Stripped Naked: Dating a Smarty Pants

Stripped Naked

 

After being lost for weeks (months? years?), adrift at sea, perpetually pounded by the waves of idiocy and boredom, I had met a man, the Scientist, who felt a bit like a life raft.

We had met on Thursday.

We had had a second date on Sunday.

I thanked him for having me over for dinner.

He said Glad you enjoyed.  Me too.  Thanks for coming.

For the next few days I would be busy preparing for, and then attending, a conference at Yale University, but, I suggested, Maybe when I get back from the conference I can make you dinner at my place?

He responded when are you leaving? and then Have lots of fun.

 

Okay.  Now, admittedly, I found it a tad off putting that the response wasn’t a resounding Yes, that sounds amazing you hot beautiful intelligent funny magnificent creature, you but I just assumed that it was an oversight and that responding at all in a manner that both asked a question and was considerate was good enough, no?

Five days later, home from the conference (and unfortunately having caught a cold from my travel mates), I texted him.

 

Hey 🙂 How’s it going?

Hi Victoria.  How was your trip?  I’m going crazy!  Deadlines for all postdoc fellowships are due in 10 days and I just started the whole process.

The trip was good (except the other two girls were sick with colds and now I am too – I’m really hoping it doesn’t last long.)  Yikes about the fellowship deadlines but I’m sure you’ll nail it 😉  What do you have to do for your applications?  Did you want to hang out again as soon as I’m feeling better?

Hi Victoria.  Sorry, I worked from 9 to 1am yesterday and I didn’t even look at my phone.  For my applications I have to do a million things, including writing a grant proposal, academic CV, etc.  It’s madness for me right now.  I hope I survive.  I can message you when the whole thing is over.  Glad you had a good trip.  Hope you feel better soon.

Sounds good, and good luck with all the applications 🙂

 

I mean, after all, it did sound good.  It would give me 10 days to relax and get better and he would be full of relief after completing the applications (which, as a fellow grad student, I 100% get the pressure and need to accumulate that funding).

But I will admit, I was feeling a tad, insecure.

I mean sure, our first and second dates had gone really well, hadn’t they?  And while logically, I understand putting school before…everything.  I mean hell, that’s basically the reason I hadn’t gone on a date in over a year until Skinny Jeans and then the Scientist.  Emotionally though, I’m an impatient petulant child who wants what I want when I want it.  That or I’ve just seen He’s Just Not That Into You too many times and bristle at even the slightest…slight.

I was talking about this on a phonecall to my mother, who then promptly told me You sound a bit clingy.  Hearing which set me straight within seconds.  The truth is, I think I was just so damn excited to finally be going out on dates with a man who didn’t think it appropriate and/or interesting to say things like hey hot tits and ask me questions and form full sentences and stuff, that I had gotten really wrapped up in it all.  But the moment my mom said those words, I immediately stopped checking his dating profile (after all, on OKCupid, the other person can see that shit and though I’d only done it twice, it was two times too many in my book, plus I didn’t need to know whether or not he was logging in or even if he was dating other people.  Just as I expect men to respect my freedom and privacy, I should respect theirs.  And thus I did).  I also just immediately relaxed.  It’s bizarre to think that a little bit of logic and reality can affect your emotional state so completely but in the space of a few seconds I’d gone from Eager Edith to Relaxed Regina.

 

 

He’d text or he wouldn’t, and in 10 days I would know.

 

 

 

And on the tenth day…I got this:

Rejection

 

 

And just like that it was over.  I was dumped.  My hopes of dating a smarty pants were stripped naked and thrust in the dirty hamper.  And the worst part, is that it took me awhile to see this as a full on blow off.

Upon first reading I took note of the length, the apologia, the confirmation of the pleasantries of meeting me, the well wishes.  But upon further inspection I’ve, sadly, come to see it for what it really is…a bullshit blowoff.

And because you know I can’t let a dating lesson go unmentioned, I have to say, yet again, to the rejectors, to the dumpers, and the kick ’em to the curbers…

It is 100% okay to not want to date someone

You are allowed to like or dislike anyone you want

You can make your own decisions, you don’t even need to justify your reasons

But FOR FUCK SAKES just rip the fucking bandaid like a goddamn grownup.

