The Bird Seed Theory, or Why He Keeps Contacting You

Bird Seed Theory

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

Every so often I come to a realization about dating.  An answer to a dating question that feels so long fought for and so hard-battle-done-by that it’s like solving the Riddle of the Sphinx.  Like figuring out what the hell happened to Amelia Earhart.  Like I just destroyed the ring in the fires of Mount Doom.  Like I just solved world hunger.  Like I just figured out where in the world is fucking Carmen San Diego, coherently explained the Matrix, and made cold fusion easily accessible and replicable to the general public.  It’s like I know, like seriously fucking know, exactly how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a Tootsie-Pop.

And it’s finally happened.  I know a thing, about dating, like fucking know it, and thus I give to you:

 

The Bird Seed Theory (or, why he keeps contacting you).

 

Here’s the thing: dating is all about effort.  And the fundamental difference in how men and women view effort is the leading cause of dating frustration.  Okay so I kind of made that bit up…the “leading cause” bit…but bear with me and you might start to agree.  See, if you were to ask most women what is the worst part about dating?  I would hedge my bets that they would say “it’s the uncertainty”.  Sure, rejection hurts and uncomfortable moments suck and after awhile everybody gets frustrated and wants to call it a day, but the worst THE WORST part about dating is the uncertainty.  the waiting.  the fade.  and then the come back charlieness of it all.

I don’t really know how it came to me (that’s a lie, I know exactly how it came to me…so let me just tell you).  Driving home from UBC, the day I moved out of residence back at the end of April 2010, I was talking to my brother (who had so graciously helped me move), about The Nick Name and how I just couldn’t figure out what his fucking deal was and why he kept in contact with me when he obviously didn’t like me so much that he like had to fucking have me.  And just like that, it all came together for me. GENIUS!!!  Sort of like He’s Just Not That Into You…Version 2.0…The Bird Seed Theory.

You see, women are very selective about the effort they put into men and dating.  For those who love a good analogy like I do –> We throw thick chunks of bread at select ducks.  Only the ones we really like.  The ones we see a potential with.  The ones who make us swoon.    Or that can dick us down just right (don’t get it wrong…it’s not always about mush and heart)…but the point is we only throw bread when its worth our while.  Effort is precious and we don’t like to waste.

Guys throw bird seed  *makes bird seed throwing gesture*.  Guys throw bird seed constantly…all the time…every moment…of every day…every heart beat…throwing fucking bird seed…not caring who it lands on.  Now this isn’t to say that boys will date or bang all the ducks they throw seed at.  That’s not the point.  The point is to have the option. Boys are always on the prowl, always having things in the mix.  It’s like it’s in their DNA or something.

And I know what you’re thinking…doesn’t that negate the theory of effort?  And the answer is NO.  Quite the opposite.  Because in fact, men don’t see throwing the seed as effort.  Because it’s all in the name of sex (or whatever motivates them, ego, adrenaline, etc.).  And while we (women) are only keeping the options open with those boys we want right now, boys are inherently thinking…more…possibility…later.

So here’s your real-world-tangible-practical-jesus-I-wish-we’d-known-this-earlier-so-much-wasted-time-lesson.

The next time Come Back Charlie sends text message…a FB wall post…a special Tweet…a phonecall…whatever….that leaves you thinking wow.  He misses me.  He’s thinking about me.  He made a mistake in how he treated me before.  He didn’t mean it when he pulled the fade on me.  He didn’t mean it those other 2 times he bailed on plans.  He thinks I’m special really fucking special.

He Doesn’t.

but but but.  No!  He really really fucking doesn’t.

Sure it’s quite possible he cares about you in the same sense that I generally hope people in the world are happy and leading joyful lives and all that.  But to be totally honest, he doesn’t give a shit about you.  Nothing has changed.  I promise.  He is NOT the exception.  You are NOT the exception.  Maybe he enjoys your conversation, maybe he thinks you’re hot and would be cool with a bang (pending that it fit his schedule, pending that some other chick he has been throwing bird seed at and that he wanted more wasn’t available) but honestly, it doesn’t matter.  Whatever his circumstances or reasons are…this dude is not interested in you enough for you to give him the time of day.  Even a proper booty call knows how to be blunt, honest and respect your time.  A dude throwing bird seed has no concern for your time.  Because while throwing bread at him is exacting effort on your part…you’re just another duck on his row to throw some seed up.  *seed throwing gestures*

And to make sure you all listen.  And really know that this isn’t just something I’m saying but can’t back up with actual facts.  I give you both Garbage Man and The Nick Name.  Both these dudes were done with me by the 2nd date (possibly even before).  And after that 2nd date…they kept in contact.  For months.  Like seriously fucking months.  The Nick Name actually kept in contact for years!! though I never saw him again after that 2nd date.  And while in my mind I cannot fathom exerting that much effort to stay in contact with someone you had no real interest in hanging out with again…for them I imagine I was just one in a ton of other chicks.  Or one in a ton of other hobbies.  Or one in a ton of whatever-the-fuck-they-do-with-their-time.  But while I assumed the continued contact was a reflection on the good so-so satisfactory meh times we had spent together and the connection we had.  I was wrong.  So so fucking wrong.  They were just throwing bird seed.  And I was just a duck running around with my head cut off.  Does that analogy work?  I think so.  You get the idea anyway.

So the next time a dude who isn’t treating you like you think he should.  Or a dude that ditched you comes back with a less than grand gesture.  Or really you just have an inkling that you’re doing all the work.  STOP THROWING BREAD at his bird seed throwing ass and find yourself another pond to go loiter at.  Because this one is not good for you.

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

Learning to Live with Uncertainty in Dating

Uncertainty in Dating

 

could go without underwear.

I don’t like to, but I could.

The same goes for a bra, but then I take no responsiblity if while walking down the street you get knocked through the glass window of a store because my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder was taking a day off and the goons were out on a stroll.  My nips, however, never apologize, for anything.

I could get by without pajamas, and the super rich moisturizer I like to put on my feet in the winter.

I could survive without meat, and milk, and cheese (though the cheese would be the toughest).

I could eat fries without ketchup, I could stiff upper lip having to sit in the middle seat on an airplane.  I can carry on without air conditioning and cable and a landline, even a cell phone.

I could manage with candles instead of electricity, assuming I could get my hands on a type writer.

I could endure 2 weeks in the woods.

I can weather the storm.  I can take the beating and keep on trucking.  But what I struggle with most, what tears at my soul, itches my very being, knaws at my sanity…is a lack of answers. (which probably helps to explain my obsession with science regardless of my career centred in words)

This is particularly problematic given that dating is the soul-sucking-never-ending-black-abyss of never-knowing-anything-with-certainy.  When it comes to dating, you have to accept you might never know.  Dating is swaddled in uncertainty and you’re likely to be left in the cold without a blanket.  And you just have to accept that.

