Dates

 

Continued from… A New “Something”:  The Scientist

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o, there we were, The Scientist and I, having coffee in a cafe, on a first date in Montreal.  And it was good.

He asked a ton of questions, something we all know I love and so rarely happens.  We both talked about our careers (he asked about my writing, which was amazing on two levels:  one, it was awesome to have someone take such a huge interest in something I love, and two, it forced me to think about my ‘process’ and some other things I hadn’t really put that much time into considering).

He talked about a research paper he had just submitted, with some colleagues, about a new discovery in the way memories are formed (and only had to dumb it down a little for me), which was great to hear someone talk so passionately about something and because frankly, that level of intelligence is super hot.

At one point, I was talking about the Conference at Yale University that I was going to shortly, and he asked about the paper I was presenting.  I told him that I was writing about “Happy Objects” in John Gay’s 18th C. play The Beggar’s Opera and what are the chances that he would know that play I was talking about?  Zero, right?  It has to be zero.  And yet, and yet, in a strange string of connection, he’d learned about the play once because of it’s later connection to the Jazz song “Mack the Knife” done by Frank Sinatra.  What are the chances?!?! (he could probably tell me, he’s that smart).

We laughed, we learned, it was fun.

Eventually, the cafe was closing and the waiter brought the bill to our table, saying something about how they could split it up at the front if we wanted but the Scientist immediately chimed in that he’d take care of it (before I even had time to make that awkward reach).  And though my coffee was probably only about $5.  And though, I’d recently tried to justify that specific gesture not really mattering.  And though, I am woman hear me roar and equality and all that.  This is one of the few dating rituals that I actually think matter, and has some logic behind it.

He paid the bill, we went outside, but neither of us seemed interested in saying goodbye.  After all, we hadn’t even started to talk about what it was like to grow up in Colombia, or all the world traveling he and I had done, etc.  We decided to take a stroll down Saint Urbain, and whether it was the conversation or simply the company, before I knew it we had walked all the way down to Sherbrooke (and I had hardly noticed I wasn’t in particularly comfortable shoes).

Conveniently, there is a little courtyyard with benches and light displays at the corner of Sherbrooke and Saint Urbain, it was like a rest stop for romance, a space for something special, or maybe it was just a few benches and some bushes.  Either way, we sat down for a bit and continued talking.

And that’s when it somehow took that turn to how I write about sex and dating.  It didn’t seem to bother him at all, in fact he seemed kind of intrigued.  But not in that, oooh you’re a dating blogger and maybe you can make me more important by writing about me way that can be a real turn off.  He just seemed, well, interested in knowing more.  We continued to talk about dating war stories for a bit, I mentioned the lavender leather jacket and he talked about a date where the person did not match their profile in the slightest.  And then he went on to ease my dating fears and said that I was exactly the person I had seemed online (pictures, profile and conversation).

We talked a bit more about dating and writing, and he even suggested that I could go on bad dates, if only for the material.  I told him I could never do that, and honestly I really couldn’t.  It’s one thing to turn a horrible date into something less horrible by writing about it and sharing your experiences with people, but to purposely go out with someone knowing that you weren’t interested in them just seems dishonest and cruel.  I just couldn’t do that to people.  Most guys, I said, when I tell them, immediately jump to the conclusion that I date for sport, which couldn’t be further from the truth, after all, I said, first dates are the worst.

Realizing that we, of course, were on a first date and not wanting him to think I wasn’t enjoying myself, I felt the need to clarify that the part of first dates that I hate is that initial uncertainty because the other person might be a total freak or murderer.  It’s because it’s online dating, and I never know if the person is going to actually be the person they have claimed to be, or if I have managed to represent myself correctly as the person I really am so that I too match up well to my profile.  I wish I didn’t get so nervous and stressed out for first dates but I do, so there you have it.  Nonetheless, I told him, that after I meet someone, then I’m fine.

I know this blog post is very facts fact facts details details details but don’t let that distract you from the first date magic that was happening as we sat side by side (but in that leaning in triangley way) our knees occasionally touching.  I had clearly made him a bit uncomfortable with all my I hate first dates talks, so I wasn’t really surprised when he hinted at, insinuated, and then just flat out asked if I hated everything about first dates and would I mind if he kissed me.  And while I don’t normally like the first-kiss-permission-ask, the way he did it (or maybe it’s just because I liked him thus far) didn’t bother me.  I smiled, blushed, subconsciously tried to look extra cute, and nodded.

He leaned over and kissed me.

Even though we were in public, it felt somewhat secluded and the kisses were good so, we ended up kissing for several minutes before I eventually pulled us apart.  He said something about me being a good kisser and we decided to continue our walk up Sherbrooke.

