How to Have the Greatest First Date Ever with SSDated

[dropcap]So[/dropcap], SSDated, the object of my internet desires and subject of more than a few of my booze-fueled fantasies, asked me to contribute a guest post. At first, I was flattered. But then, as it typically does, performance anxiety crept in. I mean, I know I can work some magic at my own blog, by myself. But doing it to—gasp—a woman? And a woman whose mere Twitter avatar gets my saliva glands pumping like a fat guy at the bakery? This would take some planning.

I thought long and hard about how to rep my set. I could go charming (“Here’s a guest post about how I always bring candy and a banjo to every first date”). I could play the hard-edged, possibly damaged guy (“My keys to a successful first date: chloroform, bandages, and a Catwoman costume.”). Or I could just give her something that’s so completely out there, she’s bound to be intrigued enough to return my calls (“Sex in the car is awesome. But, man, sex in a space shuttle…that’s the stuff.”)

In the end, I decided to take the more direct approach, and write something about how I’d envision our first date to go.

In the interest of time (and trying to keep this under 1,000 words), I’ll skip right through the first two hours of my trifling dinner conversation. To summarize, I once dreamed of owning my own lumber yard; I spent one memorable summer working as a butcher; I own more comic books than an adult male probably should and I can clap with one hand (not a euphemism, BTW.).

Assuming she stuck around through this (which isn’t likely), I’d try to somehow con her into coming back to my place. While I don’t like to reveal too much about my technique in this regard, let’s just say that when a grown man starts crying and explaining that his dying mother had one last wish to see her son on an actual date with an actual woman, even the hardest of ladies can become very accommodating.

Back at my place, I’d be playing the part of the charmer. Getting her a beverage, adjusting the thermostat to her precise level of comfort, and perhaps even offering her the chance to view the VHS tape of my high school graduation that I keep on hand for emergency viewing purposes.

Soon, once I’d run out of things to say or finished explaining why a grown-ass man has a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ricardo Montalban in his bedroom, I’d try to make a move. Because hours of staring at the science-defying curve of her hips, the light glistening on her mouth, and the way the very fibers of her shirt were straining to hold in all that goodness would be making me dizzy.

I’d start in smooth. Asking if she’d enjoy a back rub or, depending on my level of desperation, setting my pants on fire with a cleverly concealed lighter and screaming for her to help me get them off.

The eventual goal—as it typically is—would be to somehow get her into a position in which she’s sitting on my face. Granted, this isn’t easy to achieve “by accident” (unless I discovered some way to burrow under the couch where she’s sitting without her knowledge), but it’s where I do my best selling. Because experience tells me that when I finally shut up and put my mouth to better use, letting my tongue work at differing speeds and ever-fluctuating rhythms – in perfect sync with her every moan and flex of the hips – women tend to not mind having put up with four hours of my bullshit.

So let’s assume through some miracle of science, SS decided, “What the hell. I’ll make this nerd’s day.” I’d have to fight the urge to simply sit back and stare at this gorgeous ass she’s been kind enough to stick in my face, and go to work. Up and down, in and out. A long, slow lick here. A quick but deep tongue penetration there. A gentle flickering of my tongue along her clit. I’d listen for her breathing to quicken and let it be my guide.

That’s it, she’d tell me after a while. That’s the spot. Right there. And I’d work it like a man possessed. My mouth and tongue going to town like a deranged possum at an all-you-can-eat barbecue. My hands on her hips, holding her steady, feeling her try to buck and grind while my tongue simply would. Not. Stop. Fucking. Her.

So I’d keep at it. Harder and deeper, every muscle of my jaw working in perfect time, moving, moving, moving. She’d be engorged, hot and throbbing, and I’d know it’s only a matter of time. And she wouldn’t believe I’ve kept it going this long and I wouldn’t even remember the last time I took a breath because I’m so focused on working her over and who gives a fuck about breathing anyway when there is a gorgeous female sitting on your face? I’ve spent the better part of my life taking in oxygen, and this is one of those occasions where you simply pull from the reserve tanks and don’t let it fuck up your game, bro.

That’s when I’d feel it. It’s happening. It’s working. I’d give my tongue a solid twist, working my whole mouth (and perhaps even a few fingers) into it. And just like that, she’d throw her head back and scream in approval. And I’d feel my cock start to balloon as she fell back, exhausted, exuberant, satiated, and sat down on my face with full weight, burying me between her utterly fantastic ass cheeks. So engrossed in the moment I wouldn’t even notice the damage we’d done to the stack of mint copies of The Amazing Spider-Man that I keep next to the couch.

