He Sucks, She Sucks, We All Suck Vancouver



[dropcap]The truth is[/dropcap] I hadn’t planned to write anything.  I was busy with school and papers and grad school apps etc.  But there came a point when I just couldn’t bite my tongue anymore and the things that were being said…well…just seemed…so…totally and completely off the fucking mark.  And with that, here is my “response” to the 2 articles stirring up a dating storm in Vancouver (though you don’t have to read them to understand my post, I don’t think…): Do Vancouver Men Suck & Do Vancouver Women Suck, A Reader’s Response


Dear Vancouver,

I hear it all the time.  I experience it myself.  Dating in Vancouver sucks.  And according to this article, we might just be able to get away with blaming the men.  And to be honest, I completely agree, men in Vancouver absolutely suck.  But then again so do the women.  See that’s the thing about being dicks.  Just because you’re one doesn’t mean I’m not one too.  And the same goes for the gender issue brought up in this article.  Just because men here suck at dating, and possibly life, doesn’t mean women don’t too.  And while I know I’ve just thrown a truckload of double negatives your way, I want to make something perfectly clear.  I agree with the article.  I disagree with the article.  I think it said some things worth saying.  I think it missed the mark completely.  So ya know.  Crystal clear right?

The problem with dating in Vancouver is actually pretty simple.  Well, at least knowing what the problem is, is simple, everything else like how it got this way and how to change it…well those are up for grabs.  But here it is, this is what I know about dating in Vancouver:

1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies
2.  Vancouver Women are Bitches
3.  Everybody is still fucking
4.  We’ve become the “American School System of Dating”

Just so we’re clear.  I don’t have all the answers.  But I do know that dudes here are pansies.  Full stop.  And I know it’s politically incorrect.  And I know reverse-gender oppression and all that.  But the truth is, if I wanted to date someone more feminine than me, I’d pick a chick…they’re much prettier and smell nicer.  I want a man.  I want a man who can grow a full beard.  I want a man who’s balls are too big to wear skinny jeans.  I want a dude who knows how to make a decision, was smart enough to do something with his life, has a plan and takes some action.  Truth is I want more than this, but this will suffice for the moment.


1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies.
Men in Vancouver are shy.  And quiet.  The only time I ever see any aggression is in the most negative of ways, bar fights, street fights, etc.  Ironically the exact things that are working against getting them laid, which is what all that fighting is about isn’t it…sexual frustration?  And while you can try to claim that men are like this in every city I assure you, it’s simply not true.  And I’m not a ten, so you can’t blame it on that either.  I can go anywhere in the States, and boys are talking to me.  Spain and they’re hollering down the street.  When I was in Paris, I had a Chef (in his full Chef get-up) leave his restaurant and come across the street into the launder-mat I was using and chat me up…and he didn’t even have any laundry!  The list goes on.  But in Vancouver, it’s few and far between.  And most of the time I’m not even certain they’re chatting me up.

And that’s out in public.  People claim the internet is so different and online dating is so easy and guys will say anything.  This is true.  To some extent.  While I won’t get into the idiocy that are the messages of Vancouver men (that’s…uh…basically the rest of this blog)…I will say that this lack-of-assertiveness translates onto the net as well.  While here in Vancouver I get anywhere between 0-5 messages a day, and at least 80% of those are bullshit like hot tiiiiiiiiiiits and messages that make you think you’re Drowning in a Sea of Idiocy, this isn’t the case in every city.  And how do I know??  Because I’m a woman who appreciates a little Science and Dating and who doesn’t love a good experiment.

So, one day I changed my dating profile, just for the day, to say Boston (since, after all I am considering grad school there, might as well see what’s up with the dating).  And within that one single day I had over 50 messages, at least 75% of which were eloquent and interesting.  Now it’s not perfect science, perhaps Vancouver is small and we have to factor in that I was a “new” profile in Boston and not in Van but still, that’s a pretty huge increase.  We simply can’t ignore it. [Update: the messages are just as fucking stupid in Montreal (see my SSDated instagram for proof), so clearly I just need to move to Boston *half joking*]

So to sum up.  Vancouver men are more feminine than men in other cities and I have no idea why.  Vancouver men are shy and less likely to approach a woman, in public or online, and I have a partial idea why.  And that’s how we get to point number two.  Vancouver women are bitches.


