Little Deaths

Little Deaths

He cums and you don’t.  But it feels good when he’s kissing you, and you want him and he wants you and it’s this thing you both want.  But then he cums and you don’t.  And maybe it doesn’t bother you right away, not at first.  Because it was hot, the fact that you made him cum (though later you’ll find out he cums for other girls and porn and a bottle of lotion and the idea of almost any girl ever eating a banana slowly).  And so it turns out you’re less of a wizard than a receptacle and isn’t that just the grossest way you’ve ever thought about your vagina and your body.  You don’t want to be a receptacle.  And maybe you’d feel less like one if he was bothered by the fact that you didn’t cum.

I hear you say the sex was great, the sex is amazing.

Do you cum every time I ask and you pause.

Well, no.

Then what the fuck are you talking about, trying to convince me that just smelling a cheeseburger is enough to make you feel full for the week and you don’t even seen the insanity of it.

And maybe I could get on board with the whole it’s the journey not the destination (relax, I said maybe).  Except he’s always cumming.  He’s cumming everytime.  And there’s all these excuses like it’s harder for women and we’re more complex and you’re goddamn right it is and all the more reason to pay extra attention to it.  Because at what point are we just saying that we love watching a man eat steak while we only ever get to think about how great it would taste.

They used to call orgasms “little deaths” which didn’t make that much sense to me, masturbating to my imagination’s content as a teenager.

But every time I hear girls talk about sex like their orgasms don’t matter I die a little inside.  So I kind of get it now.

How to Have Casual Sex: Are You Ready for the Big Leagues?

 

Casual sex is like a sporting event. Anybody with a ticket can show up and scream their heart out but that doesn’t mean they’ll score.  If you want to be Major League and play ball in the Show, you have to put in the prep work, you have to have a game plan and for fuck sakes you have to follow through.

Now it doesn’t really matter which sports metaphors I’m using or how exactly I construct the analogy…the truth is they’re all roughly the same.  Train, get in the game, score as much as possible, and do your best to make sure your opponent doesn’t hate you when it’s over.

The prep work is all about you.  You have to ask yourself a few very important questions:

1. Can you separate sex and emotion?  Before you put your name on the roster, you better make damn sure the uniform fits (because nobody likes when casual Candice becomes crazy Cathy or playful Phillip becomes pathetic Paul).  Take some advice from those ancient Greeks and Know Thyself.

2.  Can you manage your expectations?  You can’t expect to win a Heisman when you’re playing hockey, and there are no grand slams in curling.  You can’t expect to pitch a no-hitter throwing ping pong balls.  So when he hugs you close or she kisses your neck, you have to recognize this as a mating call to bang and not misinterpret it as an invite to spend Sunday together locked in cuddles and talking about your innermost fears and desires (unless there sexual and then it’s a very fragile maybe).  Know what ball field you’re playing on and for fuck sakes, bring the right equipment.

 

The game plan is about you, but it’s also about them; really it’s about how you come off, while you’re getting them off, it’s about performing like a champ and doing humanity (and your gender) proud.  Whether it’s a one-night stand or you’re putting in work for a repeat visit, making sure everyone has an excellent time is paramount; nothing ruins sex like not getting yours.

 

A couple tidbits worth knowing:

1.  Kissing is important; don’t slobber, don’t pounce, start slow and learn to adapt.

2.  Reciprocity is vital; if she goes down on you, you damn well better go down on her and vice versa.  Or if that’s not your thing then say something before she swallows up some babies or he loses brain cells from a lack of oxygen; that’s how bitter people are made.

3.  Girls, do not fake it.  This doesn’t help anyone.

4.  Boys, asking what a girl likes is not the same as asking do you like that? after every move you offer.  Asking what she likes shows you’re there for her too, asking over and over if that’s how she likes it just makes you seem inexperienced and like you haven’t got a clue; one is asking her what she’s into and what gets her off, the other is seeking constant reassurance that you’re a good lover.  Also, just listen to her…if she’s doing her job and letting you know what feels good and what doesn’t, you’ll be able to tell everything you need to from her breathing, her moaning, her all out screaming.

 

Sex, just like sports, is all about the follow through.  

If you linger too long, the ball curves off to the right (and you end up in either an awkward so uh do you need a ride home or even worse a balls to the wall um…hit the bricks chick!).

If you bolt too soon, the shot falls short and the team might be out of the finals (meaning the sex was amazing and they probably would’ve fucked your brains out for the next 6 months…on call…whenever you wanted…except you acted like such a dick and left before she finished saying I’m cummmmmmmmmming.

 

Social protocol, kids.  You have to find the balance between being a kiss ass and an asshole.  Be clear about what you want as there’s a huge difference between “see you around” and “let’s do this again”.  One is a polite exit and one paves the way for another entrance.  Say it with it smile, say it kindly and pleasantly, but say it directly and honestly because nobody wins when you have a confused and enraged past partner banging drunkenly on your dorm room door grown up apartment door at 3am whining about how much they hate you so much right now followed swiftly by a pathetic please just let me in.

 

So that’s it really, the ins and outs (and ins and outs and ins and outs again), of how to do casual sex right.

 

Don’t end up the underdog (unless you like that sort of thing) and go after what you want, just be sure you can handle it before you go throwing your pom-poms in some dude’s face or swinging your bat for the fences.  It’s all fun and games till someone gets benched or ends up on the injured player’s list.

 

And remember, even mighty Casey struck out at least once or twice.

How to Have a One Night Stand: with Marky Mark and his Funky Bunch of Felons

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] was in a hot, sweaty and loud Irish bar in Allston, MA with some girlfriends. I was barely 21, still in college and had
a steady boyfriend who I was unattracted to and dying to escape. I was trying to escape my own life, really. I had only had sex with two guys so I decided that I was due for a one-night stand. From what I had gleaned from rom-coms and
Lifetime movies, they were supposed to be exciting, thrilling affairs that usually consummated in a marriage proposal or a restraining order.

So I was ready. Back to the sweaty, hot bar. I recall I was wearing some sort of despicable leotard/bodysuit that had snaps at the crotch. Snaps! So when you had to pee you had to forcibly pull down the crotch/metal buttons from your cervix, and then reattach when done to give yourself a severe wedgie.  Why in God’s name I wanted to look like a busty, camel-toed MaryLou Retton is beyond me. But there I was, ready for action, with some cotton/rayon fabric shoved up my twat.