I say you but what I really mean is me.  Because dammit I have to learn.

But the answers?!?  All the answers.  I want them.  Need them.  I have to find a way to live without them even though every cell in my body is screaming for the truth, a reason, some logic, a glimpse into someone else’s reality…all I really want is an answer, all the answers, forever answers, most answers, because answers, give me the fucking answers!!!

But the truth is, they’re not coming.

And before anyone says something stupid like but the answer IS the lack of answers…go fuck yourself.  A lack of answer is not actually an answer.  (and it’s that kind of bullshit logic that is at the centre of almost everything that is wrong with our world, so knock it the fuck off and be smarter).  Sure, we might be able to draw a conclusion, hint a suggestion, hypothesize and infer but these are not concrete.  When I say answers I mean an ACTUAL FUCKING ANSWER.

Nonetheless, there are no answers coming for Come Back Charlie.

Why didn’t he call?  Maybe I was a lousy lay.

Why didn’t he text?  Maybe he just thought I was tedious or not pretty enough, maybe he didn’t like the sound of my laugh, or my smile.

Why didn’t he seem to want to hang out anymore?  Maybe his laughter was bullshit, the sweetness all fake and he was just a dude looking for a quick bang (but not interested in a second).

What had changed?  Maybe he didn’t like that I wasn’t magically in love with him or maybe he got busy with work and school.

Why didn’t he like me?  Maybe he had a girlfriend or maybe another girl came along that he simply liked better.  Or maybe even just a TV show.  Truth is, I’ll never know.

Regardless of the fact that he was the one all excited to hang out again after our second date, actually asking so when do I get to see you again?, the lines of communication fell flat.  I texted once or twice.  He texted once or twice.  He never asked me to hang out again.  He never made plans.  I asked once and when nothing came of it, didn’t ask again.  And that was that.  Come Back Charlie would be no more.

Am I sad?  Not really.

Am I hurt?  Maybe a little but still, in all honesty, not really.

Then what is this feeling, this irritation, why do I even give a shit?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Because there go the fantasties of hot (given that he could improve) stress free sex with a goddamn giant for the last few weeks before I leave for Montreal.  Because there goes the built in booty call to come home to at Christmas.  Because dammit, I don’t like when things don’t go my way.  I’m a fucking child like that.  Disappointment is a bitch.  But hey, that’s dating.  Right?

Feel the sting, absorb the punch, stand up tall, and keep walking.  No More Come Back Charlie.  Deuces.

 

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

Vancouver Dating Blog: When Hormones Attack

When Hormones Attack

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o I thought I was done with Come Back Charlie.  I mean he totally blew me off, no?

No.

Wait…what?  He didn’t blow me off?

And that’s how the conversation started whereby my friends (and myself) were able to realize that I may have been freaking the fuck out getting upset over nothing.  Because after all, this wasn’t the beginning of a burgeoning relationship. At best this would be a 6 week summer fling followed up (maybe) by some home for christmas flinging.

I mean…okay, sure…he could’ve made sure I knew we weren’t hanging out on Friday night.  I mean, that would’ve been a less douchey thing to do but the first date had gone so well and he seemed to like me (in a summer flingy kind of way…we weren’t soul mates or anything)…so maybe it was just a case of assumptions gone awry and accidental asshole behavior.  And at the very least I owed it to myself to find out, no?  I mean, what could one text hurt, right?  Either he would ignore it, be a dick or something (which seemed unlikely) or he’d respond back and we would make plans to hang out again.

He did the latter.  In fact, he was the one who asked me to hang out again (I had simply texted hey, how’s it going?).  And because I’d spent the weekend talking it over with friends about how it’s the summer and fuck it (literally) and what have you got to lose? etc., when Come Back Charlie asked…I decided to go for it.  And so CBC and I made plans.  To hang out.  Watch a movie.  At his place.  Tuesday night.

 ~

 And then Tuesday happened.  I got my hair did by the lovely @HairByKatieRose (who *SPOILER ALERT* by the way is clearly some kind of psychic or oracle or wizard because instead of styling my hair curly [as it goes naturally] or straight [as is the fashion] she gave it this gloriously half and half SEX-HAIR look that was beyond amazing…it had body, it was hot, it was…well…pretty fucking magical…because after all I had…well let’s not get ahead of things here).

Now I could ramble on about TMI warnings or tell you that things are about to get gross or whatever.  But dammit, who has that kind of time, so I’m just going to spit it out.  While amazing that Come Back Charlie and I were about to have our second date, there was a hiccup.  I had…my period.  Or well.  Just a little.  Barely anything.  A boyfriend wouldn’t care.  A booty call wouldn’t care.  A drunk one night stand wouldn’t care.  But I was a stone cold sober fox and so it made me very apprehensive.  This was not the first time sex I was looking for and moreover, this would likely mean skipping a few stages…that we all know I cherish.

The truth is, going into the date I had it set in my mind.  I will not have sex tonight.  I. Will. Not. Have. Sex.  TONIGHT.  My body doesn’t always listen to what it’s told though.

But…well…you’ll see.

I showed up around 9pm.  I may have been a little hesitant, still feeling a little jilted from the prior lack of engagement, but as soon as I saw Come Back Charlie and his gigantic man body all was forgiven.  And it only got better from there.  He was as sweet as pie.  I picked the movie (which ended up being THE WORST MOVIE EVER…word to the wise that Russell Peters Hockey movie barely has Russell Peters in it…oh and also…worst movie ever…ever!).  The only highlight of this choice was that it gave us plenty of time to make jokes to each other and comiserate in the awfulness of the movie.

There was a ton of laughter.  A ton of cheeky cute smiles.  There was a ton of touching.  And I can’t lie, everytime his hand made a move along my leg (even if it was only my shin), I swooned.  Now don’t get me wrong, when I say swoon I don’t really mean anything more than a little flip of the stomach which btw can be caused by something as intense as an “I love you” and as little as when Michael Ealy looks at the camera and says SSDated, this is for you and takes his shirt off.  But a flip is a flip, a swoon is a swoon, and dude was winning major points in the I want to have sex with you department.

Additional points were added when everytime I wanted to take a sip of water from my glass on the coffee table (which was just far enough away from the couch that I’d have to get up)…Come Back Charlie would simply reach out one of his gigantic arms and without moving an inch from the couch grab my drink for me.  *Drool*

Eventually giggles about the movie turned to making out on the couch.  And that’s when I made my fatal mistake.  Because you see, I’m a moron.  I blame all those hormones swirling around in my body keeping me from thinking straight.

