How to Screw Yourself Out of Getting Screwed: Lessons in How To NOT Have a One Night Stand

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he first time I tried to have a one night stand I may I repeat MAY have been rushing my young self a little fast.  You see up until that point I had only ever made out with a boy (whose attempts at fondling I’d brushed aside).  But as far as feasts or famines go, I was in the mood for a feast, or at least wanted to get stuffed and in my excitement and never having actually seen a real live grown up man penis before (and by seen I’m speaking metaphorically as the tent was a black hole of darkness…I couldn’t see anything) I was unsure of how to proceed.  And thus…in my overzealousness, squeezed a little too hard…which in turn made sure that he was not.  He suggested I suck his dick.  I was 17 and inexperienced but smart enough to know I wasn`t interested in going down on some random…in a tent…who I was only vaguely interested in…while my entire grad class partied in near pitch blackness…in the middle of the forest…of a logging road…near Harrison.  And thus my first one night stand fell flat…much like his flacid penis.

And for someone as experienced as I, as I look back now, I’ve had a surprising number of near misses, total failures and all out regrettable blunders.  It would appear that instead of being queen of the casual sex…I may in fact be its court jester.

 

There were times when the malfunctions were mechanical (theirs…not My machinery).  There was a fella named Doug when I was in 2nd year university.  He didn’t watch TV.  He didn’t even own one.  I should’ve known right then it would never work.  He was 30.  I was…19…barely.  And his height matched my experience…short.  And while I may have had some trepidation…the problem was really on his end…and his tiny penis…that…well…never seemed to get quite hard enough…and given that I’d maybe had sex twice before (and I’m not even talking with 2 guys…I literally mean 2 times)…well…it was not the little engine that could.  We eventually parted ways with a few shrugs, a few embarrassed smirks, and after he was on his way I’m pretty sure I made some ichiban noodles in my hot pot and watched some sex and the city in the common room, no biggie.  I imagine he went home and cried.  But that’s just me.

 

There were times when location became a problem.  There was the guy from Blaine who I met at the nightclub just this side of the border (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was called).  My friends and I used to frequent the bar on wednesday nights…for the hip hop…for the Americans…for the black guys.  Ironically, Spencer, was as white as white can be.  But he was cute and American and that was good enough.  Only…there were a few hiccups.  You see, Spencer lived with his parents (a fact I didn’t find out till way later and would’ve been helpful to explain the route we took).  When we left the nightclub he suggested we stop by a friend of his place because he was having a party.  Now perhaps I didn’t speak American at the time because I misunderstood party to mean party but not Spencer…to him party meant helping my friends move at 2am.  Um…what…the…fuck.  I sat on a couch.  He helped his friends move.  We ended up making out in a car later.  A makeout session he clearly didn’t deserve given the weird happenings.  But since I wasn’t interested in fucking in a car, at 4am, in Blaine, when it was freezing outside…we eventually called it a night…and I dropped him off at his parents house.  Worst.

 

There were times when excessive substances were an issue (like with Marcothe drug dealer…should’ve seen that coming)…there were times when the presence of a girlfriend only came up after the things had already got rolling…like with Ricky…the firefighter with a girlfriend who said “but I can still finger you”…um…no thanks…I’m all set dude…unfortunately, given that we were both sleeping over at a friend’s house there was no easy exit…so instead I just kicked his ass to the floor)…and then there were simply just those times when the dicks came out just as the dicks were coming out (like with…uh…too many to mention…but when fellas were about to get laid and just couldn’t help talking themselves out of getting some).  Worst, boys…worst.

That being said, there was definitely a time or two when the act of non-consummation was entirely my fault.  Like blatantly, hands down, no question, because of something I did.  And admittedly the thing I did was usually another guy, but there’s neither here nor there.

 

The Bouncer. There used to be this bouncer *cough* at Atlantis *cough* who was such a fine specimen of hot huge beefy muscley manliness that a girl could hardly be expected to be responsible for her actions.  The truth is, I barely remember what his face looked like…but years later I can still picture him in all his bouncing glory.  He’s was a black Adonis.  No question.  And while I didn’t frequent the nightclub, I had seen him more than once, maybe he freelanced, maybe I had just seen him out at the club and in my dreams but regardless, he was hot and I wanted him.

And that’s basically what I told him.  Walked right up to him…and said:

You…are taking me home.  Tonight.

To which he said, with a face chiseled in stone, give me your number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m off.  And so I did.

Unfortunately, I continued to party.  A couple friends and I headed over to the Purple Onion where we had several bouncer/bartender friends who were continuing the night after hours.  Now as far as I can remember the bouncer called pretty soon after.  I told him where I was and he said, I’ll come get you.  Yes.  I said.

Only then I got distracted.  Because you see there were other boys.  And coupled with the boozing and other illicit activities, it was really no wonder that when he showed up, I was already interested in another party with another boy.  In hindsight, I totally made the wrong choice but I was young and foolish and a bird in the hand was better than a hot bouncer in a car waiting outside for me…right?  Wrong.  Life lesson learned.  Always ALWAYS pick the hot bouncer who looks like he could take down the hulk with just a look.

And fyi (before you think…well that’s not really a story of fucking up a one night stand because she still got it on with someone…I did not, in fact, get anything on with choice number 2.  Probably because I sobered up and realized the erroneous decision I had made.  Not to mention I felt like a total dick for having lured the bouncer around to where I was, only to never go down and meet him.  See that’s the thing about being 21, you’re a moron.  And an asshole.  When Mr. Bouncer came around, I never even went down to tell him that I had made a change of plans.  I just left him out there.  In his car.  Till he presumably figured I was never coming.  Total Dick Move.  Worst.)