2. Vancouver Women are Bitches.
Now ladies, before you start freaking out on me…I love you.  To me??  Oh well, to me you’re fucking lovely, amazing, sweethearts, princesses, best ever, love ya…but to guys…well…um…it can get a little rough.  You see the thing is, the whole dating in Vancouver situation is a bit of a snowball.  Because here we are moaning about how guys don’t approach us or talk to us, but when they do, we suddenly become the Simon Cowells of dating…critical bitches, yo.  He’s gay.  He’s too feminine.  Ugh, hipster.  He’s weird.  He’s creepy.  He’s too short.  and the list goes on.  And while I also, don’t really want to date a short feminine hipster who’s a little bit weird or creepy and may or may not be gay…it might be a good idea if I don’t treat him like shit because

a. he’s human
b. he might be a fucking genius (which aside from the gay possibility, could really negate all that other stuff for me) (see #4 coming up) and
c. who knows if he ends up being the most amazing person you’ve ever known and the whole hipster thing is just a phase.
d.  or maybe turns out you love hipsters
e.  or maybe or maybe or maybe…have a fucking imagination…and imagine the possibilities

Plus, in the interest of sisterhood, shouldn’t we all be particularly kind and pleasant to any fellow interested in talking to us, if only to help propagate a species of males who regularly approach chicks in Van?  THINK OF YOUR SISTERS!!

That being said, I take you back to the point above where I mentioned that half the time a boy is chatting me up, it’s so timid and feeble I assume he just wants us to be besties.  And I’m almost certain during the conversation he hasn’t once considered all the dirty things I might be able to do with my mouth (Sidenote:  To be clear he should never SAY any of the dirty things he thinking till at least some of them have been put into action, I mean Social Protocol, yo, but still…he should be thinking them…if he wants me, I mean).

That being said, girls in Vancouver are fickle bitches.  I can’t tell you how many times girls complain about how dudes dress.  But here’s the thing ladies…you can’t ask for a man in a suit and be disappointed when he’s metrosexual.  And you can’t ask for a dude that puts effort into his outfit and then be disappointed when he shows up in skinny jeans and $200 high tops…which you can be damn sure he put some thought into.  So the next time you want to complain about how a guy dresses, just remember that you’re actually asking him to tuck his little purse of man coins (cajones, nuts, love lockets, berries, wedding tackle, etc.) just a little bit further away from you and hey if you’re cool with that then cool.  It’s not my business.  But don’t come crying to me while I love a man with a full beard and a baseball cap (and pants large enough to let his man marbles breathe) ready to talk science and fuck me senseless…uh…er…something like that.  Basically ladies…stop asking for a Pretty Prince when you want a King.  Because you can’t have both.  And the next time some dude says what’s up…give him a shot.  I’m not saying you need to sell your soul or makeout with him in public.    But give the dude a go.  You never know when it turns out he has a PhD. in something other than his pants (though that’s fun too).


3.  Everyone is Still Fucking.
Vancouver is a city you can get laid in.  No doubt.  100%.  No question.  Maybe it’s because we’re liberal.  Maybe it’s because the clubs here suck and what else are you going to do but grind up on someone else.  Maybe it’s because we’re all just so fucking happy to be so close to the mountains, the ocean, and amazing sushi that we’re willing to throw caution (and our panties) to the wind and get down.  And to be clear…this is a judgement free zone…get down with your bad self.  But here’s the one drawback I’ve seen so far.

Why would men want to bother to step their game up?  Why would it even occur to them to be smarter, more interesting, kiss better, or any of the other things we want from them??  THEY’RE STILL GETTING LAID!!!!  And while I’m currently doing my best to limit this phenomenon (which is quite the sacrifice for someone who rallies around the term SLUTmazing)…I can’t do it alone ladies.  I’m just one woman!


4.  Vancouver is the American School System of Dating.
People typically think of Hollywood as a town of beauty-obsessed starlets and airheads, so perhaps I shouldn’t feel so shocked that Vancouver, the Hollywood of the North, has become full of the same.  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  I was to yell at this city, like a frustrated parent screams at their 21 year old who just keeps fucking up…over and over again and all you can do is explode with YOU BETTER GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT KIDDO!!!  Because that’s really where the problem lies.  The bigger, more important problem.  It lies in a set of fucked up priorities.  In a city where the dating complaints sound a bit like something George Bush might say.  We have become the American Education System of Dating.