You see, when I said want to go to your bedroom? what I really meant was let’s go to your bedroom so this dry-humping can be more sucessful and you can really get a good grab of my ass and sure I guess I could lose this shirt and bra and of course let’s get you shirtless for sure.

Which would’ve been fine.  Except that he’s a guy.  And so what he heard was let’s go to the bedroom because we’re going to have some sex.  Sex is good.  I want to have sex with you.  In your bedroom.  Because that’s where the sexin’ happens.

And so then of course, I had to tell him.  So…um…erhm…uh…um…we can’t have sex tonight because I have my period.

To be honest, I expected him to sulk like a 6 year old who was just told that his birthday his been cancelled.  But he didn’t.  In fact, far from it.  His was probably one of the nicest, least deterred, least upset, responses I’ve ever ecountered and given that I’m a woman and this happens every 21 days give or take…this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation.

Admittedly, when he said it was totally fine and acted like it wasn’t a big deal and definitely didn’t deter him from the making out in anyway…that was the moment he probably changed my mind…turned out sex would happen.

Well played sir, well played.

You see, the more we made out and grinded up and down on each other’s bodies, the more it seemed feasible.  You see, I barely had my period.  And we could put down a towel he said.  And I guess, in the heat of the moment, I let my decision making skills fall to the wayside and my hormones and lust get the better of me.  Hey!  It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.  Don’t act so damn surprised!

And I know what you’re thinking.  Big fucking deal.  So what…you had sex on your period…plus you barely have your period…no big thing…people do it all the time.  And to that I would say wait.  Because the sex…or at least the having of it…was not the problem.  It was the missed stages.  We went straight from making out to having sex and while in theory…for some people…that’s fine.

But when it comes to sex…I’m like Veruca Salt.  I want what I want when I want it.

Needless to say we had sex.  There were some highlights.  Like when he was on top and just all big and manly and thrusting away and I let it slip out that oh…you’re so hot in a sexy whispered breath of course…and then he slowed his pace, looked at me and said no…you’re so hot!  I mean shit, son.  That’s some good stuff right there.

But of course, there were some lowlights…like the fact that I didn’t get mine. blargh.  And then of course there was the fact that he came in what felt like 3 minutes or so…which I guess considering I didn’t get mine could be argued as a good thing but didn’t bode well for future performances.

But then we were right back to the highlights*

*I say highlights because at the time these things felt awesome and great but now given that I know how the story turns out…well…meh.

Normally, I’m not a huge snuggler.  Okay that’s a lie.  I’m a relative snuggler.  My desire to snuggle depends greatly on who you are, what you mean to me, and what our current relationship is.  So needless to say Come Back Charlie and I weren’t really at a “snuggly” place yet.  And yet.   And yet.

Maybe it was just because he was so big and thus I fit into his nook like a little cocoon.  Maybe it was because he was just so damn sweet after.  Who knows.  But there were snuggles.  He just kept snuggling and wouldn’t let go.  Eventually I looked at the time and saw that it was 1:30am and I should go because you have to work in the morning.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way.  But he said just a little bit longer.  And so I stayed and cuddled a little bit longer.

Eventually around 2am though I put my foot down (literally) and got up.  I tried to shuffle out of the sheets as he seemed near sleep.  I expected him to stay in bed.  Instead he got dressed and basically played grab ass while I got dressed and gathered up my things.  And then he grabbed me around the waist, kissed me and said, so when do I get to see you next?  I just smiled and said text me.

He walked me to the door.  And then out into the hall.  We continued to makeout like teenagers.  He said something like so just hit L for Lobby to which I responded uh…yeah…I know…I got into Grad School.  And he really got me…Smart ass! he said.  And then we made out some more, until the bell of the elevator alerted us to the open doors.  A guy stepped off the elevator, obviously flustered by our kissing and then got back inside.  Not his floor.  I giggled goodbye, hit L for Lobby and watched the doors closed.

And I’m not sure whether he wanted a fist bump or my phone number but buddy in the elevator began to chat me up.  Bizarrely not the first time I’ve experienced this kind of behavior.  Boys are weird.

 

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

When Your Summer Fling Flings You Aside Are You Flung?

When Your Summer Fling Flings You Aside, Are You Flung?

 

[dropcap]So[/dropcap] let’s see…Friday night I went out with a 23 year old…and made out in the rain in a movie theatre parking lot.  (following the it was great to meet you text message was a barrage of amenable text messages about how he had been shy and would certainly please my every whim and desire the next time.  Apparently he too wanted to go down on me (not that I’ve ever really had anyone not want to go down on me…but verbalizing it…rather than say…telling me they wanted to fuck me…was becoming a trend…the 23 year old…Come Back Charlie…*spoiler alert* and some others not yet discussed.)  I digress.  The text messages went on for quite awhile.  Perhaps I didn’t play along enough.  Perhaps it was because I pointed out that with both of us currently staying with our folks, there was hardly a place for said behavior to occur.  Still, it seemed to end well.

And yet, like The PhD. before him, after a series of dirty text messages, I never heard from him again.  Okay that’s a lie, I heard once, one text message but it was about school and being busy and who the fuck cares.  The truth was, I was probably using the whole nowhere to kick it as an excuse because as much as it seemed interesting to date a 23 year old…I wasn’t really feeling him.  Deuces.

Monday I went out with Come Back Charlie.  He sent the usual text so great to meet you and can’t wait to see you again. We made plans.  Or.  Well.  I thought we made plans.  He asked if I was free Wednesday, I wasn’t.  I asked if he was free Thursday, he wasn’t.  Well, I said, I’m busy Saturday and Sunday so it’s either Friday or next Monday or Tuesday?  Friday could work, he said.  But then he added, that he’d have to check and see if he was working early Saturday morning or not.  To be honest, it felt like a brush off.  But then again I tend to overact and get my spikes up for anyone who displays anything other than total admiration for me if I think I’m being jilted.  But I was trying to be breezy, no?  So I said sure, sounds great and that was that.

Looking back now, it’s clear that we were only hanging out if he let me know, which he did not.  But at the time, I foolishly thought we had plans, assuming that he didn’t tell me he had to work.  See.  I make dating mistakes too.  All the time in fact.  Just in case you were under the misguided presumption that I always know what the fuck I’m doing.  Anyway, so Friday rolled around and somewhere around 2pm I sent a text message saying so, are we on for tonight?