And those, my friends, are just a few of the many tales I have of one night stands gone awry, or really, one night stands that never even occurred at all.

 

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

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating, Sports Analogies, and Butterflies

Butterflies

[dropcap]If[/dropcap] dating were a sports team, its mascot would be the butterfly.

Which may explain why lately every date seems to be a fumble.  And championship games keep getting cancelled.  Coach keeps telling me to get in there! and really give it to them! and all I can think is I can’t…I just can’t when I’m certain it’ll be a loser.  Until the precious butterfly comes out to cheer me on.

The message was straight forward and to the point.  I read your profile and I think we have a lot in common.


The message flattered without being insincere, the words were about beauty not sex.  Your smile is amazing, I would imagine it lights up every room.

The message was like talking to a normal person.  It was so unlike the whaaazzzuuuppp?and Hiiiiiiiiiiis that I’m used to.

The message…was from a 23 year old.  Fuck.  Me.


I’m a 30 year old who normally dates older guys, my average dating range is about 32-40.  But beggars can’t be choosers I’m open.  That being said, while a 23 year old is 7 years younger than me, he’s 18 years younger than the last guy I went out with (or 15 years younger according to the lie of his dating profile).  Ouch.

I admit it, I was curious.  I mean, what could a 23 year old possibly see in me?  So I read his profile.

He was tall.  Deliciously 6’2.  He used the word demeanor in his tagline.  He said passion within the first ten words.  He was curious; learning, travel, chivalry, and laughter above all else.  He talked about goals and how he valued finding happiness in the work you do.  He’d been to Egypt.  He found grammar and spelling well intellect, really a turn on and yet, noted an understanding about the fallibility of people.

His interests read like mine.  Similar shows.  Similar activities.  Road trips.  Tobogganing.  Similar nerdy pursuits.  Puzzles.  Boardgames.  Recycling.

Admittedly, he was right.  We did have a lot in common.  He was a business student with similar passions and curiosities and suddenly 7 years didn’t seem like such a big deal.  Except when I thought about what his mom would say.

So I messaged back.  And then he messaged back.  Long lengthy messages.  We talked about things that don’t really matter.  Turns out we both grew up with Volvos and a love of monopoly.  We talked about things that do matter.  He wants to see the world.  I want to see the world.  We’ll likely never see it together but to be honest, I can’t even wrap my head around someone not wanting to.  And the majority of the guys I’ve gone out with were not really interested in travel.

And that’s really when the butterflies hit.  Like the most beautiful sucker punch.  And I’ll admit it.  And before you get all whoa chick, settle down, you haven’t even met yet.  That’s exactly the point.  These aren’t butterflies like I think he’s and amazing person or we’re soul mates or anything of the sort.  These are it might be fun to have a coffee with this guy type butterflies.  No expectations.  No pressure.  But also no dread.  Which is something that’s been missing from a lot of my dating experiences lately.

Which in and of itself is admittedly a little alarming, the fact that I haven’t been excited to meet a new “Something” in a really long time doesn’t say a lot of good things about the dates I’ve been on and what kind of guys I’ve been talking to online.  You see, I haven’t been excited, like genuinely excited, to meet a guy since The Nick Name way back when though we all know how that turned out.  [side note:  for those who don’t know he’s a notable Bird Seed thrower and Come Back Charlie and at last count was still texting in December and messaging on POF in February].

I hadn’t been excited to meet The Mess.  And I hadn’t been excited to meet Cry Baby Romeo.  And though it may go absolutely nowhere [we may never even meet, as an online dater I’m no stranger to the endless chatter of people who never intend to meet, or do intend but simply change their minds?]

So while I’m not holding my breath, I am thankful for the butterflies.  Because there’s something eternally optimistic about being excited to meet someone new, and sometimes while online dating that optimism gets a little wrecked and bashed about.

And as always, I’ll keep you posted if any new “Somethings” come about.  Fingers crossed not that I believe in that.

 

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

Vancouver Dating Blog: You Can Always Come Home To Me

How to Write a Dating Profile

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been meaning to write it for ages.

But somehow I just kept putting it off.

Because it’s not really a dating post, or a humor post, or a sex post, or a poetry post even, it’s a post about me.  Little old me, and what I’ve been up to and what (not who) I’ve been doing.  Because admittedly, in this last year, it might have gotten a little confusing.  So I’ll try to keep it as short and sweet as possible and if there’s any questions at the end…well…that’s what the comment section is for, right?

In September I started back at UBC.

I was approached by a dating website who wanted to buy (like with real money) my writing, both past and future.  I thought long and hard about it and though I hated the idea of parting with my writing (not a first rights kind of deal, a complete selling of ownership type deal) I figured I’d always have more material and beggars can’t be choosers and a number of other considerations that had me agreeing.  And so that’s what I did (which is why, you may or may not have noticed, many of my old blog posts disappeared).  For the next 6 months or so things were peachy.  I mean school was insane and my own blog pretty much fell to the way-side but I simply directed all my readers over to the dating website I had been working for to read my posts.  And then sometime around the end of January-ish something happened.  I had to sever ties with the site.  Unfortunately, the owner and I had some very different ideas about the ethics of editing (much like the differing laws in Canada and the States) and that was that.  He owned my words and I asked for my name to be removed from all content.  Ties severed.

