He Offers Me Nothing



He says, “All due respect but those boobs,” then a hearts-for-eyes-smiley-face, and then two hands clapping.

He says, “Older women help me fulfill my total potential.”

When I am offended, he says, “Well, it’s just the facts, you are older.”

I read it with violent intonation.  I read it like it’s new information.

You ARE older.  YOU are older.  You are OLDER.

He waits for a response not knowing that I am already bored with this, doesn’t understand that I am turned off by his selfishness; he has never even thought to ask himself what it is that he offers me, them, us.

It is nothing.  He offers me nothing.  He is without an offering.

Why am I always expected to provide, to be something, to give of my body and my mind.  Smile for them.  Make them laugh.  Show them your body.  Give them everything they want.  Be kind.  Be pleasant.  Be a thing worthy of their idiotic conversation, their tedious ill-thought out plan.

Have they even considered that they are unloveable, unlikeable?

Why is being alive enough?  Why is existing and being attractive a thing?  Why are the numbers of people who cannot think a thing through so large?

I know there is a bitterness spreading in me, growing slowly, insidious, like ivy on my heart.  I’m thinking about learning math instead of men.  I’m thinking I could be happy without kissing if I had something interesting to turn to.  I wonder if I could write jokes about numbers.  I wonder if I could turn this bitterness into a formula.

I’m thinking thinking thinking why does no one ever worry about my full potential?

Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt


This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

“He Pressed His Chest Against My Breast…”: Date #4 with France (Part Two)

In a current sense


[dropcap]So[/dropcap] He was here in 15 minutes.  I went down to the lobby and let him in.

I gave him no big hug.  I gave him no big kiss.  I was pissed.  Relatively speaking, there would have to be some wooing.

Not the kind of wooing that involves flowers and poetry.  Not even the kind of wooing that involves caring and interest.  But the kind of wooing that shows, yes…look…I’m sorry I fucking wasted your time…that was a dick move…and I get that you’re pissed…and that’s valid…but we both want to bone each other and we’ve been making out and dry humping for something like 3 weeks now so if we could just forgive everything for the moment and get our freak on that would be amazing.  Or something like that.

…and then we were all in the sheets…

…and it was good…not great…but there are always pros and cons…

…his body…my god his body…

…but he wasn’t as rough as the earlier couch-breaking-dry-hump-sesh had been…

…he moved too quickly…but don’t they all???

SIDE NOTE:  Guys.  Seriously.  I know you’re always in a rush.  But if you ever do anything right in your lives…let it be this (and being a good person).  Go SLOW.  You don’t have to go slow forever, I mean, of course, there is a time for speed and strength, but when you think you’re at that point…wait another 5 minutes…at least (unless she verbally instructs you otherwise).  Because honestly.  No girl ever wanted a lollipop that was thrown at her from a moving vehicle and hit her in the face.  She wants the rocket Popsicle that she first heard the music for, and then ran to get money, and then ran to make the ice cream truck stop…and then stood there for another 5 minutes while she made her selection…and then waited to be handed this dreamsicle of a treat…and then enjoyed it…slowly…deliciously…until it almost completed her.  Or something like that.  But seriously.  SLOW THE FUCK DOWN.  Because either you care if it’s good for her…or you don’t. And if you don’t…well…honestly…you’re a horrible fucking person.  And if you do…then I assume you just don’t know better…and that’s okay.  I didn’t figure this stuff out when I was 19 or something.  It’s been a learning process.  I’ve done my research 😉  and now I’m imparting the wisdom on you.  SLOW DOWN.  I know you’re ready.  She is not.

…but it was fun…and he was smoking hot…and the kissing was good…

…and did I mention his body…

…and then he flipped me over…

…and I was totally game…given this is my favorite position…

…and I casually reached for my vibrator…

And then language became that bitchy barrier that she has a habit of being.