We were in fact, not on for tonight.  He had to blah blah blah tonight and wouldn’t blah blah blah till tomorrow blah blah blah.  And so that was that.  I got the brush off.  Ain’t that a bitch.  Looks like this whole Vancouver summer fling before I move to Montreal thing really just wasn’t going to happen.  So I mean, fuck.  But whatever.  I guess.

My response to his text message?  Silence.  Because what is there reallly to say.

It takes all my strength to say nothing.  To text nothing.  Because I know that there is no point.  Because I know these feelings are irrational.  Because nobody likes bitter betty.  But here, in this blog, where I share some of my most vulnerable moments, I can tell you this:  I am a ball of rage.

I want to text you know you just blew it right?  because there is a part of me that actually thinks that it is not simply a case of him not liking me enough but that he might really be that stupid.  But I think we all know, it’s not an either or situation.  He doesn’t like me, stupid or not.  Bird Seed.  Full Stop.  Because otherwise he would’ve told me the moment he knew…rather than waiting for me to text and ask if we were still on, only to then inform me that we’re not.

I want to text thanks for wasting my time or good thing I wasn’t waiting around to hear from you or fuck you fuck you fuck you but really fuck me fuck me fuck me I’m so stupid I fucking hate you!!!

I want to send him a link to the blog.  I want him to read this post.  I want to know how can someone seem so totally into me (even if we are expiration dating, a time stamped affair), and then just fuck it all up.

I want I want I want.  Doesn’t he know that the rest of the summer was laid out for him?  We could’ve watched movies and created our own x-rated scenes.  We could’ve laughed.  We could’ve done all the fun things in dating without worrying about where is this going? and what are we doing?  We could’ve had the drive in movie theatre make out, thrown our empty popcorn tubs and sodas on the ground (metaphorically of course, you know mamma don’t litter) and driven off into the night.

It feels like handing someone an all-out-paid-for dream vacation and them just shrugging their shoulders and saying something ridiculous like meh…I think my passport is expired.  Like that’s an acceptable reason to turn down such a treasure.

I want to rage.  I want to smash things.  I want to write long, well thought out, articles that somehow change the world into being the place I want it to be.  A place where people respect the time of others.  A place where people say what the fuck they’re thinking.  A place where people don’t treat others like shit.  I want to be right and maybe I just don’t give a fuck about being happy!!!

Except that I do.  Because I’ve adopted a new policy in life.  Better to be happy than to be right.

I actually used to think the total opposite.  Better to be right (because in being right, you could find happiness).  But given that you can’t control others, that often isn’t the case.  And so I changed my mind.  Better to be happy than to be right.  Better to keep your mouth shut about some things.  Better not to bother trying to teach someone something that you think is right which, if we’re being honest, they probably either disagree with or even more likely don’t give a shit about.

Plus aside from the fact that he could’ve saved me the time and energy wasted in being excited/stressed about hanging out, was there really anything to teach Come Back Charlie besides how to be a fucking decent human being, no, of course not.  The truth was, he just simply didn’t like me.  Adorable conversation, hot and heavy making out, even cute realizations that our father’s have the same careers…all of that aside…the dude didn’t want to see me again.  Case closed.  And I just fucking accept it.  So I did.

 

Well…until I had a conversation with two close friends.  More on that next time *awkward winky face* *falls over* *jumps up* *bats eyelashes to try to make up for stumble instead looks like a girl having a seizure* *gives up and walks away*

 

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

Come Back Charlie: First Dates and the Battle to Keep Your Clothes On

First Dates

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o the toilet was about to overflow…and then it wasn’t.  He fixed the problem (old building, old plumbing), cleaned up and was back to the movie and me in no time with no resounding repercussions except that I was now terrified to go to the bathroom.

Minor bathroom mishap aside, the date was going great.  We were snuggling on the couch, his arm around me, his hand playing with my curls, his hand in my hand, his hand on my leg.  And pretty soon it was happening.  That look.  That thing guys do.  When I know they’re getting ready to try to kiss me.  I can sense it.  I can feel it.  And most of all, I can see it.  Out of the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision, there he is, just looking at me, instead of the movie (much like with the 23 year old only a few nights before).  And then it happened.  He kissed me.

Admittedly (and I’ve mentioned a hundred, or 8 or so, times before), there’s always a grace period.  A moment where you’re just trying to calm your nerves, you’re just trying to suss out how the other person moves, whose lips go where, whose tongue likes to do what, before it all just comes together.  And come together it did.  His mouth, wet and warm, moved in sync with mine.  His soft juicy lips pressed against mine, my bottom lip sliding into his mouth to find a gentle suck, his bottom lip sliding into my mouth to find a little nibble, a little flick of the tongue across the bottom of his upper lip, his tongue on parade in my mouth.  And that’s just the kissing.

At some point I’m pretty sure the movie ended.  I think the guy came in off the ledge.  Who knows.  We had been making out for the most of it.  Then, given that he wasn’t going to be getting any of my clothes off tonight excepting whatever he managed to get access to by shuffling my maxi dress down a bit and going in on my bra, and the fact that he worked the next morning at 7am, I figured I should probably make my exit.  He, however, didn’t see things quite the same way and wanted to keep me around.

Maybe he thought he could convince me to go further?

Maybe he just liked having me around?

Maybe making out and dry humping on the luxuriously soft leather couch that somehow also had room for the both of us to lie down on (me in his nook and on his chest) was enough for him?

Who knows.  But he asked me to stay, and stay I did.

We spent the next two hours or so locked in some sort of snuggle-cuddle-makeout-trace the muscles of his chest with my fingers-cuddle-makeout-laugh at something on TV-makeout-attempts to set my boobs free-cuddle-snuggle-makeout-tussle until eventually it really was time for me to go.  But not before him telling me all the dirty things he wanted to do to me…like go down on me.  Which I know you’ll all think I’m insane for declining but as soon as the pants off there’s never any going back and dammit, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times…I LIKE MY FUCKING STAGES.

It’s not about dating rules.

It’s not about whether or not he’ll call me if I sleep with him.

I’m not worried about whether he’ll respect me in the morning.

I…like making out.

I…like the first moment he feels how wet he makes me, and the first time he puts his fingers inside me.

I…don’t want to rush.

I…like the fucking buildup and dammit I need it.

And so, on this first date, I kept all my clothes on, and my stages in tact.  And hopefully there would be a second, or third, or fourth date, with Come Back Charlie, in my near future.