Tommy was with his buddies, hanging out, being cool. He was a cute townie boy – a dose of Marky-Mark muscles in a tight shirt, gold jewelry, and gelled hair. He looked good, not like a fucking slob. I had my eye on him from the moment he walked in.
So what brought me and Tommy together? My usual move: dirty dancing. I managed to bump and grind my way over to Tommy’s section, rubbing my ass against his jean leg as he leaned against a post, smirking. His friends hooted and hollered. “Yo that bitch is all up in your grill! Her pussy’s calling your NAME yo!”
Tommy took my outstretched hands and did a gentle dance, smooth like quiet storm smoove, then grabbed my bucking, spastic hips and pulled me in for a close embrace. “What’s your name?” 
“Ariel.”


“Tommy.”

The conversation continued, shouting over the loud music – “You went to Dedham High? Did you know Melissa Donnatelli?” And so on. “My girlfriend’s from Dot…my boyfriend grew up in West Roxbury…”

“Wait, your boyfriend?”
Oops.
He laughed. “I guess he has no idea where you’re at tonight, huh.”
I dismissed his mention with a shrug of my shoulders.
He gave me a smile, and a cool appraisal.
“So you a heartbreaker, huh.”
I shrugged again, secretly thrilled he would think that I actually had a cadre of guys who gave two shits.
His friends soon came over and interrupted. “We gotta do SHOTS! C’mon man, it’s your turn to buy!”
Tommy gave me a wave and walked off. I played it cool and went back to my friends, but kept one eye constantly on him for the remainder of the evening. I knew it would be just a matter of time.

“LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL!” the bartender bellowed. There was Tommy, suddenly at my side. “Where you and your girls headed now?”
“Uh, I don’t know, I think they’re going home. But I’m still up for hanging out – what are you guys doing?”
I think we’re headed back to the hood, probably gonna chill and have some beers. Why don’t you snag a girlfriend and come over?”
I hurried back to my girlfriends, who were indeed practically passing out and trying to leave.
“Please please please please come with me! Tommy is so so fucking hot, I really want to go!”
My girlfriends were done and pleaded with me in return to just get his number and come HOME. But I was not to be swayed, a dangerous combination of buzz and horny desperation.


Against my friends remonstrations I left with Tommy and his buddies. Packed 6 deep in a Jeep Cherokee, we hurtled through empty streets away from the familiar and into townieville. I wondered briefly if I would be gang-raped, in a parking lot behind a store. But my drunk bravado and staggering naiveté assured me otherwise. “Nah, Tommy’s a good guy and he really likes me.” This was also reconfirmed as I was squished next to Tommy in the driver’s seat, him holding my hand and telling me how pretty and sexy I was as his friends shouted and punched each other like wild first-graders in the back of the bus.

We get to his place, and it’s decked out like the ultimate bachelor pad. The guys immediately jumped on the couch, turned on the TV and started playing video games. 

“Do you live here with all these guys?” I asked nervously.
“Nah, but you’d think they did since they’re over here ALL THE FUCKING TIME.” He yelled over to them. No response.
I was quickly beginning to sober up and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. “Um, where is…your bedroom?”
“Upstairs. But wait, first I wanna show you the game room.”
He smiled and held out his hand so I followed him downstairs. He turned off the overhead lights so the Miller Lite neon sign on the wall gave the room an icy blue and white glow. Not exactly mood lighting, but whatever.
Tommy grabbed me and kissed me hard. “Hey, sexy,” he whispered.
“Hey.” I whispered back, feeling more at ease. We started making out and then he nuzzled in my ear: “ever done it on a pool table?”
“No.”
“Wanna try?”
“Uh, I guess…”

His fingers caressed my boobs, then tried to pull off my top. The resulting ultra-wedgie sent the bodysuit’s metal snaps into my appendix. I squealed like a ferret.
“What the—“ He stuck his hands down my pants, searching for the edge of the
fabric. “What have you got on, body armor?”
“It’s a bodysuit,” I answered miserably. “It has…snaps.”
“Snaps, huh?” He made a devilish grin. “Well, might as well cut to the chase.” He helped me out of my jeans, and I feverishly pulled down and unsnapped the crotch of this heinous piece of shit clothing invented by S & M enthusiasts, then ripped it off and threw it across the room. 

He mistook my rage for passion and hurriedly took off his jeans and t-shirt. Then we just stood there, looking at each other – me with my unkempt punani and gray-white 3-year old bra, him in duck boxers and socks. 

He looked a lot scrawnier with his clothes off. He moved to kiss me. 

We fucked on the pool table. “You’re leaving your socks on?” I said at one point, as it was that exciting and passionate and I was getting rug burn, I mean felt burn, on my ass. “Yeah,” he replied defensively. “My feet get cold.”
I could barely feel his penis inside me, but he thrusted and groaned as if it were a huge weight he had to maneuver with his hips. After my elbow kept falling one too many times in the left corner pocket I’d had enough. “I’m really tired,” I said.
He stopped. I felt about as sexy/sexual as a three-day old fruitcake. We got dressed and made our way upstairs.
His buddies had now either passed out in various chairs or couch cushions, while two were intently watching “A Current Affair.” Neither of them turned around as we went up to bed.

I crawled into the strange bed with the cold sheets and pillows and too-puffy comforter and lay there, feeling numb. When Tommy came out of the bathroom I pretended to be asleep. Soon I was.


The next morning the guys woke us up by banging on the door, then piling into the room. I pulled the covers up to my neck as they practically jumped on the bed and leered and hollered.
“Yo dude we’re fuckin STARVIN man. We didn’t even go to IHOP last night! We gotta get some grub!”
Tommy laughed, got out of bed and went to piss, leaving the bathroom door open.
“Uh, Tommy? Can you drop me off somewhere?”
Tommy poked his head out of the bathroom. “Sure hon. Where do you live?”
“Needham.”
“NEEDHAM?!?” One of the guys yelped. “You live waaaay the fuck out there?”
“It’s off Route 9,” I snapped defensively.
“It’s fine,” Tommy called out. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take her home then go to breakfast.”
I felt stupid and embarrassed, and just wished I could take a bus; a five-hour trip on public transportation would have been fine compared to this hell ride. But Tommy insisted.

