Do Nice Guys Finish Last?

Nice guys finish last

Do Nice Guys Really Finish Last?

The logic behind the claim  Nice guys finish last  is so flawed I hardly know where to start (but start, I will).

First off, who are these nice guys who are claiming to finish last?  How are they defining last?  As a matter of fact, how are they defining nice?  And who are they, to claim for themselves this relative qualifier?  The balls on these dudes…ugh.

And those are just the questions I have about definitions and test subjects, we’re not even talking about the actual testing scenario. I mean, not to get all correlational/causational on you but let’s be real here for a minute.  Are these alleged nice guys trying to say that they are so one-factored in their life that there are no other possible reasons for why they may or may not finish last, depending of course on how we define last as mentioned above?

Supposing for a second that we’ve all agreed upon what defines being nice and supposing further than that we find a guy who fits this definition.  He goes on a date, and pays like a gentleman, there is chatter and all things seem to go well.  There’s a short kiss, the date ends and all feels right in the world.  The next day our test subject calls his date and proposes a second adventure.  She is not  interested.  He self-soothes with a mantra of nice guys finish last, nice guys finish last, nice guys *sob* finish last.  He tells all his friends that she was a money grubbing whore only using him for a free dinner.  He considers no other possibilities.  And therein lies the rub.

He’s not such a nice guy.  At least not in my opinion.  Besides the obvious trashing of the girls reputation, the more core issue is the fact that it doesn’t even enter into his consciousness that he might be to blame.  Or at fault (though I prefer to think of it as just people who didn’t mesh) but if dude’s are going to play the blame card, I’m going to deal it out to them.  And like I’ve said over and over again, if you have to say it…you aren’t it.  If you have to tell people you’re funny, you’re not.  If you have to tell people you’re smart, you’re not.  If you have to tell people you’re nice, you’re not.  What you are…is oblivious.  Every dude thinks he’s a nice guy, a super swell fella and the truth is the truth is to be honest, though in varying degrees, admittedly, I’m telling you right now, fellas, you are not.  Now I’m not saying you’re all assholes, not even close.  What I am saying, is that people are flawed, it’s in our nature, and so blanketing your dating woes, or even your life woes, with the fluffy but I’m such a nice guy defense is really not going to get you anywhere.

That being said.  Even if you are, that super amazingly nice guy who never says a harsh word, never has a derogatory comment and just wants everyone to be happy and spends a great deal of his time trying to make life that way.  And even if I can pretend for a minute that you’re not a dick for the crime detailed above of thinking you’re soooo amazing that the problem has to be someone else.  I have to ask, a very serious and vital question:  Who told you that being nice was enough?  Would you want to spend the next 40 years with someone who’s only redeeming quality was that they were nice?  I don’t need a seat on the bus, I need fun.  Okay, that’s a lie…I want both.  I’m greedy like that.  And so are most boys really.

I mean, girls aren’t allowed to be enough…just by being nice.  Seriously.

When was the last time a dude got hard for nice?

When was the last time a dude got hard for nice?  Girls have to be fit, healthy and adventurous…but ya know…all the while maintaining a kind of fresh faced makeup-less beauty that allows for no faults of DNA.  Boys want witty conversation, and upbeat personalities, smart opinions but polite decorum.  They want the Princess without the baggage, the President without the power-trip and the Pornstar without the career…they want the pussy without the problems.

And It boggles the mind.  My mind is boggled.  That I hear it all the time.  This complaint that I have absolutely no sympathy for.  Nice guys finish last.  I couldn’t possibly care less for the plight of the nice guy.  Because in a world that asks women to be exceptional…why on earth do men think being nice is enough.  How is that even possible?!?!

And just so we’re clear, I’m not opposed to people being extraordinary.  I whole-heartedly encourage it.  I think women should try to be all those things listed above and more (except the makeup-less one because a person has no hand in the DNA they were dealt and screw you for judging her/us/them like that).

Personally, I’m nowhere near, but always striving, to be the most awesome version of me that I can be.  And to be honest, I want the same to be true of others.  I fear, much of the world isn’t with me on this one though.  I fear that a great deal of the population is totally all right with just getting by and being entirely average.  Which I guess is fine, you can’t control people and all that jazz.  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to start dating a guy who defines himself as nice.  full stop.