We walked and walked, and talked and talked until finally we found ourselves near McGill and his home.  It was getting late and I still had to get home, so we checked the time of the next bus and he waited with me until it came (but not before sneaking in a few more steamy kisses).

And that was it, the end of a really good date, with really good conversation and kisses, with someone who seemed like he could be a really good match.

Could it all finally be working out???

A New “Something”: The Scientist

Dating a Scientist

 

Many people have been quick to point out to me, I have a history of dating…er…um…well…hot and dumb?  Though it should be noted, I was recently telling my mother that it’s not so much that I’m some vain asshole picking hotness over smartness, these are the guys that are choosing me.  And if I’m going to date a dumb guy, he might as well be hot, no?  Now I’m not saying I’m some kind of smarty pants, but there is something to be said for the fact that I have 2 BAs and am working on my MA.  Needless to say, I clearly value higher education and intelligence.

But I digress, THIS is about the Scientist.  So here goes…

He messaged me on OkCupid.  He asked intelligent questions (and never mentioned my tits once), our conversations included paragraphs (it was actually fun getting to know him), he seemed really interesting (he’s traveled all over the world), and it seemed like we would probably have a lot in common.  Oh, and he’s getting his PhD in Neuroscience.  No biggie.

In all honesty, my only hesitation was his height – 5’9.  Now, don’t get me wrong, height isn’t everything, and it’s not even necessarily a downside but the thing of it is that when the guy isn’t particularly tall – I feel bigger.  I’m already fairly tall at 5’7 and add to that I’m a BBW or Plus size or whatever you want to call it chubby bunny, and then if the guy isn’t tall sometimes I feel a bit like, like, well like, I take on a bit of a masculine energy.  But I digress, my issues aside, he seemed like a cool dude (and smart as fuck, have I mentioned that yet, that he’s super smart, well more on this later!)

Detour.  It was the week of my 32nd birthday.  I had just started to get back into dating (read: put up dating profiles on POF and OKCupid) and I had 3 potential first dates coming up.  The first was with a really pushy French guy (from France, big surprise) who, even though I pretty clearly stated that I was looking to hang out in an area of Montreal that I was familiar with, was trying to convince me to trek my way on an adventure to a hookah joint (that was conveniently only a block from his house, though I had already clearly said no, I don’t want to have a drink on your terrace, I’m not comfortable with that for a first date).  Needless to say, boys, pushiness is not a turn on and I eventually decided it wasn’t worth the stress and texted to cancel (well in advance though, so don’t you worry).  The second guy was Skinny Jeans, and we all know how that turned out.  And then the third brings us back to this story, The Scientist.

Unfortunately, with classes, TAing, my first date with Skinny Jeans on my bday, and my own birthday party, I had booked up the whole week except for Saturday.  Even more unfortunately, the Scientist was running the Montreal Marathon that day which would put him out of commission for another two (as I imagine running that kind of distance basically cripples you for a day or so after).  And then, as luck would have it, that brings us back to the days I have class again and the point of this lengthy story is to tell you that from the time he actually first asked me out, it would be another week and a half before we got to meet.

One of the problems with making a date that far in advance is it is both too much and not enough time all at once.  It’s too much time to spend waiting (because you’d be surprised how much you can convince yourself you don’t want to go on a first date after your first date back in over a year is a total flop).  And yet, it’s entirely too much time because normally when you’ve started talking to someone, you…ya know…talk to them, but when you’re waiting for a first date, there is a big part of you (and it’s an advisable part, I admit) that doesn’t want to talk to the other person.  You are, after all, saving up your most interesting banter and stories for the first date, when you’ll impress them with your flawless conversation.  So, during those 10 or so days it was almost radio silence, on both sides, while we waited for our big date.

By which time, of course, I was feeling a bit more like this, than excited to meet a new fella:

 

 

But obviously I didn’t bail because I’m not a total jackass and when thursday rolled around, I got all gussied up and ready for our date.  I was running a tad behind, as per usual, so was planning to catch a cab so I wouldn’t be late, when the Scientist called and, apologizing profusely, asked if we could please push our date by 45 minutes so that he could attend an art show of a friend that he’d forgotten he’d promised to attend.