“So,” he said with a smile as he got in the car. “How do we get to
your house from here?”
“Uh…I have no idea.” I had no idea where we were. We could have been in New Hampshire for all I knew.
“We’re in Roslindale.”
Roslindale. Fuck. I’d heard of it, but I had no idea where it was.

“Are you…near the Pike?”
“No we’re not near the Pike!” One of the dudes yelled from the back seat. “We got no highway around here, just the hood – Roxbury, Mattapan…”

Tommy told him to shut up. “We’ll figure it out.”
He did – managed to get us to Route 9. But I still had no idea where we were, and the lack of sleep and creeping hangover did little to fire the sleepy synapses. “Um, take it…east?”
We got completely lost. What should have been a 40 minute ride turned into a hellish hour and twenty minutes, the guys in the back freaking out and cursing like a fucking prison riot was about to break out. I was practically sweating with anxiety. Tommy kept his cool, just smiled and kept saying, “We’ll figure it out.”
I was almost ready to have him stop the car and just let me out on the side of the road when I saw a familiar sign – “Needham Heights 3 mi.” thank God.
I had Tommy drop me off a few blocks away – no need for my parents to see the clown car, nor did these felons need to know where I lived. I didn’t even bother giving Tommy my number, nor did he ask. I just wanted this nightmare to be over.

As I walked away, I heard one of the guys scream out that I was a fucking stupid bitch or something to that effect, and then the jeep peeled off. A suitable ending to a worst night ever. That was the last time I ever wore a bodysuit, or ever went home with a guy. OK, scratch that last part…


[Editor’s Note:  Aside from the obvious love of this story and Ariel for sharing it…I do think we’ve stumbled across a teachable moment and I would be remiss if I didn’t point it out.  So I think we all see the actual sex was a bust, the whole night really, but what is Tommy’s shining moment???  How he handled the next morning.  He didn’t give her bus fare and drop her off in the middle of nowhere.  He didn’t get all pouty and huffy about having to drive her home.  He even did his best to keep the cretins that were his friends at bay.  And that, my friends, is a gentleman.  And it needs to be acknowledged, and others need to take note.  So take note, boys.  A little bit of courtesy goes a long way in the eyes of the ladies.  Just Sayin’]


Ariel is one half of the amazing duo over at KenAndAriel.com, who spend their days making me love them more and more (sharing their dating stories, offering up wisdomous advice, and in general just being awesome).  When I’m not obsessed with reading the blog (where I’ve learned that Ariel and I differ GREATLY on one very important issue…morning sex), I’m avidly following her on Twitter because let’s face it…she’s pretty fucking awesome.


How to Have a One Night Stand: The Unspoken Rules

Guest Post

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]ell, here we are nearing the end of June and time is damn near FLYING by.  So far we’ve learned all about

How to handle rejection by getting used to it when Alex the Urban Dater shared his tales, and then Sam from Metanotherfrog told us all about handling rejection in a way that doesn’t give the other person PTSD, and then I gave all my tidbits of wisdom (and genius!) on HOW and WHEN you need to reject someone and how to react when it happens to you.

The following week was all about one night stands…or really…not having one night stands, because of course, things don’t always turn out quite the way you want them to.  Candice talked about all her experience with NOT having one night stands in her preventative post How to NOT Have a One Night Stand, and as a prolific purveyor of the fucking up your own chances at having a one night stand, I couldn’t help but share with you guys just a few (seriously…barely any…and I have a million!) stories of the times I Screwed Myself Out of Getting Screwed.

But as hilarious as those tales of missed connections and fizzled fireworks are, I know what my readers want (what I want!) and that’s real advice and real stories about one night stands…that ya know…actually happened.  And even some real tangible advice about how to behave when they do in fact happen.  And thus, I give you the first of this week’s many posts.  A little ditty by Meghan.  About the unspoken rules of one night wonders:

_________________________________________________________________________________


There are certain things in the dating world that are unspoken rules.


You
don’t ask or tell the number of sexual partners you’ve had after the age of 25. 

A man should always at least offer to pay for the first date, but a woman
should make a polite gesture towards grabbing her wallet & offering her
part. 

It is not appropriate to text someone for a booty call after 11pm at night
unless you’ve already had sexual relations with them, or there is a pre
conceived agreement.