You see.  I tried to explain to him.  Like I’m about to try to explain to you.  And you wouldn’t think it would be awkward.  But it was.  But it is.  And you wouldn’t think it would be a big deal, I am a sex and dating blogger.  But it was.  But it is.  See here’s the thing.  With men, of size.  And I’m not even talking massive length, I’m really just talking average (or…er…slightly above average depending on which race we’re talking about).  Like 6 inches.  No big deal.  That’s not so big right?  Except if you add to that the fact that the dude is huge and solid muscle and the thrusting is going to be….well…you get the idea.  Basically.  Awkward.  Um.  Okay.  Here’s the thing…I don’t need a dude to be poking my uterus.  (ps…I know it’s actually my cervix but uterus just sounds funnier and it’s just how I refer to it the billion times I’ve talked about this with people).  So like I was saying…if we’re going to be doing it doggy style I really can’t be having a dude trying to dent my uterus.  And thus comes in the vibrator.  Besides the obvious awesomeness of it making things more enjoyable for me…the additional stimulation does something to the inside lady parts…that’s biology for you.  The more turned on I am, the more aggressive and passionate the sex can be and VOILA ain’t life grand.


You try and say that to someone who doesn’t really speak English.  I mean fuck.

…but he rolled with the punches and we kept on keeping on…

…and it was good…

…admittedly I had a good time…

…mascara smeared across the sheets kind of good…

…he appeared to have quite a lovely time as well…

…and with a couple of full bodied sighs, we rolled off each other…

But not that far off each other.  He stayed, arm draped across my back.  He curled me into him.  I got up to get water.  In all honesty, it felt a weird being too cuddly.  There was chatter.  We made jokes.  We talked about all kinds of things.  He has a friend who raps but could use some help with elevating his writing and how much do you charge for that sort of thing.  It was comfortable.  It was sweet.  It was nice.

At some point I asked him more about what he was into.  Not that I was already planning our next romp but let’s get real, the dude was a fucking babe, he turned me on, he was sweet with me, and he lived for blocks away.  The booty calling writes itself.

SIDE NOTE:  While I had easily forgiven him for the earlier bail and this sort-of-stand me up…it was on a purely physical basis.  There’s no way I could continue to date someone who didn’t understand time management…and let’s be honest…well actually let’s save the honesty for a bit later, back to the story.

So yeah, I asked him what he was into.  He wouldn’t tell me.  I wasn’t impressed (I’ve mentioned how I don’t like private people right??  Private people are boring…you know what’s not boring…people who let you get to know them.)  The conversation went on for a little while, I talked about what I was into.  Maybe he needed me to say things first.  Could he really be shy?  That seemed an ill-fitting jacket.

And then.  After much prodding.  He started to talk.

Well actually, what he said was you didn’t do it this time and then I can’t remember exactly what else.  But I do know that my impression was this.  He was partly joking.  But he was partly serious.  Like this was some sexual test that I hadn’t yet passed and I would get one more try before being asked to walk the plank.  I smiled and laughed and we carried on the joking but in all honesty, I thought it was a pretty big dick move.  The fastest way to make sure I don’t want to do something is to demand it from me or make me feel compelled to do it.  Not cool, bro.

Only.  Then he eventually said it.  Blow job.  He was into blow jobs.

And at first I was like…word…obvs…and in all honesty there hadn’t been time.  Okay, as I think about it now…is it possible that’s why he “forgot” condoms on our third date…the hope that a nice beej would be the fall back?  But even so….you know what gets you a beej faster than anything boys?  Eating some muff.  Real talk.  If I offer it up all on my own, sure thing.  But if that’s your prize target, well shit son, work that mirror magic and what’s good will come back to you.

That being said, I was just kind of like.  Okay cool.  Good to know.  Wink.  And all that.  But he went on to explain that he was into blow jobs more than sex.


In all honesty this kind of freaked me out a bit.  So much so that when he left and I was regaling my friend with this news and trying to find out if this was the norm that boys just keep to themselves or if we were looking at a dealbreaker here.  I mean, I’m all for a dude who loves BJs…in fact…if you turn me on, I am ALL OVER THAT!!  But when it becomes something you want more than sex…that scares me a bit.