However, very close to the same time I was approached by an Editor at The Province who asked if I would like to blog for them.  Ecstatic, I, of course, agreed.  And that was that, I’ve been happily blogging for the Province ever since.  But, I mean, there’s only so much writing about sex and dating a girl can do, especially when I was still in school at the time.  So for the time being, I publish on The Province and shortly after the article goes up on my own blog, this one right here.  Now of course, there’ll probably be exceptions (like say with this post, this one has no need to go on The Province’s site, and posts that contain poetry will always only go up here).

Additionally, I’ve started blogging as a #SWEXPERT for a UK dating site called Singles Warehouse, along with numerous other bloggers.  And while I’m not certain how or where the relationship will progress too, like my work for The Province, it will eventually end up on my own site (this one, in case that wasn’t clear lol).

Now, here I am in early May and I’ve graduated from UBC with my 2nd BA.  I have been accepted to Georgia State University, North Carolina State University, University of Massachusetts (Boston), and University of Saskatchewan, and I’m still waiting to hear back from Concordia and George Washington University.

What any of this means for the future I don’t know.  Will I be moving from Vancouver in September?  Can I really afford to take on the debt of an American University?  What would it be like to live in Saskatoon, a place I’ve heard I would eat the boys alive, and what if there were no boys at all who wanted to be eaten?  Will I take a year off, work and save as much as possible, and then reapply to schools next year (because at least now I know that getting in is a likely possibility; to be honest, I had been bracing myself for an across the board rejection)?  Could I continue to write about “Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time” or write for The Province, if I neither lived in Vancouver, nor the province of BC?  Will I spend the summer writing a book?

Who knows.  I have no real answers.  Yet.  But I’m happy.  And the future is bright.  And when in doubt over where to find my writing, know that it will always come home here at Something She Dated, ready and waiting for your loving eyes with its open arms.

xoxo
~SSDated

The Mess: A New “Something” in the Mix (Part Three)

Dating Fail

[dropcap]At[/dropcap] this point, it was about 8pm.  I had spent the first half hour waiting for him and the second half deflecting inappropriate comments and trying not to be horribly disappointed with the mess of a man that plenty of fish had served up to me.  Not to mention thinking this has to be as bad as it gets, right?  RIGHT?!?!  Wrong.

The waitress came over to see if we wanted to get something to eat.  I didn’t really but he wanted to share something little Yam fries?  Sure.  So he ordered some yam fries to share and another beer.  The waitress brought the beer, and since he was only half done his other pint, the logical thing to do on a first date would be to chug it, no.  So he did.  Then the fries came.  I ate about 10.  They were good, certainly.  But honestly I hadn’t been that hungry and since every time he said something creepy or awkward or uncomfortable I would sip down some diet coke, you can imagine I was getting damn full on that.  Plus, to be totally honest.  Watching a guy who is completely oblivious to the world in general and to social protocol specifically, eat yam fries dipped heavily in mayo after pounding back a few beers has got to be one of the grossest things ever.  Not to mention his conversation never lagged so I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point I had yam bits spattered across my face and arms.  Ugh.  KABOOM!


And then…came the dating experience chatter.  The moment that occurs more often than not on dates that sprung from dating websites.  They say you shouldn’t talk your past on first dates, but I think your past says a lot about you as a person.  And, in my date’s case, it said way way too much.  First he told me about some dates in the recent past.  Only 12 or so since January.  I assume, of course, these were all first dates.  He tells me about the chick who freaked out on him because of the fact that he was a smoker.  Obviously she is my idol.  And then there were a lot of dates that had the same three factors:  wine, him getting laid, ceasing contact.  It’s like these ladies had never heard of masturbation or standards because honestly there wouldn’t be enough beer in the world for me to have sex with my date.  boom.  And then he mentioned his upcoming date with another lady two days later.  boom.  And then finally he mentioned “we’re clearly not getting married”  boom.  He meant it as if to say that he and I could have some real fun together before I potentially went away to school but even so.  dude.  smh.  worst.  KABOOM!

 

Now something I haven’t mentioned thus far but spanned the entire duration of our date was The Mess’s overall demeanor.  To be honest, it’s a bit hard to describe.  The best way I can think of is by comparison, which allows me to tell you that he basically acted like a tweaker.  There was a lot of movement in every gesture.  The topics were scattered and uncomfortable.  And more than once was there an invasion of my personal space.  What can I say, I’m not really into guys who hold up their finger to your face (repeatedly) because they want you to stop speaking so they can chime in.  Charming.  And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.  You see, well he was getting shitfaced, I was stone cold sober (and perhaps even more alert than normal given my chugging of diet coke to avoid awkward moments).  And that’s when he hit me with it. Blah blah blah stupid story blah blah blah I’m 41 blah blah blah  HOLD UP!  What’s that?  41?  That’s not what your profile says.  KABOOM!  KABOOM!  KABOOM!



You see, his profile said he was 38.  The irony is that I wouldn’t have cared.  41 or 38 – there isn’t really that big of a difference.  But someone who lies on their dating profile?!?!  Someone who lies repeatedly on their dating profile?!?!  That’s not going to fly with me.  And since I knew there was no way this date was EVER going anywhere not in a million freaking years and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stand up, tell him this wasn’t going to work and flee the scene I felt it was my duty to women everywhere to educate this douchebag on just why exactly it was so awful to lie on a dating profile.