But then there are the rules no one tells you about. The unspoken rules
of a one-night stand. Do you make the first move? Should she? How about oral?
Truth be told, no one wants to get into the etiquette of one night stands,
because it’s easier for us all to pretend we don’t have them.
Except that isn’t the truth.
Whether it’s a trip abroad, a drunken night at the bar, or simply a
first date with sexual chemistry that is palpable, one night stands are no
longer the recreational activity of Pink Ladies on the back of motorcycles.
They’re common. You’ve had one. I’ve had one. They’re everyone’s dirty little
secret. Except the secret’s out, because here’s where we get down to the nitty
gritty of one-night stand etiquette.
1.)  Always, always, ALWAYS use
protection.
 I am not your mother, and if you have sex you probably won’t get chlamydia and die (name that movie), but in today’s day and age we’re educated,
socially aware individuals. If you can manage 6 social media accounts, you can
put on a condom. Don’t expect the person you’re about to have sex with to
supply them either. Always have condoms on hand, as well as any other birth
control devices available. Embarrassed to bring up protection? Then imagine the
awkwardness of a “you should get tested” phone call. Choose the lesser of the
two.
2.) Make an effort.  One night stands are what they are. At best, it’s
raw unadulterated sex, at worst it’s a body to masturbate with. But that body is
attached to a person, and a person who will be talking about said night with
their friends. Nobody calls their friends (guys or girls) to say, “Wow.______
and I fell asleep during Jeopardy last night, and then ate the rest of the tuna
melt before seven minutes of sex before bed.” One night stands are ripe for
analysis, blog fodder and story’s told over hung-over brunches. Don’t be the
starfish (for ladies) or the guy that skipped foreplay. Even a little bit of
concentrated effort will go a long way in how their friends will look at you
when they see you (and they will) and if you’ll get another call for sex or
more. Wear the good underwear, and this goes for both ladies and men- groom/
trim your genital area. Nobody wants to go down on somebody that has a
wolverine growing in their pants.
3.) Courtesy.  Whether or not you’re stumbling back post bar, or someone
is coming over for a “movie night” offer them a glass of water or wine, or a
beverage. Take a few minutes to talk. Even if it is obviously just sex, you can
take a minute to go through the niceties small talk. If it’s late, offer the
person to spend the night or to call a cab for them. If they stay — give them a
glass of water & Advil in the morning. If they don’t, walk them to the
door. The person just had their genitals in or around your mouth, it’s the
least you can do.
4.) So you forget their name, now what?  So you wake up in the morning
with the taste of dirty sock in your mouth, a stranger tangled in your sheets
and a vague recollection of too many tequila body shots last night. Hey, it
happens. How do you deal with it with tact? Well there’s two possible ways this
scenario could play out. One is to look at their wallet while they’re in the
bathroom to check for ID. The second is just to admit you were both a little
tipsy/out of it last night with a chuckle (actually nix the chuckle. Who
actually chuckles?) and it’s a tad blurry. It’s easier to take the couple
minutes to rehash the night of drunken screwing then forever having them in
your phone as “Weird Orgasm Dude”.
5.) So you’ve mashed crotches together, now what?  This is where the area
gets grey. There is the age old stereotype that nothing will ever come of a one
night stand except a lack of respect. Sadly, this can be true. When someone is
introduced to you by shaking your private parts, rather than your hand, it’s hard to
get them to look at you at eye level. That being said rules are meant to be
broken. If the post coital attitude is dismissive and awkward, take it for what
it was and just chalk it up to a number on the headboard. If there is actual
chemistry beyond the bed sheets; and often there is, that is the time to
exchange numbers and see what can happen. It could be nothing, but then again
it could be something. I’ve stood up at weddings of those who met at the bar
during a one night stand. Don’t judge them for steering with their libido if
they are not going to judge you. Never say never.
Oh and most importantly of all, don’t wear socks in bed. That’s just
weird.


Meghan is a fiery little vixen who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in real life and when we’re not talking boobs, boys or poutine is full of wisdom, but more importantly jokes and a good heart.  I met her through Twitter where she aptly describes herself as just damaged enough to be interesting but she can also be found through her blog Pirate Meghan where you can be regaled with stories about her life (some sordid, some heart warming, some heart breaking), and even learn a recipe or too (hot and sour soup detox…the love story basically writes itself no?) 

Sex Fail: How to NOT Have a One Night Stand

Guest Post
[dropcap]I[/dropcap] may be a tad out of my element, as I am usually found tweeting and blogging about cakes – but when I received an email from my friend to come over here and do a guest post, I put down the cake (into my mouth) and started thinking.

She gave me some topics, and one was How TO have a one night stand. Since I have not had very many successful one night stands in the past, I thought it might be more up my alley to write about how you should NOT have a one night stand. And trust me, if you feel you are even approaching any one of the following situations – stop. No sex is worth it, not even drunk sex (ok, maybe drunk sex).

So goodbye cake and pleasantries, and hello sex and swear words. Now I’m not saying any of these stories actually happened to me, but I’m also not saying they didn’t (but not because they did). And thus I bring you:

How NOT to have a One Night Stand:

 *Avoid Foam & Farmers Fields*
When you’re at a outdoor bar foam party, in the middle of what some would call “the boonies” – the music plays loud and the drinks flow freely. You drink them, you dance, you get all foamy. And then you see him. I don’t know who “him” is, but you know in that moment that your foamy bodies need to make bubble magic. So you venture off, wandering (stumbling) around the dance floor in search of that perfect spot. What’s that? There’s an empty corn field behind the bar? Perfect. Or so you would think before you start doing the nasty and end up falling into an irrigation ditch. In one moment, you go from being covered in bubbles to looking like you just rolled around in a pile of shit. Oh yah – and having to walk through the bar to find your friends and then wash the car that finally decides to give you a ride home would only be the icing on your terrible, muddy cake.

*Keg Stands & Childrens PlayGrounds*
The ever-popular keg party, where cheap people gather to get wasted until the cops come. Or, until you find that special someone that makes you want to explore whoever’s home you happen to be in at the moment until you find a bed, and door with a lock. Ok, maybe not a lock because that’s hard to come across these days, but nonetheless. You gropingly search the dark hallways, and find them to be full of people who were smarter and faster then your drunk ass. So you walk. Oh look, a playground. Let’s go up to the top of the slide where no one (except the entire party who walked home past it) can see! Alright, time to get going, let me just take off my pants an—– One. Piece. Bathing. Suit. About now is when you’d start praying the keg wasn’t tapped out.

*Snowboards & The Darkness*So you’re at a female stripper bar where you can pick up the guys who can’t touch the girls on stage so they touch you (who would DO that? *looks away*).  It’s basically like you don’t have to do the foreplay because they PAY other women to do that part. WIN WIN. Near the middle of the night, you will lock eyes. Sure, he may be staring through the legs of another woman, but the point is you connected. All bets are off now. So you go to his house – where does he live? Who cares. You’ll figure it out later. Do you have your wallet? Not important. FOCUS. You start doing things, and you vaguely recall the word “parents” but figure role-play seems fitting after the evening you’ve had. It’s done and it’s dark. Like, really dark. And you have to pee. You get up. You feel around a room that you have no idea what it looks like, for a door you’re not sure exists. *CRASH!* Um…?? *LOUDEST NOISE EVER* Uhhhh…….??? Light on. Snowboard down. If anything, the lesson you learn is: hold your pee.

Aside from how NOT to have a one night stand, I’m starting to think you should also just not drink. Like, ever. if there are any other ways not to have a one night stand that I might have missed, please feel free to let me know in the comments. The worse stories the better so I (errrr…my friend…?) can feel better about herself. Myself. Shit. Maybe I should stick to cake…

Candice or LoveYourCake (as she’s known to her Twitter followers) is a serial tweeter who loves cats and creates cakes and while she does have sarcasm and whining on the menu…they will cost you a bit extra.  Like me, Candice blogs about her weight struggles but also like me never struggles with being awesome, that comes naturally to both of us (I dare you to prove otherwise!!!).  And when she’s not helping me out by guest blogging on my blog Candice can be found creating amazing cakes that she sells to people (well, the ones she can sell before I manage to eat them).  Her magic and wit can be seen on her blog Baked In Vancouver.

