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

Smart Guys

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e had had our first date on Thursday night and now it was Sunday and I was headed over to the Scientist‘s place for dinner.

I arrived right on time.  He opened the door, we hugged, and his wet hair pressed against my cheek.  He seemed a tad rushed, which was substantiated when he told me that his day had run long at the lab and so he hadn’t had a chance to actually cook anything yet.

No worries I said.  I wasn’t even that hungry yet.  He showed me around his place (which is smaller than mine, if that can even be possible) and then he presented the view, which was stunning.  He partially faced the “mountain” (mont-royal), as well as the stadium, and had a clear view over the city.  It was beautiful while it was still light out and then magical once it had gotten dark (did you know that there’s a huge lit up cross on Mont-Royal?  I had no idea but apparently there is, so much for Quebec’s new attempt to ban religious symbols eh?).

Unfortunately, unlike my balcony which is solid cement and at least feels sturdy, his balcony felt and looked like it was constructed for a 7th grade science project.   And before you think me a huge scaredy-cat of illogical reasoning, try to remember that this is Montreal after all, and you can’t trust anything here.  Corruption is real and infrastructure is terminal.  I mean, I’m still a scaredy cat, but like bear that in mind is all I’m saying.  Thus, while the view was cool and all, going out there was kind of terrifying and I don’t think he was impressed by my sensitivity to…ya know…dying.

We continued to talk for awhile, particularly about travel as his apartment had a large map and was decorated primarily by the knick knacks and souvenir trinkets he’d clearly picked up along his travels.  Eventually though, he had to make us dinner, so he told me to make myself comfortable and he’d finish it up.

I, of course, took that as an excellent sign to read his science textbooks (don’t worry, I asked first). 

 

During dinner we listened to jazz music and he dimmed the lights so we could look out over the city.  The food was simple yet delicious, though I only ate one of the tortilla/fajita things.  At first, I thought he’d made 4 and since I wasn’t all that hungry to begin with (nerves, probably) when he’d eaten 2 and offered me another I declined, assuring him it was delicious but that I was good.  Then I found out he’d made 6, but I couldn’t figure out if it would be weirder to not eat very much or to change my mind now, so I stuck with the former.  Then he offered me ice cream for dessert.  At first I responded with no, I’m fine but then I felt like such an asshole for turning down all his food that I said sure, I’ll take some.  I mean, I’m nothing if not a polite houseguest 😉

We talked some more about travelling, and he showed me this video of his trip to South Africa.  He told me a story of how him and his friend had been camping off the beaten trail in South Africa and a car had pulled up and the driver pulled a gun on them.  He asked if I’d ever had any close calls like that with danger and I struggled to answer.  No, not really I’d said and immediately I found myself ashamed of my lack of adventure.  But then I realized that it could be because I was a woman and thus, had a very keen sense of which situations are safe and which are not and would then never have put myself in that kind of danger.  But, it did make me want to travel more, to be more adventurous, to make this life really happen, ya know?

We sat on this weird super tiny couch that looked like it was covered in light blue velvet, him drinking a beer and me drinking water.  It was pretty typical second date stuff, the two people slowly moving closer and closer together, the kiss waiting in the wings.  But there’s still an awkwardness at this stage, there’s still an uncertainty as to whether affection is wanted, will be accepted.  And so I did my best to indicate that it was and would be, by facing him and just like that…we were kissing.  Well…kissing, and trying to not spill my water.

 

To Be Continued…

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???

The Comic: Kissing on the Docks in Old Port

Pearl Necklace

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o, I had met a Montreal Comic, watched him host a show, and now we were at the docks in Old Port.

In all honesty, it was a pretty great idea for a first date-second location.  It was novel (he got to point out things because I’m new here, show me the river, there were boats – and who doesn’t love boats?!?).  It was private and one could argue romantic, but without being pressure-filled and presumptuous (like say, going to someone’s apartment might be).  And it was just kind of fun.

We walked along for awhile, hand-holding etc.  The first kiss came and went and it was pretty good (I’m starting to wonder about the science of race and kissing at this point given how few black men and how many white men suck at it).  I was wearing my magic dress (the one that makes my boobs look huge, my stomach look small, and my ass look great) and feeling good.  Things were going swimmingly.

The night wasn’t, however, without its flaws.  For example, he definitely got a bit too handsy out there on the docks.  I’m all for a secluded public makeout sesh at 2am when no one is really around but these DDs don’t make public appearances for anyone so it did kind of annoy me that he kept trying to get at ’em and even tried to put ’em on display.  Like, we’re on the docks here not out in the middle of the desert dude, people could come by.  Plus, he kept feeling all over my body, so I spent a lot of time petrified that he’d feel my spanx and it would be like that scene in Bridge Jones’ Diary.

After awhile, the night started to cool off quite a bit (my first respite from the 30+ humid heat of Montreal that had been constant since I’d moved there at the end of July) and so he took me home.  When we arrived at my apartment, I assumed that would be the end of our date.  A quick kiss goodbye and something about doing this again and I’d be off.  But, that’s not quite what happened.

