How to Handle Rejection by Getting Rejected: a Not-a-Love-Story by the Urban Dater

Guest Post


[dropcap]I[/dropcap]’m a sucker for punishment, which is why I like it rough and tend to date women who take lots of steroids or participate in Mixed Martial Arts (or MMA to you educated and in-the-know types). If they kicks me in the beans, that’s cool; if they call me dirty names like pencil dick or Susan I’m also fine with that. The more demeaning the mo’ betta, in my opinion.

However, being a sucker for punishment comes at a cost, sometimes. Sometimes it’s hard to know when to give in and walk away. What I’m referring to is fighting the good fight to win a special someone over. Sometimes that special someone thinks you’re a good for nuthin’, nobody, ass-face. And that’s it. There’s very little one can do to turn the tide of that opinion. So what does one do, when handling rejection? Well, children of the corn, I’ll help you with that.

There was this gal I was in to. I found her on a dating site. We went out for a date, had a reasonably good time and when I drove her back to her car, I tried to kiss her only to find her cheek. The one on her face, unfortunately. I was let down obviously, but she replied “Hey, look, I had a lot of fun, let’s do this again.” I said that sounded like a good idea.  However, I was going to leave the ball in her court. If she really wanted to hang out with me, then she could make a move. And make a move she did.

We went out for dinner, just the two of us and then we met up with a couple of her friends for drinks afterward. I met one friend of hers that night, a very nice gal, who insisted that this girl I was going out with (let’s call her Wilma) was very much into me and that I had to keep on trying. That was interesting, I thought. As we pull up to Wilma’s apartment, I tried again for a kiss, what I got was a quick one-armed hug and she said “later man, I’ll call you this week.” Hmmmm. Thus far, I’m batting 0 for 2. No bueno.

It would take some time for me to try at romancing this girl again. Several months actually. During that time I dated other gals and what have you. It was one night out with Wilma and her bestie that I was again told “Dude, wtf? Why haven’t you made a move on Wilma? She REALLY likes you!!!” Well, that was news to me because that’s not the vibe I got. However, by this time, I was so wrapped up in this woman that I needed a definitive answer; I needed to know and I could no longer wait, otherwise, I was going to cut something off of my body and send it to her.

That day of reckoning came a week later. We went out for a drink and that’s when I “manned-up” and told the woman how I felt and that I needed to know where she was at… So let me give you the following options for what may have happened, and you choose which one you think it was:

  • She sat there silent for a few minutes and finished her pint of Guinness in two gulps
  • She grabbed my hand and said, “I was wondering when you were going to tell me that!”
  • She told me to fuck off and called me a loser dick faced platypus.

If you guessed the first option, you’d have been right. If you guessed that I’d rather she went with option three, that would also be correct.

I got a non-answer from her; and that, my friends, was that. I tried and I didn’t succeed. But I was satisfied with that because there would be no guessing that this girl liked me or not. She didn’t like me in that way. Period. But at least I tried. And you know what? I rarely thought about it, only recalling what happened in my stories of failure. Heh. That was about five years ago. Last, year, at a party, a good buddy of mine, who was close to that situation confided to me that Wilma told him something in confidence. What he revealed was that she liked me as a friend, but just didn’t like me “in that way.” By that time, it didn’t matter; but it was good to get something of an “official” reason.

Long story short: The best way to handle rejection, is to get rejected. Most never try and, thus, never get rejected.

Alex, over at the Urban Dater, is a man that lives in Southern California, and in the dreams of women everywhere if they know what’s good for them!  His use of inappropriate jokes and ridiculous innuendo have found in me a love I never thought I could bear, but bear it I shall.  Wait.  What?!  This bio is supposed to be about him, my bad.  Alex is rad.  I saw it in the dictionary.  Just try and prove me wrong.

Conversations in Dating: How to Talk to Someone Like a Normal Human Being

How to have a conversation

A conversation.

It seems so simply, so easy, so… totally and completely fucking unattainable?

And the irony is that I’m actually not asking for the world.  Your questions don’t have to be of Pulitzer Prize winning caliber.  They don’t have to be inventive or intuitive.  They don’t need to be exciting or exculpatory.  They just need to be present.  Occurring.  Is this really happening?  Yes, we are on a date and asking each other questions.

The truth is childhood prepared me for dating, and I don’t really understand how there are so many boys who missed the test prep of their youths.  You see, when all else fails, when you’re nervous and shy, when your mind goes blank and it takes all your strength not to simply bolt for the door…the shadow game will save you.

I ask so where did you grow up?

You tell me.

Silence ensues.  This, is your cue.  It’s so simple.  Why are you making it so difficult?

You say where did you grow up?

