…And Then He Left, Like All The Rest

Dating Mistakes


He Pressed His Chest Against My Breast…And Then He Left, Like All The Rest.

Okay.  Before your heart starts crying on my behalf…bear in mind my love of a good title, so take this one with a grain of salt.  It’s not nearly as tragic and dramatic as it sounds.  But it rhymes, like a boss.

The morning after our sexy romp, France texted.  It was sweet, it was cute, it was usual.

And throughout the week that followed there was lots of texting.  And yet…it never really seemed to go anywhere.  Which was unfortunate given that I was raring to go.  But I’m not a girl that can’t take hints (all evidence to the contrary in this blog, I know).  Nonetheless, hints are not facts and since he continued to communicate as frequently as before, it was hard to believe things had just fallen off.

Not one to mince words or worry about fucking things up with someone I didn’t care about in any meaningful way, I finally just asked him one night.  I went balls to the wall.  Because what did I have to lose?  Either he was already not interested and this was my chance at certainty or he was interested and this would be his chance to step things up.  Plus, honestly, with school starting in a few days I wanted to know sooner rather than later and skip all the stress and uncertainty.

So I asked.

Point blank.

In a text message.  (don’t judge, when there’s a language barrier, talking on the phone seems near impossible and just plain awkward).

Okay well actually first I just said Hey.  (this time I left off the cutie).

And he returned with Hi.  (leaving off the sweet of usual).

I knew it was over.  It seems small and insignificant, the use of pet names.  But still, I knew.  We bantered for a minute and then I asked, point blank, if he was still trying to hang out.

His answer not really.  BOOM!

And I could’ve left it at that.  But this was my opportunity.  We’ve been through this before, dear readers, you know I love a good answer though people rarely get them in dating.  And so I asked.

No worries I texted, Do you mind if I ask why or what changed?

I was hoping I was asking nicely enough that he would feel comfortable enough delivering whatever brutal truth he had without fear that I’d become hysterical or suicidal or whatever the reason is that boys pull the fade instead of just manning up and spitting it out.

And then I went one step further and added and btw thanks for being honest, I really appreciate that 🙂

I was worried it seemed a bit kiss ass but they didn’t come up with that adage about catching more bees with honey than vinegar for nothing and I wanted to make sure he felt he could be completely honest.  Which he was.

His answer (unedited):  im honest so i tell u, i dont like the time we get sex And u take toys. that Not fair for a men the first times, for me is nothing i dont care. But next dont do it. Because for me that mind he cant give u plaisir natural and u need toys for that. I for me, blowjob is more important then sex. And u not do it. And im really not patience for nothing.

His answer (edited):  I’m honest so I will tell you.  I don’t like that you used a vibrator when we had sex.  That’s not fair for the first time with a guy.  For me it’s not a big deal but with the next guy don’t do it because, to me, that means he can’t give you pleasure naturally and you need a sex toy for that.  Also, for me, a blowjob is more important than sex and you didn’t give me a one and I’m not patient enough to wait around.

His answer (edited with translation):  I’m honest so I will tell you.  I’m a misogynistic dick.  Your pleasure doesn’t mean anything to me and only matters in as much as I can be the man giving it to you.  Your pleasure is merely a reflection of the big-dick-swinging man that I am.  And given that I don’t care about you as a woman, let alone as a human being, I would prefer that you acted according to my desires and my needs and hid your own sexuality (along with that terrifying vibrator) back under the bed.  I am insecure about my abilities.  I don’t understand anatomy.  And mostly I don’t give a shit what you desire or need to make the experience the most pleasurable for you.  That being said, for me, I need blowjobs and not so much sex which is a totally valid desire and though I incorrectly assumed you weren’t into that (given that you haven’t represented your blowjob hubris on any scale to me), that is where my understanding lies and so I must discontinue our relationship as I don’t have the patience to find out if my assumptions are right, which is my prerogative.

The good  news:  I’m not a dud.  Hooray!!!

The bad news:  And that’s the end of that.

Except technically…well…I guess…we’re still sort of friends.  And I use the term “friends” very loosely.  But not in the sexual way that people normally would.  We’re friends in the sense that normally, from what I can gather, he doesn’t keep women that haven’t worked out, in his life.  But, I guess, it seems he’s keeping me.  Which at first flattered me, but comes with two inherent problems.

1.  Guys always say let’s stay friends.  Now, this comes on the back of one of THE MOST HONEST (admittedly jackassy, but still…he was fucking honest) explanations of why a guy wasn’t interested in me, so it would seem that I could take him at his word.

2.  Did I actually want to be friends with this dude?  I mean, let’s be honest.  This escapade had an expiry date from the beginning.  And while, in general, I hope the best for him, in the same way I do for every human being, there was no emotional attachment and there likely never would be.  We didn’t have the same values, interests, language…or, to be brutally honest (and sound like a bit of an asshole myself), have a comparable intellect.  While I’m open to the possibility in romantic comedies it’s rare that a Graduate Student and a Fitness Trainer are going to be compatible in any real sense.  Not to mention the whole misogyny thing.  That being said, beggars can’t be choosers in a town without friends…at least until I meet some (note from the future: I will meet some great ones ;).  So I said, sure…and we’re still facebook buddies.  And hey, who knows, maybe we do become friends and somewhere along the way I illuminate the error of his views and some lovely lady can benefit from this enlightenment in the future.  Look at that, changing minds,  changing lives right?!?

So I guess that’s it with France.  *Disappointment ensues*

And as usual, I was disappointed because things hadn’t worked out like I had fantasized as they would, at least a few months maybe a year of hot amazing sex that was only ever a couple blocks away and maybe a movie or a conversation or two.  Blargh.

The irony of the whole thing, which I kept to myself because I didn’t want him to think I was bitter and/or that he still stood a shot at getting one was that I had been totally preparing to give him the beej of his life, perhaps a few of them and that in actuality it was him not cashing in not my hesitance that kept him from getting the blowjobs he so desperately sought.  Irony, ain’t she a bitch.  But like I said, I kept this info to myself.  Unless he ever asks, because after all, I’m honest too.

“He Pressed His Chest Against My Breast…”: Date #4 with France (Part Two)

In a current sense


[dropcap]So[/dropcap] He was here in 15 minutes.  I went down to the lobby and let him in.

I gave him no big hug.  I gave him no big kiss.  I was pissed.  Relatively speaking, there would have to be some wooing.

Not the kind of wooing that involves flowers and poetry.  Not even the kind of wooing that involves caring and interest.  But the kind of wooing that shows, yes…look…I’m sorry I fucking wasted your time…that was a dick move…and I get that you’re pissed…and that’s valid…but we both want to bone each other and we’ve been making out and dry humping for something like 3 weeks now so if we could just forgive everything for the moment and get our freak on that would be amazing.  Or something like that.

…and then we were all in the sheets…

…and it was good…not great…but there are always pros and cons…

…his body…my god his body…

…but he wasn’t as rough as the earlier couch-breaking-dry-hump-sesh had been…

…he moved too quickly…but don’t they all???

SIDE NOTE:  Guys.  Seriously.  I know you’re always in a rush.  But if you ever do anything right in your lives…let it be this (and being a good person).  Go SLOW.  You don’t have to go slow forever, I mean, of course, there is a time for speed and strength, but when you think you’re at that point…wait another 5 minutes…at least (unless she verbally instructs you otherwise).  Because honestly.  No girl ever wanted a lollipop that was thrown at her from a moving vehicle and hit her in the face.  She wants the rocket Popsicle that she first heard the music for, and then ran to get money, and then ran to make the ice cream truck stop…and then stood there for another 5 minutes while she made her selection…and then waited to be handed this dreamsicle of a treat…and then enjoyed it…slowly…deliciously…until it almost completed her.  Or something like that.  But seriously.  SLOW THE FUCK DOWN.  Because either you care if it’s good for her…or you don’t. And if you don’t…well…honestly…you’re a horrible fucking person.  And if you do…then I assume you just don’t know better…and that’s okay.  I didn’t figure this stuff out when I was 19 or something.  It’s been a learning process.  I’ve done my research 😉  and now I’m imparting the wisdom on you.  SLOW DOWN.  I know you’re ready.  She is not.

…but it was fun…and he was smoking hot…and the kissing was good…

…and did I mention his body…

…and then he flipped me over…

…and I was totally game…given this is my favorite position…

…and I casually reached for my vibrator…

And then language became that bitchy barrier that she has a habit of being.