You Don’t Squeeze Lemons Into Paper Cuts

When life gives you lemons

 

[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.  


As for me, that night I went to sleep wrapped in sheets made of silver linings, questions answered, thirst quenched, life being happily lived with, and ready to wake up and tell you all about it.

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

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-Calls (Part Two)

Snowballs

 

To read the beginning of this second date with Cry Baby Romeo click HERE

For the rest of you, let’s just right back into it…

So like I said the movie ended, he didn’t get up to leave, and I was busy rolling snowballs.  And yet somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to move onto the bed with him.  It could’ve been the lack of flirting or the fact that I would have to find another way to be turned on by him since humor was clearly not a strong point.  But whatever it was, I was hesitant and frankly it all just seemed to cheesy.  So instead, like a pair of nervous 18 year olds, we put another movie on.  Good Will Hunting.  Which he had never seen.  Obviously we were doomed.  And then he made fun of my desire to live in Boston regardless of the fact that I haven’t ever been there.  And yes yes, I know I know, it all sounds so disastrously bad now.  But remember hindsight is 20/20 and it’s that goddamn eternal optimism always biting me in the ass!

And that’s when it happened.  I grabbed my balls grabbed a blanket and joined him on the bed.  It was all very go hard or go home and I was going to get it hard or he was going to go home.  And that’s when it happened!!

Just kidding.

I laid there awkwardly in some sort of big spoon to his little spoon situation for another ten minutes before he finally got the balls to throw up a move.  He lifted his arm and gave me the nook.  Finally.  And at first it was good *push snowball* not half bad I kept thinking *go snowball go*.  Only.  Then.  He pounced.  He turned to me and while I was expecting the icing sugar kisses of our first date, he plied me the weight of a thousand bad decisions.

I’m not even joking.  It’s like he was on top of me but he wasn’t.  I honestly don’t know exactly what was happening but it’s possible I was in some sort of pseudo lover’s headlock.  What I DO know!?!  Is that at one point I actually smacked my head against the wall because it had taken that much force to wedge it away from his misguided attention.

And then here’s where it’s like I had rolled the snowball up a mountain.  Slowly.  Laboriously.  I had committed to this goal.  I had plotted the plan and put it into action.  And I was at the top.  I could breathe easy.  Except.  Except.  oh my god.  it’s rolling towards me.  it’s going to topple me.  crush me.  and then it does only it takes me with it.  Before I even have a chance to catch my breath the snowball is dragging me down the hill over and over and over again.


You see.  In some sort of lightening quick motion we had gone from bad kissing to tops off to ridiculously misguided  unarousing pizza dough kneading  rough in all the wrong ways 2nd basing.  And I know what you’re thinking.

You told him to stop right?
You sent his ass packing right?
There’s no way you slept with him right?


And my optimistic head hangs in shame.  And not because I had a one-off.  But because I’m officially part of the problem.  I rewarded pathetic pansy ass no balls moronic idiotic undeserving unendearing behavior with sex.  Now certainly not repeat sex.  But the very fact that CryBabyRomeo even got to see my skivvies is a testament to the kind of dizzying effect optimism and the belief that people have to JUST SIMPLY HAVE TO be more than they’re showing me has on me.

And here’s the even worse part.  We weren’t that far in before I realized the snowball had obliterated me down the hill and I know longer wanted to play outside in the snow.  But, like how do you get out of that?!?!  And on the one hand, the feminist in me says you put a stop to it immediately, you tell the boy you’re not feeling it, and you send him on his way.

But sometimes you can’t think that fast.

And sometimes it’s just not that easy.

And there’s still always that goddamn optimism that thinks it’ll get better, if you just…if you get him to just…aww fuck just cum already so I can go to sleep yo…and quit fucking poking my uterus you moron.  And that was really it too.  If I was turned on maybe his long dick wouldn’t have been such a problem.  But I wasn’t.  And so it was.  And speaking of long.  It fucking went on forever.  FOREVER!  Worst.  Ugh.  Worst.


But is he really a moron?  For a hundred other things yes.  But for this, no.  Now to be clear, no orgasms were faked in the making of this disaster but…  I will admit that I pretended to be having a lot more fun than the real me was having.  And that’s mostly because I just wanted him to finish already and take a hike.  Worst. Blargh.  And I would file it all under things that I regret except for what ended up happening much later than week…all because I had ridiculously bad sex with CryBabyRomeo.  But more on that later.

For now I’ll just finish this decidedly disappointing tale of the booty-call that couldn’t.  After we had finished (and I use the term we loosely, as I clearly did not finish) and gotten dressed, he just sat there.  On my bed.  As if waiting for a chat or something.  I’m not even joking, I was literally ready to start tapping my wrist to mimic a watch with the international sign language for let’s fucking go buddy.  Luckily he eventually got the hint and hit the bricks.

 

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

A Room with a View: Butterflies of Epic Proportions

Hearts
BTW…My Actual View.  Till Friday.

You know when you want something.  Lust after it.  Crave it.  Fantasize about how amazing it will be.  How those little butterflies can be found aflutter in your stomach every time you think about it.  Palms sweating glee and you can almost taste it.  You know that feeling?

Only what if life got in the way.  And when it actually happens.  Or is it about to happen.  The butterflies which had stood on guard.  Waiting.  WAITING.  waiting.  Finally gave up.  And now instead of excitement.  You only feel irritation.  Irritated because it’s not exactly what you wanted.  Irritated that it seems your theory (that you had, in fact, stirred up those butterflies all on your own) seems quite likely to be true.  Irritated that not only do you feel you have to but pissed that you’re even considering cleaning your apartment for a boy that’s not.  Butterflies.  For a boy that’s.  What.  For what?  A booty call?  A one-off?

I’m not a phone talker.  I’d much prefer to just wait to hang out in person.  But when we talked.  It was magic.  At least for me.  And I think for him too.  At the beginning.  After our first conversation he already thought I was a genius.  But more than the ego boost of him thinking I was quite intelligent.  Was the fact that he wanted to hear about it.  My papers.  My essays.  My words.  Written academically.  He wanted to hear about it talk about it know about it.  My face was flushed with lust.  Even now.  Months and months later.  He asks.  About school.  About my grades.  How did you do?