SIDE NOTE: So of course, I did some googling (after he was gone obviously) about whether or not this was a common thing.  I’m still unclear.  What I did find was a ton of information on just exactly why guys love the beej so much and it’s was pretty common logic if you ask me.

1.  They don’t have to do anything.

2.  The perspective.

3.  They don’t have to do anything.

4.  Mouths are warm and wet.

5.  The perspective.

6.  Mouths have more abilities than even the most special of vages, what with the lips and the tongue and the movement (and don’t forget those side-kick hands).

7.  They don’t have to do anything.

8.  Etcetera.

Okay…so yeah…got it.  Somehow I was less freaked out (that’s what logic and common sense do to me, a calming effect).


So back to France.  After about half an hour?  and hour?  something around there…he eventually figured it was time to go.  I’m surprised my tapping my wrist and constant yawning didn’t give him the heads up sooner.  I joke, I joke.  Anyway so as we were getting dressed, I remembered that I had learned something (a new French friend had taught me). I had learned how to say:  I’m happy to see you.  I had originally been planning to say it when he first arrived but after the debacle of lateness by the time he got here I was no longer so happy to see him.

We were kissing.  We were touching.  We were hugging.  He had me in his arms and then I looked up at him and said…

Je suis contente de te voir

And I swear, I could almost see his knees go weak.  And his face lit up as if aglow from the inside out.  He grabbed my face in between his two hands and said say it again.  And I did, and the reaction was just as intense.  He apparently found it quite sexy when I spoke French to him.  Then he said a few things, asked me to repeat.  I’m sure I bumbled excessively, but he smiled all the same.  There were several sexy grabs, a few more sexy kisses and eventually I walked him to the door and bid him adieu.  It was an amazing way to end our night.



He pressed his chest against my breast…


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.


And then he looked at me…


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.


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.

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?


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

How to Have Casual Sex: Are You Ready for the Big Leagues?


Casual sex is like a sporting event. Anybody with a ticket can show up and scream their heart out but that doesn’t mean they’ll score.  If you want to be Major League and play ball in the Show, you have to put in the prep work, you have to have a game plan and for fuck sakes you have to follow through.

Now it doesn’t really matter which sports metaphors I’m using or how exactly I construct the analogy…the truth is they’re all roughly the same.  Train, get in the game, score as much as possible, and do your best to make sure your opponent doesn’t hate you when it’s over.

The prep work is all about you.  You have to ask yourself a few very important questions:

1. Can you separate sex and emotion?  Before you put your name on the roster, you better make damn sure the uniform fits (because nobody likes when casual Candice becomes crazy Cathy or playful Phillip becomes pathetic Paul).  Take some advice from those ancient Greeks and Know Thyself.

2.  Can you manage your expectations?  You can’t expect to win a Heisman when you’re playing hockey, and there are no grand slams in curling.  You can’t expect to pitch a no-hitter throwing ping pong balls.  So when he hugs you close or she kisses your neck, you have to recognize this as a mating call to bang and not misinterpret it as an invite to spend Sunday together locked in cuddles and talking about your innermost fears and desires (unless there sexual and then it’s a very fragile maybe).  Know what ball field you’re playing on and for fuck sakes, bring the right equipment.


The game plan is about you, but it’s also about them; really it’s about how you come off, while you’re getting them off, it’s about performing like a champ and doing humanity (and your gender) proud.  Whether it’s a one-night stand or you’re putting in work for a repeat visit, making sure everyone has an excellent time is paramount; nothing ruins sex like not getting yours.


A couple tidbits worth knowing:

1.  Kissing is important; don’t slobber, don’t pounce, start slow and learn to adapt.

2.  Reciprocity is vital; if she goes down on you, you damn well better go down on her and vice versa.  Or if that’s not your thing then say something before she swallows up some babies or he loses brain cells from a lack of oxygen; that’s how bitter people are made.