 

See, here’s the thing kiddo (and yes, this is me infantilizing you [in the universal form] for your infantile behavior), I don’t need your reassurance.  We went on two dates, I barely fucking know you.  I don’t need you to hold my hand, I won’t have a breakdown, no one is committing suicide on your watch.  So there’s no need to gloss it all up with how great it was to meet me or the well wishes etc.  Because while you think you’re being clear and concise, I’m thinking you’re just too polite and kind to suggest I wait around for two months to date you.

Short and sweet, rip it fast, rip it clear, be honest.

I don’t like you enough to keep going out with you.

I don’t feel a connection with you and don’t wish to go out again.

I’m no longer interested.

 

Anything along these lines works fine.  Don’t talk about friendship (unless you genuinely want it).  Don’t talk about how great they are.  Don’t wish them specific success, thus reminding them how much you were paying attention to their conversation.  Don’t give excuses (because those can so easily be excused).

Because instead of immediately going, yep, he definitely doesn’t like me, after reading that text my first thought was, oh, well maybe he’ll call in 2 months because at this rate I could potentially still be single then, or even perhaps he and I could be friends or something.

 

But he doesn’t want that.  He doesn’t want me.  And that’s totally fine.  Onto the next right?  right?  right?  hello?

 

*gets consumed by cloud of dating disappointment*

The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 2)

Kissing

 

Continued from… The Scientist:  Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

They say a kiss is worth a thousand words.  Or is it a picture?  What about kissing on a light blue velvet couch while trying not to spill your water?  That’s gotta be worth at least 50, maybe even a hundred words, no?

So there we were, the Scientist and the juggler, making out like teenagers, until I finally broke us apart and said would you mind setting this down for me on the table? like some kind of romantic savant.  We laughed and he set my glass down.  He suggested we move to the bed.  I said I had to go to the bathroom (which is where I whipped off my spanx and replaced them with sexy red lace undies – if you’re not picturing me as a sex-goddess-superwoman-clark-kendra I don’t even know what’s wrong with you).

I came out of the bathroom and within seconds our bodies were pressed together.  We drifted over to the bed and before I knew it we were making out hot and heavy and he had a nipple in his mouth.  Er.  Um.  Okay well actually it probably went a bit slower than that but in many ways it felt that quick.

Though I had changed into the red lacies, I had every intention of keeping it ladylike.

(sidenote:  I use the term ladylike here facetiously, and also incorrectly.  I know that you, my beloved readers, will understand what I mean by ladylike and also forgive my lexicon for having no other word to convey that I wasn’t going to be giving him the goods in a quick fashion…and YET, that you know without a doubt that not only do I use the term without judgment but that I firmly believe women should not be judged by their sexual experiences nor that those experiences are even a thing that is rationally judgable as the relationship between sex and a woman’s value is zero, they are not correlateable.

So we were making out, and the kissing was…mostly good.  You see, men can tend to get excited, and often when they do their kissing goes to shit they can get a little carried away, and like a good puppet master (is that an offensive thing to say?) you have to reign them in, guide the pace, and keep things all good.  After all, if I’m being honest, most men are fucking clueless (at least in the beginning).  And as I’ve said before, that’s why I feel the need to set the pace to slow.

Nonetheless, when the kissing was good, the kissing was good.  Our hot mouths, our soft lips, a lick here, a nibble there, this is what passion tastes like.  And then before I knew it, my bra was off.  With one hand like some kind of clasp magician, a real life Joey Tribiani if you will, he undid the clasps on my bra (which by the way, with these breasts and this body, was a 5 clasper).  All I’m saying is that’s some serious dexterity there, and it was duly noted for the future.

That being said, it wasn’t all smooth moves and hiccupless humping.  I’m all for the dry hump, in fact, I’m a huge fan of a good healthy hump, a sensual slide, a rigorous rub, a body bump.  But, when things get weird is when you feel like a stuffed animal being humped by a dog rather than a luscious lady being rubbed in all the right ways.

While the Scientist may have the upper hand when it comes to academic intelligence and adventure travel, I definitely knew, from very early on, that sexually speaking, I was on top (figuratively, if not always literally).  Now, obviously, sex is no competition, and if anything, this feeling of experiential superiority only made me more relaxed and, for lack of a better word, forgiving, of his misteps.