His logic, by the way, was that if a person really liked him it wouldn’t matter what age he was and fyi isn’t that the same logic of sexual predators and pedophiles alike?  And so I explained to him that the problem isn’t the age, it’s the lying.  I went on to explain that by lying on his dating profile, he had taken the decision away from me as to whether or not I would want to meet the real him.  This was dating fraud of the first  degree.  To be honest, he couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.  He just keep jamming mayo covered yam fries in his mouth and saying that at least he wasn’t trying to hide it now.  Yeah, thanks, jerkoff. Now is too late, I’ve already wasted good hair and makeup on you.

But the truth is.  All this.  All these lengthy lengthy paragraphs detailing the endless torture that was my date with The Mess pale in comparison to the piece de resistance.  At some point I went to the washroom and when I returned to my bar stool, I had just about had it with this date.  I had held off as long as I could, and since I couldn’t bring myself to white lie about having to get up early or having to pack or having to hold the hand of a dying relative…I knew that my parking would be my out.  You see, I’d paid for 2 hours.  And I wasn’t going to get a ticket on account of this dick.  So at about 8:50 we got the bill.  Which the waitress had surprisingly split up.  Now I don’t know about you guys but I have never NEVER had a waitress split a bill when out with a fella without asking first.  Which leads me to believe that during my trip to the ladies my Prince Charming, this true Mess of a man, asked for our bill to be split.  That’s right, even after torturing me for two hours and gorging himself on the fries…I had to pay for my own diet coke and “half basket of fries”  KABOOM!!!!!!!!!

 

I.  Was.  Livid.

 

The irony, I don’t think he did it to be a dick.  I think he just is a clueless one, by pure accident.  Because after we had paid, and I was ready to high tail it out of there, he asked if he could walk me to my car.  Was this dude for real!?!?!  Get bent homie!  Sure.  And then I practically jogged to my car.  Upon which he exclaimed how can you afford that *insert weak complaints about his shitty 20 year old truck*.  Yeah, because nothing makes a girl hotter than exclaiming about your poverty when you’re a grown up with a government job who supposedly only has his thesis to finish to complete his MSc at SFU.  So I just told him I’m independently wealthy.  Get.  Real.  Son.  Kaboom!!


He mentioned a lovely coffee shop up the street and I could tell, sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, was going to be an invite to join him.  And while I haven’t perfected my break-away-during-the-date-dash, I damn sure have my already-getting-in-my-car-adios-kid stride on lock.  I hit him with a quick,  well it was nice meeting you and pretty much ran around the car to the front door, jumped in, slammed the door, hit the gas, and drove to chronic tacos…a reward for the torture I’d just endured.  Scarred for life.  By a Mess in a lavender leather jacket.

 

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

The Mess: A New “Something” in the Mix (Part Two)

boom


Continued from – The Mess:  a New “Something” in the Mix

Have you ever gotten a present, like say for a birthday or Christmas, which you then opened only to find that there were more and more presents inside?  Like, you had thought yourself lucky enough to get the first edition book you wanted, but then hidden beneath that was also that diamond necklace you’d been mooning over for months and beside that a round-trip ticket to Paris?

Yeah.

This date.  Was the total opposite of that.  Instead of presents upon presents it was like I had just walked into a mine-field of disappointment and loser bombs were exploding all around me.

I lied about being a non-smoker KABOOM!

I lied about my age KABOOM!

I’m going to eat all your yam fries and then make you pay for them  KABOOM!


But I digress.  I’m getting ahead of myself here.  I mean come on, if I had to live through the whole disappointing experience I’m certainly going to make you share in the misery too.  That’s only fair, right?

Sidebar:  I feel the need to preface this date with two thoughts.

One, that while I may be a judgmental person, I’m also a very understanding person.  While the rest of the world seems up in arms over a few spelling mistakes in a dating profile, I’m more likely to let them slide.  However, if you couple those errors with tedious conversation, a general lack of ambition, a disheveled appearance, etc. suddenly it’s death by paper-cuts and I’m throwing baby out with the bathwater.  So I’m guess I’m asking…don’t judge me for the bombs exploding on this date but the fact that they murdered me in my entirety.

Two, somehow when I go over this date story in my head, it doesn’t seem quite as disastrous as it felt at the time, which is why I’m certain I’m not doing it justice.  I want it known that any inability to convey the absolute ickiness of this whole date is due to a inferior ability to put into words the sheer awfulness of the experience.  So I’m guess I’m asking…multiply everything by two and then push it off a bridge into icy waters…yes…it was that bad.

Back on Track

So there I was…casually sitting at the bar, with my diet coke, a nervous disposition and the optimism of champions a hope for a fun night when suddenly there was a palm on my back, I turned the left and there he was.  In all his mauve lilac lavender colored jacket wearing glory.  KABOOM!

And then he spoke.  And without evoking too many I’m-a-total-jackass-it’s-not-his-fault-that-nature-gave-him-this-but-it’s-also-not-my-fault-that-it’s-not-a-turn-on-sexist-stereotypes, he had a seriously feminine voice.  KABOOM!

But then again, haven’t I always lamented feeling like my voice was too husky?  So the date carries on, because this is just superficial bullshit, right…and for all I know his personality is amazing.  And speaking of superficial bullshit, that’s when he takes off his jacket to reveal himself quite the little potbelly.  And I know what you’re thinking aren’t you a plus-sized chubby chick?  And indeed I am, and I make no effort to hide it, in fact I do my best to make sure it’s as visible as possible. Of course, I make an effort to look my best in photos, the same way I do for dates (I’m not showing up in jogging pants and a ponytail here right…I mean I’ve done my hair, I’ve all gussied up in pretty smoky-eyed makeup), but I don’t like to pull any punches because can you imagine showing up to a date and having someone be like ugh…you’re way fatter than I thought…I’m out of here.