3.  Girls, do not fake it.  This doesn’t help anyone.

4.  Boys, asking what a girl likes is not the same as asking do you like that? after every move you offer.  Asking what she likes shows you’re there for her too, asking over and over if that’s how she likes it just makes you seem inexperienced and like you haven’t got a clue; one is asking her what she’s into and what gets her off, the other is seeking constant reassurance that you’re a good lover.  Also, just listen to her…if she’s doing her job and letting you know what feels good and what doesn’t, you’ll be able to tell everything you need to from her breathing, her moaning, her all out screaming.


Sex, just like sports, is all about the follow through.  

If you linger too long, the ball curves off to the right (and you end up in either an awkward so uh do you need a ride home or even worse a balls to the wall um…hit the bricks chick!).

If you bolt too soon, the shot falls short and the team might be out of the finals (meaning the sex was amazing and they probably would’ve fucked your brains out for the next 6 months…on call…whenever you wanted…except you acted like such a dick and left before she finished saying I’m cummmmmmmmmming.


Social protocol, kids.  You have to find the balance between being a kiss ass and an asshole.  Be clear about what you want as there’s a huge difference between “see you around” and “let’s do this again”.  One is a polite exit and one paves the way for another entrance.  Say it with it smile, say it kindly and pleasantly, but say it directly and honestly because nobody wins when you have a confused and enraged past partner banging drunkenly on your dorm room door grown up apartment door at 3am whining about how much they hate you so much right now followed swiftly by a pathetic please just let me in.


So that’s it really, the ins and outs (and ins and outs and ins and outs again), of how to do casual sex right.


Don’t end up the underdog (unless you like that sort of thing) and go after what you want, just be sure you can handle it before you go throwing your pom-poms in some dude’s face or swinging your bat for the fences.  It’s all fun and games till someone gets benched or ends up on the injured player’s list.


And remember, even mighty Casey struck out at least once or twice.

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 Screw Yourself Out of Getting Screwed: Lessons in How To NOT Have a One Night Stand


[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he first time I tried to have a one night stand I may I repeat MAY have been rushing my young self a little fast.  You see up until that point I had only ever made out with a boy (whose attempts at fondling I’d brushed aside).  But as far as feasts or famines go, I was in the mood for a feast, or at least wanted to get stuffed and in my excitement and never having actually seen a real live grown up man penis before (and by seen I’m speaking metaphorically as the tent was a black hole of darkness…I couldn’t see anything) I was unsure of how to proceed.  And thus…in my overzealousness, squeezed a little too hard…which in turn made sure that he was not.  He suggested I suck his dick.  I was 17 and inexperienced but smart enough to know I wasn`t interested in going down on some random…in a tent…who I was only vaguely interested in…while my entire grad class partied in near pitch blackness…in the middle of the forest…of a logging road…near Harrison.  And thus my first one night stand fell flat…much like his flacid penis.

And for someone as experienced as I, as I look back now, I’ve had a surprising number of near misses, total failures and all out regrettable blunders.  It would appear that instead of being queen of the casual sex…I may in fact be its court jester.


There were times when the malfunctions were mechanical (theirs…not My machinery).  There was a fella named Doug when I was in 2nd year university.  He didn’t watch TV.  He didn’t even own one.  I should’ve known right then it would never work.  He was 30.  I was…19…barely.  And his height matched my experience…short.  And while I may have had some trepidation…the problem was really on his end…and his tiny penis…that…well…never seemed to get quite hard enough…and given that I’d maybe had sex twice before (and I’m not even talking with 2 guys…I literally mean 2 times)…well…it was not the little engine that could.  We eventually parted ways with a few shrugs, a few embarrassed smirks, and after he was on his way I’m pretty sure I made some ichiban noodles in my hot pot and watched some sex and the city in the common room, no biggie.  I imagine he went home and cried.  But that’s just me.