Sigh of relief.  And now I get to talk and fill the silence with the first chapter of my story, I was born in…

And when I’m done talking I’ll wait for a moment.  Just in case there was something you wanted to interject with.  Maybe you’ve become less shy.  Maybe some exciting thought leapt to the front of your mind while I was all a-babble.  But if not, that’s cool.  I’ll ask another, admittedly borderline tedious, question but the point is we’re just getting used to each other, it’s not yet time to find out about the traumatic experience you had when you were 15, tedious will suffice for the moment.

I ask so, do you like camping, and what are your thoughts on the sport of mini-golf?

You respond.

Silence ensues.  Again, this is your cue.  Come up with something new or simply play the shadow game.  Repeat back what I asked.  Ask me what I’ve just asked you.  It doesn’t even require any real thought.  Just say the words.  Why can’t you do this?  Why don’t you know how this works?  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?!

You ask so, what about you, do you like camping, and what are your thoughts on the sport of mini-golf?

And that’s how it works.  A functioning conversation.  The flow of a first date.  Things that are endlessly easy for $200, Alex.  And yet…and yet…I keep going on these dates or having these online dating message and/or texting conversations that are more work than pulling taffy in the winter.

So what is it?  Am I unworthy of conversation in the eyes of these boys?  Are men (correction: the men who like me) incapable of even the smallest modicum of intelligence and/or common sense?  Are these dudes stretched so thin with their expansive pursuit of women that asking a few questions falls under the “too much effort” category?  Have the boys lost all their sense of curiosity?

And before anyone responds with something like “they don’t care about you, they just want to know what’s in your pants.”  While admittedly boring and telling about the human race, even that curiosity should be enough to get the conversational ball rolling because common sense tells you…woo the girl…get the goods.  It’s really a pretty simple concept.  If you want to fuck me, ask a fucking question.

So what is it, men?  Where have all the conversations gone?


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

I’m a Man Eater, Not a Praying Mantis


NB:  This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys…er…I mean days of summer.  Is it Summer Vacation yet?

I want to clear something up, be a little more precise, about Man-Eaters, about who I am, about chicks just like me.   Because there’s this notion that Man-Eaters are Man Haters (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves).  And it’s really just the opposite.  Grown Up Man-Eaters are Man Lovers.  We love ‘em.  Can hardly contain ourselves.  Gotta have ‘em.

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Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

Me:  Oh, okay fine. That’s about right


I’ll admit it.   I.   Am.   A.   Man.   Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific?  Sure enough.   Awesomtacious.  True Story.  But at the heart (pun intended) of my fun  was my lack thereof. Tin Man, the nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was young, I didn’t know any better.

But I never asked anybody to do anything.  Boys did things of their own volition.  For their Goddess, Man-Eater.  One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months).  One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night.  Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs.  Boys made offerings.  Boys left their chicks.  And at dawn I left my socks (and ran).  I hunted.  I prowled.  And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner.  I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious.  I didn’t care.  They seemed not to care.  But I don’t really know.  Because I never asked.  Because I definitely didn’t care.  Carve notch.  Move bead left.  Punch hole.  Add name and date.  *hunger pains* and prowl again.  I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now.  Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now, well, they’re in the know.  Whether they listen or pay attention to what I say is on them, but I do indeed tell them.  I say it.  I will be kind and gentle.  But you are a meal for the summer.  I plan to eat you.  It is no reflection on you as a person.  I’m sure you’re awesome.  And if you can handle it.  I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys.  Really.  Let me say that again.  I.  Heart.  Boys.  Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard.  Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now.  And I’ll tell you again if I have to.  You are the candy of my summer.  You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool.  You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster.  You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more.  You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you.  I want you.  I need you.  This summer.  I’m hungry.  And I’m going to eat you.  But I won’t be mean about it.  Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater.  I’m a Man Lover.  And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome.  I’ll make sure of it.  Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks.  Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory.  Ask my name.  Ask my number.  Show me your balls.  And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.  Unless you’re into that sort of thing.