The first article described three young women:

they’re attractive, smartly put together, and fit. They hike the Chief, do the Grouse Grind, ski, bike the seawall, and kayak

And then that’s it.  That’s the end of the description.  I mean, seriously?!  Take a moment.  And let’s think about what’s missing from this list of what I can only assume is supposed to be a description of what makes these women dateable, desirable, worthy, etc. in our fair city.  So, let’s see…they’re attractive and fit.  So that’s good.  And they’re smart…oh no wait…they’re smartly put together…ok…so I guess that’s cool, they have some fashion sense.  And…then we’re back to descriptions of their athletic pursuits.  Super.  And to be honest, this is Vancouver.  A city where being fit and fashionable are your best assets.  I weep for humanity.

But seriously?!  Would you date these girls?  I mean hot bodies and financials aside, what do these chicks have to offer?  And while you could make the argument that for the sake of brevity, details about personality were left out…but in an article that runs for five pages (no judgement, people in glass houses, I’m just saying)…that argument kind of falls flat.

And so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the article focuses greatly on appearances.  Which are valid mind you, attraction is attraction.  Pretending it’s irrelevant isn’t helping anyone.  But if the women of Vancouver were really able to give that hypothetical Genie lamp a rub…is a dude who dresses up for his lady really what we’d ask for???

How about a man who can hold a conversation, who understands the ebb and flow of asking questions and offering things that can be responded to, who has SOMETHING TO SAY!  How about we aim for the stars and ask for intelligent men who have thoughts about science or math, or the history of art, or how a font curves in a way that makes his heart pound, or can tell a joke that is actually funny and not in that stupid I just said something super dumb but I’m going to attempt to cover it up by calling it a joke way that just makes you want to tear your hair out.  What happened to wanting real things that matter??  Who cares if he is wearing a sharp blazer if the man can’t manage to follow an argument from thesis to proof to proof to proof to conclusion.  When did we get so fucking tedious!!

And ladies, you’re not excused either.  Because there are really only three complaints I ever hear from guys.  Stupid, Crazy, Snobs (the nicer way to say Bitches).  And while crazy I have some thoughts on (that’s another article entirely)…they’re often right about the other two.

So this is to everybody (me included, improvement is always possible and required).  Step your game up.  Read a book.  Be more than anyone ever expected you could be.  Say something.  Do something.  Change the world.  Be interesting.  Make a point.  Make a mark.  Hold your head high and be proud of what you’re doing with your life.

And for fuck sakes…ladies…be nicer to the next guy that chats you up…(but if he’s a loser don’t sleep with him…it’s as bad as faking orgasms and you need to start thinking of your fellow woman).  And guys…man the fuck up…put some of that natural testosterone to good use and chat a lady up.  And be clear about it.  Because the only thing worse than being rejected??  Is being rejected by a girl who probably would’ve liked you if only she’d known that weren’t trying to be her new bestie.

Finally, while I applaud @AmigoJor for getting out there and doing his thing.  I have to toss out a few words of advice for the boys because I almost think everything he said was misguided.

1.  Don’t talk to chicks on the bus if it’s anytime before noon.  She’s busy.  She’s trying to get to work on time.  She can’t be bothered with you because her boss wants the blah blah on his desk by noon plus she’s not really a morning person and dammit can’t I just enjoy this latte in peace.  Plus daytime isn’t sexy, yo.  Save that shit for afternoon to evening.

2.  Beaches?  Park?  Sure…those are awesome for July and August…but uh…this is Vancouver.

3.  Yaletown.  I can either buy into the stereotypes…in which case she’s got the nervous jittery look because her body is still trying to recover from all the coke she did last night not because she’s anti-social.  If we want to go the PC route…don’t assume…if you boys want us ladies to see you in your skinny jeans and not think gay! you’re going to have to knock the Snobby girls are from… shit off.  It goes both ways.

4.  Coffee Shops…home run.  What can I say…he’s right (though I see it in a slightly less cynical way).  And I almost kind of hope that one day I might run into this fella in a coffee-shop…and he’ll say something kind and interesting and we’ll have banter.  He’ll ask for my number and I’ll give it.  And perhaps he never calls.  And perhaps I don’t really want him to.  But we’ll both go home and start a snowball effect.  We’ll tell our friends about the time we met a person who was kind and funny and sort of maybe amazing (or at least not creepy and weird/ bitchy and distant) and how he acted like a man and I was a perfect lady.  And it will encourage our friends to do the same.  And they’ll tell their friends and so on and so forth.  All because one day a couple different people wrote articles and then some other people put it into action.  Or ya know.  Something like that.