I always see an ending.  With Trucker Joe, even if it had survived past the summer it would never have made it past Christmas.  With all the other “somethings” I always felt a sort of 3 month max. kind of just looming in the distance.  Not negative or positive.  Just obvious.  But with him it seemed.  A little different.  I actually.  Er.  Um.  Kind of liked him.  And maybe it was all just chemistry and pheromones and the way I amped it up by fantasizing about it on cold nights of studying and stress.  But the truth is.  I once sat in a restaurant.  And held a friends hand.  In the cutest way.  Just to show her how I felt about him.  Which in and of itself (revealing mushy feelings to a third party) was pretty apocalyptic.  But it was true.  At the time.

I’m the queen of booty calls.  Okay well sort of.  But I’m definitely the queen of being able to separate sex from feelings when the case benefits from it.  But there I was a  couple months ago.  Asking TheHel a question that I’ve never asked before.  Because I’ve never had a doubt.  Do you think I could handle it, with him, just a booty call?  And her answer.  Point blank.  No.  Real talk, she didn’t even fucking hesitate. It was that clear.  Whether the feelings were real or fabricated.  They were present.  And I liked him.  Wanted to hold hands kind of liked him.  Gross.


And it wasn’t all perfect and swoony because after all he wasn’t able to give me what I wanted.  And so when dating didn’t work.  To the contrary advice of TheHel, we attempted a booty call.  And maybe it was life.  First he was busy.  Than I was busy.  Or maybe there just wasn’t enough interest.  It’s hard to tell when the boy isn’t a sex-crazed 19 year old willing to sell his best friend into domestic slavery for the sake of a good bang.  But either way it didn’t happen.  And yet.  We never lost touch.  Kept in contact.  Sporadic certainly.  A lengthy text conversation every 2-3 weeks.  And I’m not retarded.  I know the lack of phone calling speaks volumes.  But in my defense I’m used to being able to portion out the emotions and just ya know…put them over there.  For the sake of a purpose.

Detour.  Unfortunately I have to write this blog post out of order (because I need advice now!) and I don’t have time to write all the details of the past weeks but just know that there are no other boys.  Right now.  In the last few months.  Besides him.  That have given me butterflies.  And turns out.  Sex.  Not as mind-blowing (for me) without the butterflies.

6 weeks till school/exams are over.  He tries to hangout.  There’s flirting.  Sexy innuendo.  I have butterflies.  I would if I could.  But I can’t.  School trumps boys.  No question.

5 weeks till done.  He tries to hangout.  Flirting.  Innuendo.  Butterflies.  Can’t.  School.

4 weeks till done.  I’m back on PlentyOfFish in preparation of pending freedom.  I notice his profile is gone.  Recently.  Not that I occasional check to see.  Whaaatt!?!?!  Shut up I’m human. lol.  And he was right.  I’m a smart cookie.  He’s dating someone.  I don’t know really why I assume this rather than he’s taking a break from dating or something.  But I do.  And then we’re texting.  I ask if he’s met any cute girls lately?  He says yeah…asks about me.  I congratulate him That’s awesome 🙂 and tell him no but I just put up a POF profile again.  He responds I’m sure you’ll get tons of hits 🙂 and I smirk to myself.  Damn straight.  Though of quality…and I can hear myself sigh lol.  You’re too smart for most guys he quips the sexy is obvious.  And I feel a bit swoony.  Because I know he believes it.  Though I wonder if he includes himself in the “most guys” category?  I ask about the new girl (I assume we’re going to be buddies…one of the many options on the table for awhile now).  He says She’s pretty cool, maybe too sweet, but we are both making efforts.  And I think to myself.  I bet they`re a perfect match.  Or at least a lot better of one than we are.  Good for him.  And I actually mean it.  Only.  While I`m trying to be buddies.  The conversation keeps taking a turn (driven by him) to sexy and flirting and whatnot.  At first I feel guilty.  I don’t DO interference.  If you’ve got a girl.  I don’t run temptation.  That being said.  Is it even my responsibility.  I mean 100% yes if he’s married.  85% yes if they’re committed.  But a dude who just started dating a chick?  Not sure.  He still wants to see my new apartment.  I bet his does.  I suggest we go play pool somewhere or something lol.  But either way.  Right now I’m studying.  School.  First.  Boys.  Second.  Or Eighth.

3 weeks till done.  He texts.  I don’t partake in the flirting.  I have no time.  School is burying me.  I text back.  No time for hanging out/flirting I’ll text when school is over.  He responds.  Ok.


And then I’m done.  And almost a week goes by.  I think about texting.  Like I said I would.  But I pause.  Because it suddenly feels like we had an expiry date.  The butterflies took off.  They just got tired of waiting.  For him.  For me.  For life.  But I’m an optimist.  And a single girl who hasn’t had the kind of hot sex I’ve wanted as of late.  And I’ve got an apartment all to myself.  For only 4 more days.  Sure I’ll have one again in September.  But that’s 4 fucking months.  Privacy is a bitch, no?  I digress.  So although the butterflies have faded, their memory is still impressed into my body.  And so I text.  I’m done.  I survived.  He asks about my grades.  I ask about his work.  We talk about school.  And hockey.  It feels like we’re talking about the weather.  But the truth is every time we do text.  There’s always a bit of a butterfly resurrection.  It might not be butterfly Armageddon but there’s a definite resurgence.  He asks how long do you have your place till?  I tell him Friday.  But I’m mostly all moved out.  Just have to clean it.  And then I ask Do you still want to hang out or was my prime real-estate the real draw ;)?


And to be clear I don’t think I’m totally retarded in thinking he wants to be buddies.  Who flirt.  Because a. He’s said so before.  b. he’s now dating someone (and however, committed or not they are, it’s enough that he took down his profile).  c. Apparently some of you folk out there in the real world think men and women can be just friends.  However, that is until this last bit of conversation.  Because no joke he seems really disappointed I won’t have my own place.  Which I would understand more if he didn’t have one either, but he’s a grown man with his own place.  So it’s not like there wouldn’t be a place to bone?