But I digress.  And like I said, maybe his personality would be stellar.  Maybe he’d knock my socks off with his interesting questions or the kind way he listened to me talk about writing or traveling.  Maybe we would laugh over witty repartee and cry over the loss of the Canucks and talk about the other teams still in the playoffs.  Maybe.  maybe.  maybe…

But that’s not quite how it went.

Once he was settled and had ordered a beer, I started with one of the most simple questions known to man.

How was your day? I said.

Good he replied I bought a bunch of packets *inaudible ramble* to quit smoking *in audible ramble*

Wait what!?!  He’s a smoker?!?!  Uh…that’s not what his profile says.  And cut the bullshit, if you can’t actually say you’ve quit smoking (past tense), you’re still a smoker.  That would be like me saying I’m an average body type…because you know I’m working out and trying to get to a healthy weight and all.  So yeah.  KABOOM!


And the worst part of the whole thing, it’s not like he was even apologetic.  No, I’m so sorry I fudged the truth but I hope you’ll forgive me.  No, I get that it’s a really shitty thing to do, lying on dating profile, but blah blah blah.  None of that.  The dude acted like it was no big thing.  And while perhaps I should not have, I too acted like it was no big thing, I mean, we were less than 5 minutes into the date.  I don’t even know how you bail this early.  So I smiled and he carried on.  To the next subject.

Which was the mobile vaporizer he had just purchased, for $300.  At first I thought he had asthma.  Then realized it was for smoking weed.  Which in theory is fine.  But here’s where social protocol comes in.  This is a first date.  Keep that shit to yourself, son.  Seriously.  And then he explained further.  Indicating the shape of the device with his hands kind of like a stout penis or a small vibrator he said *insert gross creepy laughter, encroaching on my personal space and attempting to touch my hand*.  Oh, and of course my awkward laughter.  KABOOM!


Luckily, he changed gears and asked me one of the only two questions he laid on me all night.  What are you studying at UBC?  I told him English Literature.  Usually when I tell people this the conversation goes one of three ways.  Nowhere, they’re not interested in this and we move on to other subjects like dating or politics.  They ask who my favorite author is, which is fine, I usually just say Dickens or Defoe because there’s a fairly good chance they’ll know who I’m talking about or I’ll just mention anything that falls under the heading of Eighteenth Century Whore Biography.  The third option makes me the most uncomfortable.  It’s kind of like that Pros vs. Joes TV show where regular Joes try to beat Pro athletes at their sport.  It’s where the person lists off their own favorite authors, books, etc. (without me actually asking them) and then grills me about all sorts of obscure authors I’ve never even heard of, and act shocked that I might not know about number 13 on the current New York Times Best Sellers list for hardcover fiction.  Like, are you serious?!?!  There are Billions of books…yes yes, please go ahead and try to feel a sense of superiority because you know a few books that an English Literature major has never heard of.  Congratulations, you’re a genius.  And that’s exactly what happened.  We spent the next 5-10 minutes in an awkward tango of him attempting to outdo me, and me being fine with that.  super.  KABOOM!


Maybe he sensed how uncomfortable I was.  Maybe he had just exhausted himself.  For whatever reason though, I was given a reprieve when he asked about Grad Schools.  Which ones had I applied to and did I know any results yet.  I listed off the schools I’d applied to and told him that both Georgia State and North Carolina State had accepted me but I was still waiting to hear about the rest.  Somehow this lead to a discussion about water, and I informed him that Georgia does, in fact, have water access.  Now perhaps I’m at fault for what happened next as my finger-on-bar-top drawing skills may be a bit sub par but when I drew the state of Georgia and where it touched the ocean, his response was It’s like a nipple *insert gross touching of my imaginary drawing*.  KABOOM!


To Be Continued…Part Three

 

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

The Mess: a New “Something” in the Mix (Part One)

Total Dating Disaster

 

[dropcap]A[/dropcap]nd then it was April.

Guy #1 emailed.  It was eloquent.  It was adorable.  He was going back to London.  Fuck.  We decided to keep in touch anyway because with his job moving him around and my academic adventures on the horizon, who’s to say we wouldn’t one day rendezvous in Paris or Boston.

Guy #2 emailed.  Weeks later.  Apparently it had been very difficult to find my email in the message that I had sent him.  This seemed a rather weak and unnecessary excuse but it was heavily offset by the fact that he seemed to think I was fantastic and definitely wanted to take me out.  Unfortunately for him I was still wrapping up exams and schoolwork so, as is often the case, this boy would have to wait.  He seemed okay with that.  We exchanged phone numbers.  But you see, in my tornado of a end-of-semester-brain, I managed to inadvertently give him the wrong number.  I gave him the 778 version of my phone number when it’s actually a 604.