 

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

Third Time’s the Charm: A New “Something” She Dated

2nd chances

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here’s a lot to be said for how your behavior can be different when you know you’re leaving a place, moving away, saying goodbye to a city that you’ve known your entire life.  And most of it is good.  Your attitude changes and suddenly you’re more open then you’ve ever been before because after all what have you got to lose?  besides your time and dignity but they gave you a fresh batch of that when you move to a new city don’t they, it comes standard in the Welcome Package, no?

And it was this exact attitude that made me say yes when Come Back Charlie asked me out again recently.  Well that and the fact that he was 6’4.  So when he asked to take me out for coffee I accepted.  And that was that.  Plans were made.  It’ll be great to chill with you he said it’s been a long time coming.  Yeah.  No joke dude.  About 2.5 years.  But I promised myself I wouldn’t hold it against him, the time wasting of times gone past I mean.  Until of course I showed up for our date and he sent me a text message saying he would be late.  Worst.

Admittedly I was a tad early for our date when I got the text message that read Hey i’m gonna be a bit late. I gave a friend a ride to surrey a while back but he forgot his keys so Iim just droppin it off. i’ll be joining you shortly. is that okay?

And what was I supposed to do with that except take a screen shot, tweet it to all my followers and ask this question: is this super lame or am I being a bitch? sent 7 minutes before we’re supposed to meet (& I’m already here).  Most responses were that he was a douche (or some version of this).  One response was particularly interesting, someone suggested that he was in fact just being a good friend and isn’t that a good quality in a person.  In all honesty, she was right.  Because if I had a friend who needed me, they would come first before a guy.  Always.  That being said, whether or not the text was a cop out is a whole other story.

No sooner had I tweeted the cropped for anonymity version of the text, when my phone rang, it was him; Come Back Charlie.  We had a quick exchange where I mentioned I was already at Starbucks and he assured me he would be there very soon and he apologized.  I accepted this and let it go.  Shit happens, right?

For those of you who know me, know that I don’t like to pay for my coffee on the first date (I realize now that I should probably write a post about this explaining my reasons more fully so stay tuned for that).  Nonetheless I wasn’t about to sit in this Starbucks for who knows how long without a drink to my name, so I got a  drink, grabbed a seat in the back and waited (read: tweeted).  Luckily for me (and to be honest him) he showed up within about 5 minutes.

I knew him the moment he walked in the door.  Now I don’t know whether it’s just because I seem to keep going on dates with guys who say they’re 6’0 or 5’10 and end up feeling more like 5’10 and 5’8 respectively, or he was actually lying down about his height but he seemed way taller than 6’4…he seemed like a fucking giant.  A gloriously tall giant.  And even better is that I should specify that he was built like a baller (basketball, football, what have you).  You see the thing is, while tall is great, if you’re pencil thin it doesn’t really do it for me that much.  I like a man of size, if you know what I’m saying (I’m saying body size).

He came over to where I was sitting, we exchanged smiles and hugs and I suggested he get something to drink.  When he returned to the table…it was magic.  Now I’m not saying we started talking about science and had deep discussion about literature and politics or anything.  We weren’t even really cracking a ton of jokes.  But it was comfortable in the sexiest kind of way.  The conversation literally began with a discussion of dentistry.  I had been to the dentist earlier that day (he had texted when I was on my way and that’s how it began, he asked how it went).  And that was all it took, we were off to the races.

We talked about our days, our families, our school, our jobs (er…I sort of have a job…as a writer), my grad school stuff, his day job working in a lab out at UBC, his experience at SFU playing ball, my plans for Montreal, the fact that he was going to more school (this time in criminology) so that he could join the VPD (Vancouver Police Department, in case that wasn’t obvious).  And the sexual tension was palpable.  He was hot and tall and wanted to be a cop but also had a university degree and a job.  The love story writes itself.  Well.  Let’s not get ahead of things.

After two hours of smiles and chatter and first date bliss, we had finished our coffees and it was time to make moves.  His idea of a good move was to take things back to his place and watch a movie.  My idea of a good move was to call it a night and count the minutes until the second date.  But then it occurred to me, I’m fucking leaving town and time is of the essense.  And perhaps more importantly, I didn’t have to abide by any dating rules because after all there would barely be enough time to hang out before I had to leave.  Or so I thought, turns out 6 weeks is actually plenty of time to date someone but more on this later.  And so after a little more prodding from him, I agreed, at least, to let him drive me to where I’d parked my car.

Now say what you want.  Judge me as you will.  I don’t care what you think I know who I am and this is just one tiny piece of a puzzle of attraction or a domino race of dating appeal.  But when we got to his car, I swooned a little.  Kind of like that time I met Trucker Joe and he was all standing there beside his sex monster of a big black pickup truck.  It’s not like he was driving a car made of diamonds or a wizard mobile but just that his car was nice.  And I’ll leave it at that.  Pursuant to getting in this stellar mobile was the music.  You can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to.  And while I won’t bore you with the details, it was good.

And in all honesty, that was really all it took in addition to the rest of date being awesome for me to agree to go back to his place (in my own car, of course).  When we got there, I realized that he had clearly been hoping for this all night (given that he’d bought a bottle of wine not yet knowing the stringency that is my not drinking).  No big deal of course, and either cute with the planning or balls out with the expecting but since I’m not one to feel obligated, it didn’t really matter either way.

Once up at his apartment, and having had a little look around, I sat down the couch, ready to watch a movie.  Though there was plenty of room of the couch he snuggle up right beside me which shouldn’t have been surprising but was nonetheless.  Obviously he was feeling me or he wouldn’t have invited me back to his place.

Detour.  I tend to do this ridiculous thing on dates where I’m so excited and fat that I eat rather sparingly throughout the day, like somehow that will make this huge difference and I’ll go from being Beth Ditto to Angelina Jolie or some shit but nonetheless it’s a thing I do.  I aware it’s stupid.  I plan to discontinue.  I’ll let you know how that works out.  Aside from the obvious stupidity of this, comes a couple random side effects.  One, is that my stomach then always ends up growling on dates which would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m terrified dude can hear it and thinks I’ve got some digestional issues or something.  Not sexy.  The other is that because I’m not eating I’m fucking starving and thus drink a ton of water, this in turn makes it look like I have the bladder of a small squirrel.

Back on track.  So we’re at Come Back Charlie’s apartment and I ask to use the washroom.  No biggie.  Then it’s time to watch the movie.  Sweet.  Something about a man on a ledge or something like that *spoiler alert* I  barely watched it.  At some point however, I have to pee again.  I excuse myself and go to the washroom.  In the toilet, I see toilet paper.  *TMI Alert (not to worry it’s not particularly gross but I am talking about pee so yeah…warned* Now because I’ve been drinking so much water my pee is basically clear and so I can’t tell if I forgot to flush or something crazy like that last time I was in here, or what the fuck happened but I’m horrified, obviously, at what I think is my forgetfullness and proceed to flush the toilet.  And that’s when it happens.  Because, of fucking course, it would happen.  Because this is a first date, and that’s just what fucking happens to me.  Shit like this.