There were times when location became a problem.  There was the guy from Blaine who I met at the nightclub just this side of the border (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was called).  My friends and I used to frequent the bar on wednesday nights…for the hip hop…for the Americans…for the black guys.  Ironically, Spencer, was as white as white can be.  But he was cute and American and that was good enough.  Only…there were a few hiccups.  You see, Spencer lived with his parents (a fact I didn’t find out till way later and would’ve been helpful to explain the route we took).  When we left the nightclub he suggested we stop by a friend of his place because he was having a party.  Now perhaps I didn’t speak American at the time because I misunderstood party to mean party but not Spencer…to him party meant helping my friends move at 2am.  Um…what…the…fuck.  I sat on a couch.  He helped his friends move.  We ended up making out in a car later.  A makeout session he clearly didn’t deserve given the weird happenings.  But since I wasn’t interested in fucking in a car, at 4am, in Blaine, when it was freezing outside…we eventually called it a night…and I dropped him off at his parents house.  Worst.


There were times when excessive substances were an issue (like with Marcothe drug dealer…should’ve seen that coming)…there were times when the presence of a girlfriend only came up after the things had already got rolling…like with Ricky…the firefighter with a girlfriend who said “but I can still finger you”…um…no thanks…I’m all set dude…unfortunately, given that we were both sleeping over at a friend’s house there was no easy exit…so instead I just kicked his ass to the floor)…and then there were simply just those times when the dicks came out just as the dicks were coming out (like with…uh…too many to mention…but when fellas were about to get laid and just couldn’t help talking themselves out of getting some).  Worst, boys…worst.

That being said, there was definitely a time or two when the act of non-consummation was entirely my fault.  Like blatantly, hands down, no question, because of something I did.  And admittedly the thing I did was usually another guy, but there’s neither here nor there.


The Bouncer. There used to be this bouncer *cough* at Atlantis *cough* who was such a fine specimen of hot huge beefy muscley manliness that a girl could hardly be expected to be responsible for her actions.  The truth is, I barely remember what his face looked like…but years later I can still picture him in all his bouncing glory.  He’s was a black Adonis.  No question.  And while I didn’t frequent the nightclub, I had seen him more than once, maybe he freelanced, maybe I had just seen him out at the club and in my dreams but regardless, he was hot and I wanted him.

And that’s basically what I told him.  Walked right up to him…and said:

You…are taking me home.  Tonight.

To which he said, with a face chiseled in stone, give me your number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m off.  And so I did.

Unfortunately, I continued to party.  A couple friends and I headed over to the Purple Onion where we had several bouncer/bartender friends who were continuing the night after hours.  Now as far as I can remember the bouncer called pretty soon after.  I told him where I was and he said, I’ll come get you.  Yes.  I said.

Only then I got distracted.  Because you see there were other boys.  And coupled with the boozing and other illicit activities, it was really no wonder that when he showed up, I was already interested in another party with another boy.  In hindsight, I totally made the wrong choice but I was young and foolish and a bird in the hand was better than a hot bouncer in a car waiting outside for me…right?  Wrong.  Life lesson learned.  Always ALWAYS pick the hot bouncer who looks like he could take down the hulk with just a look.

And fyi (before you think…well that’s not really a story of fucking up a one night stand because she still got it on with someone…I did not, in fact, get anything on with choice number 2.  Probably because I sobered up and realized the erroneous decision I had made.  Not to mention I felt like a total dick for having lured the bouncer around to where I was, only to never go down and meet him.  See that’s the thing about being 21, you’re a moron.  And an asshole.  When Mr. Bouncer came around, I never even went down to tell him that I had made a change of plans.  I just left him out there.  In his car.  Till he presumably figured I was never coming.  Total Dick Move.  Worst.)

And those, my friends, are just a few of the many tales I have of one night stands gone awry, or really, one night stands that never even occurred at all.


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

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-Calls (Part Two)



To read the beginning of this second date with Cry Baby Romeo click HERE

For the rest of you, let’s just right back into it…

So like I said the movie ended, he didn’t get up to leave, and I was busy rolling snowballs.  And yet somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to move onto the bed with him.  It could’ve been the lack of flirting or the fact that I would have to find another way to be turned on by him since humor was clearly not a strong point.  But whatever it was, I was hesitant and frankly it all just seemed to cheesy.  So instead, like a pair of nervous 18 year olds, we put another movie on.  Good Will Hunting.  Which he had never seen.  Obviously we were doomed.  And then he made fun of my desire to live in Boston regardless of the fact that I haven’t ever been there.  And yes yes, I know I know, it all sounds so disastrously bad now.  But remember hindsight is 20/20 and it’s that goddamn eternal optimism always biting me in the ass!