Luckily or not so luckily, I decided to text him since he’d been the one putting forth all the effort up to this point.  And to be honest, the text was nice.  Not amazing.  But not bad either.  It was the exact caliber of texting you would expect from someone who was ready to take you out the moment you were in, and was thus saving up all their good convo or is just super tedious and boring.  Either way it was all looking good…until he texted:
Ok text me with a heads up when you are ready to giv’er! Lol.
Now I’m not saying this is the kiss of death or anything but do you ever have those moments where you look back and you’re like this right here, this is why I knew we wouldn’t be a good fit?  Yeah.  Well.  This.  Giv’er?!?!  Giv’er is fine…er…it’s acceptable…if you’re camping or surfing or anything involving beer and a high school reunion or a trip to Whistler.  But when you should be trying to impress a lady?  When you’re a 38 year old man?  Giv’er is not good.  Not sexy, honey, not sexy.
But I let it go.  As I’ve been known to do.  Because I have this eternal optimism that people are better than they present themselves.  Sadly, I’m wrong more than I am right, but I digress.  Soon after this, we were finally able to make plans to meet.  But not before he asked me to meet IN THE MORNING before he had to fly to Portland.  Was this guy fucking serious?!?!  A first meeting in the morning?!?!  To which I promptly responded that asking a writer/student to hang out on a Saturday morning would never fly with me, not even if you were Bon Jovi.  

We fixed a time to meet on Monday.  On Sunday he texted to remind me, it was actually rather cute.  He took the initiative and picked a place (St. Augustine’s on Commercial).  Now you may be thinking…um…a place focused 75% on beer…for a sober chick…might not be the best idea.  But see here’s the thing, I’m actually fine with bars and pubs, other people drinking and nightlife.  Just because I no longer engage doesn’t mean I want to sit home alone in silence.

And then at 7pm, I met him.

Or more, I went to meet him.  You see, just as I pulled up and parked, I got a text.  Going to be about 15 or 20 minutes late.  Followed by CUSoon.  Ugh.  To be honest I was more disturbed by the teenage texting skills than the lateness.  Shit happens.  I’ve been late for a date once before, and the fact that he let me know boded well with me.  Plus this way I could get all situated, order up a nice diet soda, watch the game on the big screens and get my relax on.

Earlier in the day we had texted a reminder pic of ourselves to the other, since it had been weeks since I’d had a dating profile up on POF (though I didn’t really need one of him, obvs I saved his profile as a favorite to keep my memory fresh).

And then 20 minutes later I felt a hand spread across my back…I turned to look…and there he was…a new “Something”…known henceforth as TheMess.

To Be Continued…Part Two

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

Playing Catch Up, Like Playing Catch But With Fewer Balls Thrown At My Face

Playing Catch Up

[dropcap]January[/dropcap] was all about finalizing grad school applications and the disastrous effects of dating Cry Baby Romeo.  I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it but on that first date of ours, he had told me about how he dated a girl from Vancouver.  They’d gone out, had a nice time and chastely parted ways.  However, the next morning she was sexting dirty messages and asking when he’d be over.  He, of course, went to her place later that night, they boned and that was that.  He said she called him two weeks later, just to say that she couldn’t see him again because she didn’t want him to think she was that kind of girl.  At the time, I joined in his laughter, ha ha ha fucking crazy chicks ha ha ha.  Because with the way he told it, that was how it sounded.  But after my own experience of awful sex, followed by him texting a joke about how you’re not going to never talk to me again are you?, I began to see what had really happened with them.

I bet they had sex.  It was awful.  She ceased contact.  Eventually he reached out with a phone call and she was so flustered that instead of beating down his manhood with a quick and to the point um…you suck at sex, also you’re boring, she simply hit him with something that would scare any boy off: crazy talk.

And here’s why I’m so certain that’s what happened.  Because we had sex.  It was awful.  I ceased contact.  And lo and behold two weeks later, I get a text about what’s up Houdini?  To which I promptly informed him I wasn’t interested.  I hadn’t felt compelled to inform him earlier since to be honest, he hadn’t contacted me until then.  Obviously, he had one playbook and wasn’t about to stray in order to throw a hail mary.  Sadly, it’s too bad he didn’t have a better coach working with him on some plays.  But I digress.  So that was January.  Worst.

February was…slow.  At least in the dating department.  I read once that dating websites (and probably dating in general) see a big lull in February.  This is mostly because in the few weeks before Valentine’s Day people don’t want to get involved with someone new.  It opens the door to a ton of problems, or potential for missteps.  Is a 2nd date on V Day weird?  do you have to get her a gift? was the teddy bear just a cute gesture or a sign he’s really into me?  and the list goes on.

And in the weeks after Valentine’s Day people are generally at work on themselves.  Maybe you spent V day alone (and felt bad about it) and now you’re working on you.  Maybe Debbie dumped your ass or Teddy told you to take a hike.  Maybe you just have the winter blues.  Who knows.  But they were totally right.  In the 2 weeks before Valentine’s day I saw a 98% drop in contact.  No joke, I almost didn’t get a single message, not even a Nice Tits from a lonely web trawler.  And then about a week after Valentine’s day the flood gates crashed and I was swept away in a torrent of stupidity.

March.  And then March happened.  Final push for grad apps.  Final push for school.  It was term papers and class presentations and to be honest…even for me…sometimes the stupidity of peoplethe sheer idiocy and social dysfunction of the masses, it just all becomes too much.  And so at the beginning of March, I deleted my Plenty of Fish.  But not before messaging two fellas.  You see, somewhere among the 40 odd messages, left un-responded to, were two guys who seemed…well…promising.  Sure, I wasn’t super excited.  Sure, we’d barely messaged.  But they were both clearly interested and both had relatively good profiles.

So, I went balls to the wall.  Let them think I’m weird and acting hysterical by removing my profile I thought.  To be honest, I didn’t care enough to worry about it, I had shit to do.  So I told them I was off Plenty of Fish but if they wanted to talk more they could hit me up on my email.  And that was that.  I actually thought I was miss it more.  And maybe it was school, or friends, or the fact that MegaLove and I still hang out every few weeks, but I barely even noticed.