No sweat, I told him, let’s push it an hour so that you’re not rushed.  Plus, now I could save cab fare and take the bus, hoorays all around.  When I showed up at the cafe, the place was super cute but also really dead.  I must’ve been looking around confused because the hostess asked if I was meeting someone–yep–a guy?–yep–around the corner.  And there he was.  We hugged, I sat down, and so it began…

A New “Something”: Skinny Jeans

Dating Nosedive

 

The older I get, the less birthdays actually seem to matter.  That’s why, this year, when the opportunity to go on a first date fell squarely on my birthday, I didn’t really see it as a big deal.  It just seemed like another day in an already busy calendar, and after all, the time was finally right.  I had managed to find my way through a hard year of getting my bearings in grad school (read: I didn’t go on a single first date since France and The Comic), I had finally transferred over to the creative stream and excepting an academic conference in October, I was basically done with academia and ready to focus on the Creative Writing side of my degree (read: I was happy, I was less busy, life was ripe for the picking)

*cue raucous applause and several minutes of elated sighing*

Needless to say, your girl was ready to have some fun.  So when Skinny Jeans asked me out, I accepted.  Plus, I was planning to have my party the next night anyway so it wasn’t like I was some lonely singleton just trying not to spend my day of birth alone, I had a busy schedule of fun (and work) things, and Thursday night was just when I could fit him in.

He had messaged me on POF, nothing too thrilling, but he seemed normal.  He was pretty good looking: 5’10, black, English Speaking (a thing I’ve really come to find necessary with my ever failing ability to speak French), and he seemed cool enough.  We added each other on Facebook and everything was a go.  He lives in a sort-of-suburb of montreal and since he’s from here we figured it would be easiest if he came to my pace (don’t freak out, not my apartment, just picked me up downstairs, it’s a very busy place, no chance of being murdered etc.).

Thursday rolled around, he texted that he was here, and I went down to meet him.  I was already a ball of nerves for two reasons:

  1. I hadn’t gone on a date in over a year
  2. I hate first dates.  Well, not the whole date.  Once I meet the guy and he’s normal and we get along things are awesome, great, wonderful.  But the few hours before we meet, I’m near vomitting at all times.  I just hate it.  I don’t even totally know what I’m afraid of, but needless to say, I’m not calm and relaxed.

We greeted with a hug, and though I wasn’t super jazzed about his fitted pants, I was pleased.  He, however, may not have been.  He didn’t smile a whole lot in the beginning, though I’ve also met guys who didn’t smile a lot at first and then we’re all over it later so who knows, I’m probably too sensitive about the smiling.  But then again, this is my blog, and I’m trying to make dating better for everyone, so really what I’m saying is Boys, more smiling, smile right from the beginning, big warm welcoming smiles.  I get that you’re nervous but she is too and nothing quite says, I’m so pleased because you look exactly like you’re dating profile photos like a sunshine smile.  

We walked and talked for a few blocks until we came to a coffee shop.  We went inside, and that’s when things got awkward.  Well, for me.  He wanted to get something to eat and there was a really long counter so I kind of ended up ordering my own coffee and then paying for it.  And what I mean by awkward is really that internally I began a conversation whereby I attempted to defend the action of not paying but honestly…honestly…honestly?  We all know I’m not a fan.  But even more than not paying as a literal thing bothers me, it’s also what it says about him as a person, and most important of all, I think it says a lot about what he thinks of me (which if we’re being real here is that he doesn’t think spending time with me is worth $4.00).

But, not one to jump to conclusions (er…uh…at least not mid-date), I made the best of things and sat down for a chat.  We ended up talking for 2.5 hours, until the coffee shop was closing down.  I admit, I was a tad confused, this chatty behavior seeming very contradictory to the paying of coffee, and thus started to think maybe he had his own reasons for not paying and that maybe I should let it go.

We had been talking about a local pool place and suggested that maybe we could move on to there, at first he said yes but then followed it up quickly with oh, I can’t, I have to go set up for a video shoot tomorrow.  It made sense, after all, when we’d originally booked the date he’d asked for earlier rather than later.  But still.  But still.  I’m not a fan of being double booked on.  I get that there was a huge possibility that I could’ve been a dud, but still.

Nonetheless, he walked me home from the coffeeshop and then proceeded to chat with me for another 45 minutes outside of my apartment building.

Was he waiting for an invite up?

Was he just having a good time?

At some point I could tell what was happening.  I could feel it in the air.  I could see it in the way he was standing.  He was working out to a goodnight kiss and I guess all that chatter was a good way to fill the time.  Eventually he worked up to it and planted a big kiss on me.  It was nice.  I probably pulled away too soon but there were so many people around (it being a high traffic area) and I’m not a fan of PDA with new boys, with a boyfriend sure, but first kisses should happen in dark sexy places, not orange lit doorways with people coming and going.

Eventually we said goodbye.  And *spoiled alert* I won’t make you wait on this one for a second blog post, because it really was goodbye.  We texted back and forth a few times, but after a few messages it became clear he wasn’t interested.  He was a confident, aggressive fella and not asking for a second date was indication enough, if not the fact that his responses to texts were often only a few phrases.

Do I know what happened?  Nope.  Maybe he didn’t like how I looked or thought I was dull.