And then, right at that moment in fact, is when I’d wake up. And realize I don’t even have the balls to call her and ask her out.

But some day, man. Some day…

By Ken (@Tenacious_Ken)

pantz4Oh Ken.  I would say there are no words to properly describe Ken except that there are.  However, most of them should only ever be utter with warm breath across pillows and under bed sheets.  Needless to say, I’m already planning the wedding.  And the divorce.  And the make up affair.  And then the friendship that stands the test of time.  Or something that sounds more spontaneous and less “planny” because I’ve heard guys don’t like that stuff.  Seriously though, I’m moving to Montreal and you know what’s close to Montreal…Boston…and you know who’s in Boston?…Ken.  Just sayin’.  All jokes and sexual innuendo aside, Ken writes an AMAZING blog with the lovely Ariel who was featured earlier this month and if you don’t read their work…you’re really missing out.  To be honest, I’m not sure who I’m more jealous of…Ariel for being around Ken or Ken for being around Ariel.  But basically…LOVE TRIANGLE!

How to Reject Someone (so that you don’t give them PTSD)

 

[dropcap]O[/dropcap]ne of the more fascinating outcomes of sex, dating and relationship blogging is people believing you to be an expert of some kind. Seriously. In the two and a half years that I’ve been spilling detailed beans about my own foibles, faux pas’ and triumphs people have started treating me like a sexual swami or something. Co-workers have been known to stop by my desk to get my opinion on their latest dating mishap, friends call at all hours to get my point of view and virtual strangers corner me at dinner parties to ask my thoughts on polyamory.

People don’t stop to consider that I’m only different because of my willingness to share my dating stories, victories and defeats, like ribs at barbecue; we all pick at it until nothing’s left but the bones. And then I take those bones and make stock. Which then becomes soup. Or gravy. And in case you’ve lost track somewhere along the way, my life is like the ribs and my blog is like the barbecue and…who cares but the point of this oh so laborious metaphor is that I’m shameless with the details of my life. Not anymore of an expert than anyone else. Just shameless.

Why the preamble?

Well, I kind of have advice to share. And I want you all to listen. Or read. But I also want you to take it all with a grain of salt. After all, I’m probably not any smarter or wiser than any of you.

However, there is one thing I do know better than most: How to reject someone. I know this neither because I’m well versed in the art of letting someone down easy nor because I’ve been beating them off with a stick so long I know all the tricks of the trade. No, I know how to reject someone because I’ve been rejected. Often. And I know how horrible it can feel. And I think it goes without saying that if you have any dating experience at all you’ve dealt with rejection. Actually, the only thing that goes without saying is the saying “it goes without saying” but I just couldn’t avoid the cliché.

Anyway, next time you find yourself considering rejecting someone, please keep the following in mind:

KEEP IT SIMPLE: don’t offer me grandiose stories about having just come out of a relationship and needing a little “me” time right now. For many that just translates to you’re not attractive enough, or not tall enough or too bald or too fat or too….something. It’s always something. Something we are not or worse, something we are. And that sucks. A simple I’m not interested will do.

DON’T BE AFRAID TO LIE: I’m all for honesty. If there were such a thing as the patron saint of relationship/dating truth telling then I would be it. Men and women alike would wear jewellery carved in my image, churches would be adorned with my likeness and cheaters would have to say three Hail Marys and a Sam Sharpe to repent for their sins.

But sometimes the guy at the club is just too pushy and won’t take no for an answer. Sometimes the girl in accounting just can’t take a hint when you tell her that you’re booked until 2021. Sometimes you just have to say something like you’ve taken a vow of chastity.

Oh, and ladies, if a pushy stranger offers to buy you a drink, just politely decline. And don’t say you’re not thirsty, or you don’t feel like drinking (THEN WHY ARE. YOU. AT. THE. BAR????). Considering the context those aren’t effective lies. Feel free to say something like “I’ve had one drink already and I have to drive home” or “I’m a Lesbian” or “I have herpes” or “I haven’t fully completed my transition yet” to get the really pushy ones off your back.

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD: I was at a dance one evening with friends when the DJ decided to play a slow-jam set. Not surprisingly some people paired up and the rest of us poor souls receded to the margins alone though united by our common sense of slow dance unworthiness. I spotted a young lady hovering near the edge of the dance floor. I decided I would ask her to dance.