And I know what you’re thinking.  Wait…it’s almost May…where’s the entry about April…and that’s when I say the words all blog readers hate…except for those who like mystery and suspense.

To Be Continued…

 

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

I Saw You.

I saw you

[dropcap]I saw you.  A question.  A promise.  A few words in a newspaper.[/dropcap]

 

I saw you.  When I peeked in your bedroom window.  Lurking behind you on the street.  When you sat next to me at the coffee shop.

You smelled like.  Unisex cologne.  Axe body spray.  Saturdays and sunshine.

You leaned over and asked.  Got any spare change?  Ever had sex with a Kennedy?  Anyone sitting here?

 I pretended I didn’t speak English.  I was casual, I was calm, I was a female James Dean and pushed out the chair with my foot gesturing for you to have a seat.  I choked on my coffee and sputtered all yours.

You smiled.  I smiled.  You smiled.  That really happened.

You put your of books down on the table and asked if I would keep an eye on them while you held up a bank.  Called your mom.  Got yourself a coffee and did I need anything?

 I blinked.  Twice.  Like a hospital patient.  Like a four year old.  Like the cat had my tongue.

While you were gone I glanced at your books.  And wrote my name in the table of contents, and then drew a heart around it.  To check if you were overdue.  Because I wanted to see what you were into.

Apparently you’re really into Astrophysics.  Botany.  Eighteenth Century Whore Biographies.  Didn’t really matter, it was just nice to know you’re into something.  I like a man with passion.

On your way back to the table, coffee and two cookies in hand, you caught me checking out your books and said we’re not all born Hemmingways.  Adorable shrug

That’s what your books were about.  Writing.  How to write poetry for the senseless.  How to write a mystery without a crime.  How to woo writers (in ten steps or less).

And I swooned to your waves, knocking my boat about at sea.  And I drowned in the sheer bliss of it all.  And I mumbled mmhmm like you had just said, nice day, ain’t it.

I brought you a cookie you said, handing it over to me.  I said Trick or treat?  I said I’m on a diet.  I said thank you, that’s so sweet and I’m pretty sure some sweat trickled down my back.

I thought that was going to be it.  You would read and I would write.  You would write and I would read.  We would be writers in proximity.  To greatness.  To each other.  To a couple of coffee shop cookies.

Only, then you looked at me.  Sighed hard like you’d just heard about how a man once walked on the moon. Shook your head a bit, smiled and said You look like heaven, if I wasn’t an atheist.  You look like trouble on a quiet night, in the summer, when our legs are itching for an adventure.  Sigh.  Jesus, you’re beautiful.

 And then a car crashed through the window.  And then someone pulled the fire alarm.  And then I had to go meet a friend.

I got up to leave, thanked you again for the cookie, and held my breath.  You asked for my phone number.  You said you couldn’t live another moment without me in your life.  You said have a nice day.

And that was that, the moment passed.  And it makes you wonder about all those passing moments.  The very few that happen in a day.  The astronomical amount that happen in a lifetime.  The opportunities you miss because you were shy, I was awkward and time wasn’t interested in slowing down for us.

I saw you.  In a dream.  In the corner of my eye.  When you sat next to me at the coffee shop.

Flirting Fail: Deer In the Headlights

Deer in the Headlights

Flirting, for me, is a bit like a bridge over troubled waters. On one side the grass is green, the forests plush, the sun shines and there are happy people everywhere. But on the other side, the world is made of candy, calorie free candy, that only ever tastes like awesome and costs nothing. Your hands never get sticky, your stomach never gets sick and everyone looks like supermodels with brains like scientists. And these worlds, are like me. Everyday me is cool and all but there’s this magic that happens on the other side of the water, that I swear is worth it. The only problem is building that damn bridge to get us there. And to demonstrate the enormity of the problem…I give you…a day in the life of SSDated

It was the beginning of September and I was on my way to the wedding reception of my dear friend being held at the Waldorf. I had spent the weekend moving into my new place at UBC and was now hurriedly racing driving the exact speed limit to make my friend’s big party on time.

Sitting at a red light at Broadway and MacDonald I couldn’t help but notice a dude staring at me, mostly because he had his head out the window like a dog. In his defense, I guess you could say there was a progression, as he sat in the back seat of a car full of boys, he turned and looked at me. Looking turned to staring, staring turned to re-positioning his body so he could get his face out of the window, and re-positioning turned to gestures of beckoning me to talk with him. Also in his defense, I was wearing a pretty sexy dress and I imagine that while sitting in the driver seat my boobs must’ve looked enormous or at least that’s how I intend to explain his behavior. And cue longest red light ever.

See, now here’s the thing, I only partly blame myself. Because you see, if I was in a car full of girls and not rushing off to a wedding. Or if I was 24 and not 30 (well…I was a few weeks shy of 30 then but I digress). Then it might have been different. I might have been more seductress and less awkward freak but of course that wasn’t the situation. I was an almost 30 year old, rushing to a wedding, trying to work the air-con up to full blast while some adorably sexy 20 something-er did his damnest to work his magic out the back window of a car packed with hotties just like him. And at first, I just sat there, like a deer in the headlights (or a chubby bunny at a red light). But then the light turned green and action was required. And so of course, I smiled, pulled the car up as far as I could and handed him my personal card…a black card that says my phone number on one side and believe the hype on the other. Instead of driving straight, which was my route, I pulled a quick right turn onto MacDonald and detoured away from my Prince…because afterall, isn’t that exactly the kind of thing awkward Princesses do?