So like I said, the dry humping, it was often um…detached?  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  Actually that’s a lie, it’s completely just occurred to me how to characterize it.

It’s as if the dry humping was only for him, like there was no concern about my bits and how they might want to be rubbed.  Now, in his defense, I had said I wanted to take things slow so maybe he interpreted that as don’t touch my vagina, but hey…man…I mean, if you’re going to pump and thrust and throb against it, it doesn’t matter if we’re fully clothed or not, YOU BETTER HAVE MY GODDAMN CLIT IN MIND.

And then at some point, after the thrusting gained momentum and then peaked, it stopped altogether.  Had he gotten tired?  Was the ceasing just an awareness that his balls would remain blue?  Or I mean is it possible did he cum from all the banging against my vag?  We continued to make out for awhile longer and at some point I thought, ya know, I’d just take a quick feel, and see what he was working with.  Ya know, just give big ol’ johnson a quick, outside the pants stroke or two to see what kind of fun the future held.

But as I put my hand on what had only moments earlier been the gate to pound-town, I was shocked, he was soft.  What?  What the?  What?  Unacceptable, I thought and immediately began to offer my best caresses, my top notch technique, to bring that sad sailor back to life.  But as I rubbed, and caressed, and smoothly seduced this beast, and it ever so slowly came, what I can only hope is “somewhat” back to life…I thought a lot harder about whether or not he had come during humpfest 2013.  At this point I was actually hoping he had because otherwise I’d just started dating a dude who wasn’t super hard for me (something I’m not at all used to – whether by sheer luck I don’t know).

So eventually he got semi-hard, and I got semi-giving-uppy, because after all what is the point of getting him super hard when I had no intention of even giving the fellow a handy (since boys are the worst at driving the pressure train and somehow a handy way too often ends up with a blowy or a bangy and dammit I like stages and like I said earlier, most dudes suck at sex in the beginning).

So I left blue balls (or not blue balls, depending on) lie and our kissing slowly progressed into a cuddling-ish lie about.  At some point though I swear he was about to fall asleep and it seemed like a good time to make my exit.  We talked about the next day, and he informed me that he had to get up at the crack of dawn to head to the lab.  Now, while totally reasonable, and not being a morning person myself I completely understand in the rational part of my brain, I admit I felt a tad jilted that he didn’t say something along the lines of but you should stay a bit longer.

I went to the bathroom to fix my ridiculous make-out hair, except unfortunately I forgot to bring my purse in with me.  My purse with my spanx.  My spanx which keep my thighs from rubbing (read: chaffing) when I walk.  And I couldn’t very well come out of the bathroom, only to grab my purse and go back in, what am I, a lunatic!?!

When I came out of the bathroom, we talked for a little bit longer, and then he pulled me in for a kiss goodbye, which ended up lasting several minutes (and I must admit made me feel a lot better about his not having asked me to stick around longer).  And then I was out the door.  And into the elevator.  Where I hoped with all my might that in the drop down of 18 floors to the lobby that there wouldn’t be a single person wanting to get on the elevator.  And like Clark Kendra I put my spandex shorts on in the elevator – like some kind of sexy magician (read: hot mess), and then was off into the night.

 

The Scientist: Coffee, Conversation, and Kisses

First Dates

 

Continued from… A New “Something”:  The Scientist

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o, there we were, The Scientist and I, having coffee in a cafe, on a first date in Montreal.  And it was good.

He asked a ton of questions, something we all know I love and so rarely happens.  We both talked about our careers (he asked about my writing, which was amazing on two levels:  one, it was awesome to have someone take such a huge interest in something I love, and two, it forced me to think about my ‘process’ and some other things I hadn’t really put that much time into considering).

He talked about a research paper he had just submitted, with some colleagues, about a new discovery in the way memories are formed (and only had to dumb it down a little for me), which was great to hear someone talk so passionately about something and because frankly, that level of intelligence is super hot.