I walked over, said something like “would you like to dance” and watched in horror as she looked me up and down, then wordlessly walked away. The whole thing lasted maybe five seconds but felt like an eon. It felt as if the whole world was laughing at me. They probably weren’t but all these years later it still smarts. I used to love slow jams. Now they make me twitchy. I’m probably still suffering from a low grade form of post traumatic stress syndrome brought on by my slow jam rejection. If I’m ever getting married, the first dance might have to be some up-tempo choreographed Michael Jackson-esque number. Either that or we’ll do the group/line dance thing. Like in Footloose. Anything to avoid a slow dance.

Anyway, the point is, have a little compassion. Rejecting someone is not the time to be working through your own emotional dramas and melodramas. No need to exact some form of psychic revenge on the pour soul who chats you up at the barbecue. No need to be rude. Try to remember how horrible rejection feels and try not to visit that feeling upon someone else.

I don’t know what was happening in that young lady’s life. I don’t know what kind of day she had. But all she had to do was say no thank you. She wouldn’t have been forced to dance with someone she deemed undesirable. And I would have still have my dignity.

In closing, allow me to share an anecdote. Years ago I was introduced to a woman at a party. It became clear very early that she was interested in moi. The feeling was not mutual. I had a choice to make. I could reject this woman in grandiose fashion. Or I could be polite. I chose the latter.

We ended up becoming friends, very good friends. Also turns out that she knows a lot of women, a lot of attractive women in fact. As it turns out, some of these very attractive women happened to find me attractive too. As fate would have it, a few of these women wanted to have sex with me.

It pays to be polite people. It pays to be polite.

Sam Sharpe is one of the luxuriously sexy writers over at MetAnotherFrog who I hope to one day cover in baby oil and take pictures of before doing all kinds of inappropriate things and is always enlightening with his sexual wisdom.  He is a real connoisseur of my sex drive of sexual knowledge and experience.  Drool.  He says things.  I listen.  Nuff said.  Pics.

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.

Online Dating Site Review: PlentyofFish.com

Plenty of Fish Logo

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Plenty of Fish  

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Attractiveness of Guys

There are tons of physically attractive guys on this website.  However, just as with life, there are also lots of not so attractive fellas but this website, especially in relation to others, is heavy with the hotties (heavy both in quantity and quality)

Attention from Fellas

On average (its higher when I’m online more often and lower when I’m on less, so clearly exposure helps) I get about 2-5 messages a day.  That being said, there are days when I get 10-20 and others where 3 days go by with nada.  Generally 3 out of those daily 5 get deleted right away, 1 out of the remaining 2 usually turns out to be a moron (sometimes 2 out of 2) but I have messaged with several fellas who have made it past this initial stage.

Quality of Responders

While I have gone on several dates from Plenty of Fish (in fact, I think most of my dates have been from POF), so many of those dates have been either ridiculous or with guys who only wanted sex (not that there is anything wrong with that).  Additionally, I’m not actually even opposed to sex-based relationships, the problem is that most of these guys should not be allowed to have sex–that is how bad they suck at life.  Additionally, so much of my time is wasted sifting to the idiocy of POF messages, not to mention trying to keep a relatively normal blood pressure given the rage I feel at having to deal with said stupidity.  Needless to say that there is not a whole lot of super witty intelligent conversation happening and definitely not a whole lot of interest spurred.  In POF`s defense, I think I put up with more ridiculousness for a few reasons and that in and of itself makes me a part of the problem (after all, who is rewarding the stupid behavior but the girls who then still meet them for coffee, amirite.  In my defense, here are the reasons:

  1. I have very little patience and thus often take less than I deserve because I’m not ready to “wait it out”
  2. Because I’m looking for fun and dating not long term relationship I don’t judge it as harshly as some would
  3. I am trying to be more open and less judgemental

Coolness of Site

Nothing particularly unique about this site.  You can’t search for guys that are interested in a specific (chubby) body type, there’s no fun neat stuff, basically the only saving grace is that its free (which is probably also it’s greatest downfall as it allows guys to be total losers with no real consequences).

Overall Satisfaction

Unfortunately, it really is a “best of the worst” type of situation.  Though, just like someone driving a jalopy, the second I get a better option, I’ll be dropping this beast in a heartbeat.  So no, Plenty of Fish, you and I are not soul mates — you’re the booty call I’m answering until someone better takes your place.  And that’s the truth.

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

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** (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