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

I’m Not Clingy, I’m Just Smarter Than You

*Disclaimer.  There are clingy chicks in the world. There are clingy boys in the world.  This is about the rest of us.   Who get a bad rep.
I’m a planner.  Some people think that’s a flaw.  Personally, I think it’s brilliant (and FYI: Planning and spontaneity are not mutually exclusive).  My passport is always up to date.  I’m ready for a summer road trip at a moment’s notice.  Camping?  Sure!  House-party in Kelowna tonight?  Fuck yeah…I’ll get gas, you get snacks and we can be there in five hours!  I’m basically up for anything at anytime.  Party at the moon tower? and I’m rounding up money for kegs (for you guys of course, I’ll drink diet coke) and Mathew McConaughey.  But essentially I’m looking for fun fun fun all the time time time.
Now while I may spend the majority of my days egotistically thinking I’m super awesome and RARE, I would hedge my bets that there are lots of lovely ladies out there just like me.  Ladies who have careers.  Ladies who have friends.  Ladies who have goals, dreams and priorities.  Frankly, Ladies who have shit to do.  And yet.  Ladies who have time to date.  Like I have time to date.  Ladies like me, who are available.  And not because we’re clingy.  Or desperate.  Or insecure.  Weak or sad.  Losers or duds.
We’re just simply not retarded.  Allow me to elaborate.
The biggest complaint I hear from men (trying to date me, trying to date others, floundering about) is that they’re busy.  They’re tired.  They’ve just got so much going on *stifles eye roll*   But here’s the thing of the thing.  There are a lot of hours in the day.  There are a lot of days in a week and weeks in a month.  Our lives are fucking filled with time.  So why can’t these men find any of it.
They’re retarded?  They’re confused?  Something in their DNA?  Momma didn’t teach ‘em right?  They’re really just big babies?  They can’t see a big picture?  I honestly couldn’t tell you.  It baffles me to no end.
Logic tells me that fun…uh…ya know…is fun.  Experience tells me that fun is…awesome.  And since you can never have too much awesome in your life, logic tells me that I would want to squeeze every drop I can of it into my life.  I mean honestly.
Therefore, I like to make plans in advance.  Why?  Because then I can fit more in.  I don’t wait till the weekend to make weekend plans.  Why?  Because when three people call Saturday afternoon to kick it Saturday night…I have to pick one.  Only one plan gets made.  I only get 1/3 of the fun.  However, if those same three people call by Wednesday, it’s likely that I can make plans with one on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and possibly one even Sunday afternoon.  Three out of three.  That’s one whole cup of fun. Fucking Awesome.  Now sometimes shit doesn’t work out and schedules collide and other times there simply aren’t plans to be made.  And that leaves all that lovely room for spontaneity.
And I know that often guy’s want to leave their options open.  They don’t want to commit to a plan, a girl, an idea for the weekend.  And that’s fine.  Go ahead and wrap yourself up in your issues.  It could very well work out awesomely for you.  I’m not saying I have all the answers.  I’m just offering an alternative perspective.  A reason she doesn’t answer your weekend texts.  A reason she cuts ties after three weeks without connecting for a date.  So like I said, I don’t know all the answers.  Not by a long shot.  But I do know about smart chicks.  And I know about awesomeness, lol.  And I know about planning.  And I know about having the most fun possible.  So with all that said, I leave you with this:
Boys, I beg you.  Next time you meet a girl who only wants to make advance plans with you.  Or calls you on Tuesday to make plans for the weekend.  Try to remember.  While it is possible she’s clingy or high maintenance.  It’s just as likely that she’s awesome…and quite simply smarter than you.  So do a cross-word or brush your teeth with the other hand and get that brain power up.  Step it up a notch, get your shit together and get the most out of your life.  Or don’t.  I mean do what you want.  But don’t be shocked when you call on Saturday and she’s busy.  And the best thing that might have ever come into your life is booked solid.
Class dismissed.

Dear Boys, What Are You Wearing?

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.

What are you wearing?  That’s what the message says.  What are you wearing?  That’s what all the messages say, from all the boys, at some time or another, and I haven’t a fucking clue how to respond.  Hell, I’m not even entirely sure it’s a question.  I’m stumped.

 What do you want from me?!?!?!?


When you ask this thing what are you wearing?; when you say these words what are you wearing?; when your message appears across my screen what are you wearing?:  I mean, am I supposed to tell you the literal truth?  Because here’s the thing of the thing.  When you and I are together, when we’re at the stage that I’m ready for you to see the skivvies, oh yeah, I’m wearing the Red Lacies.  The sexy boy shorts.  This illicit thing.  For sure.  But when I’m at home, alone, away from you.  You can be damn sure that I’m wearing my adorable jogging pants.  No they’re not tight, they’re just normal, don’t make this weird.  They’re regular soft and stretchy comfy pants.  So no, I’m not wearing that sexy lingerie you’re dreaming of.  And no, I’m not sauntering around naked.  Don’t be an idiot.  I have shit to do.  Like cooking bacon that splatters.  Or jazzercising in front of open windows.  And that stuff can’t be done naked.    Obvs.