At one point, I was talking about the Conference at Yale University that I was going to shortly, and he asked about the paper I was presenting.  I told him that I was writing about “Happy Objects” in John Gay’s 18th C. play The Beggar’s Opera and what are the chances that he would know that play I was talking about?  Zero, right?  It has to be zero.  And yet, and yet, in a strange string of connection, he’d learned about the play once because of it’s later connection to the Jazz song “Mack the Knife” done by Frank Sinatra.  What are the chances?!?! (he could probably tell me, he’s that smart).

We laughed, we learned, it was fun.

Eventually, the cafe was closing and the waiter brought the bill to our table, saying something about how they could split it up at the front if we wanted but the Scientist immediately chimed in that he’d take care of it (before I even had time to make that awkward reach).  And though my coffee was probably only about $5.  And though, I’d recently tried to justify that specific gesture not really mattering.  And though, I am woman hear me roar and equality and all that.  This is one of the few dating rituals that I actually think matter, and has some logic behind it.

He paid the bill, we went outside, but neither of us seemed interested in saying goodbye.  After all, we hadn’t even started to talk about what it was like to grow up in Colombia, or all the world traveling he and I had done, etc.  We decided to take a stroll down Saint Urbain, and whether it was the conversation or simply the company, before I knew it we had walked all the way down to Sherbrooke (and I had hardly noticed I wasn’t in particularly comfortable shoes).

Conveniently, there is a little courtyyard with benches and light displays at the corner of Sherbrooke and Saint Urbain, it was like a rest stop for romance, a space for something special, or maybe it was just a few benches and some bushes.  Either way, we sat down for a bit and continued talking.

And that’s when it somehow took that turn to how I write about sex and dating.  It didn’t seem to bother him at all, in fact he seemed kind of intrigued.  But not in that, oooh you’re a dating blogger and maybe you can make me more important by writing about me way that can be a real turn off.  He just seemed, well, interested in knowing more.  We continued to talk about dating war stories for a bit, I mentioned the lavender leather jacket and he talked about a date where the person did not match their profile in the slightest.  And then he went on to ease my dating fears and said that I was exactly the person I had seemed online (pictures, profile and conversation).

We talked a bit more about dating and writing, and he even suggested that I could go on bad dates, if only for the material.  I told him I could never do that, and honestly I really couldn’t.  It’s one thing to turn a horrible date into something less horrible by writing about it and sharing your experiences with people, but to purposely go out with someone knowing that you weren’t interested in them just seems dishonest and cruel.  I just couldn’t do that to people.  Most guys, I said, when I tell them, immediately jump to the conclusion that I date for sport, which couldn’t be further from the truth, after all, I said, first dates are the worst.

Realizing that we, of course, were on a first date and not wanting him to think I wasn’t enjoying myself, I felt the need to clarify that the part of first dates that I hate is that initial uncertainty because the other person might be a total freak or murderer.  It’s because it’s online dating, and I never know if the person is going to actually be the person they have claimed to be, or if I have managed to represent myself correctly as the person I really am so that I too match up well to my profile.  I wish I didn’t get so nervous and stressed out for first dates but I do, so there you have it.  Nonetheless, I told him, that after I meet someone, then I’m fine.

I know this blog post is very facts fact facts details details details but don’t let that distract you from the first date magic that was happening as we sat side by side (but in that leaning in triangley way) our knees occasionally touching.  I had clearly made him a bit uncomfortable with all my I hate first dates talks, so I wasn’t really surprised when he hinted at, insinuated, and then just flat out asked if I hated everything about first dates and would I mind if he kissed me.  And while I don’t normally like the first-kiss-permission-ask, the way he did it (or maybe it’s just because I liked him thus far) didn’t bother me.  I smiled, blushed, subconsciously tried to look extra cute, and nodded.

He leaned over and kissed me.

Even though we were in public, it felt somewhat secluded and the kisses were good so, we ended up kissing for several minutes before I eventually pulled us apart.  He said something about me being a good kisser and we decided to continue our walk up Sherbrooke.

We walked and walked, and talked and talked until finally we found ourselves near McGill and his home.  It was getting late and I still had to get home, so we checked the time of the next bus and he waited with me until it came (but not before sneaking in a few more steamy kisses).

And that was it, the end of a really good date, with really good conversation and kisses, with someone who seemed like he could be a really good match.

Could it all finally be working out???