You see.  I tried to explain to him.  Like I’m about to try to explain to you.  And you wouldn’t think it would be awkward.  But it was.  But it is.  And you wouldn’t think it would be a big deal, I am a sex and dating blogger.  But it was.  But it is.  See here’s the thing.  With men, of size.  And I’m not even talking massive length, I’m really just talking average (or…er…slightly above average depending on which race we’re talking about).  Like 6 inches.  No big deal.  That’s not so big right?  Except if you add to that the fact that the dude is huge and solid muscle and the thrusting is going to be….well…you get the idea.  Basically.  Awkward.  Um.  Okay.  Here’s the thing…I don’t need a dude to be poking my uterus.  (ps…I know it’s actually my cervix but uterus just sounds funnier and it’s just how I refer to it the billion times I’ve talked about this with people).  So like I was saying…if we’re going to be doing it doggy style I really can’t be having a dude trying to dent my uterus.  And thus comes in the vibrator.  Besides the obvious awesomeness of it making things more enjoyable for me…the additional stimulation does something to the inside lady parts…that’s biology for you.  The more turned on I am, the more aggressive and passionate the sex can be and VOILA ain’t life grand.


You try and say that to someone who doesn’t really speak English.  I mean fuck.

…but he rolled with the punches and we kept on keeping on…

…and it was good…

…admittedly I had a good time…

…mascara smeared across the sheets kind of good…

…he appeared to have quite a lovely time as well…

…and with a couple of full bodied sighs, we rolled off each other…

But not that far off each other.  He stayed, arm draped across my back.  He curled me into him.  I got up to get water.  In all honesty, it felt a weird being too cuddly.  There was chatter.  We made jokes.  We talked about all kinds of things.  He has a friend who raps but could use some help with elevating his writing and how much do you charge for that sort of thing.  It was comfortable.  It was sweet.  It was nice.

At some point I asked him more about what he was into.  Not that I was already planning our next romp but let’s get real, the dude was a fucking babe, he turned me on, he was sweet with me, and he lived for blocks away.  The booty calling writes itself.

SIDE NOTE:  While I had easily forgiven him for the earlier bail and this sort-of-stand me up…it was on a purely physical basis.  There’s no way I could continue to date someone who didn’t understand time management…and let’s be honest…well actually let’s save the honesty for a bit later, back to the story.

So yeah, I asked him what he was into.  He wouldn’t tell me.  I wasn’t impressed (I’ve mentioned how I don’t like private people right??  Private people are boring…you know what’s not boring…people who let you get to know them.)  The conversation went on for a little while, I talked about what I was into.  Maybe he needed me to say things first.  Could he really be shy?  That seemed an ill-fitting jacket.

And then.  After much prodding.  He started to talk.

Well actually, what he said was you didn’t do it this time and then I can’t remember exactly what else.  But I do know that my impression was this.  He was partly joking.  But he was partly serious.  Like this was some sexual test that I hadn’t yet passed and I would get one more try before being asked to walk the plank.  I smiled and laughed and we carried on the joking but in all honesty, I thought it was a pretty big dick move.  The fastest way to make sure I don’t want to do something is to demand it from me or make me feel compelled to do it.  Not cool, bro.

Only.  Then he eventually said it.  Blow job.  He was into blow jobs.

And at first I was like…word…obvs…and in all honesty there hadn’t been time.  Okay, as I think about it now…is it possible that’s why he “forgot” condoms on our third date…the hope that a nice beej would be the fall back?  But even so….you know what gets you a beej faster than anything boys?  Eating some muff.  Real talk.  If I offer it up all on my own, sure thing.  But if that’s your prize target, well shit son, work that mirror magic and what’s good will come back to you.

That being said, I was just kind of like.  Okay cool.  Good to know.  Wink.  And all that.  But he went on to explain that he was into blow jobs more than sex.


In all honesty this kind of freaked me out a bit.  So much so that when he left and I was regaling my friend with this news and trying to find out if this was the norm that boys just keep to themselves or if we were looking at a dealbreaker here.  I mean, I’m all for a dude who loves BJs…in fact…if you turn me on, I am ALL OVER THAT!!  But when it becomes something you want more than sex…that scares me a bit.

SIDE NOTE: So of course, I did some googling (after he was gone obviously) about whether or not this was a common thing.  I’m still unclear.  What I did find was a ton of information on just exactly why guys love the beej so much and it’s was pretty common logic if you ask me.

1.  They don’t have to do anything.

2.  The perspective.

3.  They don’t have to do anything.

4.  Mouths are warm and wet.

5.  The perspective.

6.  Mouths have more abilities than even the most special of vages, what with the lips and the tongue and the movement (and don’t forget those side-kick hands).

7.  They don’t have to do anything.

8.  Etcetera.

Okay…so yeah…got it.  Somehow I was less freaked out (that’s what logic and common sense do to me, a calming effect).


So back to France.  After about half an hour?  and hour?  something around there…he eventually figured it was time to go.  I’m surprised my tapping my wrist and constant yawning didn’t give him the heads up sooner.  I joke, I joke.  Anyway so as we were getting dressed, I remembered that I had learned something (a new French friend had taught me). I had learned how to say:  I’m happy to see you.  I had originally been planning to say it when he first arrived but after the debacle of lateness by the time he got here I was no longer so happy to see him.

We were kissing.  We were touching.  We were hugging.  He had me in his arms and then I looked up at him and said…

Je suis contente de te voir

And I swear, I could almost see his knees go weak.  And his face lit up as if aglow from the inside out.  He grabbed my face in between his two hands and said say it again.  And I did, and the reaction was just as intense.  He apparently found it quite sexy when I spoke French to him.  Then he said a few things, asked me to repeat.  I’m sure I bumbled excessively, but he smiled all the same.  There were several sexy grabs, a few more sexy kisses and eventually I walked him to the door and bid him adieu.  It was an amazing way to end our night.



He pressed his chest against my breast…


Language Barriers and Mis-Steps: Date #4 with France (Part One)

Deadpan texting


[dropcap]P[/dropcap]art of me wants to skip ahead to the big event.  The 4th date.  But if I do, some valuable insights might be lost.

When France first messaged me on POF, way back when (is it weird that it seems like a lifetime ago when it reality it was about 5 weeks?  It feels like my entire life has changed in that time period [not because of him just concurrently]).  But I digress, so way back when, I remember tweeting out a question to my followers.  It asked something like:

Can you really date someone when there’s a language barrier?

At the time, I had actually thought no, probably not.  However, many people thought it was no big deal.  So I gave it the old college try.  And it was a struggle, I readily admit, but then so is life isn’t it?…a struggle?

In the days that followed the “no condoms debacle of 2012” or the “France in the Pants Situation” (as I like to call it), there were quite a few moments that got lost in translation.



The time he texted this…. (y)

Was it a mistake?  A phone or technological screw up?  Some romantic hieroglyphic?  An emoticon I should be familiar with?

I tried to ask.  He ended asking if I had sent him pics.  There was a lot of ??? and ??? followed by me just texting forget it and trying to move the conversation in another direction.


The time he texted to tell me he was going to a penthouse party in Ottawa and I told him to have fun, but not too much fun I joked, and then said that I hoped the party would be filled with skinny girls *winky face* *cheeky tongue stick out* (as he was so obviously NOT into that).

He ended up responding something about how no, just a good friend.  Like he had thought I was really jealous or something.

Luckily I saved the moment when I told him I was just trying to be cute…which of course he thought was cute.


And then I thought all the mis-steps were over.  But isn’t that dating?  The mis-steps?  No?  Just dating me, you say?  Blargh.

He returned from Ottawa the next day and asked me to hang out the following night.  I said sure.  We made plans to hang out at 9pm.

But speaking of mis-steps….

The next day arrived and when no text message came, ya know, just to say hi…I started to have that feeling.  That feeling, that I have…way too fucking often if we’re being real about it.  That feeling that he would bail.  Okay, certainly I’d been given no reason thus far to think he would and given that, on our first date, we had talked about “dating pet peeves”, and I had, in no uncertain terms, expressed that my biggest pet peeve was time wasters, I had no real reason to think he would bail.  I mean, honestly, is it really that difficult not to be a total douchebag, and let someone know if you’re going to bail.  The only thing more irritating to me then a flaky person is a flaky person who makes me go to the trouble of figuring out they’re a flake.

Example 1:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you let me know the moment you know this.  Forgivable.

Example 2:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you say nothing.  You wait for me to text and double check that we are in fact still on for the evening.  Then you bail.  I literally want to stab your fucking eyes out.  I may or may not start listening to the Talking Heads Psycho Killer and plotting your demise.  Blargh.

He chose option 2.  I was not impressed.  Gave some bullshit excuse about it being a busy day, called me sweet and that was that.  Ok.  I said.