I wouldn’t buy a one dimensional house or want to live in a one dimensional world, so why would I want to date a one dimensional person?


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

The Bird Seed Theory, or Why He Keeps Contacting You

Bird Seed Theory

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.

Every so often I come to a realization about dating.  An answer to a dating question that feels so long fought for and so hard-battle-done-by that it’s like solving the Riddle of the Sphinx.  Like figuring out what the hell happened to Amelia Earhart.  Like I just destroyed the ring in the fires of Mount Doom.  Like I just solved world hunger.  Like I just figured out where in the world is fucking Carmen San Diego, coherently explained the Matrix, and made cold fusion easily accessible and replicable to the general public.  It’s like I know, like seriously fucking know, exactly how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a Tootsie-Pop.

And it’s finally happened.  I know a thing, about dating, like fucking know it, and thus I give to you:


The Bird Seed Theory (or, why he keeps contacting you).


Here’s the thing: dating is all about effort.  And the fundamental difference in how men and women view effort is the leading cause of dating frustration.  Okay so I kind of made that bit up…the “leading cause” bit…but bear with me and you might start to agree.  See, if you were to ask most women what is the worst part about dating?  I would hedge my bets that they would say “it’s the uncertainty”.  Sure, rejection hurts and uncomfortable moments suck and after awhile everybody gets frustrated and wants to call it a day, but the worst THE WORST part about dating is the uncertainty.  the waiting.  the fade.  and then the come back charlieness of it all.

I don’t really know how it came to me (that’s a lie, I know exactly how it came to me…so let me just tell you).  Driving home from UBC, the day I moved out of residence back at the end of April 2010, I was talking to my brother (who had so graciously helped me move), about The Nick Name and how I just couldn’t figure out what his fucking deal was and why he kept in contact with me when he obviously didn’t like me so much that he like had to fucking have me.  And just like that, it all came together for me. GENIUS!!!  Sort of like He’s Just Not That Into You…Version 2.0…The Bird Seed Theory.

You see, women are very selective about the effort they put into men and dating.  For those who love a good analogy like I do –> We throw thick chunks of bread at select ducks.  Only the ones we really like.  The ones we see a potential with.  The ones who make us swoon.    Or that can dick us down just right (don’t get it wrong…it’s not always about mush and heart)…but the point is we only throw bread when its worth our while.  Effort is precious and we don’t like to waste.

Guys throw bird seed  *makes bird seed throwing gesture*.  Guys throw bird seed constantly…all the time…every moment…of every day…every heart beat…throwing fucking bird seed…not caring who it lands on.  Now this isn’t to say that boys will date or bang all the ducks they throw seed at.  That’s not the point.  The point is to have the option. Boys are always on the prowl, always having things in the mix.  It’s like it’s in their DNA or something.

And I know what you’re thinking…doesn’t that negate the theory of effort?  And the answer is NO.  Quite the opposite.  Because in fact, men don’t see throwing the seed as effort.  Because it’s all in the name of sex (or whatever motivates them, ego, adrenaline, etc.).  And while we (women) are only keeping the options open with those boys we want right now, boys are inherently thinking…more…possibility…later.

So here’s your real-world-tangible-practical-jesus-I-wish-we’d-known-this-earlier-so-much-wasted-time-lesson.

The next time Come Back Charlie sends text message…a FB wall post…a special Tweet…a phonecall…whatever….that leaves you thinking wow.  He misses me.  He’s thinking about me.  He made a mistake in how he treated me before.  He didn’t mean it when he pulled the fade on me.  He didn’t mean it those other 2 times he bailed on plans.  He thinks I’m special really fucking special.

He Doesn’t.

but but but.  No!  He really really fucking doesn’t.