Flirting Fail.

But the night wasn’t over. And neither were my failed attempts at flirting. Though I guess you can’t really call them attempts since I wasn’t attempting anything. More like fighter plane flirting, shooting unknowns out of the sky with an awkward trigger finger.

The party was beyond amazing but like all good things, it too had to come to an end. I said my goodbyes, gave my hugs and kisses and well wishes and was on my way. As I meandered my way outside (past the throng of party goers overflowing from the Waldorf’s Tiki Bar) there stood a fella who appeared ready to put his presence in my path. He smiled, gestured to me and said that’s a really nice shirt…dress…thing. For reference, it was a dress, but I have appreciation for his attempt to compliment without sounding as if he himself wished he could wear my outfit himself. And so, like a pro, I smiled back, said thank you and asked him how his night was going. And so, like a pro, I smiled back, mumbled an awkward thanks and proceeded on my way out the door, and back to my car.

Flirting Fail.

In my sad defense, this kind of grab-your-girl-on-her-way-out-the-door likely never goes well for fellas, not just when with me. Because you see, I was tired, I was sober, and though I’d had an amazing night, I was ready to roll. This lovely lads attempt to stop and woo was kind of like throwing a pebble into a river, there’s no way it’ll damn the thing up and stop it’s flow. If I had stopped to chatter it would’ve made the sound of a speeding car slamming on its breaks, and that may be the only thing more awkward then how I acted.

And I apologize if you were hoping for a message, or advice in this post, because that’s not going to happen. This post, is just a little glimpse into who I am. So there ya go. Awkward. Fallible. Failable. SSDated. Just being me. Flaws and all. Weathering the beautiful storm that is dating.

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

Flirting Fail: Instinctually Awkward

Forever Awkward
[dropcap]It[/dropcap] can be really hard to explain my relationship to flirting.  But when has that ever stopped me right?!?!

My first instinct is to say that I don’t flirt.

Except this isn’t entirely true.  Because I do flirt.

My second instinct is to say that I only flirt with purpose.  Kind of like how I wouldn’t write an essay on David Copperfield for fun, I don’t flirt just for the sake of flirting.  If I’m not being graded, it’s just valuable time that could be spent elsewhere.

Now I’m not saying that if I flirt with you that I’m taking you home whether you like it or not, I have a trunk and a dufflebag waiting.  Not at all.  What I am saying is that I don’t mindlessly flirt.  I wouldn’t flirt if I was in a relationship and I generally expect the same of others (see also: reasons I’m constantly disappointed with people).  I wouldn’t flirt with someone I felt no attraction to.  Because for me, if there’s no possibility of it going anywhere, it’s a waste.  I’m not in aimless pursuit of the fruitless flirt.  I’d rather just be normal and talk to someone.

You see, some of stems from being a dating blogger.  Because when I flirt, it takes effort.  There are all kinds of things I have to remember.  Don’t tell them what you do, just say student.  Boys don’t want to date a dating blogger.  And those that do only want to because you’re a dating blogger.  Don’t say balls.  Don’t say fuck.  Don’t tell dirty jokes.  Don’t say ‘that’s what she said’.  Don’t laugh too loud.  Be feminine.  Be cute.  Smile.  Smile.  Be demure.  Maybe don’t tell them about grad school just yet.  Don’t ask too many questions.  Don’t let the conversation lag.  Well…you get the idea.

But if we’re friends.  If we’re buddies.  If you’re just a dude at a party or a guy on the street or the bartender or the random person online.  Well then I can just be me.  I smile too big.  I laugh too loud.  I curse like a trucker.  I talk about dating.  And science.  And will debate your logic if it comes to that.  I’ll ask about your job and not worry whether or not you think I’m a gold-digger.  I’ll tell you what I do for work and school and be goddamn proud of it (but not in an obnoxious way).  I’ll ask you if you’re single, if you’re dating, tell me your stories, tell me everything, lay it on me.  My conversation will be a pair of open arms waiting to hug you.  But most importantly, I’ll be at ease.  I’ll be relaxed.  I’ll be happy.  Just being me.  No worries.

But then comes my third instinct.  Because I’m not (hopefully) as uptight as this is making me sound.  Because I can flirt.  Because I do flirt.  Because, in a controlled environment.  I’m kind of like mating pandas, the scenario is precarious, it can be hostile, but when you get it right oh oh so right well that’s how baby pandas are made and who doesn’t love baby pandas.  I mean, you get the analogy right?  I guess the point is that when I flirt, it’s usually with someone whom I already know likes me, or at least wants to do me.  And if that’s not the case, well then I’m shy.  Plus add to that fact that I was in a relationship for six years.  Not to mention I’m a little over 4 years away from my last alcoholic beverage.  And I’m chubby, in a city that doesn’t so much love chubby.  So I guess you could say, I’m officially out of practice, and thus Awkward (capital A).

And because I hate the idea of being an abstract blogger, one who simply talks about issues and neglects to relate the real life situation in which they occurred…I give you…One Day in the Life of Awkward SSDated.

Or at least I will…if you stay tuned for the next blog post.  Which I promise, won’t be nearly as far off and spread out as my posting has been lately.  What can I say, the whole school being breezy thing still hasn’t had quite yet but I’m certain any day now!

 

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