I hoped he could taste my frustration.  I hoped it tasted like drinking grapefruit juice after brushing your teeth.  In all honesty, he probably thought it was no big deal and wasn’t even phased.

We didn’t talk for 3 days.  It was over the weekend.  No big deal.  Truth is, thanks to facebook I still managed to have too much unnecessary information.  He’d waited outside all night for some limited edition Jordan’s.  It all just felt…so…being 24.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a dude with a good shoe game but I also love a dude with a car, and a life, and a plan.  It all just felt so…me…at 22 or 24…fucking around buying shit I didn’t need.

That being said, what the fuck did I care what he spent his money on?  I didn’t.

And then he texted.  All was forgiven and we made plans to hang out that night.  He was going to come over at 10pm.

And then 10pm showed up.  And he did not.

10:15pm — I sent a text message are you almost here.  No response.

10:30pm — I sent another ???

11:00pm — I sent a final text.  Now I know this may make me seem naive, or like a pushover, but in general I try to assume the best and thus use a kill them with kindness approach.  The text said Hey cutie…so…um so what’s going on?  Has something happened or are you standing me up? 🙁

Gotta love that sad face.  Which was really more of a I’m going to stab you face, but whatever.  The rage was palpable.  It tasted like throwing my computer on the ground, smashing it to a million pieces and then crying in public. Or apples.  Whatever.

The only upside to the whole business was this time I HAD done my hair and makeup.  And fuck if I was going to sit around and do nothing.  So I did the obvious thing.  I took the obvious approach.  And took a bunch of narcissitic self-photos.  I mean shit, it had been forever since I’d updated my facebook profile photo.  And hadn’t I just lost like 20lbs.?!?   So in true melodramatic form, I posted on my facebook that I thought I had been stood up (at the point that thinking I’d been stood up and not having it be a real tangible thing was still realistic)…and then posted a new pic.

The response was overwhelming (Jesus! I love my friends).  They were all so bloody adorable about how awesome I looked that I was literally — this close to going out, on my own, in Montreal.  Admittedly not something outside of my wheelhouse.  But also try to remember that I’m sober.  I’m 30.  And it was already like 11:45pm at night.

And then the text showed up.  Sorry sweet, I fell asleep.  What are you doing?

This was followed by several texts of me being deadpan (can you be deadpan in a text? well, if you can…I was it), and him apologizing over and over with the explanation that because he’d spent the night before out on the street waiting for the shoes blah blah blah.

Now’s here the thing.  I know myself and if I’m pissed at you and then we have no contact…well shit…it doesn’t look good for you.  However, if I’m pissed and I see you in person, there’s a high possibility of forgiveness.  It’s that simple (well…in relation to the offense mind you).

Eventually I told him that he should come over.  His response was I’ll be there in 15.

And then he was.  Here.  At my apartment.  And I was letting him in.


Third Date with France (Part II): A Definite France in the Pants Situation

Always bring condoms


[dropcap]So[/dropcap] like I was saying…the movie.

He led the way up the stairs and found us some seats.  Now maybe I’m just too horny slutty makeout-in-public-y (under the cover of movie theatre darkness of course) but I found it weird when he didn’t pick the back row.  Isn’t that where all the making out happens?

But I guess…

I mean maybe…

I mean…he had just paid for two movie tickets…

Maybe he wanted to actually watch the movie.  Which I guess made sense given that he would probably be trying at least twice as hard as I was to hear and understand all the dialogue and jokes.  *tiny sigh*

It really wasn’t that big of a deal though.  Especially when you take into account that within 20 minutes his hand was lounging on my thigh and then we pretty much spent the rest of the movie holding hands.  Excepting when I had to break our lust lock to open up my water and have a sip.  Apparently he wasn’t down with making the same kind of momentary escape because at one point in the movie I watched him (out of the corner of my eye I’m so covert), try and succeed at opening a bottled drink with just one hand.  I found this awesome on so many different levels.  I mean who doesn’t love dexterity and an unwillingness to let go of your hand?!?

The movie was good.  He laughed a bit.  I laughed a lot.  It still ended up having that bullshit romantic plot element which I could’ve definitely done without (mainly for the fact that it was poorly executed not because I’m a heartless monster).

I can’t remember whether we walked the 10 or so blocks back to my place and then I asked if he wanted to come over or if I asked first and then we walked the 10 blocks but just assume it was which ever of those seems more ladylike and endearing.

However, France said no.

I was mortified.  Wait what?!?

Not to worry, he was joking.  Oh…ha ha ha…gulp…hilarious.

When we got back to my place (and I pretended to use the washroom but let’s get serious I was toweling down and freshening up.  It was still ridiculously hot and humid here and buddy had just made me walk 10 blocks in the swelter of it all.  Though in his defence he offered to carry me on his back at one point.)

I’m sure there was some conversation.  I probably offered him a glass of water.  Probably made a joke about only having mugs to give him the water in.  Probably made a joke about how we had broken the couch.  But in all honesty, I don’t remember much about this part.

What I do remember is that because of the broken couch there were really only 3 other places to sit.  My desk chair, which would’ve been weird.  My arm chair, which I guess was the most normal.  And the bed.  When I came out of the bathroom he was in the armchair but then that became a bit weird because where was I going to sit.

I think there were some nervous sounds.  Some awkward motions.  And suddenly we were testing the strength of my little IKEA bed but not before he did a quick check under the mattress to see just exactly how it was held together.  I think this was part cheeky-joke and part realistic safety concern.  See…I’ve told you guys many times that I’m a chubby bunny but you know what they say, muscle weighs more than fat.  And so while you may be sitting there thinking, Jesus I’m sure it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’m sure the bed could hold her.  Yes, the bed can in fact hold me very easily…hence why I sleep in it every night.  But France on the other hand.  At 6’0 and nothing but solid muscles (SOLID FUCKING MUSCLE!!!) well shit son, that’s a lot of extra poundage (pun intended).  All that being said…let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…dirty birds!

So, like I was saying, in no time flat we were flat on our backs pretending like we weren’t about to have the biggest hump session ever.  And you can assume that lasted for about 30 seconds before he pounced and I was offering myself up as easy prey.

First there was the kissing.  I really like kissing France.  I actually haven’t talked about this *erm* problem I’ve encountered *erm* with more than one guy, much lately.  But you see, some boys, really suck at kissing.  Like, BRU-TAL!  Some beyond even the point where I feel like I can reign them in, hone up their skills, teach a master class.  And while I feel a bit bad saying it.  Sometimes I worry.  It’s a small lips thing.  Like, there’s not even anything they can do about it, these are the cards DNA has dealt them.  But don’t get me wrong, I’m willing to admit that maybe I have fat lips.  Maybe it’s not a small-lips-bad-kisser-thing but instead a mismatched-sizing thing.  But I digress.

This is not a problem with France.  If only I could show you his delicious lips, and they really are delicious.  They are big and plump and amazing.  They fit with mine perfectly.  And he doesn’t do anything weird with his tongue either.  He doesn’t jam it into my mouth and then just leave it there.  He understands that kissing is a dance and standing on my feet isn’t sexy.  And when he does accidentally stub my toe (so to speak)…a little playful nibble and we’re back in the swing of things.

And then the shirts were coming off!

*he did some things*

My bra!

*he touched some things*

Pants!! (thank god I had on the red lacies…my “lucky jersey” if you will)

*I touched some things*

***See how I keep things nice and clean and kosher for you guys.  I mean…you don’t really want all the gory details anyway right???

Needless to say it was a definite France in the Pants situation!  A pants off, France off!! (I could go all night!!…just kidding…those are the only two I’ve got…I’ll stop now.)  Carry on.

And then it was time for the big event.


And then he looked at me…


I looked to him…

He didn’t have any condoms.  WORST!!

His excuse was that when he was running out the door to come meet me for the movies he just grabbed his wallet and forgot to bring some.


And here’s why:

1.  Well admittedly I once had sex with the world’s smallest penis, broadly speaking, I have generally managed to luck out in the world of big dicks (like if you’re not pulling a gold wrapper out of your pocket I might start to get a little alarmed).  That being said, if you’re awesome you’re awesome and while you can’t hope a small dick big, it’s not the end of the world.  HOWEVER!  Not bringing your own condoms…alerts me right away that you’re not concerned about size, about fit.  And that’s not a great opening act.

2.  I have to pay for birth control, the least you could do is pay for the condoms.  Actually scratch that, next time you come over you better show up with some roses and some chocolates and maybe an iTunes gift card.  It’s not about romance, you just need to level this shit out a bit (and no…paying for the movie doesn’t count towards this…that’s half the reason you got to this stage to begin with.)

