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.

Except

And then he looked at me…

Except

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.

My excuse was BRING YOUR OWN FUCKING CONDOMS!!!

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

Dating

 

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.

Except.

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?

No.

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.

Plus.

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.

Fuck.

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.)

They Call Him Top Secret (Well, Actually I’m the Only One Who Calls Him that Because He’s Top Secret)

Top Secret

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o this one time, I went out with this super awesome guy.  He was sweet.  He was interesting.  He was absolutely fucking hilarious.  And he didn’t want me to blog about him.  Blargh.

And I told him I wouldn’t.  But there has to be a loophole right?  A way to talk about something really awesome that happened in the 3  weeks before I left for Montreal?  I mean there just has to be.  Because the problem isn’t really me blogging about him is it?  It’s that he doesn’t want anyone to read it, him included.  So.  I guess I could write about it.  But use the tools of the CIA or whoever else blotts out important documents.

We met by chance. Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. And in so many ways we were a perfect match.  He possessed a quality very few of the dudes I’ve dated have had.

Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  logistical problems Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. You can only get “so” familiar when you’re out for dinner or drinks.

We went on 3 dates.  Er.  Well.  We hung out 3 times.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  kissing Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  in a park. Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. 

And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.

And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.

And that was that.  Time flew by.  My 3 weeks were up.  And it was time to move to Montreal.  We said we’d keep in touch and honestly I really hope we do.  Even if it’s just as friends, or who knows…a rad guy is a rad guy and that’s how I feel about this new “something” who I call…Top Secret.

 

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

Vancouver Dating Blog: When Hormones Attack

When Hormones Attack

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o I thought I was done with Come Back Charlie.  I mean he totally blew me off, no?

No.

Wait…what?  He didn’t blow me off?

And that’s how the conversation started whereby my friends (and myself) were able to realize that I may have been freaking the fuck out getting upset over nothing.  Because after all, this wasn’t the beginning of a burgeoning relationship. At best this would be a 6 week summer fling followed up (maybe) by some home for christmas flinging.

I mean…okay, sure…he could’ve made sure I knew we weren’t hanging out on Friday night.  I mean, that would’ve been a less douchey thing to do but the first date had gone so well and he seemed to like me (in a summer flingy kind of way…we weren’t soul mates or anything)…so maybe it was just a case of assumptions gone awry and accidental asshole behavior.  And at the very least I owed it to myself to find out, no?  I mean, what could one text hurt, right?  Either he would ignore it, be a dick or something (which seemed unlikely) or he’d respond back and we would make plans to hang out again.

He did the latter.  In fact, he was the one who asked me to hang out again (I had simply texted hey, how’s it going?).  And because I’d spent the weekend talking it over with friends about how it’s the summer and fuck it (literally) and what have you got to lose? etc., when Come Back Charlie asked…I decided to go for it.  And so CBC and I made plans.  To hang out.  Watch a movie.  At his place.  Tuesday night.

 ~

 And then Tuesday happened.  I got my hair did by the lovely @HairByKatieRose (who *SPOILER ALERT* by the way is clearly some kind of psychic or oracle or wizard because instead of styling my hair curly [as it goes naturally] or straight [as is the fashion] she gave it this gloriously half and half SEX-HAIR look that was beyond amazing…it had body, it was hot, it was…well…pretty fucking magical…because after all I had…well let’s not get ahead of things here).

Now I could ramble on about TMI warnings or tell you that things are about to get gross or whatever.  But dammit, who has that kind of time, so I’m just going to spit it out.  While amazing that Come Back Charlie and I were about to have our second date, there was a hiccup.  I had…my period.  Or well.  Just a little.  Barely anything.  A boyfriend wouldn’t care.  A booty call wouldn’t care.  A drunk one night stand wouldn’t care.  But I was a stone cold sober fox and so it made me very apprehensive.  This was not the first time sex I was looking for and moreover, this would likely mean skipping a few stages…that we all know I cherish.

The truth is, going into the date I had it set in my mind.  I will not have sex tonight.  I. Will. Not. Have. Sex.  TONIGHT.  My body doesn’t always listen to what it’s told though.

But…well…you’ll see.

I showed up around 9pm.  I may have been a little hesitant, still feeling a little jilted from the prior lack of engagement, but as soon as I saw Come Back Charlie and his gigantic man body all was forgiven.  And it only got better from there.  He was as sweet as pie.  I picked the movie (which ended up being THE WORST MOVIE EVER…word to the wise that Russell Peters Hockey movie barely has Russell Peters in it…oh and also…worst movie ever…ever!).  The only highlight of this choice was that it gave us plenty of time to make jokes to each other and comiserate in the awfulness of the movie.