But why did he kiss me?  Honestly, no idea.  I don’t really understand sexual activity with someone you’re not at least interested in seeing again (not to be confused with drunk goggles etc. because we were both stone cold sober).  And it seems unlikely that the kissing wasn’t good or something because he went out of his way to mention that I was a good kisser.

Did something happen between the date and now?  Again, no idea.  Like I’ve said before, as much as I absolutely fucking hate not having any answers to dating questions, sometimes they just never come.  And you just have to be okay with that.  So I am.  This is me, being okay with it.  But then again, it might have something to do with the fact that a week later, I already had another first date booked 😉

**********

One final note about Skinny Jeans before I move on, because we all know I LOVE a teachable moment.  I know that guys are often worried about being an asshole when it comes to rejection and so I feel the need to point out how Skinny Jeans was, in fact, an asshole, and how he could’ve easily avoided it with little to no effort.

The key to rejecting a girl, besides all the obvious advice I’ve given before is clarity.  Don’t push and pull.  Don’t give and take.  Just reject.  Pick one line of attack and follow through.  With Skinny Jeans, the texting was…sporadic.  He responded on and off.  And when he responded, it was enthusiastic and then it wasn’t.  But not in a tapered off way, the attention was misleading.  What he should’ve done, assuming he wasn’t comfortable with just saying hey look, thanks for meeting me and stuff but I’m not interested so all the best, was to ignore all messages.  Just stop responding.  Girls aren’t idiots, we get the message.  When it becomes clear is when he responds to some messages and then nada.  And then texts, so I respond, and then there’s texting and then nada.  And the fact that hadn’t unfriended me on facebook was weird too.  Now obviously I got the message, after all, like I said, I’m not an idiot, but he could’ve saved me several days of excitement, and then several more of confusion, followed by the eventual disappointment, if he’d just be more clear (or more silent).

And before you all get up in arms in his defense, let me say this…we are all assholes sometimes.  Doing something assholey doesn’t make you a monster, but that doesn’t mean we should pretend you aren’t a jerk for doing something that causes another person distress (AND COULD BE AVOIDED).  Learning is good.  Self-awareness is good.  So ya know, go out there and date up a storm, but try and be considerate of the time and feelings of others along the way.  That’s a cool thing to do too.

Online Dating: The Art of Writing the First Message

How to Write a Dating Profile

 

 

How to Write a Great First Message:

1.  Read her profile.  I mean honestly.  This should be the easiest thing in the world, but I can’t tell you how many people have written to me in French when it clearly states that I don’t speak French (apologetically) on my profile.  But seriously, I know this seems obvious and straightforward but I can’t express how important this is…even if by the end, you’re still only messaging because you think she’s a babe.  That’s fine.  If you’re not reading it for you, you’re still reading it for her.  And I know this seems tedious because you might message 10 chicks and only get 1 response back but it matters, and it’s probably what got the 1 chick.

2.  Mention something from her profile.  Did she mention she loves Bon Jovi?  That she’s not from here?  A love of Medieval Fight Club?  A Favorite TV show?  An expectation she has about dating?  Her favorite word?  It doesn’t really matter what it is.  But mention it.  The best possible scenario is if you can say something about it like “I’ve been rocking out to Bon Jovi since my dad gave me my first tape of them when I was 8 [true story btw]” and then ask a question like “what’s your fave song?”,  “who do you think would win in a fight JBJ or Sambora?” or “Have you ever seen them live?”  By stating and then asking, you’re showing her a bit about yourself (and how you two have something in common) and asking her a question, thus giving her an easy way to respond back to you (and taking all the pressure off).

3.  Ask her something.  Assuming you weren’t able to parlay whatever you mentioned about her profile into a question, now’s the time to ask her something.  Keep it light.  Keep it easy to answer.  I know people tend to shy away from “Get up to anything fun this weekend” but if you really can’t think of a single thing else to ask and her profile gives you no clues, go with something safe like that.  At least that way if she deems you cute it gives her something to respond back to with ease.

4.  Proofread.  I know you’re thinking…well I wouldn’t date a girl who’s so judgmental about a couple typos but while you say typos she sees idiot.  Nothing makes you look stupider than simple spelling errors and not knowing the difference between your and you’re.  You don’t need to split atoms, but try not to split infinitives either.  After all, you wouldn’t show up to a first date in your pajamas, so try not to look like you’re asleep in your first message.

5.  Make a good subject heading.  Assuming you’ve done steps 1-4 this should be a breeze.  Using the example of Bon Jovi from earlier the title could be anything like “Bon Jovi” or “80s Rock” or “Similar Music Tastes” or even something unrelated to your message but from her profile.  The key is really just to have something other than everybody else’s Hi, Hey, Hello without shooting too far and hitting her with Hot Tits or something equally stupid.  So now that you know how to make it work, let’s have a look at a few things you’ll want to be weary of.