Sure it’s quite possible he cares about you in the same sense that I generally hope people in the world are happy and leading joyful lives and all that.  But to be totally honest, he doesn’t give a shit about you.  Nothing has changed.  I promise.  He is NOT the exception.  You are NOT the exception.  Maybe he enjoys your conversation, maybe he thinks you’re hot and would be cool with a bang (pending that it fit his schedule, pending that some other chick he has been throwing bird seed at and that he wanted more wasn’t available) but honestly, it doesn’t matter.  Whatever his circumstances or reasons are…this dude is not interested in you enough for you to give him the time of day.  Even a proper booty call knows how to be blunt, honest and respect your time.  A dude throwing bird seed has no concern for your time.  Because while throwing bread at him is exacting effort on your part…you’re just another duck on his row to throw some seed up.  *seed throwing gestures*

And to make sure you all listen.  And really know that this isn’t just something I’m saying but can’t back up with actual facts.  I give you both Garbage Man and The Nick Name.  Both these dudes were done with me by the 2nd date (possibly even before).  And after that 2nd date…they kept in contact.  For months.  Like seriously fucking months.  The Nick Name actually kept in contact for years!! though I never saw him again after that 2nd date.  And while in my mind I cannot fathom exerting that much effort to stay in contact with someone you had no real interest in hanging out with again…for them I imagine I was just one in a ton of other chicks.  Or one in a ton of other hobbies.  Or one in a ton of whatever-the-fuck-they-do-with-their-time.  But while I assumed the continued contact was a reflection on the good so-so satisfactory meh times we had spent together and the connection we had.  I was wrong.  So so fucking wrong.  They were just throwing bird seed.  And I was just a duck running around with my head cut off.  Does that analogy work?  I think so.  You get the idea anyway.

So the next time a dude who isn’t treating you like you think he should.  Or a dude that ditched you comes back with a less than grand gesture.  Or really you just have an inkling that you’re doing all the work.  STOP THROWING BREAD at his bird seed throwing ass and find yourself another pond to go loiter at.  Because this one is not good for you.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Sex and Dating: How Cum I’m Making Him Wait?

In this day and age of sexual liberation (or at least our attempt at it), why do women still make men wait to have sex?

I obviously can’t speak on behalf of all women.  However, as much as I would like to think I’m the unique little star that my mother thinks I am, it’s probably a fair assumption that my reasons and logic are not unique to me.

I should probably preface this by offering up some personal-sexual context: I love sex, I’m not waiting for marriage (obviously), I’m an atheist so I have no religious qualms, I’m decently/highly educated (2 BAs, 1/2 way through MA), the only parental issues I have could only be described as being too loved/highly valued (if that’s even a thing), I write about sex and dating so I’m obviously not shy about the subject, and advocating for the sexual freedom of women is my resting point.

I was recently listening to a podcast (@DatePod) with April Macie and Shane Mauss and (guests comedian Pete Holmes and Vanessa Zima [who btw apparently has an anonymous dating related Twitter which I hope finds me one day]), and Shane noted that “women have higher consequences for having sex”.

This is, of course, very true.  If a woman gets pregnant, a man can leave with almost no effort.  For a woman to leave, she would either have to have an abortion, or wait the 9 months and then leave the baby (at which point decisions like adoption, etc. would be involved), and this doesn’t factor in any of the emotional consequences of a pregnancy either.

But what if protection and birth control are fully utilized? (and this is where my experience comes in because as a highly educated, privileged, atheist, liberal white female, my chances of unexpected/unwanted pregnancy are extremely low).

So, why do I wait (or have the desire to wait) to have sex when dating someone I like?




Women have to work harder to achieve orgasms.


Now, clearly, this is a blanket statement that won’t apply to every woman and it doesn’t mean that men never struggle to achieve orgasms either (do they? I have no idea, I’ve heard about guys faking before but I don’t have any data so I’ll just have to assume it’s a possibility at this point).  All that being said, I think with the rampancy that is the “faked female orgasm” it’s safe to say that the female orgasm, at the very least, requires more effort.

And yet, many (most? some?) women have very satisfying sex lives in relationships (and outside of them too maybe?) so it’s not as if men are always insufficient sexual partners.  And now is probably also a good time to mention that I’m not actually saying that men are total selfish assholes (necessarily); I’m open to the possibility that this is social conditioning, something that has occurred through evolution, other possibilities.  At this point, simply because I’m not a man, nor have I done any replicable scientific research, I have no idea why this phenomenon occurs.  All I can say is that in the experience of myself, and many that I have consulted, it does.