There was a ton of laughter.  A ton of cheeky cute smiles.  There was a ton of touching.  And I can’t lie, everytime his hand made a move along my leg (even if it was only my shin), I swooned.  Now don’t get me wrong, when I say swoon I don’t really mean anything more than a little flip of the stomach which btw can be caused by something as intense as an “I love you” and as little as when Michael Ealy looks at the camera and says SSDated, this is for you and takes his shirt off.  But a flip is a flip, a swoon is a swoon, and dude was winning major points in the I want to have sex with you department.

Additional points were added when everytime I wanted to take a sip of water from my glass on the coffee table (which was just far enough away from the couch that I’d have to get up)…Come Back Charlie would simply reach out one of his gigantic arms and without moving an inch from the couch grab my drink for me.  *Drool*

Eventually giggles about the movie turned to making out on the couch.  And that’s when I made my fatal mistake.  Because you see, I’m a moron.  I blame all those hormones swirling around in my body keeping me from thinking straight.

You see, when I said want to go to your bedroom? what I really meant was let’s go to your bedroom so this dry-humping can be more sucessful and you can really get a good grab of my ass and sure I guess I could lose this shirt and bra and of course let’s get you shirtless for sure.

Which would’ve been fine.  Except that he’s a guy.  And so what he heard was let’s go to the bedroom because we’re going to have some sex.  Sex is good.  I want to have sex with you.  In your bedroom.  Because that’s where the sexin’ happens.

And so then of course, I had to tell him.  So…um…erhm…uh…um…we can’t have sex tonight because I have my period.

To be honest, I expected him to sulk like a 6 year old who was just told that his birthday his been cancelled.  But he didn’t.  In fact, far from it.  His was probably one of the nicest, least deterred, least upset, responses I’ve ever ecountered and given that I’m a woman and this happens every 21 days give or take…this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation.

Admittedly, when he said it was totally fine and acted like it wasn’t a big deal and definitely didn’t deter him from the making out in anyway…that was the moment he probably changed my mind…turned out sex would happen.

Well played sir, well played.

You see, the more we made out and grinded up and down on each other’s bodies, the more it seemed feasible.  You see, I barely had my period.  And we could put down a towel he said.  And I guess, in the heat of the moment, I let my decision making skills fall to the wayside and my hormones and lust get the better of me.  Hey!  It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.  Don’t act so damn surprised!

And I know what you’re thinking.  Big fucking deal.  So what…you had sex on your period…plus you barely have your period…no big thing…people do it all the time.  And to that I would say wait.  Because the sex…or at least the having of it…was not the problem.  It was the missed stages.  We went straight from making out to having sex and while in theory…for some people…that’s fine.

But when it comes to sex…I’m like Veruca Salt.  I want what I want when I want it.

Needless to say we had sex.  There were some highlights.  Like when he was on top and just all big and manly and thrusting away and I let it slip out that oh…you’re so hot in a sexy whispered breath of course…and then he slowed his pace, looked at me and said no…you’re so hot!  I mean shit, son.  That’s some good stuff right there.

But of course, there were some lowlights…like the fact that I didn’t get mine. blargh.  And then of course there was the fact that he came in what felt like 3 minutes or so…which I guess considering I didn’t get mine could be argued as a good thing but didn’t bode well for future performances.

But then we were right back to the highlights*

*I say highlights because at the time these things felt awesome and great but now given that I know how the story turns out…well…meh.

Normally, I’m not a huge snuggler.  Okay that’s a lie.  I’m a relative snuggler.  My desire to snuggle depends greatly on who you are, what you mean to me, and what our current relationship is.  So needless to say Come Back Charlie and I weren’t really at a “snuggly” place yet.  And yet.   And yet.

Maybe it was just because he was so big and thus I fit into his nook like a little cocoon.  Maybe it was because he was just so damn sweet after.  Who knows.  But there were snuggles.  He just kept snuggling and wouldn’t let go.  Eventually I looked at the time and saw that it was 1:30am and I should go because you have to work in the morning.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way.  But he said just a little bit longer.  And so I stayed and cuddled a little bit longer.