 

The water starts to rise.

 

Fuck.

 

Me.

 

Horrified.  Terrified.  Petrified.  And all the other words that describe that overwhelming sense of fear mixed with shame that glues your feet to the ground and makes you sweat.  That.  All of that.  But of course, at some point you have to be a super hero.  So I fixed the problem myself and he was never the wiser.  So I ran out of the bathroom babbling something about how I didn’t do anything I swear but you’re toilet is going to overflow.  And then I sat on the couch like the princess I am and let him take care of it.  Less because I’m lazy and more because is that really the image I want of him or that he wants me to have of him…him touching all kinds of toilet related things.  I think not.  Like the toilet, I still expected this night to be salvaged and to go on functioning like normal.

That being said, you’ll have to wait till next post to find out whether the date functioned like a well-oiled romance machine or went straight down the tubes (like I hope the water in the toilet would).  I mean, assuming you’re interested and all.

 

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

What Happens When You Give Someone a Second Chance?

Second Chances

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Butterflies Fulfilled: WARNING 18+ [X Rated]

Butterflies

[dropcap]Thursday.[/dropcap]  2 o’clock.  And he texts.  Can I take you out for a coffee before I come see your apartment?  And I swoon a bit.  Like someone just poked the butterflies.  I mean sure.  They’re not buzzing about like bees.  Because the truth is I haven’t seen him in months.  Heard his actual voice in months.  And I need that stuff.  The physical.  The tangible.  To be fall off my chair swoony.  But it’s a start.  Because whether he sensed it.  Or knows me.  Or just thinks it’s a good idea.  I need a warm-up.  A moment to get used to each other.  A moment to check in and see if there’s still a spark.  And ya know.  I heart coffee.  I’m a sober writer.  What else is there?

I picked a Starbucks on campus.  I don’t know if I mentioned this before.  But in one of our recent text-convos he’d sent a photo of himself.  No doubt in an attempt to get me to send a photo.  Which I don’t do (more on this another time).  But the point of me bringing this up was to tell you that after months of romanticizing his image in my head.  The photo was a little.  Meh.  So you can understand my apprehension as I parked and walked inside.  But there he was.  And he smiled.  And the moment I heard his voice.  I don’t know what it is about his voice.  But I just like it.  It was good.  We ordered drinks.  Chatted about life.  School.  Work.  His daughter.  Hockey.  I can’t lie though, there were definitely some awkward moments.  But I think awkward more in the sense of like when you just kind of look at the other person.  Absorb them.  And nobody is saying anything.  And then there’s blushing and the conversation starts again.  Nervous laughter.


It doesn’t take long to finish our coffees.  I order mine at kids temp so I’m pretty used to downing it right quick.  And then we go to leave.  He opens the door.  We go to our cars.  My place is only a couple of blocks away so we’re there before I can take a deep breath.  I’m nervous.  I’m excited.  I still don’t know what I’m going to do.  He says something about how nice it is here and I say something like yeah.  I’ve never been more eloquent.  Inside we wait for the elevator.  It seems to take forever.  He’s standing really close.  And though I know his cologne is something super 90s like joop! or something ridiculous.  It smells amazing.  The doors open.  His hand on the small of my back.  And we walk inside.  I press 14.  Stand in the corner.  My breathing sounds like a grizzly bear hovering over my shoulder.  He seems not to notice.  And then he does it.  Like he knew.  Like someone had told him.  I mean it was just too cute.  Grabs my hand.  Just a finger or two.  Like a baby.  Sweet.  Adorable.  Exactly what I wanted.

It feels like it’s been 20 minutes.  I look at the buttons.  We’re only at the 7th floor.  I look at him.  He looks back.  He’s standing so close.  And then he kisses me.  Short.  Sweet.  Quick.  Nervous.  Kind of like at Christmas when he just wanted to get that out of the way wink.  He seems pleased with himself.  Or me.  Either or.  ding.  14.  We get to my door.  And go inside.  I’m nervous.  I try not to justify the smallness of my apartment.  I’m getting a second BA.  I’m working hard.  I have a big career ahead of me.  This is just a stepping stone.  I don’t need to justify myself.  Least of all to him.  So I say nothing.  Just let him look around.  Which takes about 10 seconds.  Joking.  He goes to the window.  Checks out the view.  It is a pretty rad view.  14 floors up.  Overlooking Wreck Beach.  Lucky Duck.

I asks if he wants a glass of water or something.  And by something I mean all I have is water I say.  We laugh.  My apartment is completely empty.  Except for 2 glasses, a folded up quilt, a fan and an iPod dock.  The few things that either couldn’t fit in my car on the way home the day before or I thought might be useful today.  I’m so creepy lol.  Sure he says.  And I go to get the glasses down off the shelf.  He comes up behind me.  My hips against the counter.  His hips behind mine.  His arms go around my waist.  And he pulls my hair to the side.  A handful of curls and he brushes them away.  Exposes my neck.  Kisses me.  Soft.  Smooth.  Good.

I slowly turn around.  Brush my body against his.  He’s ready to go in a heartbeat.  But I need more.  Longer. Slower.  And so he takes his time.  We kiss like teenagers.  Kiss like danger.  Kiss like hot.  Kiss like everything.  His hands grab my ass and with strength I never saw coming.  He lifts me up onto the counter.  My face now up to his height.  Fold my legs around his body.  I cannot express how important good kissing is, boys.  MAJOR.  And we’ve got it going on.  His tongue.  My tongue.  Play.  Swirl.  Lower lip.  Upper lip.  Together.  Big kiss.  Passion Passion Passion.  Small kiss small kiss.  I slowly drag my tongue across the middle of his lower lip.  Gentle.  Barely touching.  Make him beg for it.  Deep breath.  Playful.  Sexy.

He feels my body like it’s the first time.  Which for some areas it is.  When my bra comes off I hear him moan a bit.  My ego soars through the roof.  I lift off his shirt and throw it somewhere.  Slide down off the counter.  His hands in my hair and he tugs a little.  In the exact right way.  Tugs some more.  He’s been listening.  He knows.  It’s flawless.  It’s seamless.  It’s perfection.  He turns be back towards the counter.  Lifts my skirt just a bit and pulls the Red Lacies slowly down my legs.  He goes to undo my skirt.  Leave it on I say.  And he gets it.  Smiles.  His hands glide over my ass across my hips and come together over my lady bits.  He leaves one hand there and uses the other to undo his jeans.  The first hand disappears for only a heart beat (safety first kids) and he’s back.  One hand reaches around to my lady bits.  The other across my chest.  Strong he holds me.  Soft he holds them.  I arch my back.  Lean just a little bit forward.  And he slides in.