3.  Pretend all you want that I’m a grown up and don’t laugh at dick jokes or hear the word balls (in any context) and think about your man marbles.  But no matter what, I’ll still blush when buying tampons and condoms and since tampons are unavoidable, the least you could do is save me the condom blush.  Plus, again, I don’t know what size you want or any of that biz.  That’s on you.

4.  Be a boy scout, and come prepared.  See here’s another tidbit you should probably know.  I like real men.  And you know what real men do?  They handle their shit.  They don’t go oh I wasn’t thinking or I didn’t know we were going to have sex tonight or any of that nonsense.  You should’ve been bringing condoms with you since the first date, just in case.  I was promised by the movies of my youth that boys would always have condoms and I am not impressed with this betrayal.


That being said.  HAVE YOU SEEN FRANCE!?!?!  Okay…so most of you haven’t (Shoutout to my closest friends, relatives, internet buddies, my new colleagues, and maybe a girl or two in bar in MTL who HAVE seen his photo…ya’ll know what I’m talking about!!!)  Nonetheless, obviously I handled the situation a bit more gracefully than get the fuck out of here and don’t come back you disappointing bastard!!!  Because, obvs.

I smiled.  We laughed.  There were numerous exasperated sighs.  My only consolation was the close proximity and constant touching of his abs.  There was more kissing.  More laughing.  More exasperated sighs.  I’m sure we talked about some things but you really can’t blame me for not being able to remember when this hulk of a hottie was still pressing his naked body up against mine can you?!?

More laughter.  More talking.  More kissing.  More pressing.

Now here’s the best part.  And while you may not agree with me Fuck you, I’m right everybody likes things their own way, etc. etc. etc. blah blah blah so if this isn’t how you would’ve wanted things or whatever keep it to yourself that’s totally fine.  Some misguided boys would take this opportunity to suggest a handy or maybe a blowjob even if they’re really balls to the wall.  But you know what that does?  It might get you a handy, but honestly my heart won’t be in it, and you’ve now just sacrificied the potential for 2 years worth of amazing sex (or a few weeks or whatever) for a quick nut that won’t even be that great (because while *cough* I have been told, when my heart’s in it, I can give quite the helping hand…like I said, my heart won’t even be in it).

But not to worry.  France didn’t pull any of that shit.  He knew he’d be coming back for more, and would bring a whole pack of condoms next time (okay that sounds cheesy or presumptuous typing it out now, but I swear when he said it, it was baby-panda type of adorable).  But like I was saying, France didn’t pull any of that pressure bullshit.  He knew where the evening’s boundaries were and he wasn’t going to push them.  And man, if you only knew how that gets rewarded.

Because here’s the thing.  I know, very few guys (almost none really), who can get me off with their hands alone.  Sure, I could pull out the vibrator but I wasn’t ready to reveal all that yet.  And while boys always think, oh yeah, yeah I’ll get you off too…they rarely do.  And so you see, if he had pressed for a handy or a beej, he would’ve skipped his place in line, he would’ve shot one up on the score board and left me trailing in the dust.  And while he was still lovely and dextrous, I’m a grown woman not a highschool kid.  I want to get off when he fucks me senseless, not the night he forgets the condoms and pressures me into getting him off and finger bangs me till eventually I either tell him it’s not going to happen or I break my habit of not being a liar and fake it just a little.

So hurray for France!  Viva la France!!  Though he forgot the key ingredient of the evening, he still managed to keep things kosher (and swoony, and giggley, and sexy, and want-want-wanty) between us.

And I guess there’d always be next time, right???

NB:  I’m writing this at 4am.  I know it’s Vive (not Viva) la France (see picture and text).  I was trying to make a language barrier joke.  Kind of like when Rachel on Friends says “Au Revoir” but it sounds like OR EV VWAR! and then acknowledges that the people in France are going to hate her.  I worry this joke will not go over well and the “grammar” dicks will come out in full force.  So don’t.  Don’t be a dick.  Seriously.

Third Date with France (Part I): He Calls Me Sweet



He calls me sweet.

I think it’s a language barrier thing. But it makes me swoon.

There’s a saying that goes something like ‘the only difference between a guy saying something creepy and a guy say something sweet, is how good looking he is’. And in a roundabout way, there’s some validity to this. Though it’s not all about the looks. It’s in the way he says it, in the way he looks at you, in the way you two are together. It doesn’t have to be love, it doesn’t have to be soul mate stuff, it doesn’t even have to be the same with every guy. But what can be creepy or a turn off with one guy, can in fact be totally adorable in another.

Like pet names.

The Nick Name once called me schmoopy. I almost died of disgust. That being said, I might’ve even let it slide with France. Okay, admittedly, schmoopy is ridiculous in any language, but you get my drift.

So when he called me Vampire because of my late night hours (see: writer/grad student/nightowl), it was adorable.

And when he calls me sweet, instead of sweetie, I make no effort to correct him. Because it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t even want him to use the correct term. Because, sweet.

After our Friday night makeout session, I was hooked.

We texted. We made chatter about work and training (at the gym), about school and writing, about the sturdiness of my newly put together Ikea bed and whether or not it would hold our combined weight. He would happily help me test it out, he said, force te garanti.

And then I did something I don’t normally like to do. I put away all the bullshit rules I feel are implied of a relationship where the guy actually likes me and isn’t just throwing bird seed, and I asked him

So, when do I get to see you next?

His response?

When do you want!!

Oh Jesus. Look at the excitement or language barrier. Swoon. Tomorrow night? To which he answered YES!! Now that’s the kind of enthusiasm I could get behind and in front. And that was that, we would hang out Sunday night. The chatter continued. He had to go to work again soon. This time he was working security. And then he asked have you eaten yet? I had, which is what I told him. Apparently, he wanted to get something to eat and wanted me to join him. I know it seems meaningless but honestly, swoon. The fact that he wanted to hang out with me in a situation that absolutely negated any possibility of sex or action of any kind…well…made me feel good. Simple as that. I told him next time. And he said you bet sexy!

The next afternoon, Sunday, he texted

Hi sweet.

We talked for a bit and eventually I asked

what time he wanted to hang out tonight?

His response was

I don’t know but maybe late, is probleme?

And honestly it was a problem. I had just gone from feeling secure, feeling liked, feeling like we were dating to feeling like a jump off in less time than it takes to explain what a jump off is.

[For those that don’t know…because when I tweeted this term awhile back I realized it wasn’t as commonly used as I would think…it’s about the same as a booty call…or a side chick…it’s the chick you don’t claim…it’s the girl who’s just for sex…it’s friends with benefits but without the friends…just ask Lil Kim]

Admittedly I was hurt. Not devastated or anything. I mean, what had I really been expecting to happen between us? Could a language barrier be that easily overcome (especially given my love of communication)? Did we even have anything in common? Did we have any of the same values? Hopes for our future? Dreams for the world? Could we even ever have a phone conversation? So I mean…I guess it wasn’t the end of the world. It certainly wasn’t going to keep me from participating in all kinds of sexy shenanigans with him.

All that being said, I like to know where I stand.

Because I can put up my walls and be a grown up and prepare myself for a relationship based purely on amazing sex (and enjoy the fuck out of it…don’t get me wrong). And I can be the sweet girl that shares things with you and lets you in and is all giggles and sunshine and wants to talk about (fun and interesting) things till 2am (and THEN have the amazing sex). But I need to know which girl to be. Both girls are me. Both girls are authentic. Both girls are the truth. But I need to know which girl to be if we don’t want to end this thing with me playing psycho killer on repeat and ripping you to shreds on the blog.

And so I asked, because that’s how I roll,

How come?

Which he thought meant, what time are you coming? And thus answered 9pm or 10pn

I told him I meant – why? But yeah that’s fine. And it was. Truthfully, when he had said late I had been thinking midnight or 1am or something.

And then he answered my question

Because is only my day off per week i don’t want stress for speed, be relax.

Which was fine with me, and something I completely understood. I hate being rushed for a date, because then I show up all flustered and stressed and it taints things a bit. And being that I’m a nightowl, I didn’t really have a problem with this.

Still, there was a bit of a sting from the whole thing. Okay, sure maybe I wasn’t a jumpoff, but I didn’t feel great about it. I mean, he was still just coming over to my place, and the whole coming over late thing, and blah. Meh. Boo.


Then he threw a change up.

And asked if I wanted to go see a movie.

Which I most definitely did. Did I have any idea what was playing at the theatres here?? No clue. Did I have a particular movie in mind?? Not a chance. Did it really matter in the slightest?? Not one single bit.