But one final word of advice…gentlemen…don’t ever say something like this “Ahh, lovely sunrise with those heavy clouds in the distance, eh?” (from article)…because while you think she responds with “yahh” out of disinterest, there’s another much more likely reason.  There is no good response to this.  Or at least not one that someone who’s just be taken aback by someone new talking to her on a bus can come up with in a timely manner.  This is a question for an art gallery or a third date.  When your chatting a new chick up on the bus, on the street, at a pub, you have to make sure she can respond without feeling like an idiot.  This is not the time to quiz her knowledge of 18th century philosophy.  Just relax.  And ask her something normal.  Like how is your night going?  

So good luck out there my lovelies.  Because don’t mistake my harsh no-bullshit approach for anything other than a love for this city and her people.  I love Vancouver.  And I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t care.  I just want you to knock off this teenager-apathetic-I-don’t-need-to-be-amazing-nonsense and get started.  It’s never too late.  Nothing is permanent.  The world is waiting with baited breath.  Now go out and date like I know you can.

Yours Truly,

Something She Dated
aka That girl at Starbucks two seats over
aka Your favorite chat up chick
aka Miss Social Protocol 2012
aka Your dating fairy godmother
aka Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

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

Chokehold: Breath Play in the Bedroom


[dropcap]When[/dropcap] the lovely Skye over at the amazing MetAnotherFrog came to me and asked if I’d be interested in writing on breath play my immediate response was yes. And not just a regular yes. But a yes with enthusiasm and gusto. A ‘Hell Yes!’ if you will. And I know what you’re thinking. Is SSD an erotic asphyxiation aficionado? Well, not quite kids.

My enthusiasm stems less from a knowledgeable, expertise, (what’s the opposite of vanilla) standpoint than it does from a recent awesome experience. A recent awesome experience that taught me about how and why I like those man hands around my neck. But I should tell you now. I’m only barely out of vanilla territory. Actually I’m still possibly in vanilla territory but maybe with some sprinkles or something.

Breath is very important. It keeps you alive, that much is obvious. Take a breath. A breath of fresh air. I can’t catch my breath. Under your breath. Your breath is on fire. I just want to breathe him in. A gasp. A sigh. Hot and heavy. Slow and steady. Breathing is everywhere. It’s generally how I indicate to a fella that I’m having a good time if ya know what I mean. So it seems to follow then that as a woman who likes to give up control in the bedroom…I might want to let someone else take control of one of my most important bodily functions.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a friend. And you could say we were partners in crime. Our “crimes” generally consisted of boys and shenanigans. So clearly story swaps and technique talks were a regular occurrence. During one of our many booty banter sessions. She told me the following.

“Yeah ya know…like…I just whip off the pillowcase and throw it around my neck…and he just kind of holds it…like reigns…while he hits it from the back.”

I thought this to be very interesting. And not one to shy away from something new. I gave it a shot. Honestly, it didn’t do that much for me. At the time I didn’t really get it. Later I’d start to understand that everybody needs something different and while the decrease in oxygen may have been enough for her. I required more. I require a story. A fantasy. A reason for the lack of flowing breath into my lungs. A reason for the tension around my neck.

Now before you start picturing me in one of those Law and Order scenes (I may watch too much TV) with extreme asphyxia gone awry. I assure you. I’m still far more of a novice at the sport and my participation is way less dangerous. See for me. It’s more mentally kinky. Than physically. Which, anyone who reads my blog and knows my keen appreciation for science and logic, will know is just about right. Spot on really. Because for me. It’s the why more than the how that’s important.

Now I’m not really going to get into the why (me personally) of the why (the fantasy) that this gets some of us ladies off (and a warning for all you gentlemen out there, because the line is so fragile and not all women even want you anywhere near it, you better ask your lady what she wants before you get your hands all around her neck). But I will just say this. For me. The story line. Is only a fantasy. It’s only fun and hot as long as it remains a fantasy. If you tried to dominate me in everyday life per say, I’d likely tell you to fuck off or simply kick you in the nuts. But in the bedroom. When I’m ready for you to put your hands on me. I want to be dominated. I want to be manhandled. I want to be tossed about. I want to be viewed as so hot that you simply cannot control yourself and must take it all from me. And most importantly (as is the topic of this post). I want it rough. I want your big strong hands around my neck. And I certainly don’t want to have to ask you to do it (that kind of ruins it). I want you controlling my breath (in fantasy). I want you in control completely.

