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

What Happens When You Give Someone a Second Chance?

Second Chances

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hat happens when you give someone a second chance?  For me, it usually ends in regret.  I think we all see where this story is going…or do we?

The message reads something ordinary but I respond because the height on his profile reads something tall and deliciously 6’4.  He responds back with a more in-depth description of himself.  It seems all too familiar.  I know this profile.  It’s a different picture but I know this guy.  Only not really.  Because you see, we never actually met.

He first messaged back in 2009.  Before this blog was a thing.  He got my number, he even made plans.  But somehow he always managed to drop the ball.  Given that it was about 2.5 years ago I can’t remember exactly what his deal was but I do know this, he was a time waster.  He was that kind of person that said things like let’s hang out tonight but wouldn’t specify a time and me being the naive nice person that I am, I would assume that meant we were hanging out.  But for assholes boys it often has a different meaning, I gather.  And maybe it just never worked out because he meant well but was just basically a moron.  Or maybe he was purposely wasting my time.  Maybe it was a bird seed thing, an asshole thing, a stupid thing.  Didn’t really matter.  It was a thing that was happening and I wasn’t interested.  I told him to lose my number.  He did.

But he came back in 2010.  And this time I asked him what his fucking deal was.  Only, not specifically enough.  You see looking back now I should’ve asked in more detail about why the dude couldn’t fucking plan to save his life, or why planning wasn’t his thing, and knowing that it was mine, why on earth he’d want to hang out with me.  Pussy is the answer by the way.  I should’ve asked him all this.  Instead I asked what had changed.  He gave some bullshit response about having grown up.  I wasn’t impressed.  Truth was, I was busy exploring my relatively new interest in white guys and not interested in kicking it with him.  But I asked him anyway, for the reason anyone asks anything ever, because I wanted to know.  I’m weird like that.

I’m fairly certain he came back at least one more time in 2011 but as I don’t have facts (read: I didn’t find it interesting enough to write a post about and thus can’t reference it now), I can’t hardly ramble on and on about it.

That being said.  Third time’s a charm???  I mean, here I am, a mere few weeks away from Montreal and I’m trying to live it up.  I’ve barely dated in this last year what with working so hard at school and studying for the GRE and grad apps and blah blah blah and dammit, I kind of wanted to make up for it this summer.  Additionally, as much as I lament my experience with dating in Vancouver, the truth is I fucking love this place.  Sure it has it’s ups and downs and yes I want to see the rest of the world and live in as many places as possible but this is my home, it will likely always be my home and I love it dearly, flaws and all (frankly it’s my love of this place that causes me to even engage in the whole “Vancouver Dating Scene” chatters because if I didn’t care, if I wasn’t interested in trying to help it change, I wouldn’t bother saying anything).  Honestly, the idea of leaving Vancouver with a bad taste in my mouth from a year of non-existent or shitty dating is not how I want to go.  I wanted to do someonething fun before leaving.  Because what better way to leave Vancouver than swooning over a summer of torrid temptations and sultry sexcapades?

So when Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, Mr. Atlanta, Mr. Basketball, Mr. Come Back Charlie himself messaged me again, well can you really blame me for wanting to give him a try?

 

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

Come Back Charlies (Part III)

Dating

Continued from Come Back Charlies (Part II)

[dropcap]…But[/dropcap] that wasn’t the end of it though.  Not by a long shot.  He was just the first.  The first Come Back Charlie.  The first boy who mistook me for easy.  The first boy to return and announce by his actions (or messages as the case may be) that he was absolutely fucking retarded.  Moreover, that he thought that I, was absolutely fucking retarded but boy was he mistaken.

And I don’t know who was spreading these rumors of delusion.  I don’t know who was whispering in their ears. Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst You should give it another go Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst You should try her again Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst She totally gives second chances and definitely doesn’t put up walls between herself and those who have jilted her.  I bet it was some magic little sprite.  Leading them all astray.  If only they knew.  But alas.  Maybe the same way Bitter Betty doesn’t always know she’s bitter.  Come Back Charlie’s might not always know they’re retarded.

And so back they came.  Charlie #2 and Charlie #3.  Both of whom were “somethings” that could have been but never were.  Maybe they lacked balls.  They were shy.  Just a case of the pans.  Maybe I was a backup chick.  A third tier.  Just a fallback and not a priority.  Maybe they were just fucking retarded.  Out of touch with the physical act of dating (that which entails a meeting).  Perhaps they simply didn’t know how to plan.  Just not as smart as me.  But whatever it was.  They never made it past the first step.  Fucking babies.

Charlie #2 was the 2nd potential “something” there ever was.  After Barbie.  Before Garbage Man.  He was black.  He was hot.  He was a native ATLien.  Win.  Win.  Win.  He was 32 and tall like Kobe.  Almost.  6’4.  Close enough.  He’d played basketball at SFU (not a first for me oddly enough) and graduated with a BSc.  The wooing started with messages.  Messages led to texting.  Texting led to plans.  More than once.  And more than once those plans were broken.  And thus I’m out was my sentiment expressed.  And yet.  He still called.  And upon not getting the response he sought.  Contact stopped.  Done.

I should mention.  Just in case you’re not super up to date on the whole time line that is this dating journey of mine.  This all occurred over roughly the period of November/December 2009.  So you can imagine my surprise.  When December 2010 rolls around.  For all you non-math majors that’s a mother-fucking year.  A fucking year gone by and then who should stroll his ass into my POF inbox?  None other than Charlie #2 himself.  Mr. Atlanta.  Mr. Basketball.  Mr. Planning and failing himself.  I couldn’t fucking believe it.  Right on the tail of The Oxymoronic Lawyer aka Charlie #1.  Here was this douche bag.  Throwing a hail mary.  On the off chance a year would have softened me??  Honestly I don’t what he was thinking.  We’d only ever talked on the phone maybe once.

But I know this.  I wasn’t buying.  No thanks.  Take those wears and peddle them elsewhere.  Mamma isn’t interested.  Because his messages (yes plural).  Well.  They weren’t anything to write home about.  No confession narrative about what a retard he’d been.  No diatribe about the trials and tribulations that had kept him from my deserving arms (deserving of awesomeness, not deserving of his idiotic tendencies).  Nothing about how he had changed or how things would be different.  Until.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.  I asked him!

Oh don’t act so fucking shocked.  You know me better than that by now.  I’m Engaging Edith.  Mother fucking Questioning Quinn.  I just can’t help myself.  I seek answers.  However, I’m not a naive child anymore.  Because when I get the unsatisfactory answers (as they most surely are).  I walk away.  Nonchalant Nancy.  Learned my Lesson Lisa.  Walk.  The Fuck.  Away.  And I did.  Just like that.  And his answer.  FYI.  For what was different?  Oh.  He’d grown up.  Retard, please!

And I know what you’re thinking.  Wow.  Charlie #1 (aka The Lawyer) and Charlie #2 (aka Mr. Basketball) both returning for a second shot.  Another crack at the bat.  Within what.  Like a two week period?  Christmas break?  Yep…That was exactly two weeks.  December 21, 2010 – January 4, 2011.  That’s crazy.  Only the thing is.  Not even close to crazy enough.  Because of course.  After all.  You know for sure (foreshadowing).  That there is at least (foreshadowing) one more Charlie, Charlie #3.

But alas my loves.  It is late.  And this story does indeed drag on.  Like any good never-ending story should.  And yet this delicate flower needs her beauty sleep.  So this story will have to yet again be put on hold.  To be resumed soon.  And I will have to bid you adieu.  Until I can return.  And begin again, with the saga of Charlie #3.

To Be Continued…

 

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