Detour:  Do most men feel like only teenagers get pressured into doing things that they didn’t want to do?  Do most men think that it’s either black or white, you want to fuck immediately or not at all?  Because, I have to say I feel like that’s the case, and it’s just not true.

Because even me, this supposedly strong, bold, self-assured, take no prisoners, suffer no-bullshit no-nonsense, woman, gets pressured into shit from time to time and I’ll tell you how and why it happens.  It happens, because sexual activity can be a slippery slope.

In my experience, guys are almost always pushing for a bit more, for things to go a bit faster, and AS FUCKING IRRITATING AS IT IS THAT I HAVE TO HOLD  THE REINS AND GUIDE THE PACE, that’s usually how it happens.  It’s generally the girl trying to slow things down.  But, this isn’t to say she doesn’t want the same things to happen (as I often do), it’s that she needs more time, more connection, more whatever.  And it is this reason that she doesn’t just jump up and say fuck you and bolt.  Because she wants things to progress, just at a different speed, and so she doesn’t want to spazz out on the guy, but he keeps pushing and pushing for just a little bit more.  And he doesn’t do it in a scary way (usually), it’s mostly done in an annoying way, so that by the time I’m “making eighth grade love to him” (read: giving him a handy in the front seat of his – what I now think is his parents’ – car outside of my apartment, and letting him give me a somewhat sloppy pearl necklace, I’ve started to lose all that passion I had when we first started making out on the docks.  Suddenly, I’m thinking about how I’m almost 31 and just got pressured into giving a handjob I would’ve rather saved for our second date and cleaning his jizz off my collar bone (and silently laughing that he also got it on his mom’s upholstery).  Suddenly, I’m not so into this comic who seemed nice and fun and though he’s managing to smooth this over a bit by praising my digital skill set, I’m still mostly focused on the fact that I feel a bit icky for having been pressured at all and I’m feeling a bit sad because now I’m thinking about other girls who have really been pressured and even forced to do all kinds of things they didn’t want to do by shitty guys and how I’ll get over this but will they be able to get over the horrible things that happen to them and now I’m thinking about how I can help those women hurt by those shitty men instead of being hot and bothered for this weak guy who – and maybe it was just the way the street lighting bounced off the dashboard or the way the shadows fell but I’m pretty sure this guy – has the most terrifying O face I’ve ever seen.

So yeah.  That’s how our date ended.  A handjob in a shitty car on a brand new street under the lamps and the possibility someone might see you cum.  The lights of Montreal a little dimmer in my eyes.

Third Date with France (Part II): A Definite France in the Pants Situation

Always bring condoms

 

[dropcap]So[/dropcap] like I was saying…the movie.

He led the way up the stairs and found us some seats.  Now maybe I’m just too horny slutty makeout-in-public-y (under the cover of movie theatre darkness of course) but I found it weird when he didn’t pick the back row.  Isn’t that where all the making out happens?

But I guess…

I mean maybe…

I mean…he had just paid for two movie tickets…

Maybe he wanted to actually watch the movie.  Which I guess made sense given that he would probably be trying at least twice as hard as I was to hear and understand all the dialogue and jokes.  *tiny sigh*

It really wasn’t that big of a deal though.  Especially when you take into account that within 20 minutes his hand was lounging on my thigh and then we pretty much spent the rest of the movie holding hands.  Excepting when I had to break our lust lock to open up my water and have a sip.  Apparently he wasn’t down with making the same kind of momentary escape because at one point in the movie I watched him (out of the corner of my eye I’m so covert), try and succeed at opening a bottled drink with just one hand.  I found this awesome on so many different levels.  I mean who doesn’t love dexterity and an unwillingness to let go of your hand?!?

The movie was good.  He laughed a bit.  I laughed a lot.  It still ended up having that bullshit romantic plot element which I could’ve definitely done without (mainly for the fact that it was poorly executed not because I’m a heartless monster).

I can’t remember whether we walked the 10 or so blocks back to my place and then I asked if he wanted to come over or if I asked first and then we walked the 10 blocks but just assume it was which ever of those seems more ladylike and endearing.

However, France said no.

I was mortified.  Wait what?!?

Not to worry, he was joking.  Oh…ha ha ha…gulp…hilarious.

When we got back to my place (and I pretended to use the washroom but let’s get serious I was toweling down and freshening up.  It was still ridiculously hot and humid here and buddy had just made me walk 10 blocks in the swelter of it all.  Though in his defence he offered to carry me on his back at one point.)

I’m sure there was some conversation.  I probably offered him a glass of water.  Probably made a joke about only having mugs to give him the water in.  Probably made a joke about how we had broken the couch.  But in all honesty, I don’t remember much about this part.