Eventually around 2am though I put my foot down (literally) and got up.  I tried to shuffle out of the sheets as he seemed near sleep.  I expected him to stay in bed.  Instead he got dressed and basically played grab ass while I got dressed and gathered up my things.  And then he grabbed me around the waist, kissed me and said, so when do I get to see you next?  I just smiled and said text me.

He walked me to the door.  And then out into the hall.  We continued to makeout like teenagers.  He said something like so just hit L for Lobby to which I responded uh…yeah…I know…I got into Grad School.  And he really got me…Smart ass! he said.  And then we made out some more, until the bell of the elevator alerted us to the open doors.  A guy stepped off the elevator, obviously flustered by our kissing and then got back inside.  Not his floor.  I giggled goodbye, hit L for Lobby and watched the doors closed.

And I’m not sure whether he wanted a fist bump or my phone number but buddy in the elevator began to chat me up.  Bizarrely not the first time I’ve experienced this kind of behavior.  Boys are weird.

 

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

When Your Summer Fling Flings You Aside Are You Flung?

When Your Summer Fling Flings You Aside, Are You Flung?

 

[dropcap]So[/dropcap] let’s see…Friday night I went out with a 23 year old…and made out in the rain in a movie theatre parking lot.  (following the it was great to meet you text message was a barrage of amenable text messages about how he had been shy and would certainly please my every whim and desire the next time.  Apparently he too wanted to go down on me (not that I’ve ever really had anyone not want to go down on me…but verbalizing it…rather than say…telling me they wanted to fuck me…was becoming a trend…the 23 year old…Come Back Charlie…*spoiler alert* and some others not yet discussed.)  I digress.  The text messages went on for quite awhile.  Perhaps I didn’t play along enough.  Perhaps it was because I pointed out that with both of us currently staying with our folks, there was hardly a place for said behavior to occur.  Still, it seemed to end well.

And yet, like The PhD. before him, after a series of dirty text messages, I never heard from him again.  Okay that’s a lie, I heard once, one text message but it was about school and being busy and who the fuck cares.  The truth was, I was probably using the whole nowhere to kick it as an excuse because as much as it seemed interesting to date a 23 year old…I wasn’t really feeling him.  Deuces.

Monday I went out with Come Back Charlie.  He sent the usual text so great to meet you and can’t wait to see you again. We made plans.  Or.  Well.  I thought we made plans.  He asked if I was free Wednesday, I wasn’t.  I asked if he was free Thursday, he wasn’t.  Well, I said, I’m busy Saturday and Sunday so it’s either Friday or next Monday or Tuesday?  Friday could work, he said.  But then he added, that he’d have to check and see if he was working early Saturday morning or not.  To be honest, it felt like a brush off.  But then again I tend to overact and get my spikes up for anyone who displays anything other than total admiration for me if I think I’m being jilted.  But I was trying to be breezy, no?  So I said sure, sounds great and that was that.

Looking back now, it’s clear that we were only hanging out if he let me know, which he did not.  But at the time, I foolishly thought we had plans, assuming that he didn’t tell me he had to work.  See.  I make dating mistakes too.  All the time in fact.  Just in case you were under the misguided presumption that I always know what the fuck I’m doing.  Anyway, so Friday rolled around and somewhere around 2pm I sent a text message saying so, are we on for tonight?

We were in fact, not on for tonight.  He had to blah blah blah tonight and wouldn’t blah blah blah till tomorrow blah blah blah.  And so that was that.  I got the brush off.  Ain’t that a bitch.  Looks like this whole Vancouver summer fling before I move to Montreal thing really just wasn’t going to happen.  So I mean, fuck.  But whatever.  I guess.

My response to his text message?  Silence.  Because what is there reallly to say.

It takes all my strength to say nothing.  To text nothing.  Because I know that there is no point.  Because I know these feelings are irrational.  Because nobody likes bitter betty.  But here, in this blog, where I share some of my most vulnerable moments, I can tell you this:  I am a ball of rage.

I want to text you know you just blew it right?  because there is a part of me that actually thinks that it is not simply a case of him not liking me enough but that he might really be that stupid.  But I think we all know, it’s not an either or situation.  He doesn’t like me, stupid or not.  Bird Seed.  Full Stop.  Because otherwise he would’ve told me the moment he knew…rather than waiting for me to text and ask if we were still on, only to then inform me that we’re not.

I want to text thanks for wasting my time or good thing I wasn’t waiting around to hear from you or fuck you fuck you fuck you but really fuck me fuck me fuck me I’m so stupid I fucking hate you!!!