 

 

Things to avoid:

1. Compliments.  Do not use compliments that are body related in any sense.  For the love of god don’t say curvy, sexy, hot, tits, ass, hips, legs, or anything in this realm.  If you’re a risk taker you can compliment her hair which goes over amazing about 50% of the time…but has also been known to completely bomb.  Your call.  Eyes and smile (not mouth or lips) are okay and if you really feel compelled you can use words like beautiful or stunning (which I get all the time, and I guess it goes over well, at the very least it doesn’t work against).  But the truth is, girls assume if you’re contacting her you think she’s attractive so it’s best to stick to compliments about something they said in their profile (or what you gathered about their personality ie. smart, funny, etc.)  BUT BE WARNED NEVER compliment a girl on something you can’t back up from her profile.  (see #2)

2.  New girl, new message.  Don’t use the same message over and over again.  The truth is, girls are smarter than you’re giving us credit for.  And we can spot a re-usable message a mile away.  And even if we would’ve given you a chance, we likely won’t now since your lazy message tells us you think we aren’t worth it.  And thus, you’re done.  The same thing goes for saying anything that demonstrates you didn’t do step 1 above.  Don’t talk about how she seems super fun and upbeat if all her pictures are posed and straightfaced and her profile is laced with emo references and Twilight slang, etc.

3. Keep it short, keep it simple, do not go over the top.  This is so so so vital.  I don’t know what romantic comedies lead you boys astray but come on.  No chick wants to hear that you love her in a first message.  That’s not endearing, that’s fucking insane.  And the same goes for anything mushy, poetic, artsy, creative (unless funny) or that shows you wearing your delusional heart on your sleeve.  Try to remember, you don’t even know this chick.  So settle down, send a calm message, and hope for the best.

4.  Do not focus on yourself.  While it’s okay to mention a quality/characterisitc/hobby/skill/interest/etc. of yours, do not give her a list of your latest accomplishments, a copy of your CV and the entire menu of your last night’s meal.  She doesn’t give a shit, I promise you!  The truth is, the first message is more about expressing your calm relaxed, attentive but not overly eager, totally normal interest in her.

5.  Do not say anything sexual.  period.  Seriously dudes, fucking stop this.

And that’s all she wrote guys.  Now go forth and prosper.  Take what I’ve said here and put it into action.  She’ll thank you for it, trust me.

 

Age is Not Just a Number: He Wore Pleats

Old Dudes

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he message reads not half bad.  It’s polite.  It takes an interest in me.  It indicates I’m lovely.  Facts Are Facts.  So I check out his profile.  Flash-aaaaaahhhhhaa-Savior of the Universe.  And I can hardly believe my eyes.  Have I found me a Freddie Mercury look-a-like?  Or Tom Selleck.  Or perhaps even John Oates.  But no.  It appears to be just regular guy.  Though he looks like a mix of those three, moustaches and all.

I, of course, am mistaken because this dude does not turn out to be just any regular guy.  He is a special species, one of a noticeable nature, a likened lot, a particular pedigree.  This fellow is of the variety of gentleman I kindly refer to as stupid motherfucking pain in my ass idiot childish moronic “Old dude unawares”.

The Old Dude Unawares or ODU, comes in many different forms.  If he looks like my new boyfriend he’ll be dressed to the nines in his khaki pleated shorts but still claiming the age of 33 on his dating profile.  In the words of a movie (that he’d be told old to get the reference for) “As if!”  And to be honest, even if it wasn’t for the pleated attire, I would’ve guessed his age at somewhere that side of 40…maybe even glancing down the barrel of 50.  So, I ask you, What’s the deal with old guys?

Ironically, I’m into older guys.  What I’m not into???  Old dudes fucking embarrassing themselves pretending to be young dudes.  You know what’s sexy?  Self-awareness.  And this is something all ODUs lack.  The self-awareness to know better.

 

This just in.

 

You’re not young at heart.  You sir, are a fucking idiot.

 

Now not all ODUs will show their stripes like mine did, clad in khaki so pleated even Grandpa would’ve cringed.  Some look completely normal for their age, excepting of course the fact that they think they stand a shot in hell with me.  Others will be the typical Hollywood man-child or Manhattan detached-tycoon or any of the other stereotypical options I see in movies and on TV but what will be exactly the same about all of them, is a total lack of ability to think logically when it comes to personal matters and a total disregard for that precious thing I already mentioned self-awareness.

And the thing of the thing is…I can’t really figure the ODU out.  I don’t know why he pursues me.  Because Pleaty over there wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last.  In fact, he is only one of many in a long line of too-close-to-my-dad’s-age-why-are-you-so-gross-and-creepy old dudes.  And I reiterate, I truly don’t get it.