What I do remember is that because of the broken couch there were really only 3 other places to sit.  My desk chair, which would’ve been weird.  My arm chair, which I guess was the most normal.  And the bed.  When I came out of the bathroom he was in the armchair but then that became a bit weird because where was I going to sit.

I think there were some nervous sounds.  Some awkward motions.  And suddenly we were testing the strength of my little IKEA bed but not before he did a quick check under the mattress to see just exactly how it was held together.  I think this was part cheeky-joke and part realistic safety concern.  See…I’ve told you guys many times that I’m a chubby bunny but you know what they say, muscle weighs more than fat.  And so while you may be sitting there thinking, Jesus I’m sure it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’m sure the bed could hold her.  Yes, the bed can in fact hold me very easily…hence why I sleep in it every night.  But France on the other hand.  At 6’0 and nothing but solid muscles (SOLID FUCKING MUSCLE!!!) well shit son, that’s a lot of extra poundage (pun intended).  All that being said…let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…dirty birds!

So, like I was saying, in no time flat we were flat on our backs pretending like we weren’t about to have the biggest hump session ever.  And you can assume that lasted for about 30 seconds before he pounced and I was offering myself up as easy prey.

First there was the kissing.  I really like kissing France.  I actually haven’t talked about this *erm* problem I’ve encountered *erm* with more than one guy, much lately.  But you see, some boys, really suck at kissing.  Like, BRU-TAL!  Some beyond even the point where I feel like I can reign them in, hone up their skills, teach a master class.  And while I feel a bit bad saying it.  Sometimes I worry.  It’s a small lips thing.  Like, there’s not even anything they can do about it, these are the cards DNA has dealt them.  But don’t get me wrong, I’m willing to admit that maybe I have fat lips.  Maybe it’s not a small-lips-bad-kisser-thing but instead a mismatched-sizing thing.  But I digress.

This is not a problem with France.  If only I could show you his delicious lips, and they really are delicious.  They are big and plump and amazing.  They fit with mine perfectly.  And he doesn’t do anything weird with his tongue either.  He doesn’t jam it into my mouth and then just leave it there.  He understands that kissing is a dance and standing on my feet isn’t sexy.  And when he does accidentally stub my toe (so to speak)…a little playful nibble and we’re back in the swing of things.

And then the shirts were coming off!

*he did some things*

My bra!

*he touched some things*

Pants!! (thank god I had on the red lacies…my “lucky jersey” if you will)

*I touched some things*

***See how I keep things nice and clean and kosher for you guys.  I mean…you don’t really want all the gory details anyway right???

Needless to say it was a definite France in the Pants situation!  A pants off, France off!! (I could go all night!!…just kidding…those are the only two I’ve got…I’ll stop now.)  Carry on.

And then it was time for the big event.

Except

And then he looked at me…

Except

I looked to him…

He didn’t have any condoms.  WORST!!

His excuse was that when he was running out the door to come meet me for the movies he just grabbed his wallet and forgot to bring some.

My excuse was BRING YOUR OWN FUCKING CONDOMS!!!

And here’s why:

1.  Well admittedly I once had sex with the world’s smallest penis, broadly speaking, I have generally managed to luck out in the world of big dicks (like if you’re not pulling a gold wrapper out of your pocket I might start to get a little alarmed).  That being said, if you’re awesome you’re awesome and while you can’t hope a small dick big, it’s not the end of the world.  HOWEVER!  Not bringing your own condoms…alerts me right away that you’re not concerned about size, about fit.  And that’s not a great opening act.

2.  I have to pay for birth control, the least you could do is pay for the condoms.  Actually scratch that, next time you come over you better show up with some roses and some chocolates and maybe an iTunes gift card.  It’s not about romance, you just need to level this shit out a bit (and no…paying for the movie doesn’t count towards this…that’s half the reason you got to this stage to begin with.)

3.  Pretend all you want that I’m a grown up and don’t laugh at dick jokes or hear the word balls (in any context) and think about your man marbles.  But no matter what, I’ll still blush when buying tampons and condoms and since tampons are unavoidable, the least you could do is save me the condom blush.  Plus, again, I don’t know what size you want or any of that biz.  That’s on you.

4.  Be a boy scout, and come prepared.  See here’s another tidbit you should probably know.  I like real men.  And you know what real men do?  They handle their shit.  They don’t go oh I wasn’t thinking or I didn’t know we were going to have sex tonight or any of that nonsense.  You should’ve been bringing condoms with you since the first date, just in case.  I was promised by the movies of my youth that boys would always have condoms and I am not impressed with this betrayal.

______________________________________________________

That being said.  HAVE YOU SEEN FRANCE!?!?!  Okay…so most of you haven’t (Shoutout to my closest friends, relatives, internet buddies, my new colleagues, and maybe a girl or two in bar in MTL who HAVE seen his photo…ya’ll know what I’m talking about!!!)  Nonetheless, obviously I handled the situation a bit more gracefully than get the fuck out of here and don’t come back you disappointing bastard!!!  Because, obvs.