I met him on the corner of Saint Catherine and Saint Mathieu. Now, here’s where I’m going to say something. That might sound…a tad…racist? no…that’s not the word…but well…maybe just a generalization? I don’t know. You decide. But here’s the thing, he was wearing sweat pants, joggers, the kind of thing that I spend almost everyday studying in the winter (except without UBC stamped on the butt, obviously). Only…I didn’t mind.

Now I know what you’re thinking. a. Ugh. Gross. and b. Um…hasn’t this chick given dudes the hardest time for wearing the same thing on previous dates (see: Garbage Man and Cry Baby Romeo). Okay, actually I just realized that Cry Baby Romeo would negate this theory…so it’s definitely not a race thing…maybe it’s just a hot guy thing? or a muscle bound sex god thing? I don’t know.

See I was going to write this whole big thing about how white dudes wearing jogging pants is totally unacceptable for anything shy of spending the weekend together. But then, what about Cry Baby Romeo ?? Admittedly, he was a step up from Garbage man, his joggers were nicer, newer, more stylish. But nonetheless, it still wasn’t great. So humph. There’s go that theory. Or maybe the theory works and Cry Baby Romeo was just the exception to the rule. More thought on this required.

Needless to say, when France showed up in what looked like brand new joggers and a tight t-shirt, I couldn’t have cared less. He has an amazing shoe game too so I guess it kind of just worked. And honestly, with arms like that who’s even looking at the bottoms.

And so after hugs, and hellos, we walked. For like 10 blocks. Which really isn’t the biggest deal except I was wearing these sandals that sometimes give me blisters when I walk too much (and which I’d worn because I’d assumed we were going to go to the theatre that was only 4 blocks away in the other direction). But I rolled with the punches be breezy and all that like it was no big thing.

The walk, as walks tend to do, gave us plenty of time to talk. On our first date he had asked me if I stayed friends with exes. I had answered yes, because generally speaking, anyone I’ve had a relationship with is a good enough person that I would want to. And at the very least I like things to be amiable. But then I guess the conversation had turned to something else because I never got to ask it back. This walk would give me such an opportunity.

In a very small window of time, I found out a few things, that were…um…not great.

He has kids (not a bad thing on its own). They’re back in Paris. He’s not with the mom, obviously. Hmmm.

The next day he has to go see his ex, I guess they lived together because his name is on the phone, cable, etc. and he has to go get that all sorted out. Hmmm.

And then I asked, so do you stay friends with your exes?

[For reference, boys, the correct answer is yes. Sure, we don’t want you to be all in love with them still and you don’t even really have to be buddies, but what we don’t want is anger. Nobody likes Angry Anthony. Real Talk].

Unfortunately, his answers was not great. He seemed a little unsure how to answer or how to say it. I suggested, like do you stay friendly or when you’re done with them, you’re done with them?

He chose the latter. Oh. Hmmm.

Maybe it was the horrified look on my face or the fact that I literally said that was awful to hear as someone who’s just started dating him. I mean, is that what I have too look forward to? If we ever stop seeing each other he’ll just toss me aside, all angry like?

And then he became all cute again. There were hugs in the street, jokes about not needing to be scared. Real sweet shit. But the moment can’t be erased. But, I mean, was I really looking for something serious? No. In which case, does it really matter? I guess not. Though I don’t like the idea of anyone being that angry at me that they would cut me out of their life. I mean damn. But I guess, you can’t worry about that stuff so, let’s just press on.

We finally arrived at the theatre. Discussed movie choices. Settled on TED. To be honest, I picked TED and he let me pick. So yeah. Cute. And then came the thing that I love. Came the thing that says to me, I am man and I’ve got this. I know it’s sexist. I know many of you people disagree with how I view a guy paying for things. But the truth is, it’s not about the money. It’s about the gesture. It’s the fact that he just strode right up to the counter, ordered two tickets, and then paid for them. Case closed. Done. Butterflies. It’s the same way I’d swoon if while walking down a sidewalk, the dude walks on the outside with me on the inside, or the way I’d want him to grab my hand if it looked like I was going to walk across a street when it was unsafe. What can I say, my dad taught me this stuff as my protector, my hero, my rock. And I find it important.

We rode the 10 escalators to the top. Okay maybe there were only 4 but whatever. I was wearing one of my many maxi dresses and made a joke about how I always have to hold them when I get on and off an escalator because I’m worried they’ll get caught in the gears and rip right off. His response? That if that happened he would take off all his clothes and give them to me. He would walk around in his boxers for me. Now maybe I’m too easy. Or maybe he’s too hot. But dammit if that shit didn’t make me swoon some more. *stands closer, touches him more, is happier*

Once at the top, he asked if I wanted anything to eat. I’ve been really watching what I eat since coming to Montreal (hence the 20lbs. weightloss) and I didn’t really want to spoil it so I said no thanks, I’m good. He was hungry. And I know you’re probably thinking, wow, this sounds really tedious, is this chick really just rambling on about movie theatre food? But I assure you, it’s to highlight a bigger situation.

See, he looked at the line for the popcorn etc. and then he looked at the line for Tim Hortons (yes…they have Tim Hortons in the movie theatre here). The line was 10 deep at the popcorn and only 2 guys at Timmy Hos so that’s where he went. Now, we weren’t late for our movie, we had lots of time. But real talk, he chose Timmy Hos because of the no-line. Now who among us doesn’t hate a lineup. I mean, you’re basically a serial killer if you enjoy it. That being said, it seemed a bit odd to me, like was it really that big of a deal.

Until, I watched as he got more and more irritated. I swear the two dudes in front of us managed to take as long as humanly possible with their order, and there seemed to be some confusions. And I stood there, watching, as this dude beside me got angrier…I mean I could almost literally see his blood pressure rising. I did my best to be adorable and distract him which seemed to work (because fuck yo…this isn’t my city and I’m not about to have some crazy awkward situation where buddy flips out on someone). That being said, the night was a bit of an eye opener both with this and the whole not staying kosher with exes thing. Apparently dude was a tad angry. And honestly I should’ve probably picked up on the that when on the first date he wouldn’t explain any of his tatoos to me (and not because he was tired of doing so or blah blah blah) but more like because he had walls, emotional walls.

Nonetheless, he waited for the food and since Timmy Hos didn’t have water, I had to join the other line to get some. And in the end I ended up offering to get his drink…so really reinforcing, the whole him paying for the movie really isn’t about the money, it’s about the gesture, which I’m happy to return when it presents itself.


Second Dates and First Kisses In Montreal

Kissing in Montreal


[dropcap]I’ve[/dropcap] been known to overload my readers with details.  Sometimes the details seem important.  Especially on days when I’m asking advice (which is actually fairly rare but does happen) and I need you to see the full picture.  Other times I overload because of an obsessive need a desire to be understood.  Sometimes I just do it because this blog is a chronology of my life, a history in dating, a journal on display.  This is my real life.  These things are really happening to me.  And 30 years from now when you’ve all forgotten about me, I’ll come back to these pages and remininsce about the life I lead.  About the time I moved to Montreal for Grad School.

That being said.  Not in this post.  This post is all about the passion.

You see it doesn’t really matter how we got to the second date.  We got there how most people get there.  Talking, asking, time didn’t stop for us and then it happened.  He showed up at 8pm.  We only had a little over 2.5 hours because he had to go to work at 1045pm.  Tonight he was a bartender.

Tonight he was my breath.  My tongue.  He was my every sigh and pant.  Tonight, he held me in the palm of his hand and owned me.

He was standing at the front door, holding some sort of aloe beverage, asked if I wanted anything from the little store in the lobby.  He smiled.  I smiled.  We hugged.  We double kissed.  We came upstairs.  For the first time in my life, if the elevator had gotten stuck I would not have minded one single bit.  I could’ve spent all night in there with him.  And then we were in my apartment.

My apartment…that’s still in progress.  You see, I don’t have a TV (why would I, I download everything, who has time for commercials?!?) (see also: I’m a poor grad student).  In a bizarre twist of events, I only have about 15 movies on my computer.  The explanation isn’t worth explaining.  So needless to say I felt a bit like the world’s worst host.  Like sure, come on over to my place where all the furniture is doll sized, we have to watch the movie on my laptop and you can only choose from a few movies.  Even worse, the one movie he chose was the only one in mp4 which tends to make my computer overheat and thus we had to pick something else.

Friday Night Lights.  Because dammit, I like a theme and if I’m going to have a football player sitting on my couch we’re damn sure going to watch a football movie or a football game.  Nuff said.  Jokes aside, he picked the movie.  And let’s be honest.  Were either of us really planning on watching the movie?  Does anyone ever really watch the movie?


