[dropcap]Life[/dropcap] is what you can live with. That’s what I always say. And somewhere inherent in that statement is the concept that life is what you make of it. The key word being You. So when life hands you lemons (or in my case tedious dates and mistakenly optimistic, irreversibly awful sex) you don’t squeeze them into paper cuts…you cut them into garnishes and make some bevvies or something like that. So when life handed me the experience of Cry Baby Romeo I figured the only thing left to do was make some lemonade. But not before crowd sourcing a few recipes. And by that I mean, I asked my followers on Twitter.
I may or may not have mentioned this but I’m 30, and while I went into our date under the premise that Cry Baby Romeo was 32, it turns out he was, in fact, only 26. And while you may be thinking 26 hardly seems that young, for someone who normally likes to date in the 32-40 range, that’s a decade younger than the norm. Couple that with the unacceptable bedroom moves and, needless to say, it felt like I was getting it on with a 20 year old. ugh.
Not one to accept defeat, I took to Twitter, specifically approaching my quote unquote cougars. You see I had questions, important questions, vital questions, real questions of regional security (my lady regions). I asked, if these young bucks that they were so happily frolicking about with came with the skill and expertise of intuitive sex wizards or if they had to train them? The news was disheartening. Apparently young men are like IKEA furniture; a total steal of a deal and exactly what you need for that moment in your life but assembly is always required and often there’s a part or two missing. ugh. I mean, who has that kind of time?
But then I got a lovely little tidbit of advice. Something so easy and simple that it seems almost appalling I’d never thought of it myself. Clearly I’m not the genius I pretend to be, but I digress. A lovely lady on Twitter told me bluntly. Just tell him what you want, you want foreplay, tell him you want foreplay. No joke. Real talk. That simple.
And not one to miss a chance for hot sex to test a theory, I texted my on-again-off-again booty call of years. The response was immediate and clear. Apparently he loved foreplay, couldn’t get enough, thought it was incredibly sexy and a huge turn on. And just like that, my untapped tree resource sprung a leak and I was about to be drowning in maple syrup.
He came over a few nights later. And while I won’t go into all the nitty-gritty details here, I think it’s safe to say that my neighbors are well aware of my ability to stir up a good glass of lemonade. And you see if I hadn’t had that disastrous-left-me-desirous-of-more-of-better-of-getting-mine-and-getting-it-good sex, I never would’ve crowd sourced, never would’ve gotten that simple yet ingenious advice, never would’ve been bold and brazen and simply asked for what I wanted, never enjoyed that maple syrup like it was the last my pancakes would ever see. And so whether we’re talking lemons into lemonade or silver linings into cocoons of happiness, the message is clear; life is what you make it, so you’d better make it good.
Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time