So I say one more time. Before you choke her….talk it out. Because it’s all fun and games until it’s not fun and games. And while Cindy wants a Chokehold, Melanie-Lee may just want to Make-Love. So you better find that shit out first. And even once you’re there. I suggest you take it a little slow and steady at first. Because nothing turns kink into konk (aka FAIL) faster than a bad experience.

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

I’m a Man Eater, Not a Praying Mantis


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

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

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”light blue”]

Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Fuck Me Till I’m Thesaurus.

Eating cotton candy


[dropcap]He tastes[/dropcap] like a conversation. Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches. Ablaze. That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries. He stands trial before me. He stands there. Not here but there. Where. In a moment long before I forget him. A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me. My eyes roll back and I wonder how I’ve managed to last this long without his Dictionary inside me.

Roll my hand across the spine. Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me. Me. Standing. Here. Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we’ve even begun till a hand something like his stops mine. Bookmark this moment he says. Take this hand. Take his hand. Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me. Hush. Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip. Kisses hard and fast. Wet and warm. Tastes something like cinnamon. Synonym. Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance. Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger. Something bare. Bear with me he says.

Pause. Paws. Silence. Take a breath. There is a break. Here. This spot. This tic. This toc. The very moment. And we break apart. Look each other in the eyes. Long like Johns. Buzzing like summer nights when there’s trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones, the rate at which I fall in love. He is. Empathetic. Pause. Silence. A moment. And when it’s ready. When we’ve stewed. In the wanton wanting. I hold what’s akin to arms wrapped in armour. Out to him. stripped bare. Next to naked. Stand patient and waiting. Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear. He is my bear. Fish for fun to feed him. Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us. Our love is a cyclone. Cylindrical. Circular. Cyclical. Our love is an Encyclopaedia. Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours. Spreads apart the folds of my blankets. Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet. Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold. Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath. Fresh and sweet. Fun and simple. Find and set free. He is my hero. My soldier. My Professor. Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle. Partners. Patterns. Palpable. Our love is palpable. Our love is passion. Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast. Jam type love. Breakfast nook type love. Who wants to lick the spoon type love.

And he is my reference text. Indexing the moments I can’t decide. He is my anchor. Sailor’s hands. Rough and sea worthy of my every inch. I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice. Sounding vowels to find guidance. Breaking rules to form poetry. I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements. Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I’m turning his similes into smiles. He parades parables down my throat. Panting. Panting. Panting. Hold close in sweat and pheromones. Fall prey to moments I can’t control, for him. Let him hold me for a second something like vulnerable.

Want to be his diatribe, want to write his soliloquy. Hold words like babies until they stop crying. A life of possibility. Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it. 3am feedings from fountains of feelings. Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity. Syllable. Sellable. Seeable. See me able. To breathe. Just this once. Bearable. Bear with me he says. Take this moment and bear it. Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way. And that’s when it happens. Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth. Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.

Euphony he says. What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules. You funny he says and kisses my cheek we were always here you know. Long before the first taste. And we fall asleep. Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the broken beauty of each other. Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context. I kiss him once more. And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

Butterflies Fulfilled: WARNING 18+ [X Rated]


[dropcap]Thursday.[/dropcap]  2 o’clock.  And he texts.  Can I take you out for a coffee before I come see your apartment?  And I swoon a bit.  Like someone just poked the butterflies.  I mean sure.  They’re not buzzing about like bees.  Because the truth is I haven’t seen him in months.  Heard his actual voice in months.  And I need that stuff.  The physical.  The tangible.  To be fall off my chair swoony.  But it’s a start.  Because whether he sensed it.  Or knows me.  Or just thinks it’s a good idea.  I need a warm-up.  A moment to get used to each other.  A moment to check in and see if there’s still a spark.  And ya know.  I heart coffee.  I’m a sober writer.  What else is there?