Here is my blunt take based on my own sexual experience and the sexual experiences of my friends and anyone willing to talk to me about their sex life:  having sex early in a relationship is less (physically) satisfying for women as our orgasms require more effort and men are more-often-than-not-initially shitty lovers.  Did I just say lovers?  Anyway.

Sure, yes, there are men who won’t be total shit at first.

Sure, yes, there are those lucky bitches who require almost no effort to get off.

Sure, yes, some other thing that I’m probably forgetting to consider.

But, let’s assume for a moment that the man in question is of the average and not the aberration and that the woman in question is like me and the vast majority of women who I’ve discussed this with – why is this the case, then?

In my experience, when having sex with a man who you are not yet in some kind of relationship (relationship being used here to denote anything with a reasonable expectation and desire of both parties for future pursual) is often less than satisfying for any of the following reasons:


  • He rushes (from making out to penetration in 60 seconds flat [minor exaggeration])
  • He doesn’t understand that female bodies are different (from his own and from other women)
  • He doesn’t care if I get off
  • He’s insecure about me using a vibrator as well (aka he only wants me to get off if it comes at purely his doing)
  • He doesn’t know me well enough yet to know what I like
  • He doesn’t care enough to ask what I like
  • He’s too excited to bother asking what I like
  • He rushes my orgasm (aka he’s been mislead by porn, in which the majority of women are either faking their orgasm or are simply one of those lucky ladies mentioned above who got off with a stiff breeze, into thinking that I’m immediately cumming within seconds of his dick being inside me)

And I’m not above noting my own onus:

  • As confident as I am, with men who haven’t a clue it can be very hard to speak up for fear of being seen as overbearing, a ball buster, as if there is something wrong with me and/or my body, etc.
  • Most men don’t offer up going down immediately but even so this would be comparable with fellatio and thus still potentially something that comes before sex (depending on your views of the subject)


Now, one question you might have is why would I have sex with someone who doesn’t care if I get off (and the answer is obviously I wouldn’t knowingly, and that’s a big part of why I wait).  Additionally, many men who want to have sex with you but not necessarily form a committed relationship don’t appear to be on the same par with me (being able to care about them as a person, a human being who I would want joy to come to, regardless of my desire to pursue a relationship).

The truth is this, getting to know someone and getting comfortable enough to tell them all the things that get you off takes time (or the ability to be that secure and open, which most people aren’t – could you tell a stranger your weirdest sexual fantasy at a coffee shop? no. right.).  And while I would love love LOVE to be able to have amazing mind-blowing orgasmic sex with someone right away, that almost never happens.

And before anyone suggests, well you can’t know unless you try…THAT IS SOME STUPID FUCKING ADVICE.  If there is an electric fence in front of me and I touch it and it shocks me, I would be an idiot to think I could touch it again and it might not shock me.  Sure, the possibility exists that it was an aberration (sign stating: electric fence, to the contrary), or that there could’ve been a power outage in the time it took me to nurse my first wound, but these are so absolutely fucking slim that logic tells me it’s not worth the risk.

So while I probably will falter, have sex too soon, let my hormones and desires get the best of me, the truth is the reason I wait, the reason I TRY to wait, is that most men outside of relationships really suck at sex (initially).  And I get it, if I were a guy who could cum like it was nothing, yes I would have no problem fucking right away.


So I guess what I’m saying is this, I know I’m not going to change the world of men fucking, but it would be nice if once in awhile men didn’t always assume that I’m not having sex with them right away because I’m following some antiquated notion about “the rules of dating” or fall into some bullshit self-judgment over the liberation of my sexuality.



The reason I’m not fucking you yet is because it won’t be good for me.



*Though my dating record may suggest I’ve had sex with nothing but losers, I assure you, there were some very good ones in there, a 6 year long sexually fulfilling relationship included, but even so, these admittedly blanket statements are based upon the extensive experiences of numerous friends and thus while still not scientific do include a large sampling of men.

Weddings: It’s Okay to Just Say No


[dropcap]The [/dropcap]invitation arrives in the mail.  You’re invited…to celebrate…the union of Johnny Jackass and Tina Still Owes You $50 from that vacation in Cabo.  You’re filled with dread.  Maybe it’s from your roommate in college.  Maybe it’s from a party friend, someone you like to hit the clubs with but rarely call when you can’t contain your tears.  Maybe it’s from your best friend.  The truth is, it doesn’t matter who it’s from, if it fills you with dread you should decline.  Busy, sorry, all the best.