I want to send him a link to the blog.  I want him to read this post.  I want to know how can someone seem so totally into me (even if we are expiration dating, a time stamped affair), and then just fuck it all up.

I want I want I want.  Doesn’t he know that the rest of the summer was laid out for him?  We could’ve watched movies and created our own x-rated scenes.  We could’ve laughed.  We could’ve done all the fun things in dating without worrying about where is this going? and what are we doing?  We could’ve had the drive in movie theatre make out, thrown our empty popcorn tubs and sodas on the ground (metaphorically of course, you know mamma don’t litter) and driven off into the night.

It feels like handing someone an all-out-paid-for dream vacation and them just shrugging their shoulders and saying something ridiculous like meh…I think my passport is expired.  Like that’s an acceptable reason to turn down such a treasure.

I want to rage.  I want to smash things.  I want to write long, well thought out, articles that somehow change the world into being the place I want it to be.  A place where people respect the time of others.  A place where people say what the fuck they’re thinking.  A place where people don’t treat others like shit.  I want to be right and maybe I just don’t give a fuck about being happy!!!

Except that I do.  Because I’ve adopted a new policy in life.  Better to be happy than to be right.

I actually used to think the total opposite.  Better to be right (because in being right, you could find happiness).  But given that you can’t control others, that often isn’t the case.  And so I changed my mind.  Better to be happy than to be right.  Better to keep your mouth shut about some things.  Better not to bother trying to teach someone something that you think is right which, if we’re being honest, they probably either disagree with or even more likely don’t give a shit about.

Plus aside from the fact that he could’ve saved me the time and energy wasted in being excited/stressed about hanging out, was there really anything to teach Come Back Charlie besides how to be a fucking decent human being, no, of course not.  The truth was, he just simply didn’t like me.  Adorable conversation, hot and heavy making out, even cute realizations that our father’s have the same careers…all of that aside…the dude didn’t want to see me again.  Case closed.  And I just fucking accept it.  So I did.

 

Well…until I had a conversation with two close friends.  More on that next time *awkward winky face* *falls over* *jumps up* *bats eyelashes to try to make up for stumble instead looks like a girl having a seizure* *gives up and walks away*

 

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

Come Back Charlie: First Dates and the Battle to Keep Your Clothes On

First Dates

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o the toilet was about to overflow…and then it wasn’t.  He fixed the problem (old building, old plumbing), cleaned up and was back to the movie and me in no time with no resounding repercussions except that I was now terrified to go to the bathroom.

Minor bathroom mishap aside, the date was going great.  We were snuggling on the couch, his arm around me, his hand playing with my curls, his hand in my hand, his hand on my leg.  And pretty soon it was happening.  That look.  That thing guys do.  When I know they’re getting ready to try to kiss me.  I can sense it.  I can feel it.  And most of all, I can see it.  Out of the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision, there he is, just looking at me, instead of the movie (much like with the 23 year old only a few nights before).  And then it happened.  He kissed me.

Admittedly (and I’ve mentioned a hundred, or 8 or so, times before), there’s always a grace period.  A moment where you’re just trying to calm your nerves, you’re just trying to suss out how the other person moves, whose lips go where, whose tongue likes to do what, before it all just comes together.  And come together it did.  His mouth, wet and warm, moved in sync with mine.  His soft juicy lips pressed against mine, my bottom lip sliding into his mouth to find a gentle suck, his bottom lip sliding into my mouth to find a little nibble, a little flick of the tongue across the bottom of his upper lip, his tongue on parade in my mouth.  And that’s just the kissing.

At some point I’m pretty sure the movie ended.  I think the guy came in off the ledge.  Who knows.  We had been making out for the most of it.  Then, given that he wasn’t going to be getting any of my clothes off tonight excepting whatever he managed to get access to by shuffling my maxi dress down a bit and going in on my bra, and the fact that he worked the next morning at 7am, I figured I should probably make my exit.  He, however, didn’t see things quite the same way and wanted to keep me around.

Maybe he thought he could convince me to go further?

Maybe he just liked having me around?

Maybe making out and dry humping on the luxuriously soft leather couch that somehow also had room for the both of us to lie down on (me in his nook and on his chest) was enough for him?

Who knows.  But he asked me to stay, and stay I did.

