An Open Letter to All the Mr. [something big and important, probably married]s, Regarding Your Emails

Open Letter

Thanks for the email, but you don’t have to be embarassed by my sexuality.  I know you feel the need to save your praises for private because you’re a big shot/celebrity/lawyer/news anchor/executive something/father, or whatever other identifier raises your importance above mine, but there’s really no need to worry.

I am not a predator, try not to think yourself so persecuted.

I know I wrote a piece about sexuality and inequality and my broken disappointed heart and used words like pussy and dick (and maybe next time I won’t stop short of using anal), but those are not things to be ashamed of.  I am sorry you feel the need to read my words with the lights out.

Maybe you want to hide in the privacy because single girls have been known to wander (this is a warning from your mother) but I am not here to scandalize you.

You don’t have to be ashamed to spread my words (which are not my legs), or to be seen talking to me.  After all, your intentions are entirely innocent, no?

So while I appreciate the email, about how much you enjoyed my writing, you should have just ended it there.  It’s flattering to know that my appearance pleases you and how you think I’m going to find a great guy some day, but you should know that I have already found one.  Several actually.  And that my having of them probably won’t fit with your idea of how my life should be.  But that’s not my problem (and I’m not even entirely clear on why it’s yours).

I don’t want to get married.

I don’t want to find the one.

I want the many.

I want to hear a hundred stories.  I want to lay down with men who change the composition of my surroundings.  I want to know the world.  I am greedy but not selfish.  I want more than my hands can hold, and so I stand facing it all with open fingers.  I want to kiss and laugh and love and fuck and be my true self and rip my heart open and spill it on the floor for all to see.

I don’t want a gated community, a picket fence, a sofa to sink into.  It is already hard enough to stand up tall everyday, I don’t need more things hemming me in.

So, thanks for the email, but it’s not necessary.

You see, I don’t need you to save me.  And I know for sure that I cannot save you.

I know I posted that thing about the boy who reacted poorly to my large frame and the things about men who try to woo me with discussions of my body.  I know I got angry and frustrated and lost faith in humanity for a second but I’m only human.  I am an elastic woman and likely to bounce back.

So, I know you got to see the flaws and the heartache and the sadness, and maybe that stirred something in you but none of these things mean I need you to save me.  They are not about you.  You already chose your life and this private weirdness that you’re creating with your power and your secrecy is affecting my balance (so you should stop).

I’m standing up here, spine only partially made of jelly.  Mostly strong enough and not nearly as alone as you might think (and frankly, my friends and family all feel a little jilted that you’ve minimized their roles so emphatically in my life as to think that one singular man could replace them entirely).

So thanks for the email, but your secrecy has splinters.

Words that should be innocent enough off the tongue, show up dressed in your issues and your shame and your inadequacies.  Your email is a time bomb and frankly, sir, I don’t need your bullshit.

So unless you’re ready to stand up tall and stop acting like my sexuality is an affront to your marriage, your personhood, and your fucking existence…unless you’re ready to stop pretending that my comfort and expression is a threat to your way of being…unless you’re ready to stop imposing your danger onto me…

I would just as soon prefer that you kept your praises in your pockets and your heavy words out of my box.

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.

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