This isn’t the hard decision or complex dilemma that people make it out to be.  If you’re not thrilled for someone, beaming to the brim with joy, and excited to be present for one of the most important moments of their life, then you shouldn’t be going to it.  And, if we’re being honest, they wouldn’t want you to go anyway.

I know we’ve all heard the moaning, the complaining, the detestation many people seem to have for weddings but that’s because these people keep going to them when they shouldn’t.

If a bride-to-be asks you to be the bridesmaid or maid-of-honour and you’re not thrilled, just say no.  It’s okay to say no.  It’s okay to politely decline.  Feel free to be self-deprecating if that helps, I can’t possibly, too busy, wouldn’t want to drop the ball on duties, not good at planning parties, etc.

What is not okay to do, though so many do it, is to say yes sure, why not and then spend the next year shit talking your friend only to use the bridesmaids dress as a sled come winter, or burn it in some insane bitchy ritual.  Also not okay is accepting the role and then weeks before a wedding bailing out.  [note:  I did this once, while I still gave months of advance notice, we had already had the dresses ordered.  So I did what any decent person would do, I paid for the dress anyway and later sold it on ebay].

But it’s rude to decline.  No, it’s not

But my friend will hate me.  Sure, there might be some awkwardness but if you explain it like a grownup, the awkwardness will pass and the friendship will be salvageable (if you want it to be) and if you want the friendship to end, it does so kindly, mildly, on good terms.

But it’s mean to say no.  Totally incorrect.  What’s mean is acting like a huge asshole for a year while your friend tries to plan their wedding, faking your way through the ceremony, getting shitfaced at their expense, and then months later when your friend finally finds out what a cow you’ve been behind her back – she’ll have your face forever attached to all her wedding photos, a lifetime reminder of her bad decision making and your noodle of a spine.  Now that’s mean.

People often get confused about what “being nice” is really all about and I think many weddings have been ruined (or at least friendships have) because of it.  Now, I’m not saying you have to blurt out I’M NOT HAPPY YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED BECAUSE I’M JEALOUS AND YOU’RE DEFINITELY GOING TO GET DIVORCED when you’re invited to be in or attend the ceremony.  If you’re not super close, count yourself lucky because your response can be via email, phone, or mail (by whatever method you were invited).  If you are close though, you’ll probably have to come up with a good reason.  It’s up to you whether you want to truth it or white lie your way out of the situation (just don’t make it into a bigger deal).  Whichever way you decide to go, if you want the friendship to remain in tact, say so, at the end of the conversation, make it clear that you’re happy for that but simply can’t fulfill the duty they want.  Make it clear that you care for them.  The person will either act like a grown up and all will be good or they’ll act like an asshole and then feel free to send them to me, I’ll set them straight.

Finally, be honest with yourself, if you’re not really friends with a person, this may be the perfect opportunity to go your separate ways (BEFORE THE WEDDING THOUGH!).

How do you say no to being a bridesmaid?  Just say no.

How do you decline a wedding invitation?  Just say no.


Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt


This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

Paper Airplanes


Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Paper Airplanes


I want to see you, on a balcony across the way, and throw a paper airplane to get your attention.

I want our love to begin with your best set of binoculars.

I want to be ready for you.

You have a story to tell, I can see it.  Yesterday I went out and bought my own set of binoculars, just so I could see you better.  I watch you pull back the red curtains in your window, watch the sun wash over your body, watch the corners of your mouth turn up and then you lower the binoculars.

You look shy.  Kick imaginary rocks around with your feet.  Blush.  From the sun.  From the heat.  From my gaze.  You look like chewing caramel to a jazz ballad.  You look like the beat slowed way down.  I bet you smell good.  I think you’re on the 20th floor.  I tried to count exactly but I kept losing track.

Draw the binoculars back up to your eyes.  This time it’s me lowering mine.  I’m nervous.  I squint from the glare of the setting sun off your building.  A smile spreads across my face like a flood, the movements uncontrollable.  I’m awash with uncertainty.  I giggle.  Look away, down and to the left, but raise my arm, my right hand, and offer a gentle wave.  And then I look back, and see you, without binoculars, waving.  Big sweeping motions.  Like you’re acting out a silent movie.  I want to be in black and white with you.