But I mean I get it.  I’m a writer, after all, I can be creative.  I can amp it up for you.  But is that what you want?  Is that really what you’re asking me?  Do you want me to create some verbal fantasy that I think you’ll think is sexy?  Or are you aiming for a realistic picture of how adorable hot I look in real life, at that very moment?  Or is there a third (and forth) possibility?  Are you hoping this will lead to sexting or phone sex?  Or even more hopeful, is this your way of testing the waters of booty call lake, to see if I’m interested in getting wet, in having a quick dip?  I honestly don’t know what your deal is, boys, and thus, here is my plea:

Dear boys,

My dear sweet boys.  What is it exactly that you want from me?  The reality of it all?  Or do you want the smoke and mirrors and pay no attention to that man behind the curtain?  Do you want to be able to picture me in the very way that I am, at that very moment that you message me?  Or is your aim the sugar and sexy spice that comes standard on our date nights?  Are you trying to get into my skivvies?  Is this the time for fantastical fictional narratives?  Honestly, tell me boys, seriously, what the fuck do you want from me when you type those confusing words–What are you wearing?

Yours Truly,

Judgey Wudgey

aka Something She Dated
aka Your favorite jogging pants sexter
aka That girl at the coffee shop
aka flip that bacon girl it’s burning
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

Dear Boys, Please Know Your Audience

Head Desk
Now I’m certainly not one to judge. 
Oh quit laughing and get up off the floor I’m being serious. 
C’mon now. Please. Just Listen. No I don’t always. 
Oh shut up…fine…so I’m always the first one to judge.

I often wonder what impression people get from me. Especially online people, plentyoffish people, blog reading people. I pride myself on being mostly real, pretty honest, generally upfront. The mostly, pretty and generally descriptors leave room for things like job interviews etc. when “of course, working here would fulfill all my passions and allow me to help people….etc.etc.etc.” and things of that nature. But on here. In this blog. On my dating profile. I’m trying to convey the most authentic version of myself. Which may or may not be happening successfully.

OkCupid is a good example of this NOT being successful. The first message I got was from a guy with a foot fetish who thought I might be into his 5’5ness and began to woo me with things like, “I would love you to sit on my face” ick! Delete! I mean, no judgement. I’m sure there’s a tiny tot somewhere that would love these words of romance, but at 5’7 with a thing for tall guys, I’m thinking no go.

The second message…and oh for those of you wondering, these are the ONLY 2 messages I’ve gotten on OKCupid (I blame the sample size and the fact that it’s an American website vastly less popular here than POF), went like this…

Subject : at ur feet

I am 25 years old, I live in Van, I would love to spoil you and serve you. Everything I do it will be for your happiness. I am submissive, I will listen to you and always pay attention to little details that will make you even more happy. You will love to be in charge and together we will explore that side of you. This is not about sex at all, it’s actually all about love and worship you as Goddess. I am very loyal and romantic .From cleaning the house, doing the laundry, rubbing your feet, pampering you and just do as I am told. I want to serve only you and be only your slave, owned and collared and bossed around just by YOU! I have msn, facebook, webcam and I am local. I am not copying and pasting this message, I actually wrote it because I really like your profile.

your pet


The thing about me and judgement is…I’m incredibly quick to do it. But. I’m just as quick to see another side, etc. and change my opinion. This however, never gets that far so really…I just…I mean…Come The Fuck On Bridget** you can’t possibly be serious. First, uh…gross and creepy much? But most importantly, second, do I seem like a chick that could possibly, even in a million years, be into that? NO! Clearly I’m not conveying my message very well. Or perhaps these boys just severely lack the ability to know their audience. That’s right…boys…I beg you…Know Your Audience.

For reference. I want a man’s man. A guy’s guy. A lumberjack. An MMA fighter (more on this later). Agression (without the violence). Take charge. Take control. Hairy chests and hyper-masculinity. Build a house.  Fix your car.  Pitch a tent.  You have my number, grow a pair and call me. Where should we meet, “nevermind” he says, “I’ll pick something and let you know.” “Good time to call?” doesn’t matter, don’t be afraid of a voicemail.  DO something.  Do SOMETHING.  Team sports and wolfpack guy friends. Sex Sex Sex, my tits, my tits, my lips. Good stance. Strong stance. Confident and looming. Balls of steel and decisiveness. Take me. Take me. Take me.

Now before everybody gets all amped up (like he should be), please remember (or take a gander at) what I said about The Boys of Summer. And don’t get me wrong, I know that the funny(?) jokes of my profile don’t necessarily scream I. WANT. ME. CAVEMAN! but surely they should ward off the ultra-feminine-metro-sexual-submissive-fetishists that OKCupid is supplying me, eh? yes? no?



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Dear boys,

Please, my dear dear boys, I beg of you.  Know your audience.  Because when you don’t.  I’m judging you.

Yours Truly,

Judgy Wudgy Was A Bear




** (click the words to see video representation of my favorite saying and go to minute 3:52)


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