And that’s when it happened.  I grabbed my balls grabbed a blanket and joined him on the bed.  It was all very go hard or go home and I was going to get it hard or he was going to go home.  And that’s when it happened!!

Just kidding.

I laid there awkwardly in some sort of big spoon to his little spoon situation for another ten minutes before he finally got the balls to throw up a move.  He lifted his arm and gave me the nook.  Finally.  And at first it was good *push snowball* not half bad I kept thinking *go snowball go*.  Only.  Then.  He pounced.  He turned to me and while I was expecting the icing sugar kisses of our first date, he plied me the weight of a thousand bad decisions.

I’m not even joking.  It’s like he was on top of me but he wasn’t.  I honestly don’t know exactly what was happening but it’s possible I was in some sort of pseudo lover’s headlock.  What I DO know!?!  Is that at one point I actually smacked my head against the wall because it had taken that much force to wedge it away from his misguided attention.

And then here’s where it’s like I had rolled the snowball up a mountain.  Slowly.  Laboriously.  I had committed to this goal.  I had plotted the plan and put it into action.  And I was at the top.  I could breathe easy.  Except.  Except.  oh my god.  it’s rolling towards me.  it’s going to topple me.  crush me.  and then it does only it takes me with it.  Before I even have a chance to catch my breath the snowball is dragging me down the hill over and over and over again.

You see.  In some sort of lightening quick motion we had gone from bad kissing to tops off to ridiculously misguided  unarousing pizza dough kneading  rough in all the wrong ways 2nd basing.  And I know what you’re thinking.

You told him to stop right?
You sent his ass packing right?
There’s no way you slept with him right?

And my optimistic head hangs in shame.  And not because I had a one-off.  But because I’m officially part of the problem.  I rewarded pathetic pansy ass no balls moronic idiotic undeserving unendearing behavior with sex.  Now certainly not repeat sex.  But the very fact that CryBabyRomeo even got to see my skivvies is a testament to the kind of dizzying effect optimism and the belief that people have to JUST SIMPLY HAVE TO be more than they’re showing me has on me.

And here’s the even worse part.  We weren’t that far in before I realized the snowball had obliterated me down the hill and I know longer wanted to play outside in the snow.  But, like how do you get out of that?!?!  And on the one hand, the feminist in me says you put a stop to it immediately, you tell the boy you’re not feeling it, and you send him on his way.

But sometimes you can’t think that fast.

And sometimes it’s just not that easy.

And there’s still always that goddamn optimism that thinks it’ll get better, if you just…if you get him to just…aww fuck just cum already so I can go to sleep yo…and quit fucking poking my uterus you moron.  And that was really it too.  If I was turned on maybe his long dick wouldn’t have been such a problem.  But I wasn’t.  And so it was.  And speaking of long.  It fucking went on forever.  FOREVER!  Worst.  Ugh.  Worst.

But is he really a moron?  For a hundred other things yes.  But for this, no.  Now to be clear, no orgasms were faked in the making of this disaster but…  I will admit that I pretended to be having a lot more fun than the real me was having.  And that’s mostly because I just wanted him to finish already and take a hike.  Worst. Blargh.  And I would file it all under things that I regret except for what ended up happening much later than week…all because I had ridiculously bad sex with CryBabyRomeo.  But more on that later.

For now I’ll just finish this decidedly disappointing tale of the booty-call that couldn’t.  After we had finished (and I use the term we loosely, as I clearly did not finish) and gotten dressed, he just sat there.  On my bed.  As if waiting for a chat or something.  I’m not even joking, I was literally ready to start tapping my wrist to mimic a watch with the international sign language for let’s fucking go buddy.  Luckily he eventually got the hint and hit the bricks.