I smiled.  We laughed.  There were numerous exasperated sighs.  My only consolation was the close proximity and constant touching of his abs.  There was more kissing.  More laughing.  More exasperated sighs.  I’m sure we talked about some things but you really can’t blame me for not being able to remember when this hulk of a hottie was still pressing his naked body up against mine can you?!?

More laughter.  More talking.  More kissing.  More pressing.

Now here’s the best part.  And while you may not agree with me Fuck you, I’m right everybody likes things their own way, etc. etc. etc. blah blah blah so if this isn’t how you would’ve wanted things or whatever keep it to yourself that’s totally fine.  Some misguided boys would take this opportunity to suggest a handy or maybe a blowjob even if they’re really balls to the wall.  But you know what that does?  It might get you a handy, but honestly my heart won’t be in it, and you’ve now just sacrificied the potential for 2 years worth of amazing sex (or a few weeks or whatever) for a quick nut that won’t even be that great (because while *cough* I have been told, when my heart’s in it, I can give quite the helping hand…like I said, my heart won’t even be in it).

But not to worry.  France didn’t pull any of that shit.  He knew he’d be coming back for more, and would bring a whole pack of condoms next time (okay that sounds cheesy or presumptuous typing it out now, but I swear when he said it, it was baby-panda type of adorable).  But like I was saying, France didn’t pull any of that pressure bullshit.  He knew where the evening’s boundaries were and he wasn’t going to push them.  And man, if you only knew how that gets rewarded.

Because here’s the thing.  I know, very few guys (almost none really), who can get me off with their hands alone.  Sure, I could pull out the vibrator but I wasn’t ready to reveal all that yet.  And while boys always think, oh yeah, yeah I’ll get you off too…they rarely do.  And so you see, if he had pressed for a handy or a beej, he would’ve skipped his place in line, he would’ve shot one up on the score board and left me trailing in the dust.  And while he was still lovely and dextrous, I’m a grown woman not a highschool kid.  I want to get off when he fucks me senseless, not the night he forgets the condoms and pressures me into getting him off and finger bangs me till eventually I either tell him it’s not going to happen or I break my habit of not being a liar and fake it just a little.

So hurray for France!  Viva la France!!  Though he forgot the key ingredient of the evening, he still managed to keep things kosher (and swoony, and giggley, and sexy, and want-want-wanty) between us.

And I guess there’d always be next time, right???

NB:  I’m writing this at 4am.  I know it’s Vive (not Viva) la France (see picture and text).  I was trying to make a language barrier joke.  Kind of like when Rachel on Friends says “Au Revoir” but it sounds like OR EV VWAR! and then acknowledges that the people in France are going to hate her.  I worry this joke will not go over well and the “grammar” dicks will come out in full force.  So don’t.  Don’t be a dick.  Seriously.

Second Dates and First Kisses In Montreal

Kissing in Montreal

 

[dropcap]I’ve[/dropcap] been known to overload my readers with details.  Sometimes the details seem important.  Especially on days when I’m asking advice (which is actually fairly rare but does happen) and I need you to see the full picture.  Other times I overload because of an obsessive need a desire to be understood.  Sometimes I just do it because this blog is a chronology of my life, a history in dating, a journal on display.  This is my real life.  These things are really happening to me.  And 30 years from now when you’ve all forgotten about me, I’ll come back to these pages and remininsce about the life I lead.  About the time I moved to Montreal for Grad School.

That being said.  Not in this post.  This post is all about the passion.

You see it doesn’t really matter how we got to the second date.  We got there how most people get there.  Talking, asking, time didn’t stop for us and then it happened.  He showed up at 8pm.  We only had a little over 2.5 hours because he had to go to work at 1045pm.  Tonight he was a bartender.

Tonight he was my breath.  My tongue.  He was my every sigh and pant.  Tonight, he held me in the palm of his hand and owned me.

He was standing at the front door, holding some sort of aloe beverage, asked if I wanted anything from the little store in the lobby.  He smiled.  I smiled.  We hugged.  We double kissed.  We came upstairs.  For the first time in my life, if the elevator had gotten stuck I would not have minded one single bit.  I could’ve spent all night in there with him.  And then we were in my apartment.

My apartment…that’s still in progress.  You see, I don’t have a TV (why would I, I download everything, who has time for commercials?!?) (see also: I’m a poor grad student).  In a bizarre twist of events, I only have about 15 movies on my computer.  The explanation isn’t worth explaining.  So needless to say I felt a bit like the world’s worst host.  Like sure, come on over to my place where all the furniture is doll sized, we have to watch the movie on my laptop and you can only choose from a few movies.  Even worse, the one movie he chose was the only one in mp4 which tends to make my computer overheat and thus we had to pick something else.

Friday Night Lights.  Because dammit, I like a theme and if I’m going to have a football player sitting on my couch we’re damn sure going to watch a football movie or a football game.  Nuff said.  Jokes aside, he picked the movie.  And let’s be honest.  Were either of us really planning on watching the movie?  Does anyone ever really watch the movie?