We spent the next two hours or so locked in some sort of snuggle-cuddle-makeout-trace the muscles of his chest with my fingers-cuddle-makeout-laugh at something on TV-makeout-attempts to set my boobs free-cuddle-snuggle-makeout-tussle until eventually it really was time for me to go.  But not before him telling me all the dirty things he wanted to do to me…like go down on me.  Which I know you’ll all think I’m insane for declining but as soon as the pants off there’s never any going back and dammit, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times…I LIKE MY FUCKING STAGES.

It’s not about dating rules.

It’s not about whether or not he’ll call me if I sleep with him.

I’m not worried about whether he’ll respect me in the morning.

I…like making out.

I…like the first moment he feels how wet he makes me, and the first time he puts his fingers inside me.

I…don’t want to rush.

I…like the fucking buildup and dammit I need it.

And so, on this first date, I kept all my clothes on, and my stages in tact.  And hopefully there would be a second, or third, or fourth date, with Come Back Charlie, in my near future.

 

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

Third Time’s the Charm: A New “Something” She Dated

2nd chances

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here’s a lot to be said for how your behavior can be different when you know you’re leaving a place, moving away, saying goodbye to a city that you’ve known your entire life.  And most of it is good.  Your attitude changes and suddenly you’re more open then you’ve ever been before because after all what have you got to lose?  besides your time and dignity but they gave you a fresh batch of that when you move to a new city don’t they, it comes standard in the Welcome Package, no?

And it was this exact attitude that made me say yes when Come Back Charlie asked me out again recently.  Well that and the fact that he was 6’4.  So when he asked to take me out for coffee I accepted.  And that was that.  Plans were made.  It’ll be great to chill with you he said it’s been a long time coming.  Yeah.  No joke dude.  About 2.5 years.  But I promised myself I wouldn’t hold it against him, the time wasting of times gone past I mean.  Until of course I showed up for our date and he sent me a text message saying he would be late.  Worst.

Admittedly I was a tad early for our date when I got the text message that read Hey i’m gonna be a bit late. I gave a friend a ride to surrey a while back but he forgot his keys so Iim just droppin it off. i’ll be joining you shortly. is that okay?

And what was I supposed to do with that except take a screen shot, tweet it to all my followers and ask this question: is this super lame or am I being a bitch? sent 7 minutes before we’re supposed to meet (& I’m already here).  Most responses were that he was a douche (or some version of this).  One response was particularly interesting, someone suggested that he was in fact just being a good friend and isn’t that a good quality in a person.  In all honesty, she was right.  Because if I had a friend who needed me, they would come first before a guy.  Always.  That being said, whether or not the text was a cop out is a whole other story.

No sooner had I tweeted the cropped for anonymity version of the text, when my phone rang, it was him; Come Back Charlie.  We had a quick exchange where I mentioned I was already at Starbucks and he assured me he would be there very soon and he apologized.  I accepted this and let it go.  Shit happens, right?

For those of you who know me, know that I don’t like to pay for my coffee on the first date (I realize now that I should probably write a post about this explaining my reasons more fully so stay tuned for that).  Nonetheless I wasn’t about to sit in this Starbucks for who knows how long without a drink to my name, so I got a  drink, grabbed a seat in the back and waited (read: tweeted).  Luckily for me (and to be honest him) he showed up within about 5 minutes.

I knew him the moment he walked in the door.  Now I don’t know whether it’s just because I seem to keep going on dates with guys who say they’re 6’0 or 5’10 and end up feeling more like 5’10 and 5’8 respectively, or he was actually lying down about his height but he seemed way taller than 6’4…he seemed like a fucking giant.  A gloriously tall giant.  And even better is that I should specify that he was built like a baller (basketball, football, what have you).  You see the thing is, while tall is great, if you’re pencil thin it doesn’t really do it for me that much.  I like a man of size, if you know what I’m saying (I’m saying body size).

He came over to where I was sitting, we exchanged smiles and hugs and I suggested he get something to drink.  When he returned to the table…it was magic.  Now I’m not saying we started talking about science and had deep discussion about literature and politics or anything.  We weren’t even really cracking a ton of jokes.  But it was comfortable in the sexiest kind of way.  The conversation literally began with a discussion of dentistry.  I had been to the dentist earlier that day (he had texted when I was on my way and that’s how it began, he asked how it went).  And that was all it took, we were off to the races.

We talked about our days, our families, our school, our jobs (er…I sort of have a job…as a writer), my grad school stuff, his day job working in a lab out at UBC, his experience at SFU playing ball, my plans for Montreal, the fact that he was going to more school (this time in criminology) so that he could join the VPD (Vancouver Police Department, in case that wasn’t obvious).  And the sexual tension was palpable.  He was hot and tall and wanted to be a cop but also had a university degree and a job.  The love story writes itself.  Well.  Let’s not get ahead of things.