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

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-calls (Part One)



[dropcap]Dating[/dropcap] can be very snowball-y.  A little bit of revved up enthusiasm here and a smidge of well what can it hurt there and suddenly you’re wading knee deep in a river of aww man what was I thinking!?!  Or at least that’s how it is for me.  And to be honest, I blame optimism…evil bastard that it is.

Cry Baby Romeo and I had gone out on Sunday night.  By Tuesday he was texting.  It was playful.  It was cute.  But I was busy.  He made jokes about coming over to my place.  I thought he was kidding.
He texted again on Wednesday.  It was tedious.  I’m fairly certain at some point I actually asked what he was doing and his response was staring at a wall.  And not to be one to let the conversation wallow or hold my tongue, I proceeded to ask then why don’t you seem more interested in this conversation?  His response not in the mood I guess.  Annnnnd I’m out.  Was he fucking kidding me?!?!
But here’s the thing of the thing.  I have a theory about bootycalls and how having one can drastically improve your dating life because it takes the pressure off the other dudes you are dating (and might actually be interested in) thus keeping you from doing any of the lust-induced ridiculous crazy-dater behaviors that we’ve all done once or twice before.  And so from somewhere deeply foolish idiotic ridiculous optimistic inside myself, I thought well I had found him to be cute, he was taller than me, the first kiss was good, and dammit if he didn’t have great teeth.  *cue the rolling of a snowball*
He texted again on Thursday.  And even though the behavior standard is lower for bootycall than date, he still needed to up the bar a little from the previous days pansy-princess/moody-maiden shenanigans.  He made cute chatter.  He suggested I come over.  I texted get a clue can’t…out with friends (which I was).  And then on Friday he stepped his game up and I clearly lowered mine to cockroach-eye-level.
Through some miracle of low points I agreed to let CryBabyRomeo come over and watch a movie.  But let’s not forget my eternal optimism.  You see somewhere in my mind I figured this could be fantastic.  This was really going to work out great.  And then I proceeded to spend the next 3 hours cleaning up my apartment which hadn’t had a good scrub in months since I’d been so busy with school that my mother had sometimes even brought me meals just so that I could simply spend the time doing school work instead of cooking.
Then, before I knew it, it was 7 o’clock and he was texting his arrival to my building.  What followed next was a series of disappointments that can only be attributed to my inch thick rose-colored specs and some reality-altering enthusiastic ability.  I was expecting the adorable cutie that had kissed me goodnight and I had clearly fabricated in my head since our first date.
*cue elevator doors opening*
Wasn’t he a lot taller on the first date?
Jesus he looks really thin?
Uh…take out your headphones asshole, I’m standing right here?
OMG…is he wearing sweatpants?
With leather shoes?
Am I being punked?
Am I being punished?
This is so awkward…

*cue him mocking the size of my on-campus studio apartment*
*cue silence*
*forever silence*
*endless silence*
*the kind of silence that would drive even a mime crazy*
This is torture

And then he picked a Chris Rock movie.
*cue 2 hours of him laughing hysterically at all kinds of not funny things*
*cue him texting or messing around on his phone or things that are rude*
The movie ends.  He doesn’t get up to leave.  And this moment here…is really where the snowball effect comes in.  Because like I said…eternal optimist.  Sure, it turns out the whole first date was some figment of my imagination because this couldn’t possibly be the same guy I had had chuckles with.  Unless of course it turns out that our witty repartee was actually just me telling jokes and him laughing along.  Sure he turns out to be yet another dude who thinks it’s acceptable to wear jogging pants on a second date and no this trauma is in no way negated by the fact that the date was a movie night. Sure he turns out to be incredibly rude and boring and tedious and also kind of an idiot since none of the parts he was laughing out were ever actually funny.  But hey…maybe he’ll be a really good kisser…and maybe he’ll make an excellent bootycall and hey isn’t this what young guys are for?
And I know what you’re thinking.
She’s not going to, is she?  And though the very fact that I can’t actually post up all the details here should in fact give the answer away, if you want to find out what happens…CLICK HERE.

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