No.

The movie is simply a distraction.  It’s background music.  It’s the score…to our scoring (Wordplay.  You’re welcome).  The movie is just something for us to focus on while we slowly move closer and closer to each other on the couch and get more and more comfortable.  It’s the soundtrack to our sexual tension.  First it’s my arm resting against his and then it’s his hand on my knee, my thigh.  Our hands, holding.  My breath, holding.

He said cute things.  I said cute things.  We misunderstood each other’s cute things.  No one gave a shit about the misunderstanding over cute things.  And then we were kissing.  His soft lips.  My soft lips.  Tongues and heat and breathing and pressing and sucking and pushing and teasing.

Now, I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I still feel I’m not adequately expressing how hot France is.  And I know you’re probably thinking I’m exaggerating.  All like, wtf ever he can’t be that hot or it’s just cause you like him or it’s all relative or whatever.  But seriously, every time I tell a friend about France, they react the same way, like okay sure but no big deal.  And then I send them his picture.  And the responses show up:

“Sweet Fucking Jesus”

“UUUUMMMMMMMMM…. Hot! Hot! Hot!!! I’m am speechless…”

“Sweet Baby Jesus”

“Holy mother fucking shit that is one AMAZING body!!!!!!  Thanks for those *save image*”

And so you can imagine that as we’re kissing and our lips are totally in sync and his body is pressing down on mine, that it is one of the hottest moments of my entire life.  He’s wearing this blue and white gingham short sleeve button down and it looks amazing.

Only here’s the thing.  It’s not a button down.  Because there are no buttons.  It’s all snaps.  Which I only notice because he snaps a couple open.  Maybe he needed more room to breathe (I am a sexy babe after all) or maybe he just wanted to show me the mechanics of getting him naked but whatever it was that caused him to rip open a snap or two was nothing in comparison to what motivated me to tear the entire shirt open.  Picture it like in the movies.  Because that’s exactly how it happened.  Two arms reach up…and rip his shirt open.  Le Gasp.

Abs that you could grate cheese on.  Literally.  Abs that make you want to do a load of laundry.  I want to wash my delicates all over him.  I want to soap him down in ways that would make us forever unclean.

And then…and here’s where it gets really really good.  Then we found our rhythm.  Or more, we fell into the place where he knew what I liked and gave it to me.  Now in general I try to make it obvious what I like.  Rough.  There I said it.  I like it rough.  Sure, I like other things too.  And I can have the sweet sex, when in love, with the best of them.  But with new boys.  With boys built like tanks, tanks made of solid muscle, muscle made of testosterone and sweat and my sighs, I want it rough.  Anything else seems a waste.  Like being an ass man and dating a chick with DDDs.  I mean don’t be so greedy son.

And I know that this can be an uncomfortable territory because what if I wasn’t into rough sex and all of sudden he’s pulling my hair, laying his heavy hands across my chest and around my throat.  I mean Jesus.  That could get really awkward? scary? ugly? hairy? and fast!!!  And to be honest, in the heat of the moment, I don’t know if he went slow and steady and listened for my moans and smiles or if he just knew.  If he just knew that going for it would pay off.  Big time.  But whatever it was, it worked for us.  [and just for a quick lesson into my psyche…I’m not damaged…this is not broken home shit…this is a fantasy…if he was actually acting violently towards me…well shit would get heavy real quick son, but this is sex and it’s what I like and I’m not ashamed of that.  I’m fairly certain it stems from a feeling of him wanting me so badly that he cannot contain himself…but like I said…it’s all in good fun, all in good fantasy].

And Jesus was it hot.  Especially if you think about the PG…er…maybe NC17 nature of the action.  I imagine he went in hoping (like all men) for sex but expecting that it wouldn’t happen and I know I definitely had no intention of it getting that far.  And to be honest, it actually got further than I had been anticipating.  But can you really blame me?

Shortly after I had torn his shirt off of him, he tore my shirt off of me.  Or ya know, casually removed it.  And then we were dry humping like grizzly bears.  Okay so technically I don’t know how grizzly bears hump but if you know me at all you know I’ll slip in a bear/man reference wherever I can.

So yeah, the humping.  Slow and smooth.  Heavy.  Laden with lust.  Hard.  And I have to tell you, I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed dry humping so much.  Maybe it was because he was so strong.  Or maybe it was because he was so fucking hot.  But it was amazing.  If our dry humping was a person, I’d call it baller and expect it to be getting comped bottle service and blow in Vegas.  And wearing million dollar shoes made of gold.

After that it’s all a bit of a blur.  Buttons were undone, zippers slid open, his hands my pants, my hands his pants.  The dry humping may have become a bit wetter.  And I would make a joke about it being a bit of a pants-off dance off except that I did everything in my power to keep those bad boys on even if just in a technical sense.  I know how quickly things can progress, when you’re so into each other and full of the kind of desire that breaks beds and apparently couches, and while in an overall sense that’s definitely where I wanted to go with him, I didn’t want to go there tonight.