I’m a writer but I’m not sure how to write the rest.  Because when I think back it’s all in pictures and sounds.  There’s onomatopoeia I don’t know the words for.  Sounds that I can’t describe with ooohs and ahhhs because that’s just in bad pornos and not real sex.  But it’s strong and good.  It’s part bears in the woods and part swan lake or something equally as graceful.  There are smiles and eyes open.  Panting and eyes closed.  His right arm, the one across my chest.  Slides up to my neck.  Gently at first.  Then stronger.  Holding me.  Controlling me.  Because he knows thats what I want.  At one point I turn my neck.  Lean back a bit.  And his face is right there.  Lips brushing against lips.  Tongues stretch.  Kisses that strain to hold.  He works his magic until I’m done.  And then I work mine until his is too.  We’re all smiles.  I lay the quilt across my bed.  My studio apartment dorm bed.  And we lay there.  Exhausted.  Exhilarated.  Satisfied.  The what if being answered.  Butterflies fulfilled.

Only….

That’s not exactly what happens.  Because this is me after all and shit is just never straight forward laid out awesome like that.  And this is The Nick Name.  A man who I would characterize with epic retardation except for the fact that if he’s retarded what does that make me for playing along?  I’d rather not think about it.  See the thing of the thing is.  I read all the comments.  From blog readers.  From close personal friends.  And you all had valid points.  (I’d be more alarmed that a great majority of you were sending me into the Lion’s Den if it wasn’t for the fact that I know you’re doing it because you know I could handle whatever the Den had in store for me).  That being said.  I have a gut.  I often don’t listen to it.  I blame my eternal optimism and the faith I have to have that people are A. not all retarded and B. not all total shit.  But regardless I do have a gut.  That tells me things.  And on Wednesday night.  My gut was telling me.  It was not a good sign that when I texted The Nick Name during the Canucks game and there was no response.  Even though us hanging out on Thursday had been his idea.  So I sent a text.  Because I sure as fuck wasn’t going to wake up on Thursday and get all gussied up and drive out to UBC only to get bailed on or something.

Fuck.  You.  Silver Lining.  Well actually there’s a couple things.
1.  I didn’t reply.  Everybody loves Nonchalant Nancy.  Nobody loves Angry Angie or Bitter Betty.  Messages deleted.  Number deleted.  I will not be engaging in any further contact.
2.  Those “what if” butterflies that I had been wondering about (and The Hel had been hoping for in the comments section).  Done.  And not like angry-I’m-going-to-pretend-I-don’t-give-a-shit-even-though-I-actually-do kind of done.  But actual done.  Like actual butterflies-dead-fantasy-over-reality-trumped-turns-out-he-really-was-just-your-average-retard kind of done.  And I tell ya it actually feels pretty grand.
3.  And the most practical one of all.  I didn’t waste my Thursday waiting for a boy who wasn’t worth his salt in theory let alone in practice.
Now the truth is.  I do have a couple more thoughts sparked by this situation.  About boys.  And time wasting.  And general jack-assery retardation.  But this post is long enough so I’m saving it for another.  You’re welcome.
So in closing.  Hope the post was…er…stimulating.  If sadly it ends in disappointment.  Is it wrong that I think this post by far exceeds anything he would have actually been able to offer if we had hung out?  Hope it wasn’t too racy.  Love ya,  SSDated.

 

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

Come Back Charlies (Part V)

Head Desk

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] like a good recap.  Everybody likes a good recap.  Because even as I tell these stories.  In real life.  To my friends.  To myself.  Silently in my head.  It gets a bit confusing.  Who was who?  Who came back when.  Who was super ridiculous.  Who was the most ridiculous of them all.  So before I tell you about Charlie #4 (a man you’ve all grown to…well…not totally sure…but someone you’ll recognize).  Here is the recap.  Of the Come Back Charlies:

Charlie #1:  The Oxymoronic Lawyer (fix links) and his return in Parts I and Parts II
Charlie #2:  Mr. Basketball (who would later be known be the very name of all these posts – Come Back Charlie)
Charlie #3:  The TACTician aka Mr. Tacky aka The Old Guy
and finally
Charlie #4:  And so the story goes…

It had been two weeks.  To exact weeks.  To the day.  I mean honestly, I can’t make this shit up.  And on the one hand.  It was a total surprise.  Because of course.  He had said there was something missing.  A spark?  Chemistry?  I had asked.  If that’s what you want to call it he had said.  But then truth be told.  I had assumed it was an attraction thing.  I had assumed he’d never been with a chubby bunny before.  And after catching a glimpse of me sans shirt.  He’d changed his mind.  Not the girl for him.  Attraction nil.
On the other hand.  I wasn’t surprised at all.  Because of course.  He’d liked me.  I was certain.  The irony is at the time it never really occurred to me that a person might not know what the fuck they want.  I mean after all this dude wasn’t 22.  He was fucking 38.  He had a grown up job and a kid (are you starting to see who it is? lol).  I mean.  I know what it is to be 25 and not know what the fuck is going on.  I can even fathom that at 30 there will be some that are still confused.  Still uncertain.  I’m not saying you’ll always HAVE what you want.  But at the very least you’ll have a picture in your mind of what it might look like.  But to be 38 and clueless.  I mean shit son.  How does that even happen.  And thus I give you….
TheNickName.  Come Back Charlie #4.  The Cat Came Back The Very Next Day 2 Weeks Later.
Hey you!! 🙂 It said.  His message to me on Plenty of Fish.  How’s things?  Ha ha, Back to school!  And I should have done nothing.  But well.  Unlike the other boys.  The other Come Back Charlies.  TheNickName was IRL (in real life) for me.  We had gone out.  We had hung out.  We had made out.  And now that I was indeed back in school.  And had pretty much forsaken dating and the blog for the time being (I wasn’t totally sure how one could exist without the other).  The idea of bringing a man off the bench.  Bringing a horse out of the stable.  Well that sounded like a damn good idea.  Plus ya know.  I wanted to know what was going on.  2 weeks ago.  Now.  What had changed.  What was different.  What did he want?  And so I messaged back.  Tried to keep it breezy but conversational.


Hey 🙂
Things with me are fantastic (as usual lol) and though a longer break would’ve
been awesome…yes lol I am back at school.  How are things with you?  How 
was the rest of your Xmas/New Year’s?