Detour.  In writing this last bit I figured out a bit more about his disappointment.  He once told me that after our first date, he was kind of bragging about how I was only 29 to his friends, being just on the verge of 40 himself.  Which btw I was hugely flattered by.  Say what you what about superficiality but who doesn’t love being a hot young thing.  Just Sayin’.  And since my apartment is in a dorm after all.  I’m guessing someone has a little fantasy about banging some hot young co-ed.  It all becomes a little clearer.


His response to the text about real-estate?  LOL.  Yeah [I still want to hang out] that would be nice.  But having your own place was hot 🙂

1.  Ouch.
2.  I agree.
3.  Okay no way to rationalize now.  He does not want to be buddies who flirt.

Haha.  Part of me feels my ego just took a hit…but the other part completely agrees…having my own place is hot…guess I’ll just have to be extra adorable to make up for it 😉.  And here is where I should quite possibly have stopped typing.  But I didn’t.  Because I’m a flirty bitch who’s got all kinds of pent up energy from months of studying and sex that wasn’t-hair-pulling-body-slamming-tell-your-friends-too-much-information-later-while-you-regale-them-with-hot-stories-to-vicariously-live-through-your-SLUTmazing-ways type sex.  And ya know.  I’m feeling a bit butterfly-ey.  Technically I have it [the apartment] till Friday 😉  Just Sayin’.  And thus he responds I could come by Thursday before or after my meetings in Vancouver.  Just Sayin’.  I ask something about whether or not it’ll dampen the hotness by the fact that none of my stuff is there anymore?  And then I ask what time his meetings are.

11am and 1pm.  Butterflys stop moving.  What is it with dudes and daytime.  Daytime is NOT sexy.

I respond.  lol definitely after :).  And thus the conversation ends.  Butterflies are at a minimum at this point. But still ya know…present.  Albeit laying dormant.  But still.

Detour.  Here’s a random aside for you to ponder.  A thought just occurred to me.  He wouldn’t know that since my apartment was technically part of UBC residence, the bed comes with etc.  Aka that it’s still there.  What does he think…doing it on the floor? lol not that I’m opposed to that.  But just saying.

So this kind of brings us to now.  Like right now.  2pm on Wednesday April 27, 2011.  And tomorrow is D-Day.  Or not.  We’ll see.  Because the truth is.  Right now.  With him.  I’m being a fickle bitch.  All term I would’ve been gung ho to get it on with him.  Monday I was all butterflies.  Little fewer with the talk of hanging out in the daytime.  And then last night I texted him.  How are you doing??? I can barely breathe lol (for those not local or…not being local is the only excuse for not knowing…but last night was Game 7 of the Canucks vs. Blackhawks round one – Stanley Cup – Game) and so yeah that’s how the text makes sense. But that being said.  no response.  Now sure I’ll admit maybe he was too into the game to answer a text even on a commercial break.  Plus maybe he was…er…with someone.  But this morning rolls around and no response.  Which for him is actually a little bit unusual.  And thus.  All butterflies disappear.

And now I’ve just got dread.  And irritation.  And I keep flip flopping between what to do.  Options:

1.  Forget about it.  If he texts tomorrow…ignore it.  And honestly never talk to him again.  He doesn’t like me.  And since he can’t give me exactly what I want in a booty call…is there really any point?  No.  Drop him.  Leave him.  Ignore him.  Become a lesbian.  Whatever.


2.  Text something.  (for this option I’d really need some advice).  Text something that gets you out of this predicament but keeps future sexy predicaments a possibility.  For reference, I’m not sure what that text would say…so advice would be mucho requireo.  That’s right.  I make Spanish words by adding an O.


3.  Text him something about just being friends.  Real talk.  He’s got a girl.  It makes me feel weird.  Or at the very least it’s a good guise to get out of this situation and possibly become friends.  Is that even possible?  Do I even want to?


4.  Hurry the fuck out to UBC, clean my damn apartment, go to ball practice at 6pm, come back to suburbs to sleep.  And tomorrow morning/afternoonish head get dolled up…go out to UBC.  Throw some sheets on the bed.  Hang out with him.  Bang his brains out.  Have disappointing sex?  Have amazing sex?  Have super awkward situation?  Have amazing story to tell?  You’ll never know unless you do it.


5.  Don’t bother cleaning apartment.  Go to practice.  Go out to UBC tomorrow.  Fuck in the filth.  THIS IS A JOKE….all my OCD and need to be smokin’ hot when hanging out with boys I do smokin’ hot things with would totally prevent this from even being a possibility.  Do you know me at all?!?!? lol


6.  Some option I haven’t considered.

So there you have it.  Fuck.  I rarely ask.  So you know that means I’m seriously torn about what to do.  Help me!!!!!!! lol.  Seriously.  And be quick about it lol.

Oh and BTW.  I’m talking about The Nick Name.  Oh shut up lol you saw this coming.

 

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

Dear Boys, Blame Your Buddies

 

I just recently read an article about why men today are so angry.  The article had several points so before you go dissecting my argument…I’m mostly focusing on the the argument that men are bitter and angry that women  seem to want equality in all areas of life except dating/sex/relationships.

So there they are.  Angry men.  Trying to figure out why exactly it is that they should pick up the tab, open the door, etc.etc.  And while I’ve covered one of many angles in Dear Boys, Why I Never Pay On Dates?  Here is another angle.  Well more of an exposé.  On who these angry men have to blame.  Because bee tee dub?  It sure as fuck isn’t me.

So here it is.  The answer.  First the why.  And then the who.

So the why…short answer?  Because you still judge us.  Okay sure.  Not all of you.  Of those who read my blog, probably a lot fewer than the general population.  But still a HUGE ass chunk of boys.  So you can just go ahead and blame your bros.  Blame it ALL on them, because they’re ruining it for everybody.

Why you have to do the asking?  Why you have to pick up the tab?  For the same reason I have to pretend I haven’t slept with half of British Columbia and most of Washington.  Just Sayin’  It’s all about the guise and illusion and until you don’t judge me for all the indiscretions that take away from the lady-likeness that is demanded of me.  You better open my goddamn door.  You better pony up with some change for my soda.  You best get to asking me out.  (assuming after articles like this boys still want to lol).