I’ve said it before.  I’ll say it again.  I’ll say it till I’m blue in the face and he’s blue in the balls.  I like my stages.  And gentlemen, I know it’s hard because I can feel it pressed against my thigh but I assure you that what little you suffer in being put off, you will reap a hundred times more when we do finally do it.  I need time.  I need the build up.  I need the backstory and the fantasy and no good can cum come of rushing me (I’m the no good in this story…and I’m telling you I won’t cum come).  Seriously.  If you rush me, if you’re skipping things and going too fast, eventually when we bang…at first I’ll be all excited…loving it…but there will come a moment…when I’ll know that it’s not going to happen, and then I’ll fake it…and then we won’t ever have sex again.  All because you couldn’t handle one night of blue balls (which is really bullshit anyway because if you’re not going home to beat off to me and all the sexy things I just did with my mouth on your mouth and my body pressed against yours…and imagining all the nasty things you expect I’ll want to do with you in the near future…well then…we really shouldn’t be having sex anyway.  Step your mind game up, kid.)

And then it happened.  Somewhere in between flushed cheeks and panting breath, the clock struck midnight for cinderella or 1045 for the barman and he had to go.  Sure, getting dressed was slow what with me tracing his abs and him playing grab ass, but eventually he was ready to go.  He had asked if I wanted to come watch (I assumed watch was yet another language barrier word and that he simply meant I could go with him and chill at the bar but I had girlfriends to call and tell all the details of what had just gone down writing to do).  Plus, I imagine chicks EVERYWHERE flirt their little asses off for him and no newly dating people need to see that.  It’s just too much information.  He also invited me to a football training session that he runs every saturday (and as much as I loved the idea of being in close proximity with a set of buff burly dudes throwing me the pigskin around, I wasn’t quite ready for him to see me all sweaty and out of breath at 10am on a saturday morning…that’s what relationships are for.

And that was that.  A few more ass grabs.  A few more you’re so sexys.  A few more intense kisses and a song or two played in the key of rock hard chest and abs and I was closing my door, after the hottest dude ever, on the sexiest second date ever, on my first kiss…in Montreal.  And then proceeded to pant from excitement for the next half hour.

 

And PS…we broke the couch…and I don’t even care!

They Call Him Top Secret (Well, Actually I’m the Only One Who Calls Him that Because He’s Top Secret)

Top Secret

 

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o this one time, I went out with this super awesome guy.  He was sweet.  He was interesting.  He was absolutely fucking hilarious.  And he didn’t want me to blog about him.  Blargh.

And I told him I wouldn’t.  But there has to be a loophole right?  A way to talk about something really awesome that happened in the 3  weeks before I left for Montreal?  I mean there just has to be.  Because the problem isn’t really me blogging about him is it?  It’s that he doesn’t want anyone to read it, him included.  So.  I guess I could write about it.  But use the tools of the CIA or whoever else blotts out important documents.

We met by chance. Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. And in so many ways we were a perfect match.  He possessed a quality very few of the dudes I’ve dated have had.

Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  logistical problems Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. You can only get “so” familiar when you’re out for dinner or drinks.

We went on 3 dates.  Er.  Well.  We hung out 3 times.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  kissing Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  in a park. Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that.  Obviously I thought of that. 

And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.

And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.  And the rest of the story goes like this.

And that was that.  Time flew by.  My 3 weeks were up.  And it was time to move to Montreal.  We said we’d keep in touch and honestly I really hope we do.  Even if it’s just as friends, or who knows…a rad guy is a rad guy and that’s how I feel about this new “something” who I call…Top Secret.

 

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

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

Dating a 23 Year Old…Not Just For 23 Year Olds Anymore (Part Two)

Hand Holding

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t was 8:00pm.  The date had been going well? 

I had suggested, if you want, we could go catch a movie?

Seeking a friend for the end of the world.  (Sidebar: Spoiler alert…this is NOT the comedy fest the trailer had suggested but instead a die hard romance flick with all the first date negatives of an independent film–numerous parts of total silence and nobody wants to make out while the rest of the theatre groans at the slobbering lip smacking of two newbs in the back row).

He was all over it.  I, of course, had come prepared with show times.  Just because I’m not into the whole being the boss thing doesn’t mean I don’t understand the concept and given that when someone offers me a choice of three restaurants I’ll likely spend the evening debating the merits of each while we all die of starvation, I figured I should probably be prepared for the date should it take a turn for the movies.  Which it did.  Nailed it! 

Unfortunately, we only had 15 minutes till it started so the rest was a bit of a blur in rushed movements and flustered breath…and zooming cars.  His was fancy.  It was like he was a real grown up and everything.  Maybe 23 ain’t so bad after all.  (by the way, this statement is funnier because I, of course, was driving my parent’s car…given that I’m living with them for the few weeks before I book it to Montreal…and am a writer/grad student…so I’m basically just shy of homeless but well below the poverty line…but I digress…this is supposed to be about our date).