I blink.  I breathe.  Something catches my eye and you’re gone.  I grab the binoculars and whip them up to eye level.  I search for a Lion on the Safari.  I seek a bird in flight.  I look for the last piece of cookie dough in the cookie dough ice cream.  But you’re gone.  I close my drapes, the night feels heavy.  I tell no one.  This is not my secret to share.

Morning comes.  Drapes are opened.  And there, across the way, something catches my eye.  Big.  White.  A sign.  Nestled in between those red curtains is a sign for me.  You’ve thrown a message in a bottle.  You’ve put your hand in the wet cement.  You wrote Dave was here inside the desk of your first year college dorm.  My knees get weak.

Where did you go?  It says.  I’m sorry I left, I thought you knew I would come back.  Your smile is more beautiful than my heart can stand.  Come back tonight, at 10pm.  David.

I can’t think straight.  But I have a life and it must go on.  The day happens, things get done, time does not stop for me.  I go out and buy big white poster boards and colorful felt markers.  Evening comes and I peek out of my window.  I stand off to the side.  Shy.  Not ready yet.  But I wonder if you’re there.  You are not.  I remind myself you said 10pm and spend the next two hours acting like I’m getting ready for a date.  I clean up my apartment, I shower, I do my hair and makeup.  I try not to think myself insane.  I write my name in Red.

At 10pm I open my curtains, it feels like opening night, and there you are.  Sitting.  Waiting.  You jump up in excitement and I know that you see me.  I hold up my poster.  Show you my name.  I’m watching through binoculars.  You clap your hands, your mouth opens to form an O and then a smile.  You hold up a hand that looks like STOP! but I know really means wait.  I kick myself for not knowing this last night.  That I should wait.

I can see you scribbling furiously, bent over a table to your left.  I can see into your apartment.  It’s very nice.  And I’m instantly glad I took the time to clean mine up as you can probably see everything.  I think about my apartment, imagine what it says about me, wonder if you’ll think me juvenile for the IKEAness of it all.  Wonder if you think it looks like doll furniture.  Wonder if you would judge me.  Decide that you wouldn’t.

I look back at your apartment.  And wonder what kind of man has red curtains.  Floor to ceiling, rich and deep, your curtains are the centre of a cherry, the place where flesh meets pit.  I wonder if we’ll ever meet.  I look down at the street and think it could be that easy.  Two elevator rides, two swinging doors, two strangers on the ground.  But it feels right to stay here; to write our story in signs, to write ourselves pending in poster boards.  I’m not ready yet.

And then you’re back, and holding up your sign.

I want you to know it says and after a few seconds you fling it behind you to reveal the next poster.

That you’re doing just fine.  And then you lower the boards and just look at me.  The sun is going down.  Dusk is hovering.  The night waits in the wings.

I quickly turn to my own table laden with paper and markers.

Dave?  I write.  How do you know???  Hold up the signs for you to see.

Again you turn to write something and then come back to show me.

Because the board says and then you reach into the back pocket of your jeans and bring out what looks like a piece of folded up paper.  You open it up and place it flat against the glass with your palm.  It reminds me of Good Will Hunting.  I can hear Matt Damon say, how do you like them apples?  I’m not yet certain I know what this is.  And then you begin to fold it up, you make it into a paper airplane, and make airplane flying motions with it until you’re sure I recognize what it is.  You put it down and pick up more signs.

You hold up the because message one more time.  This time a second message follows.

It’s enough that you want to.

My stomach flips.  My heart fills.  My head spins.

I remember the paper airplane.  I remember the day I threw it, months ago.  On a Wednesday in December I stood on a balcony covered in snow and looked down at a city blanketed in white and I threw my hopes and dreams in the shape of a paper airplane.

I just want to make you smile.  That’s what I’d written inside.

He must have found it.  Must have kept it.  All this time.  How did he know it came from me?  Had he been watching that day, when I had thrown it?  Had he been watching other days?  Had he run down to get it?  How did he find it?  And then of course, why?