Is it a procreation thing?  Because uh..well…fuck…don’t be looking for babies in these uterine walls, soldier.  Is it an arm candy thing?  Okay this one I tiny bit get but then…um…

  • what’s in it for me?

Because here’s a secondary problem of the ODU.  They’re just average guys.  Possibly below average but I’m trying to be nice.  Now I would get the whole thinking-it-reasonable-logical-actually-possible-to-snag-a-foxy-woman-20-years-your-junior if you were say….RICH…or…FUCKING GORGEOUS…or…RIDICULOUSLY SMART…or even HILARIOUSLY HILARIOUS.  But what about the regular Joes?  I mean what-the-fuck-are-they-thinking???

  • Why me?

It’s not like I’m Pamela Anderson or Angelina Jolie or whoever the fuck else you boys are idealizing these days.  Because if you’re going to go young…wouldn’t you also keep up the arm-candy-trophy-wife approach?

 

And to be honest it makes me wonder.  What’s really wrong with our society?  That men (and women, let’s be fair) feel the need to lie about their age.  Or pretend it doesn’t exist.  Apparently as time passes many of us by, instead of being proud of the lives we have lead, we end up cowering to a societal pressure.  A pressure, that quite honestly I don’t feel really exists except in the mind of weak people who lie about their age…but then again…ask me when I’m 40 and my answer might change…see…I’m open to being fallible…but I digress.  And the reason for lying is generally the same…to keep more dating options open.  Men want to be able to contact younger girls who have selected not to be contacted by men 20 years their senior and women want to not limit themselves to dating men their father’s age once they’ve passed 30.  Or something like that.

Either way, everybody is holding on, tooth and nail, to a youth that isn’t their’s to grasp.

And then of course, the hilarity of Pleaty gets a little less funny and a little more sad as I think about a society that relishes in the unrealistic (not to be confused with art/fantasy/etc.) and unaware world that creates these situations.

 

Sure…age is just a number.  Then again words are just letters…but when you string them together they fucking mean something.

40 Days of Dating

40 Days of Dating

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] try to reserve my hate for really horrible things like genocide and poverty, but under the assumption that I’m obviously not comparing this project to the true worst things about humanity, I have to admit that I hate everything about the 40 days of dating project.  EVERYTHING.

My Bias:  they’re not writers and while in many ways they don’t claim to be (after all this project is really just a bunch of repetitive forms or diary entries filled out for the internet to see), but I think we all know that along with their new Hollywood agent, they’re hoping for (planning on) a book deal and likely have been from the beginning.  And while I get that sometimes non-writers can author a book and it can actually be interesting (because they themselves are so interesting) that doesn’t really apply here.  These are two designers narcissistic assholes who are trying to become real housewives of worthlessness type famous.  Finally, while I don’t necessarily begrudge anyone taking their opportunity to become rich and famous, I just can’t fucking stand people who do it on a lie (and their lie is that this whole thing isn’t a big fucking act put on by two not great people).  Show me heart and I’ll respect you, show me your ass and call it your heart and I’ll hate you forever.

So, For those of you who have been lucky enough not to be exposed to this fake-staged-irrelevant-insincere-bullshit, you’re lucky (and also, sorry because I’m about to ruin that by exposing you to it).

FortyDaysofDating.com

The basic premise of the “experiment” is that two people with opposite relationship issues (though I would actually argue they have the same one of being completely self-deluded), she falls too quickly, he has commitment issues, date each other for 40 days (with I guess the hope of curing their issues?)

I can’t stand when women say things like I fall in love easily or I just really give relationships my all because I know that in their fucked up heads they think these things are admirable.  They don’t get that by suggesting that the lust they feel is love that they completely devalue what love really is (and also…what is so awful about lust that people are always trying to make it into love?!?).  They don’t understand that by giving everything to a relationship that they don’t really understand what a relationship is, or what being a complete person is.  The funny thing is I have great respect for someone who can realize that they’ve got issues and things to work on personally, but pretending the issue that you face is that you’re just so goddamn sweet and nice and caring rather than that you are totally out of touch with who you are as a person is something I just can’t get on board with.