We arrive at the theatre and go in.  The place is packed, the line is lengthy.  If our skin tone was the same I might be worried people would think I was out with my son on a Friday night.  That was obviously a joke, my son wouldn’t be beige ralph lauren sweater.  We get to the counter.  I’m flustered because he doesn’t step up first.  Does he think I’m fucking paying?  I’m all for this whole cougar thing but fuck that noise, son!  Like I said, I’m a writer/grad student…so I’m basically living on hopes and dreams, I don’t even want to pay for myself.  I lean back and ask What movie are we seeing??  I fucking know what movie we’re seeing.  This is his moment to step up.  To use those long skinny 23 year old legs and bust his way to the front and order up two tickets to blah blah blah please but he doesn’t.  And there are like 500 people in line behind us.  Ugh.  Paying for my own coffee AND movie on a first date!?!?  Is this what dating a 23 year old is like because I’m not down with that.  1 for blah blah blah please I say, mortified that my date has left me to foot the bill.  And yes, I did feel the cashier judging me.  The upside…I had enough points saved up from back in the day when I had time to see and could afford movies.  So hurrah.  I got my ticket turned around and bam…he was gone…to another teller.  Which I guess is the normal thing to do but honestly it seemed weird to me, why would he just stay with me and get his ticket right after mine.  Whatever.  Best not think too deeply on it.

I ask if he wants to get any snacks.  He says that he’s fine.  He asks if I’m getting anything.  I say no, I was probably afraid he’d stand there and let me pay and then not only would I be the chubby chick with the super skinny dude looking so odd-couple, but would also be the chick whose date didn’t deem her worthy of being a gentleman.  Awesome.  No thanks.  *hunger grumble*

We get seats.  He wants to sit in the very last row.  I think this is amazing (I get nauseous if I sit too close).  We’ve been rushing around trying to get here in time to see this movie.  I’m hot, I’m mildy sweaty, I’m trying not to breathe heavily.  And then the lights dim.  Sweet, I think, now the music will drown out my breathing until I relax and cool down.  But not so, my friend (reference earlier reference to said negatives of independent-esque films).  The movie is about as fucking quiet as it gets.  No such luck.

Sidebar:  I do this moronic thing before first dates.  I barely eat.  Like somehow the not eating will make me 50 lbs. lighter and when I show up they’ll be confused and like hey…what’s this super model doing here?  And while it’s always possible my beauty blows them away upon first arrival, I think it’s safe to say not having a sandwich really doesn’t make that big of a difference to the first impression I make.  Nonetheless.  It’s a thing I do.  [Note: a thing I plan to stop fucking doing and let me tell you why].  The biggest downfall to this plan isn’t what you might think.  I don’t get light headed, there’s no cranky pants happening, and my body hasn’t given up on me quite yet.  The real problem, the real betrayer, is my stomach.  Because of course, after not eating for awhile, you’re mother fucking hungry and while I can control my brain sometimes like a wizard, my stomach is not on board with the game plan.  She has an attitude and likes to grumble till the cows come home.  And so you can just imagine me sitting there, during this borderline silent movie, terrified of the stomach grumbles that I can only imagine must be audible from Mars.  Worst.

That being said, maybe he can’t hear it because as soon as the lights dim, he’s reaching for my hand.  Which in theory, is adorable.  It’s cute.  It’s something you usually want.  But given that I still haven’t caught my breath from our hustle, you can imagine that it might get a bit clammy or at the very least that I would be terrified it would.  We continue to hold hands for awhile.  We hold hands till I spend more time thinking about the hand holding than the movie.  We hold hands till I’ve worked out 5 different disengagement scenarios.  We hold hands till I can’t fucking take it anymore.

Only I’ve left something out.

Sometime in there I can feel him looking at me.  When it comes to peripheral vision I’m basically Batman.  Or spiderman? My spidey senses are tingling.  Plus he’s only like 10 inches away from me.  It feels like he’s been looking at me for half an hour.  I would guess it’s actually about 10 or 20 seconds.  I know what’s coming.  I’m trying to decide if I want it to.  I decide you only live once and just a few weeks to Montreal and well we did have a good conversation with laughs.  I turn my head.  He kisses me.  It is not great.

In his defense, we are in the most awkward position for a first kiss.  First kisses should not happen in movie theatres.  With arm rests that don’t move.  And when you’re still kind of sweaty.  And you’re nervous.  And awkward.  That you’re on a date with a 23 year old.  Who is like 1/4 of your size.  Even if he does obviously think you’re a babe.  This is not the first kisses you want.  I kiss long enough to let him know that this was an okay thing to do, but I soon pull away.  I did after all, just pay to see this movie and dammit I’m going to see it.

