Pool Sharks and Dead in the Water: Dating a Dating Blogger

Dating Bombs

 

I thought he might… but The Vampire didn’t bail.  Tuesday came around and we met up at the sports bar to play pool.  He looked adorable.  Hair all spiky and vampiry.  I was wearing my white summer dress.  The same thing I wore on my second date with Kevin Bacon.  I don’t know what it is about me but I like to keep a level playing field.  Something about science and research encourages me to keep as many factors as possible unchanged.  Sort of in the same way that one day I’ll look back at this period of dating from a healthier weight perspective and finally know whether or not it really is the huge factor I think it is.  But I digress.  I looked BOOBmazing cute.  We got some sodas and the balls and it was time to rack ’em up.

Sometimes I’m super sweet and kind and nice.  And non-judgmental.  But other times (like right before a first date) there’s a big part of me that’s terrified.  Of being embarrassed.  Of being witness to an embarrassing situation.  When I go on a first date I’m not petrified they won’t like me.  I’m scared shitless that they’re going to act like a lunatic and somehow mortify me in front of complete strangers.  I know I know.  It’s fucked up.  But whatever.  You’ve got your quirks too.  I’m just being honest here.  So this weird sensitivity to embarrassment is also ever-excessively-present when men take part in man-pride type things.  Shooting pool being no exception.

So you can therefore assume that while he’s racking up the balls my heart is racing for more reasons than the fact that he’s cute and fun and standing close to me.  Or is that me lurking over his shoulder.  Either way.  There are balls in hands and we’re practically touching.  And to be clear it’s not like you have to be a fucking pool shark to date me.  Not at all.  But to be honest, boys don’t usually take being beaten well (see: Twitter Guy, among others).  And then that’s just really fucking uncomfortable because nobody likes a sore loser.  Just Sayin’.  Awkward.  So yeah.  Either don’t play or don’t suck.  Or if you do suck be all rainbows and sunshine with me.

That being said.  He fucking rocked.  He started slow, clearly waiting to see what my level of play was like.  But as soon as he saw I wasn’t half bad he put on his super skills face.  I mean the dude was kickin’ ass and taking names.  Like head-turned-completely-away-from-the-table-checkin-me-out-and-still-making-the-shot kind of kickin’ ass.  It was delicious.  Plus added bonus.  I am now a better player.  He taught me how to play 9-ball.  He taught me some things about planning my shots better (who knew you were supposed to have forethought in pool *duh*).  He taught me how to break with some actual skill.  Most importantly to keep my eye on the cue ball.  Now I know that sounds ridiculous that I didn’t know this.  But let me explain.

In baseball, you keep your eye on the ball, not left field where you’re hoping to hit it.  So why wouldn’t it be the same with pool?  Well because I’m a pitcher.  When I’m playing ball I DON’T keep my eye on the ball…my eyes are always on the catcher’s mitt.  Always.  I’m not even looking at the batter.  They’re borderline irrelevant.  I’m focused on the mitt and where I’m about to put this ball in my hand.  And that’s how I’ve been playing pool.  With my eyes on the triangle.  And where I want to break.  Who fuckin’ knew.  Well apparently he did.  And probably the rest of you.  But he’d basically just blown my mind.  I was ready to shark some fools after this.  Okay maybe not.  But I was feeling good.

But then it happened.  I said the thing that sealed the bag.  Clinched the finale.  Hammered a nail in the coffin.  Put The Vampire out in the sun.  I told The Vampire about the blog.  Shhh…I can hear your sighs of disappointment through both time and space.  I know.  I know.  So let me clarify.  It was an accident.  I didn’t mean to.  And I have only myself to blame.

See the thing of the thing was that day.  That very day.  I found out some seriously amazing things were about to happen for me writing wise.  And for someone who had basically figured that writing would always be just a hobby or at the bare minimum not something I pursued till after I had my PhD. in hand.  This was fucking huge.  More so because I was being pursued.  By more than one venture.  I mean fucking brilliant right?!?!

And further to this thing of the thing is the fact that I tend to get….excited.  I’m a champion of enthusiasm and advocate of passion.  Go hard or go home is a regular mantra.  And when I’m excited…I talk about it.  Pretty straight forward.

And then the final thing of the thing is the fact that I don’t lie.  Keep information to myself?  sure.  Side-step uncomfortable topics?  definitely.  Don’t we all sometimes?  So I can keep the blog to myself.  Keep silent about being a writer (something I only recently felt I could call myself).  Sure I can do that.  But when someone asks me a question.  I can’t lie.  So when I told him about this new writing stuff.  His first question was.  What kind of writing?  And while I stuttered and stumbled he zeroed in.  What’s the subject matter?  What are you writing about?  And maybe I should’ve lied.  But I just couldn’t.  So I made it as soft as I could.  Because while I might answer sex…boys, balls and blowjobs to someone asking at a party, I had to make it more gentle for him.  So I said relationships…and dating.

And I could feel the temperature changing in the room.  In the space of a few seconds we’d gone from 2 hours of hilarious laughter…endless back and forth witty banter…and super sexy shark skills…to…oh.  And honestly at the time I thought it was just a minor speedbump.  I figured it wouldn’t be a huge deal.  I figured I could swing it back around into my favor.  But as the conversation went on.  I could tell.  I had inklings.  He wasn’t taking it as well as I thought.

Suddenly it became clear that I’d gone from sweet, adorable and innocent to chick who dates for sport.  The questions he was asking made it pretty clear.  But it wasn’t all bad.  At some points I thought I might have convinced him of the truth.  Which was that I actually didn’t date that much.  I was selective.  I was invested.  And though I still never brought up the religion being a problem thing.  The truth was.  I liked The Vampire.  Like had a really good time with him type like.  Like wanting to keep seeing him type like.  Like wanting to make out with him type like.  And at the time, even though the conversation had taken a hit, I still thought it might be a possibility.  Especially when we ditched the subject of my blogging.  (btw…I didn’t tell him my blog address or pseudonym or anything.)

When we got back to talking about other stuff.  Like his new career path.  Pastry.  The conversation seemed to take flight again.  Though I will admit while talking about desserts etcetera it occurred to me what an absolutely horrible idea it might be to date a pastry chef.  That would NOT bode well for being the Biggest Loser.  Just sayin’.  Mamma don’t need to get more obese.  Though I do love a good danish….lol  But I digress.

And after a bit longer it was time to go.  The end of our day date.  With him having to get up the next morning at 430am we had to keep it early.  That seemed a reasonable enough reason for me to reasonably believe.  Plus I knew that going into the date…that’s why we met up at 530…which is practically the middle of the afternoon.  But still.  A girl always wonders.  If an early date means a busy guy…or an uninterested one.  Did my fling with a pool shark end in a heartbeat?  Had my big reveal made me dead in the water?

 

To Be Continued  Because That’s What Happens on Day Dates

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Don't worry my parents don't think I'm funny either. Grad Student. My breasts aren't ashamed of me either. You and me kid, we're going to change this world.