The movie is simply a distraction.  It’s background music.  It’s the score…to our scoring (Wordplay.  You’re welcome).  The movie is just something for us to focus on while we slowly move closer and closer to each other on the couch and get more and more comfortable.  It’s the soundtrack to our sexual tension.  First it’s my arm resting against his and then it’s his hand on my knee, my thigh.  Our hands, holding.  My breath, holding.

He said cute things.  I said cute things.  We misunderstood each other’s cute things.  No one gave a shit about the misunderstanding over cute things.  And then we were kissing.  His soft lips.  My soft lips.  Tongues and heat and breathing and pressing and sucking and pushing and teasing.

Now, I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I still feel I’m not adequately expressing how hot France is.  And I know you’re probably thinking I’m exaggerating.  All like, wtf ever he can’t be that hot or it’s just cause you like him or it’s all relative or whatever.  But seriously, every time I tell a friend about France, they react the same way, like okay sure but no big deal.  And then I send them his picture.  And the responses show up:

“Sweet Fucking Jesus”

“UUUUMMMMMMMMM…. Hot! Hot! Hot!!! I’m am speechless…”

“Sweet Baby Jesus”

“Holy mother fucking shit that is one AMAZING body!!!!!!  Thanks for those *save image*”

And so you can imagine that as we’re kissing and our lips are totally in sync and his body is pressing down on mine, that it is one of the hottest moments of my entire life.  He’s wearing this blue and white gingham short sleeve button down and it looks amazing.

Only here’s the thing.  It’s not a button down.  Because there are no buttons.  It’s all snaps.  Which I only notice because he snaps a couple open.  Maybe he needed more room to breathe (I am a sexy babe after all) or maybe he just wanted to show me the mechanics of getting him naked but whatever it was that caused him to rip open a snap or two was nothing in comparison to what motivated me to tear the entire shirt open.  Picture it like in the movies.  Because that’s exactly how it happened.  Two arms reach up…and rip his shirt open.  Le Gasp.

Abs that you could grate cheese on.  Literally.  Abs that make you want to do a load of laundry.  I want to wash my delicates all over him.  I want to soap him down in ways that would make us forever unclean.

And then…and here’s where it gets really really good.  Then we found our rhythm.  Or more, we fell into the place where he knew what I liked and gave it to me.  Now in general I try to make it obvious what I like.  Rough.  There I said it.  I like it rough.  Sure, I like other things too.  And I can have the sweet sex, when in love, with the best of them.  But with new boys.  With boys built like tanks, tanks made of solid muscle, muscle made of testosterone and sweat and my sighs, I want it rough.  Anything else seems a waste.  Like being an ass man and dating a chick with DDDs.  I mean don’t be so greedy son.

And I know that this can be an uncomfortable territory because what if I wasn’t into rough sex and all of sudden he’s pulling my hair, laying his heavy hands across my chest and around my throat.  I mean Jesus.  That could get really awkward? scary? ugly? hairy? and fast!!!  And to be honest, in the heat of the moment, I don’t know if he went slow and steady and listened for my moans and smiles or if he just knew.  If he just knew that going for it would pay off.  Big time.  But whatever it was, it worked for us.  [and just for a quick lesson into my psyche…I’m not damaged…this is not broken home shit…this is a fantasy…if he was actually acting violently towards me…well shit would get heavy real quick son, but this is sex and it’s what I like and I’m not ashamed of that.  I’m fairly certain it stems from a feeling of him wanting me so badly that he cannot contain himself…but like I said…it’s all in good fun, all in good fantasy].

And Jesus was it hot.  Especially if you think about the PG…er…maybe NC17 nature of the action.  I imagine he went in hoping (like all men) for sex but expecting that it wouldn’t happen and I know I definitely had no intention of it getting that far.  And to be honest, it actually got further than I had been anticipating.  But can you really blame me?

Shortly after I had torn his shirt off of him, he tore my shirt off of me.  Or ya know, casually removed it.  And then we were dry humping like grizzly bears.  Okay so technically I don’t know how grizzly bears hump but if you know me at all you know I’ll slip in a bear/man reference wherever I can.

So yeah, the humping.  Slow and smooth.  Heavy.  Laden with lust.  Hard.  And I have to tell you, I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed dry humping so much.  Maybe it was because he was so strong.  Or maybe it was because he was so fucking hot.  But it was amazing.  If our dry humping was a person, I’d call it baller and expect it to be getting comped bottle service and blow in Vegas.  And wearing million dollar shoes made of gold.

After that it’s all a bit of a blur.  Buttons were undone, zippers slid open, his hands my pants, my hands his pants.  The dry humping may have become a bit wetter.  And I would make a joke about it being a bit of a pants-off dance off except that I did everything in my power to keep those bad boys on even if just in a technical sense.  I know how quickly things can progress, when you’re so into each other and full of the kind of desire that breaks beds and apparently couches, and while in an overall sense that’s definitely where I wanted to go with him, I didn’t want to go there tonight.

I’ve said it before.  I’ll say it again.  I’ll say it till I’m blue in the face and he’s blue in the balls.  I like my stages.  And gentlemen, I know it’s hard because I can feel it pressed against my thigh but I assure you that what little you suffer in being put off, you will reap a hundred times more when we do finally do it.  I need time.  I need the build up.  I need the backstory and the fantasy and no good can cum come of rushing me (I’m the no good in this story…and I’m telling you I won’t cum come).  Seriously.  If you rush me, if you’re skipping things and going too fast, eventually when we bang…at first I’ll be all excited…loving it…but there will come a moment…when I’ll know that it’s not going to happen, and then I’ll fake it…and then we won’t ever have sex again.  All because you couldn’t handle one night of blue balls (which is really bullshit anyway because if you’re not going home to beat off to me and all the sexy things I just did with my mouth on your mouth and my body pressed against yours…and imagining all the nasty things you expect I’ll want to do with you in the near future…well then…we really shouldn’t be having sex anyway.  Step your mind game up, kid.)

And then it happened.  Somewhere in between flushed cheeks and panting breath, the clock struck midnight for cinderella or 1045 for the barman and he had to go.  Sure, getting dressed was slow what with me tracing his abs and him playing grab ass, but eventually he was ready to go.  He had asked if I wanted to come watch (I assumed watch was yet another language barrier word and that he simply meant I could go with him and chill at the bar but I had girlfriends to call and tell all the details of what had just gone down writing to do).  Plus, I imagine chicks EVERYWHERE flirt their little asses off for him and no newly dating people need to see that.  It’s just too much information.  He also invited me to a football training session that he runs every saturday (and as much as I loved the idea of being in close proximity with a set of buff burly dudes throwing me the pigskin around, I wasn’t quite ready for him to see me all sweaty and out of breath at 10am on a saturday morning…that’s what relationships are for.

And that was that.  A few more ass grabs.  A few more you’re so sexys.  A few more intense kisses and a song or two played in the key of rock hard chest and abs and I was closing my door, after the hottest dude ever, on the sexiest second date ever, on my first kiss…in Montreal.  And then proceeded to pant from excitement for the next half hour.


And PS…we broke the couch…and I don’t even care!

My First Date In Montreal: A New “Something” Called France

First Dates


[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o France had seen my facebook.  I waited patiently.  Would he think me lovely?  Would he still want to meet me?  Am I just as adorable in my ‘perfect pose’ photos as I am in the ‘having fun and living real life’ photos?

His response said it all.  Something like OMG you’re so curvy I love it! and you’re a magnifique woman!!! wow.  (I say “something like” because with the language barrier and all you can understand my not giving a shit that he said u r instead of you’re and a few other grammatical errords but I don’t want to drive you guys mad with it…so can go ahead and assume I’m ‘editing’ things for the rest of this post (and all the others probably). So yeah.  Swoon.  And I didn’t even mind him using the word curvy…I mean he’s French and all…whatever.

I said some things.  And then he reiterated the point…he thought I was sexy as fuck (in as many words) but it was more than that he said…I was awesome.  And then as we were talking about the gym he even made a joke about how I could forget the gym…he liked me just the way I was.  I mean, fuck.  *falls of chair and doesn’t even care* SWOON!

Sidenote:  Jesus I’m easy to woo with a couple bullshit lines though eh? (I mean I’m not saying they were bullshit from him…hopefully he meant them…but seriously…dudes…it’s so easy…how can you guys not make this shit happen?!?!)