The movie sucks.  My stomach grumbles.  And then it ends.  We talk about the movie.  We thought the same thing.  Almost exactly.  So that was cool.  We walk outside.  It’s dark now and pouring rain.  Neither of us have jackets, it is summer after all.  And I don’t mean a Vancouver sprinkle.  This is not casual Vancouver rain.  This is the rain of movies.  This rain is begging to be made out in.

We walk back to our cars, parked side by side, away from all the others.  We dawdle.  I sense he wants to still hang out.  But given that we’re both students living with our parents (he made a comment earlier about having to park his car on the street given that the 3 car garage in their kerrisdale home was already housing 3 of the 5 cars in his family…but no matter how big his house may be or the length of the hallway separating his parents from us there is no way I would be taking an adventure to see it and like I said I’m at home for a few weeks till I move), there was really no where to go.  Had it been warm and dry, we could’ve gone for a walk on the beach or something, but it was not.  I knew he was likely thinking we could just sit in the car and get it on talk but to be honest, I didn’t really want to.  I’d had enough talk for the first date and if he wanted more chatter, well that’s what second dates are for.  And as for the rest of it…we all know I like my stages and that shit someone always gets skipped through way too quick in a car and since I’m no longer 22 and into power sex (the sex you have simply because it’s fun and exciting and validates that you’re hot)…doing it in a car is not for me.

I want privacy, and freedom…and I really do my best work when I’m not hindered.

That being said, I wasn’t above trying it one more time, to see if his nerves had calmed down and a new position was all he needed.  I stood closer to him.  In the rain.  Said something about well maybe we should call it a night… leaned in and that was really all it took.  And this time, it was much better.  And with every moment of my gentle coaching improved even more.  Unfortunately, as sexy as making out in the rain was, I started to become all too aware of how thin he was (image…his chest was like the width of one boob, and the other one was left out there all on its own), and I could hear cars driving and even people walking and talking.  And so after a little while I pulled away.  We said our goodbyes.  Planned to do it again sometime soon.  Got in our respective cars and drove away.

And by the time I got home I had a text message that read:  Hey!  Had a great time this evening.

 

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

You Don’t Squeeze Lemons Into Paper Cuts

When life gives you lemons

 

[dropcap]Life[/dropcap]   is what you can live with.  That’s what I always say.  And somewhere inherent in that statement is the concept that life is what you make of it.  The key word being You.  So when life hands you lemons (or in my case tedious dates and mistakenly optimistic, irreversibly awful sex) you don’t squeeze them into paper cuts…you cut them into garnishes and make some bevvies or something like that.  So when life handed me the experience of Cry Baby Romeo I figured the only thing left to do was make some lemonade.  But not before crowd sourcing a few recipes.  And by that I mean, I asked my followers on Twitter.

I may or may not have mentioned this but I’m 30, and while I went into our date under the premise that Cry Baby Romeo was 32, it turns out he was, in fact, only 26.  And while you may be thinking 26 hardly seems that young, for someone who normally likes to date in the 32-40 range, that’s a decade younger than the norm.  Couple that with the unacceptable bedroom moves and, needless to say, it felt like I was getting it on with a 20 year old.  ugh.

Not one to accept defeat, I took to Twitter, specifically approaching my quote unquote cougars.  You see I had questions, important questions, vital questions, real questions of regional security (my lady regions).  I asked, if these young bucks that they were so happily frolicking about with came with the skill and expertise of intuitive sex wizards or if they had to train them?  The news was disheartening.  Apparently young men are like IKEA furniture; a total steal of a deal and exactly what you need for that moment in your life but assembly is always required and often there’s a part or two missing.  ugh.  I mean, who has that kind of time?

But then I got a lovely little tidbit of advice.  Something so easy and simple that it seems almost appalling I’d never thought of it myself.  Clearly I’m not the genius I pretend to be, but I digress.  A lovely lady on Twitter told me bluntly.  Just tell him what you want, you want foreplay, tell him you want foreplay.  No joke. Real talk.  That simple.

And not one to miss a chance for hot sex to test a theory, I texted my on-again-off-again booty call of years.  The response was immediate and clear.  Apparently he loved foreplay, couldn’t get enough, thought it was incredibly sexy and a huge turn on.  And just like that, my untapped tree resource sprung a leak and I was about to be drowning in maple syrup.

He came over a few nights later.  And while I won’t go into all the nitty-gritty details here, I think it’s safe to say that my neighbors are well aware of my ability to stir up a good glass of lemonade.  And you see if I hadn’t had that disastrous-left-me-desirous-of-more-of-better-of-getting-mine-and-getting-it-good sex, I never would’ve crowd sourced, never would’ve gotten that simple yet ingenious advice, never would’ve been bold and brazen and simply asked for what I wanted, never enjoyed that maple syrup like it was the last my pancakes would ever see.  And so whether we’re talking lemons into lemonade or silver linings into cocoons of happiness, the message is clear; life is what you make it, so you’d better make it good.  


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

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