He watched with his binoculars as I slowly put it all together.  And then he wrote one final message.

I want to be the person who makes you laugh.

Something She Dated: A Goodbye in 3 Parts

UPDATE:  This post went up on my website in October 2012, when I was busy with grad school, sad about the state of men and dating, and just generally burnt out.  You’re now reading this, obviously, on my new site – where the writing covers many more subjects than just sex and dating (thus helping to eliminate burn out) but I wanted to keep this post up regardless because it helps to show how I was feeling back then 🙂




I’m tired.  Is that what you want to hear me say?  You beat me, you won.

Those are the words in my head.  They look even sadder typing them out than they sound bouncing back and forth between my ears.  I want to pull the toque over my eyes.  I want to put on ear muffs.  I want winter to get here so I can forget all about the disappointment.

It’s been two and a half years since I started writing this blog; since it was just a way to avoid repeating the same stories to my friends.  I had had such high hopes.  Not for the blog, but for dating.  And now it all just seems so sad, so fraught with failures, so lethargic with let downs, so many damn dating disappointments.

I haz sad.  I haz dating sad.

But the truth is I don’t know how to write the crisis of this story.  I don’t know what the problem, with me, is.

I used to be so hopeful.  I used to think boys had such potential, such spirit, such masculine beauty, were so full of life and happiness and sheer unadulterated joy.  I used to think they were amazing, all of them, in their own special way.  But as the disappointments just kept hitting like bricks that stick, I just feel heavy, and I’m sinking to the bottom.

The irony is that I was never expecting one man to be everything.  In fact, it was like I was hoping that all men could just be one thing, if they could just be one thing…

Be funny.
Be smart.
Be passionate.
Be interesting.
Be lusty.
But I guess the implied caveat was the hardest part of the application to fill.

AND….Be interested in me.

Instead of finding this, I found a series of guys who I gave an inch and they took a mile.  Or threw the inch back in my face.  Or disappeared with the inch never to be seen again.  And honestly, a girl only has so many inches.

And while I still think I’m lovely…I have to wonder…why can’t anybody see it?  Why aren’t there any boys who think I’m funny, and pretty, and smart and interesting and who they themselves are funny, and smart and interesting?

Do I really only get one heart pounding relationship in life?  Is that it?  Is that all I get?  Is this why people get married…because you’re lucky to even just find one single person who can see that you’re amazing, let alone several?

And in all honesty, along the way, and probably particularly because of France and The Comic, I’ve become distanced from the very notion that there are men out there who want me to experience pleasure, who give a shit about whether or not I get off, who want to see me sweat and smile and cum and smile again, who care about more than just getting their dick sucked and cumming on my tits.  And while it seems dramatic (and problematic) to allow a few boys to taint my view of an entire gender, the feelings are there, the seeds are planted and I’m starting to think that my only choices are to become a sexual camel or to start researching the treatments for carpal tunnel.





But…it’s not just the dating.

It’s hard.  Putting it all out there, ya know.  And getting almost nothing in return.  Almost nobody comments anymore.  Sure, I get a few Twitter mentions and a Facebook like or two and yes from the stats I can easily see that readership is up…but still.  Can you imagine a comic performing for a completely silent audience, night after night?  Would you be able to bear your open breast for all to see, share some of the most intimate details of your life with complete strangers and be unphased by their near silence?

And I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it while it lasted.  My goodness, did I.  But when the chips are down and it feels too bothersome, too cumbersome, too…something…and you’re doing it just for you, it’s easy to say…I think it’s time to pack it in.  And so that’s what I’m doing.  Packing it in.

Now don’t get me wrong.  This isn’t the end of me, I’m not dying or anything.  I plan to continue writing (and that’s another big part of why I’m stopping, because I want the time to take my writing in another direction).  This isn’t the last you’ll hear of me.  And don’t think I haven’t appreciated you all along the way, hell I even brag about you sometimes like you’re my children, like your presence is a photo in my wallet that I take out at family gatherings and work functions to show off, my sweetheart, look at her, isn’t she beautiful.

And this is really the worst description of why I’m ceasing the blogging ever…because honestly it’s a hundred other reasons too.