Then I said something about here I was thinking you could train me and he said Yes…I can train you…to which I replied…I bet you could.  Smooth right?  We texted for awhile longer.  Talked about how I’m a nightowl (something that would later haunt me…well maybe haunt me…maybe a good thing…you’ll see).  Talked about how he was excited to get back to training (he was just recovering from a muscle injury of some kind).  And real talk…if this was him out of shape…fuck.  No.  Words.  And then finally, with my hairdryer sitting in a box ready to be opened we made plans to hang out.

I think he still thought I might take him up on the whole help-me-construct-my-ikea-furniture-thing as I still hadn’t put my bed together yet (read: was still sleeping on the world’s most uncomfortable futon) but that wasn’t quite how I saw things.  The conversation actually started with something as simple as so what are you doing today? and I said that I was going to be putting my furniture together and he said can it wait, I am seeing a friend later but I could come help after? and things just progressed from there.  I figured he could swing by and we could just for a walk.  My friend always suggested to me that when I meet dates it doesn’t have to be at a coffee spot.  Just grab some beers and hang out in a park she said and while that wasn’t really my style (given that I’m sober) and a park seems a little sketch…the idea of him coming here and taking a little walk while we see what’s what sounded pretty good.  Plus, I’m not going to lie…it was still really hot and humid here and the idea of trekking somewhere and showing up all hot and bothered didn’t really appeal to me.  The idea that he would show up here and I would be all blissfully freezing (having just made love to my air conditioner) sounded perfect.

And for anyone freaking out about me having a guy know where I live etc., it’s a big apartment building, my name isn’t anywhere on anything, there’s always a night door man and it’s locked.  Not to mention there seems to always be people everywhere here…guess that’s downtown summer living for ya.

The only thing that did have me a tad apprehensive was that we weren’t meeting till like 11:30pm (see: nightowl ass biting).  But here’s the thing of the thing.  In Montreal…and other major cities (major major not like Vancouver major)…people do things later.  And it’s no big deal.  Eating dinner at 10pm like it’s nothing.

Additionally, given the language barrier and school starting soon…and my desire not to be in a committed relationship (at least not long term)…I’m not sure I had any real designs or hopes for how this would all turn out.  I mean being completely honest, if he just turned out to be the hottest booty call I’d ever had…I’d be satisfied with that.

And afterall…I could’ve put it off for another night when he’d be free earlier but…uh…no patience.


My god.

If only.

If I could.

If only I could show you.

The hottness.  Like licking the sun.  Like the African desert.  Like my loins after looking at his pictures.  So.  Fucking.  Hot.

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before but he came here from France to play football.  When that didn’t take him to the moon he focused on personal training.  And I can only imagine how many lonely ladies must book with him simply because he’s so fucking hot…(I would…just to be clear…I sooooooooo would…well except that I wouldn’t want him to see me all disgusting and sweaty and panting [though I’ve had exes reassure me they think watching me workout is super sexy] but still).

So yeah.  I’ve even thought about cropping the photos just so you could see his bod, his chest, his super human abs.  But he’s so prolificially covered in tattoos that I’d be petrified someone who knows him would see it and rat me out.  So you’ll just have to take my word for it.  And the words of my friends who I so obviously texted his photos too and who no doubt will be using those photos when their mens are out of town.  Real talk.  Even their men are drooling.

So I digress.  Needless to say, I wasn’t about to wait any no longer to meet France (which is the psudonym I’ve given him because HOTTEST GUY EVER! MOST HOT! SO HOT! COULDN’T YOU JUST DIE FROM HOW HOT HE IS?!?! seemed like a bit of an asshole move…so yeah…France it is).  Plus anyone who knows me, or even just reads this blog, knows how much I actually HATE first meetings.  So awkward.  Most nervous.  *vom*  So getting it out of the way is always a heavy motivator for me.

We made plans.  Text me when you’re here  I said.  He was very understanding btw of me not wanting him to come inside on this first meet.  I totally understand.  Nice.  I mean not that dudes are usually huge dicks like let me up repunzel!!! or anything but still, very sweet about it.

And then before I knew it, it was 11:15 and he texted to tell me he was ready and did I want to take a walk.  I gave him my address.  No response.  2 minutes later I texted, do you know where that is?  No response.  2 minutes later he texted back I’m here.

Eeeekk!!  Gimme 3 minutes I said I hadn’t expected you to get here so fast.  His response lol.  It’s okay I was near.  And then he mentioned how about 2 months ago he had been looking at a place here and how the pool on the roof was nice.  I threw on my shoes and hussled down to meet him.  Admittedly I was a bit thrown when I came out of the door to the apartment building and there were about 10 people there.  Not all together.  A couple here.  A group of friends there.  A few guys by themselves.  The place was happening.  But immediately I felt super awkward and my terrifying fear of not being able to recognize the person I’m meeting began to choke me.  Especially when I looked over at one of the guys and thought…what the fuck…can that really be him?

To my relief…it was not.  He was the dude a few feet over.  The dude who looked just like his photos.  The dude who was absolutely fucking adorable (and hot…though sadly he had his shirt on…as normal men tend to do).  I walked over.  He recognized me right away.  I sort of went in for a hug (as I’m want to do…I’m a hugger…what can you do).  Unfortunately it was a tad clumsy because with him being European and all he was all down with the double cheek kiss and well I’m a spaz. 

I suggested a direction and we began.  At first it was a bit awkward.  I was nervous.  He was nervous (I think).  First dates are super awkward yo!  Plus add to that that I wasn’t familiar with his accent, he wasn’t familiar with mine and I tend to talk super fast when I’m excited and there were definitely a few slow starts with the conversation.  Soon, however, things went a bit more smoothly.  To be honest, it’s a bit of a blur.  I’m pretty sure at some point he said he’d gone out with something like 8 chicks in the 4 years he’d been on and off the site (he went back to France at some point, had a relatioship or two, etc.).  I, in super awkward and spazzy fashion, made a joke and called him a slut.  That took a minute or two to iron out.  Apparently humor doesn’t always translate well.  But by the end we were all a giggle and having a lovely little chat.

And then before I knew it we were almost back at my apartment building.  Sad face.  I didn’t really want it to end yet.  Apparently he didn’t either because he suggested we have a seat on this brick ledge thing.  We talked for awhile.  Just about normal stuff.  Like what it was like to grow up in Paris.  And the fact that I’m a writer (I even told him what kinds of stuff I write about and even mentioned that I blog for The Province (so here’s hoping he’s forgotten that since).  And to my surprise he didn’t really seem phased.  Sure he asked the usual thing boys ask, whether or not I date for actual dating happiness or just to get material for the blog and I assured him most definitely that the dating came first and the blogging was just a side product.  Which is the truth.

Eventually we wrapped things up and it was time to head home.  He walked me to the door, hugged, gave me the double kiss and that was that.  Well, until he texted an hour or so later to tell me You’re very beautiful.  Have a good night and hope to see you soon sweet.  

Le sigh.

Welcome to Montreal: Is this What Karma Feels Like?

Karma Fairy


[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o just in case you haven’t been following along.  This summer has been an interesting one to say the least.

I went out with the most ridiculous guy.

I decided on a grad school (Concordia) and made plans to move to Montreal.

I went out with a 23 year old who was extraordinarily thin and amenable (and yet then fell off the face of the planet).

I went out with a giant of a dude, who seemed smart, fun and into me.  I was wrong about the latter (and maybe the rest).

I went out with a dude, who I liked.  But he’s Top Secret.

And then I moved to Montreal.  And so here we are.  Well actually there we were.  Because it’s been 4 weeks now.  And I’m almost FINALLY caught up on the blog.  Though.  Swoon.  Do I have a story or two for you.  Just Sayin’.  Lock the doors.  It’s going to get…good.

I should probably preface this by saying that though I’ve travelled quite a bit (and a lot of it solo), I’ve never actually lived anywhere other than Vancouver (and it’s surrounding areas).  I should also mention that I don’t speak French (unless you count those 5 years of highschool French that existed over a decade ago and well…I wasn’t that fluent to begin with).  Finally, I was coming to Montreal knowing no one, not a soul, not a friend of a friend, not an old aquaintence, nobody.  So needless to say, moving was a big fucking deal.