And then he responded.  Right away with

That’s awesome.  Xmas and New Years was good.  Lots of daughter’s name time.
How was New Years with your ex?  What mid term grades did you get?  A’s I’m
guessing!


But wait? what?  Does anyone find the thing about New Year’s with my ex a little bit weird.  That’s what he remembers?  Something that got mentioned once, in passing, in our final phone call.  AFTER he had said he didn’t want to date me anymore because he felt something was missing.  Really?  really?  But I kept it breezy.  And honestly, honest.  Because truth be told, he had been there all that last month while writing papers and taking exams.  So I kind of did want to tell him all about my grades.  Lame I know.

Aww I bet daughter’s name loved that 🙂

lol you have such a good memory for things I say…NYE with my ex was good
…my grades were the best yet (I’m so proud which hopefully discounts this
sounding like bragging and making me look like a douche) but I got 2 A-s and 
an A+ (I’m so proud lol…It’s the highest grade I’ve ever gotten)…and to have
gotten it as a final grade means even more…Harvard here I come!…okay I’m 
kind of joking about Harvard…but still…who knew right!?!?!?


Harvard would be missing out, without you!  I’m glad your grades went awesome.
So were you planning on the ex time before our time together?  Yah I guess, cause
you went to Seattle 2 days later.

Wait.  What?!?!  Why all the harping on the ex?  The irony is how he’d mentioned at some point how he can’t stand jealousy and wasn’t a jealous person himself.  And yet.  Really?  really?  And the thing of the thing is.  I don’t even mind jealousy.  In fact I think people who claim they never feel jealous are liars.  Show me your stripes.  All the colors.  The bad and the good.  Show me your true stripes and I can understand you.  Empathize with you.  Deal with you.  But pretend to be something.  And not only do you irritate me but I full on dislike you and finally, don’t trust you.  If you can’t be honest with yourself, how are you going to be honest with me?

I didn’t answer his message for awhile.  I was thinking.  I was purposely making him wait.  I was partly as bored with the whole situation as I am now typing it.  The truth of the matter is.  In the space of those two weeks.  He’d become what I either was to him.  Or possibly much less.  He was a means to an end.  A dude I was attracted to who I felt had the potential to scratch an itch.  And then he texted.  And then he instant messaged on POF and sadly that ends my exact recounting of our interaction.  Because unlike messages, you can’t keep the instant message script.  So now three weeks later I’m going to try and give you the gist of what was said.
He was 100% attracted to me.  Thought I was a babe.  Super sexy.  Also I think he used the word sweet too.  Basically I’m awesome lol.  At the time of our convo and then the next day on the phone.  I had come to the conclusion that the problem had been his jealousy/assumptions about my ex (and me).  And that in some attempt to protect himself/or because of an averse reaction to those feelings he’d cut things short.
However, knowing what I know now.  I think he’s part totally retarded and part slow and/or satisfied sex drive.  But at the time I kind of figured.  Okay well I know that dating won’t work.  But *dreamy eyes* perhaps I had finally found my Golden Egg.  Someone to keep me from going insane during the school year.  Someone to gimme some man love without all the baggage.

Only the booty call satisfaction never happened.  I waited a week and a half (I was sick with a cold at the time).  Waited till the weekend.  Gave him a shout.  Have a hockey game he said.  Uh yeah I wasn’t thinking until way later I have dinner plans tonight and we’ll probably be out till 1ish I told him.  I’m gonna be bagged and have to get up early tomorrow to go to a job site.  Sorry!  Another time please!  And I thought.  Fuck that noise.  But well.  I was really itchy.  And I don’t drink anymore.  And none of my exes live in Vancouver.  And Goddamn Mamma needed some ass.

So the next night.  After going out with a friend.  And scoping out The New Oxford for a possible location for the upcoming tweetup.  And then heading over to Society for cotton candy.  I texted.  Last time.  Last chance.  Last attempt.  This was really getting pathetic.  But at the very least I thought it would be funny.  Because after all.  What I decided to text.  To him.  Was something that had been clarified to me oh so clearly.  And though he likely wouldn’t get the irony.  I thought it was delicious.  What are you wearing?



But alas.  No response came.  Done.  This was awful.  I’m a hottie.  I’m a dynamo in bed.  Chubby bunny or not I’m fucking awesome and I don’t know how I got all turned around but this behavior had to stop.  But of course.  He responded.  The next morning.  With something ridiculously lame.

I was in a low cut number, with sheer and lace. lol.


I won’t lie.  The petty part of me decided to be snarky.  Too bad you didn’t respond last night I said.

I was out at a fundraiser.  Your outfit sounds lovely!  I had a buddy with me, and he stayed over, Sorry.


My thoughts?  Don’t give a shit.  Plus…uh…wait…I didn’t say what I was wearing.  Weird.  lol…maybe he’s still drunk ha ha.

No worries I said I’m thinking your life is too busy for sex lol and I want it to be very present so I’m out.  And to be clear.  Yes, dear readers.  I know this was a little hysterical.  A little.  Why bother?  Just stop texting him.  But I urge you to try to understand.  This was the build up of 2 months of both sexual and mental frustration.  And quite honestly I was horny, irritated, and pissed.  So yes.  You could say I was being petty.  And annoying.  And about to get even more petty with my last and final text to him.

BTW…if you ever want to check out some of my writing just google “Something She Dated” 🙂  All the best kid!


And thus.  The end of The Nick Name.  And essentially the moment that I decided this was fucking ridiculous. The moment that prompted another moment.  The Announcement.  So gentlemen of my future.  Gentlemen who will not be getting laid.  Gentlemen who will not be able to just “see what’s what”.  Gentlemen who will have blue balls.  You have The Nick Name to thank.  You’re welcome.

Now the thing about these Come Back Charlies is.  On the one hand.  I’m certain they’re absolutely fucking retarded.  But you have to wonder.  Why me?  Why again?  Why me?  Do I smell like a second chance?  Can they taste it in the air?  Or is it that they’ve seen that I’m just so awesome they simply HAVE to try their hand again?  I want to believe the latter.  But the thing of the thing is.  If it was the latter.  Why didn’t they just try harder the first time around.  Alas.  It must be the former.  Yet another reason I need to coat myself in HardToGet speedstick and keep the relaxed and breezy stench off of me.  Not to mention just generally roll around in some cotton candy happiness and quite dealing with this kind of ridiculousness and aggravation thrown my way (albeit permitted by my engagement with it).  But I digress.  I was done.  I am done.  With the losers.  Time to be Hard.  To.  Get.  Full stop.

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