It’s school
It’s life
It’s wanting something different
It’s wanting to continue growing and developing
It’s writing funding proposals
It’s finishing my first fictional short story for publication
It’s work (TAing classes and running tutorials)
It’s the fact that I’m turning 31 in just a few days*
It’s too many things to list
It’s too many things even to think about
And then it’s 100 things more beyond that.

And it’s terrifying.  Because it all feels so final.  Because it all feels so for sure.  Like I’ve just crumpled up the piece of paper that had my identity written all over it and threw it in the trash.  And now I’m staring at a blank page.


*I actually turned 31 a few weeks ago, this just took me a really long time to post





What do you do when you let go of the most interesting part of yourself?

My preferred method is to cry.  Like a grown up.


You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “Sit down,” and pulled out a chair while I seasoned my bowl with the drips from my face.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and rested your hand on my shoulder.

I stuck my chubby fingers into the bowl and squeezed at a slice but the slimy flesh swam away like a goldfish.  I bet it’s forgotten me already.  I couldn’t hear half of what you said because my ears were filled with water.  I was swimming in a puddle.  I was holding my breath.  I was hiding in the weeds till you reached down and yanked me back up.

“This is going to be hard,” you said, and then you took my identity away.  For three years I had known who I was based on the story that I told.  I was a dater.  I was a blogger.  I was a writer.  I had found myself huddled in the mess.  I had written my way out in spaghetti noodles.  I had dropped pretzels to become an adult.  I was covering my map in trail mix.  And then one day I wasn’t hungry anymore.

And now I’m standing out here in the middle of a forest, or sinking in a bubbling aquarium, or melting into the bottom of a chocolate milkshake.  The metaphor is not the point.  The analogy is not the destination.  I am lost in the middle of my life.  I don’t know who I am without this tagline.  I don’t know if my jokes will be funny anymore.  I am now a girl without context.  I am no longer a sex and dating blogger.  I don’t know what I’m going to say at parties when people ask me what do you do?

I put the peaches down and go into the bathroom.  I look in the mirror; I seem smaller.  I wonder if my laugh will be quieter.  I feel naked.  My cheeks are slick and smooth, today my teeth don’t shine.  I stare into my own eyes and you ask, “What do you see here?”

My tongue has muscle memory.  It rises up and shouts something loud.  It looks like a fist.  I want to eat something.  I want to eat everything.  I want to eat my own hands if only to stop my tongue from wagging.  I want to consume.  I want to run my tongue over every idea I’ve ever had about sex and dating so that they’re mine.  Just in case, just in case, just in case this was a mistake.  But if we’re being honest, they’re not that brilliant to begin with.  This isn’t nuclear fission.  I was just telling my story.

“What have I done?” I ask out loud, “what have I done?”

You tell me to go back into the living room, to sit down and eat some peaches and to try not to cry.  Say, “This is going to be hard.”  I expect it to sound harsh.  I expect you to be annoyed with having to repeat yourself but the words are like feathers, or bunnies, or white Wonderbread.  You reach your hand into the bowl and grab a slice of peach; hold it up.  Juice drips from the bottom, it shines like my cheeks.  You run your other hand along my chin until I open my mouth and then slip half the peach inside, lay it across my teeth, say “bite” and then “chew” after I do.

The peach is soft and squishy.  I can chew this peach.  I can handle this peach.  I can conquer this peach.  You tell me to try not to cry.  You say “hush,” and then, “swallow” and I want to.  My throat is our enemy.  My heart has beaten its way across town.  It moves in rook and pawn.  I watch the clock tick and tock.  I hear my heart thunder.  I swallow.

You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then waited.  You made decisions like a grown up and asked me to live with the consequences.  Said, “This is going to be hard” and then changed my life completely.  You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry and then asked me to trust you.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then rested your hand on my shoulder.

I tried not to think about the next party when I would fumble to find interesting words and come up short with I’m a Grad Student and then I would shrug to fill the empty space.  I tried not to think about the emails I would have to send to my supporters, to say goodbye, to say it’s over.  I tried not to think about anything except swimming goldfish and their 3 second memories.  I ate the rest of the peaches and went to sleep.  I’m going to be fine, I thought.  After all, I had seen this day coming.


“This is going to be hard,” I said.

…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.