The first week was the worst.  Sure, I made it here fine; not a tear was shed at the airport or on the plane.  And then I got here, and it was hot as fuck and the humidity (Oh the humidity!!!) was…well…tropical.  And then it was time to hunt for an apartment.  Which did not go well in the beginning.  Maybe it’s because I’m a princess.  Maybe it’s because the landlords of Montreal have a different definition of “renovated” than I do.  Maybe it’s just because things are old and instead of redoing them…they just get painted over…everything…with paint…what the?!?!  Basically I was gutted.  I had come to Montreal expecting to pay so much less than I did in Vancouver…and well…I ended up paying exactly the same.  That being said, I have a lovely view, there’s an outdoor pool on the roof (I hate indoor pools blech!) and my apartment is easily 200sq. ft. bigger than my place last year.  Plus I’m mere blocks from my school, 2 different metros, a mall, a movie theatre, and crescent street (which is apparently quite the big deal…I’ll keep you posted on this).  So, a week after I arrived in Montreal, I signed a terrifying year long lease (as mandated by the province of Quebec) and moved into my new place.

I had gotten through the week with only one or two tear-filled-hysterical-phone-calls-home-to-my-parents and I guess you could say things were looking up.  Unfortunately as my apartment was bare, excepting my two suitcases, it didn’t really feel like home.  Luckily there was a girl in the building selling her ikea futon and in one quick transaction (assissted by some very cute lebanese boys) I had both a bed and a couch.  Sure, admittedly probably the most uncomfortable bed/couch ever…but hey…at least I wasn’t a 30 year sitting cross legged on the floor.

Unfortunately, I was still sick.  Oh I didn’t mention that?  Well that’s cause it’s gross.  Now maybe it was the water.  Maybe it was the stress.  Maybe it was some combination of 18 different things but imagine a bad trip to mexico and here I am 3 weeks later and 15 lbs. lighter (don’t freak out though…a lot of this weightloss is due to the endless walking I’ve been doing).  The good news is somewhere around the 3rd week things started to get a little better in that department and though I still often feel nauseous etc. I’m doing much better.

Also, around that 3rd week things started falling a little bit more into place.  I spent 4 hours at Ikea and managed to furnish my place so that it at least somewhat resembled a college dorm grown up apartment.  And then put it all together myself…like a grown up.  Boom!

But that’s not all that was happening during that week.  You see, I’d changed my POF and OKCupid profiles to Montreal a few weeks back and though I had been getting messages, the truth is most of them had gone unanswered by me.  I wasn’t really motivated.  I was stressed, I was sick, and dammit I had bigger fish to fry.  Plus, none of them were really standouts.  I mean sure, there were some standouts in the negative pile (but that’s a whole other blogpost).

And then came a message that would change everything.

I recognized his photo.

Much earlier in the year, like March or April, when Montreal and Concordia were still just ideas of possibility, I changed my profile to Montreal for a day or two, nothing big.  Did I recognize him from then?  Had he saved me as a favorite awhile back?  Had he messaged?  Regardless, I’d never contacted him back.  And truth be told, I almost didn’t contact him back this time.  For a few very superficial reasons.

The first…he had a horrible user name.  It was something dark or like something that could be the title of a megadeath song.

The second…he was insanely hot.  No joke.  He was all muscle.  Real talk.  Ripples of choclatey goodness perfected into some kind of Zeusy god-like body type.  And as would seem natural, every photo was him, at the gym, working out.  But the pics weren’t like iPhone self shots in a dirty mirror.  They were professional big business type shit.  Was he a model?  A fitness professional?

Now I know what you’re thinking…why wouldn’t you respond to someone because they’re hot…isn’t that a reason you’d want to???  Yes…of course.  Except what if he was a fake?  Some creepo who wasted the time of chicks (and possibly lured them out) by posing as someone else, someone he’d stolen photos from.

Nonetheless, after a few short messages, when he asked…I gave him my phone number.  Now I’m of the belief that giving a dude your number is no big thing, and definitely not a safety issue.  At worst it could get annoying and at best he’d be smart enough to stalk you through some genius techniques and then I think we all know I’d likely want to date a guy that smart…so problem solved.  Also, and this is the real reason I released the digits so quickly…my apartment came with free wifi, unfortunately, along with several other beloved sites (torrent downloading, youtube, porn!, etc.) dating sites were blocked too.  Not one to be deterred, I would just switch wifi off every so often to check my messages but this was a hassle and texting would be a lot easier.

Plus…there was a bit of a language barrier.  He was French.  (Ironically not Quebec French but Paris French.)

In all honesty, when I thought about dating in Montreal, it never really ocurred to me that there might be a language barrier.  Before I left people just kept telling me everybody speaks English, you’ll be fine.  And so it was a little shock when I found myself trying to have a conversation with someone who didn’t speak English fluently.  Not a negative shock by any means, just a shock.

So where was I?  (don’t say “wrapping this story up” lol because this is the tip of the iceberg my friends…  Tip.  Of.  The.  Iceberg).  So we began texting back and forth.  And it was cute.  It was sweet.  And moreover, he was cute and sweet.  He offered to help me at Ikea, offered to drive me there, and help me carry all the heavy things.  He offered to help put the furniture together.  He appeared to expect nothing in return.  He appeared to just be a really sweet guy acting like a total gentlman to a newcomer, to a chick he wanted to impress, to another human being.

But…this ain’t my first rodeo and there was no way I was getting in a car with a strange dude in a city where I wouldn’t even know if he was going the right direction to Ikea.  But even more than the safety thing (because honestly…and though I often make this joke…if he was strong enough to drag me off somewhere…I’d probably want to date him…so ya know…win win)…all joking aside…I was more worried he’d just be some huge freak or something.  What can I say, I’ve met a few losers along the way and one of my greatest fears is that my date will embarass me in public.  Plus, like I said before, what if it turned out it wasn’t even him in the pictures.

So we texted for a few days (because I kept putting him off…after all I still had to buy a hair dryer to make this curly mop look presentable).  And then one day we were texting and I asked him if he’d met anybody off POF before.  A fairly standard question and he responded in kind, only then he added that his profile had been deleted that day and he didn’t know why.


My first thought?  They are fake pictures, it’s not him, people reported him, and this was all for nothing.  Blargh.

I casually suggested this to him (the part about being so good looking that people might think his profile was fake).  I’m super stealth, I know.  To which he responded with a picture.  Except here’s the thing, the photo was of the same guy in all the other photos, but if you can steal one you can steal six so who was to say this picture was actually him.

I then, of course, channeled everything I’d ever learned from detective shows or a Liam Neeson movie and told him that his pic could still be fake and he should send me one with him holding up 3 fingers because that’s a totally normal request from a stranger.  Which he promptly did.  And fuck me if it didn’t turn out he was the hottest guy in the world.  Seriously.  Is this what karma feels like? (not that I believe in Karma).  But if I did, would this be some sort of karmic reward for all the dating bullshit I’d put up with?  All the nonsense and ridiculousness and dudes who lied about their height and brought hatchets on dates (oh tedski (fix links)) and showed up wearing lavendar leather jackets and talked  about meat while making out?

But then of course, the tables turned on me.  He wanted a pic of me.  Ya know, to verify identity and all that.  Only unlike boys…or those chicks who sit around in full hair and makeup all day looking gorgeous and beautiful at every moment incurring my hate and jealousy like it was going out of style I was sweaty from putting together furniture, had no makeup on, hair was tied up in a hideous bun, etc. etc. etc.  There was no fucking way I was sending him a photo of my current state.  For a moment I thought about sending just a recent picture but if he was savvy and asked for a 3 finger verification or whatever, my goose would be cooked and there would be no eject button that wouldn’t have me crashing and burning.

And that’s when it occurred to me.  Facebook.

Now while I’m normally totally against adding people you’re newly dating (or haven’t even met yet) to your facebook…it has happened in the past and now would be a perfect time to break my rule.

First, because it would let him see a wide range of photos (me looking svelte from good angles…and yet also me looking plump and chubby and not caring about anything at my going away party).  Because though I always put up super honest photos of myself, full face and body plus extras, one of my greatest fears is that a boy won’t look closely enough (read: be blinded by my smile and happy demeanor) and not realize how chubby I am…and let’s be real…sometimes people are just total shit and so I wouldn’t put it past humanity that I could show up on a date one day and have a dude be like…what’s up fatty?  But I digress.

Second, it would make me feel more confident about meeting him.  Something about having a normal facebook with a normal timeline and evidence that if you’re a serial killer and murder me, there will be some kind of trail left for the authorities and my friends and family to trace, that made facebook seem like a good idea.  And so I told him as much (less the serial killer stuff).

He was cool with it.  And so he gave me his full name and I added him.  (Don’t all swarm to my facebook at once and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T MENTION ANY OF THIS ON THERE!!!!!!!).


(I’m not going to write To Be Continued like I usually do because let’s face it…there are a ton of posts coming…they’re all a continuation of what happened before…you should just assume that because of OCD prior experience with the blog that it always comes in chronological order…real time dating if you will.)