I also can’t stand guys who think they’re nice but are really just some cross between a total fucking baby and just dumb as shit.  This is the kind of nice guy who thinks he’s protecting your feelings by constantly saying that he doesn’t want to lead you on and that he’s damaged or something rather than just spitting out the truth which is that he doesn’t like you as much as you want him to.  I find this completely insane that a guy could think this is protecting a girl somehow, but it’s totally common so there ya go.  The thing is though, if he actually just said the words, something like look, I like you this amount, that is all I’ll like you, if you want to continue to hang out I can do that but my feelings won’t change.  Then, the girl could decide, is she okay with said amount of liking?  If yes, she stays.  If no, she goes.  Either way, she made a decision based on all the information.  Sure, she might have hurt feelings (I know I personally can’t believe anyone doesn’t think I’m the most interesting woman in the world but here’s what, SHE WILL GET THE FUCK OVER IT, I promise).  And the upside is she won’t have spent weeks obsessing over whether or not you really like her because here’s what…that obsessing…that detective work and mind-reading is the very thing that makes her hurt and later hate you.

Anyway, that’s who this project is about.  The girl who devalues love and the man-child who can’t rip a bandaid.

Detour:  Have you ever had a friend who seems to be involved in all kinds of drama and yet tells you that they hate drama?  Yeah, they’re lying.  They fucking love drama.  Sure, no one likes negative things and fighting and feeling upset…obviously.  But drama comes with adrenaline and intrigue and it’s something to do, and more often than not feeds the ego…AND THAT’S WHAT YOUR FRIEND LIKES.  And here’s the thing of the thing, you can always get out of the drama.  There’s always a way.  Just get out.  If you don’t like it just get out.  Get out.  GET OUT.  JUST FUCKING GET OUT!!!

That’s what reading this stupid experiment feels like though – two people complaining about a bunch of things they could EASILY fix (like easy bake oven easy, like me with a super smart football player easy, you get the idea).

And you’re probably thinking – still though, why so upset?

And here’s why:  I hate this project and these people for the same reason I hate the majority of reality television – because it’s pretending to be real, to be honest, to be about exposing some sort of truth about human relationships rather than just some vain-attention-getting-grabber-wheel-of-people-who-aren’t-worth-the-attention.  It’s fucking human poison and I hate everything about it.

Now, before you go well hey, isn’t that what you’re doing here?  Let me explain.

I commend people who bare their souls and get book deals (even if they’ll only ever be authors and not writers, I love a good celebrity biography as much as the next guy).

I think it’s great to try experiments with your life, to go on adventures, to seek opportunities and when they arrive to take them completely.

I applaud those that are innovative, fresh, willing to be embarrassed, take risks, etc.

But if you’re going to sell me lemonade, you can’t fucking make it out apples.  When you call something the truth, it has to actually BE the truth.  (okay well it doesn’t, I mean you can do whatever you want, free country and all that, but if you don’t want me not to hate you, if you want me not to think that you’re poisoning the hearts and minds of the easily swayed with your bullshit agenda and disingenuous attempts to bare your heart, then you have to actually do it with the truth).

Because that’s really what’s at the heart of why I despise these two and this project.  While I hate to infantilize people, there are hundreds (possibly of thousands) of people who actually believe fairy tale nonsense (and love this project) and don’t see the stupidity that is its participants (stupid in certain ways only because as much as I dislike them, so many more do not and think they’re great and I would bet a fortune that they have an agent and a book deal within the month if not already).  I feel like there are real people, who want to know real things about dating (and how to be happier with dating and more emotionally sound with their dating choices) and for those people, I blog, and for those people, I hate this project on behalf of.

 

Because a regular reader, might not see that this guy is such a douchebag, they might not see that he strings her along on purpose and for his ego, that he’s a fucking childlike crybaby, that when he says he was being “playful and funny” that he was actually just being boring and tedious (and that he’s a part of that whole epidemic of men who think they can just say that they have a good sense of humor and then they do, that you don’t have to be witty or intelligent to be funny, this guy is spreading that like wildfire).

He’s the guy who worries about words.  Who thinks labels are what make a relationship and that it’s his job to protect others (under the assumption that he’s just so fucking unbelievably amazing that were he to reject someone they might not make it through the day).  And yet, spends the whole 40 days apparently unable to figure out how he feels about someone.  Is it really that hard to figure out your feelings?

For example, I can love someone and yet also know that I don’t want a committed long distance relationship.  I feel a thing, I think a thing through, I figure a thing out.  Why does this guy struggle so?  Is it possible that perhaps he likes the power of lording it over the poor half-wit that is his female counterpart (and for reference I think they’re both half-wits so this isn’t a gender thing)?

Because a regular reader, might not see her for the complaining child that she is.  (how, btw, can people manage to be super successful and yet totally fucking ridiculous?!!).  Why would you start a project like this when you’ve recently developed a debilitating case of migraines (that get worse with stress, stress like trying to get famous on the internet)?  She’s the girl who stiff upper lips her way through dinner pretending she’s not in pain (all the while acting like a totally aloof asshole who barely wants to be there).