And I know you’re immediate reaction.  You’re thinking.  Oh I don’t judge.  Whatever happened before me doesn’t matter.  Blah blah blah.  While on the one hand I call total bullshit.  On the other hand…I’ll just give it to you (the point I mean, get your mind out of the gutter).  Let’s assume you don’t pre-judge the super slutmazing ways of my late teens and early twenties.

Even then there’s still all the little things.  Like being slutty now.  Kissing too soon.  Fucking too soon.  And getting judged.  Calling too quickly.  And getting judged.  Being the one to do the asking.  And getting judged.  Because I know what it is that you want.  You want the girl that all the other boys can’t get.  You want the prize.  You want the star.  And you want the girl that is recognized for being those things.  By the other primates.  I mean boys.

So the next time you moan and complain about having to make the first move, having to shell out for a date, and having to open a simple little door.  Have some compassion.  Because while all you need is balls.  Chicks have to plan strategy like goddamn army generals.  It’s not so easy being HardToGet when all you want to do is just be fucking normal.  Just to be nice and kind and fun.  Without having to worry about giving it all away (not just sex) too early.  And for reference I’m not talking about emotionally slutty susans here.  That’s a whole other ballgame.  I’m talking about a normal girl.  Who doesn’t want to play games.  But has to.  Like Stratego.  When all she wants to do is tell you where the flag is and go makeout already.  But can’t.  Because you’re judging her.  Or other boys are judging her.  And she doesn’t yet know that you’re not one of the boys judging her.

And you have your judgemental brothers to thank for that.  So think about that.  The next time your buddy rags on a girl being slutty.  Or no longer being interested because she was too interested and though he thought she was rad, he wanted a chase.  Go ahead.  Punch him in the face.  Maybe even knock his balls around a bit.  Because he’s really your worst enemy.  Making you angry.  Keeping you from the things you want (like getting laid).  And making you open doors.  Which is a pretty big hardship I admit.  And while you’re at it.  Maybe it’s time to collect the $500 he owes you for all the dates you’ve had to take out all year.  I know I’d be scrounging through his pockets.

Dear Boys,

My dear, dear boys.  My Angry Andrews.  My Hard done by Henrys.  My Picking up the tab Peters.  It’s time you knew the truth.  Admitted it to yourselves.  Those Bros you’re always keeping before your Hos.  They’re to blame.  For things not being equal.  For the fact that ladies don’t want to do the asking.  They’re the reason that chick is holding out on you.  That is wasting your time being coy when everybody could just be having fun together.  I know it’s hard to hear dude.  But the only person fucking you right now is your homies.  Your DNA twins.  Your buddies, your dudes, your bros.  So don’t tell me dudes.  Because I already know it’s bullshit.  But go ahead and spread the news through the dudework.  Get that message out.  Stop judging the ladies.  And things’ll go your way.  Our way.

Yours Truly,
Judgey Wudgey
aka Something She Dated
aka Your bros favorite ho
aka That girl who wasted your time being coy
aka That girl who hates being HardToGet & says fuck it! every so often
aka Helping boys make changes through admittance, acceptance and change
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

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

Fan of the White Lie Or “Stop! You’re Ruining It

Uncertainty in Dating

[dropcap]G[/dropcap]irls across the interweb claim to want honesty.  I am not one of those girls.  Boys across the interweb also claim to want honesty.  I am not one of those boys, though I’m kind of hoping you already knew that…wha

This is my summer of fun.  The summer of boys.  And I like a good charade.  Allow me to explain.t with all my references to “hot boobs” and this being Something SHE Dated.  And the thing is I’m sure most of them want it.  And in some situations I might want it too.  But not now.

There’s no need to make up your life story.  I mean that’s just psychotic.  But the white lie.  She’s a friend.  Use her.  Utilize her.  Make her work for her money.  I’m just sayin’.  The white lie.  She’s a beauty.

So you’re out on the town with a friend…and she asks how her outfit looks…it does not look good.  You should:

A.  White lie…tell her it looks fabulous
B.  Tell her the truth…real gentle like
C.  Scream and run

The correct answer is A.  Now before you get all “girl…she needs to know the truth” on me, let me explain.  Sure enough you want to protect your friends from embarassing themselves etc.  But here’s the thing of the thing…you’re already out.  If she had asked you while back at her house with a closet full of clothes to change into then damn well lay it out for her.  But she didn’t.  You’re out.  And about.  Fucking white lie your ass off.  Go ahead and paint those damn roses red.

This same concept is transferable to dating life.  Watch and learn boys.  Take notes.

I recently had some “fun” and much akin to the stupidity of boys there was a point where clearly…he was hoping things would be…unprotected.  The appropriate response from me was:

A. Gross, boy slag!  point, laugh and run
B. No…you might be sleeping with other people

Now at this point…some chicks might want to know whether or not he was in fact sleeping with other people. Me…not so much. We’re using protection.  No question.  So I don’t need to know.  I don’t want to know about the competition. Frankly I dont really care.  About him that is.  I mean I care in general like the same way I hope everybody in the world is happy and has nice lives.  But we know what it is between us.  And that’s all good with us.  His response to this should have been:

A.  You’re so hot! or something akin to this
B.  Yeah…true.
C.  Okay…but I’m not sleeping with anyone else.

You’re going to be shocked.  I can just feel it.  But the correct answer is white lie A. or C.  Either would have worked, either would have been sufficient.  Would I have believed it?  Not a chance…but that’s not really the point.

His response for reference was, “yeah, true.” And in the words of the writer’s of SATC, “like putting ketchup on steak…STOP!! YOU’RE RUINING IT!!!”

Now I can’t claim that other girls everywhere really want this kind of dating white washing.  But I do.  So when in doubt.  Just ask.  Because I’ll tell you straight up.  If you ask me whether or not I want the truth or the sugar coating…I’m going to answer simply and directly.  I want to be covered in candy.  I want to roll around in candy corn.  I want to stretch and pull like taffy.  I want to be covered in a blanket of icing sugar.  I want to wrap myself in cotton candy.  Wait?  What were we talking about again?  Oh yeah, Candy Coat Me Baby!!!

Now ask me again as my blog readers…and the answer will be completely different.  From you, dear readers, I want the truth.  Tell me if my outfit looks bad.  Tell me if I’m actin’ crazy.  Turn the lights on for me.  I might not follow your advice…but at the very least I’ll absorb it.

 

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