After two hours of smiles and chatter and first date bliss, we had finished our coffees and it was time to make moves.  His idea of a good move was to take things back to his place and watch a movie.  My idea of a good move was to call it a night and count the minutes until the second date.  But then it occurred to me, I’m fucking leaving town and time is of the essense.  And perhaps more importantly, I didn’t have to abide by any dating rules because after all there would barely be enough time to hang out before I had to leave.  Or so I thought, turns out 6 weeks is actually plenty of time to date someone but more on this later.  And so after a little more prodding from him, I agreed, at least, to let him drive me to where I’d parked my car.

Now say what you want.  Judge me as you will.  I don’t care what you think I know who I am and this is just one tiny piece of a puzzle of attraction or a domino race of dating appeal.  But when we got to his car, I swooned a little.  Kind of like that time I met Trucker Joe and he was all standing there beside his sex monster of a big black pickup truck.  It’s not like he was driving a car made of diamonds or a wizard mobile but just that his car was nice.  And I’ll leave it at that.  Pursuant to getting in this stellar mobile was the music.  You can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to.  And while I won’t bore you with the details, it was good.

And in all honesty, that was really all it took in addition to the rest of date being awesome for me to agree to go back to his place (in my own car, of course).  When we got there, I realized that he had clearly been hoping for this all night (given that he’d bought a bottle of wine not yet knowing the stringency that is my not drinking).  No big deal of course, and either cute with the planning or balls out with the expecting but since I’m not one to feel obligated, it didn’t really matter either way.

Once up at his apartment, and having had a little look around, I sat down the couch, ready to watch a movie.  Though there was plenty of room of the couch he snuggle up right beside me which shouldn’t have been surprising but was nonetheless.  Obviously he was feeling me or he wouldn’t have invited me back to his place.

Detour.  I tend to do this ridiculous thing on dates where I’m so excited and fat that I eat rather sparingly throughout the day, like somehow that will make this huge difference and I’ll go from being Beth Ditto to Angelina Jolie or some shit but nonetheless it’s a thing I do.  I aware it’s stupid.  I plan to discontinue.  I’ll let you know how that works out.  Aside from the obvious stupidity of this, comes a couple random side effects.  One, is that my stomach then always ends up growling on dates which would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m terrified dude can hear it and thinks I’ve got some digestional issues or something.  Not sexy.  The other is that because I’m not eating I’m fucking starving and thus drink a ton of water, this in turn makes it look like I have the bladder of a small squirrel.

Back on track.  So we’re at Come Back Charlie’s apartment and I ask to use the washroom.  No biggie.  Then it’s time to watch the movie.  Sweet.  Something about a man on a ledge or something like that *spoiler alert* I  barely watched it.  At some point however, I have to pee again.  I excuse myself and go to the washroom.  In the toilet, I see toilet paper.  *TMI Alert (not to worry it’s not particularly gross but I am talking about pee so yeah…warned* Now because I’ve been drinking so much water my pee is basically clear and so I can’t tell if I forgot to flush or something crazy like that last time I was in here, or what the fuck happened but I’m horrified, obviously, at what I think is my forgetfullness and proceed to flush the toilet.  And that’s when it happens.  Because, of fucking course, it would happen.  Because this is a first date, and that’s just what fucking happens to me.  Shit like this.

 

The water starts to rise.

 

Fuck.

 

Me.

 

Horrified.  Terrified.  Petrified.  And all the other words that describe that overwhelming sense of fear mixed with shame that glues your feet to the ground and makes you sweat.  That.  All of that.  But of course, at some point you have to be a super hero.  So I fixed the problem myself and he was never the wiser.  So I ran out of the bathroom babbling something about how I didn’t do anything I swear but you’re toilet is going to overflow.  And then I sat on the couch like the princess I am and let him take care of it.  Less because I’m lazy and more because is that really the image I want of him or that he wants me to have of him…him touching all kinds of toilet related things.  I think not.  Like the toilet, I still expected this night to be salvaged and to go on functioning like normal.

That being said, you’ll have to wait till next post to find out whether the date functioned like a well-oiled romance machine or went straight down the tubes (like I hope the water in the toilet would).  I mean, assuming you’re interested and all.

 

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