It’s this bullshit martyr act that drives me insane.  (these are examples and didn’t really happen in the project) – She’s the girl who comes to your birthday party and then throws up on everything because she had the flu and she thinks she’s a super great friend who did this great thing for you, except you’re like bitch, why didn’t you just stay home, I can live without you at my birthday and now not only have you made yourself the fucking princess-centre-of-attention but you’ve barfed on everything and ruined my party.  She’s the girl who cleans up at the party before it’s over, thinking to herself oh look at me, such a good little homemaker when what she’s really doing is being rude to all the guests and hey! bitch I was still drinking out of that cup and did you throw out the piece of cake I was saving!?!?

 

I could go on and on but I think you all get the picture.  Everything about the 40 days of dating is unloveable, including the participants.  She’s the sweetie-try-hard who’s not actually sweet and he’s the nice-interesting-playboy who’s neither interesting nor nice (nor really a playboy).

The whole thing is just so fucking insincere and out of touch and I can’t fucking stand it.

 

They’re the Spencer Pratts of fake vulnerability, the Tap Out shirts of dating, the Ed Hardy of sexual honesty.

 

And one final note, if you spend 5 sentences describing the meal you ate, and a 3 word phrase to say we had sexeither the sex is fake or the project’s integrity is.

 

In their defense:  The typography was kind of cool.  Also, I’m aware I’m only seeing two sides of the story (and yes, a story can have more than two sides, particularly because they are confined to filling out a daily questionaire rather than possibly going off with their own writing to explain things more clearly).  Also, the one thing that is actually neat about the whole project is something I’ve always kind of wished for…having more than one side.  While I always try to write honestly and accurately about my affairs, we can never truly know what the men were thinking then or now because they aren’t able to write about it (well technically I would publish it if they wanted to be that’s not really an easy thing to make happen).  So, on that front, I commend them.

 

Online Dating: Hot Tits and Other Boob Mistakes

Boobs

 

The messages.  They flood in.  Like poetry.  Heart crushing.  Mind-numbing.  Pure drivel.

One giddy gentleman informs me

oo my god i like it big boobs i want to watch your boobs a day why not

 

Another lusty lad lets me know

amazing big lovely great boooooooooooooooooooobs i love them badly.

 

Then it’s Milk Man Mike talking dairy to me

wow waking up to see your jugs in the morning amazing

 

And let’s not forget the chap who chooses to see me for my character

with your cleavage and pretty face you are sooooooooo amazing!!!!

 

And don’t even get me started on the numerous Hot Tits and the one guy who simply messaged with

Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooobs

And I shit you not…the o’s took up two whole lines.

 

And the thing of the thing is.  I just don’t fucking get it.  What is the goal here?

 

Are they trying to flirt with me?

Is this a form of internet tourettes?

Are they drunk and cruising the net?

Is this a test?

 

Dear Boys,

Wrong.  You’re wrong.  You’re just fucking doing it wrong.  No girl ever, LIKE EVER reads this type of useless message and thinks fuck yeah, I want this dude.  No seriously.  NEVER.  And the thing is I kind of think you already know this.  Which makes me wonder what the fuck you’re doing?  Unfortunately none of the scenarios I can come up with in my head make you come off well.  They all sort of just end with…boys…are fucking idiots.  And so far that’s all anybody has offered when I ask them this question that plagues me so.

 

They’re idiots.

 

Boys are stupid.

 

Guys are lazy.

 

They’re just bored.

 

Only.  urgh.  um.  is this excuse actually good enough for anyone?  We’re part of a species that turned wind into energy and walked on the moon.  We write poetry and cure diseases.  We found a way to put planes in the sky and read entire books on our phones.  And you’re telling me I’m just supposed to accept it as a fact that the average guy doesn’t know that contacting a woman stranger to tell her of the positive impression her tits make upon him is neither an uplifting compliment nor a means to his probable sexual/ emotional/ companionship end?  I won’t accept this.  And neither should you.

And I’m fairly certain that the majority of these boys are not sitting home alone every moment of the day.  I know them.  You know them.  Hell some of them are probably even your friends (though I’m looking at you here, fellas, because I’m pretty sure dudes who say shit like this aren’t big with the ‘female crowd’).  So here’s what I think.  You should expect more from your friends.  You should expect more from people in general.

 

Think it through.

 

Put some thought into it.

 

Take a moment and work it out.

 

These should be the slogans of our generation.  We’re an intelligent fucking people, you know.  And I think it’s high time we all expected more from our societies.  So fellas, tell your friends and ladies, the next time a guy messages you with bullshit like this, respond with a link to this post (or another from the blog depending on his particular offense) because that’s what I’m going to do.  From now on, every boy who contacts me with messages like this will be getting a response back.  One that calmly and kindly explains just precisely why his approach is so so wrong.