I picked a Starbucks on campus.  I don’t know if I mentioned this before.  But in one of our recent text-convos he’d sent a photo of himself.  No doubt in an attempt to get me to send a photo.  Which I don’t do (more on this another time).  But the point of me bringing this up was to tell you that after months of romanticizing his image in my head.  The photo was a little.  Meh.  So you can understand my apprehension as I parked and walked inside.  But there he was.  And he smiled.  And the moment I heard his voice.  I don’t know what it is about his voice.  But I just like it.  It was good.  We ordered drinks.  Chatted about life.  School.  Work.  His daughter.  Hockey.  I can’t lie though, there were definitely some awkward moments.  But I think awkward more in the sense of like when you just kind of look at the other person.  Absorb them.  And nobody is saying anything.  And then there’s blushing and the conversation starts again.  Nervous laughter.

It doesn’t take long to finish our coffees.  I order mine at kids temp so I’m pretty used to downing it right quick.  And then we go to leave.  He opens the door.  We go to our cars.  My place is only a couple of blocks away so we’re there before I can take a deep breath.  I’m nervous.  I’m excited.  I still don’t know what I’m going to do.  He says something about how nice it is here and I say something like yeah.  I’ve never been more eloquent.  Inside we wait for the elevator.  It seems to take forever.  He’s standing really close.  And though I know his cologne is something super 90s like joop! or something ridiculous.  It smells amazing.  The doors open.  His hand on the small of my back.  And we walk inside.  I press 14.  Stand in the corner.  My breathing sounds like a grizzly bear hovering over my shoulder.  He seems not to notice.  And then he does it.  Like he knew.  Like someone had told him.  I mean it was just too cute.  Grabs my hand.  Just a finger or two.  Like a baby.  Sweet.  Adorable.  Exactly what I wanted.

It feels like it’s been 20 minutes.  I look at the buttons.  We’re only at the 7th floor.  I look at him.  He looks back.  He’s standing so close.  And then he kisses me.  Short.  Sweet.  Quick.  Nervous.  Kind of like at Christmas when he just wanted to get that out of the way wink.  He seems pleased with himself.  Or me.  Either or.  ding.  14.  We get to my door.  And go inside.  I’m nervous.  I try not to justify the smallness of my apartment.  I’m getting a second BA.  I’m working hard.  I have a big career ahead of me.  This is just a stepping stone.  I don’t need to justify myself.  Least of all to him.  So I say nothing.  Just let him look around.  Which takes about 10 seconds.  Joking.  He goes to the window.  Checks out the view.  It is a pretty rad view.  14 floors up.  Overlooking Wreck Beach.  Lucky Duck.

I asks if he wants a glass of water or something.  And by something I mean all I have is water I say.  We laugh.  My apartment is completely empty.  Except for 2 glasses, a folded up quilt, a fan and an iPod dock.  The few things that either couldn’t fit in my car on the way home the day before or I thought might be useful today.  I’m so creepy lol.  Sure he says.  And I go to get the glasses down off the shelf.  He comes up behind me.  My hips against the counter.  His hips behind mine.  His arms go around my waist.  And he pulls my hair to the side.  A handful of curls and he brushes them away.  Exposes my neck.  Kisses me.  Soft.  Smooth.  Good.

I slowly turn around.  Brush my body against his.  He’s ready to go in a heartbeat.  But I need more.  Longer. Slower.  And so he takes his time.  We kiss like teenagers.  Kiss like danger.  Kiss like hot.  Kiss like everything.  His hands grab my ass and with strength I never saw coming.  He lifts me up onto the counter.  My face now up to his height.  Fold my legs around his body.  I cannot express how important good kissing is, boys.  MAJOR.  And we’ve got it going on.  His tongue.  My tongue.  Play.  Swirl.  Lower lip.  Upper lip.  Together.  Big kiss.  Passion Passion Passion.  Small kiss small kiss.  I slowly drag my tongue across the middle of his lower lip.  Gentle.  Barely touching.  Make him beg for it.  Deep breath.  Playful.  Sexy.

He feels my body like it’s the first time.  Which for some areas it is.  When my bra comes off I hear him moan a bit.  My ego soars through the roof.  I lift off his shirt and throw it somewhere.  Slide down off the counter.  His hands in my hair and he tugs a little.  In the exact right way.  Tugs some more.  He’s been listening.  He knows.  It’s flawless.  It’s seamless.  It’s perfection.  He turns be back towards the counter.  Lifts my skirt just a bit and pulls the Red Lacies slowly down my legs.  He goes to undo my skirt.  Leave it on I say.  And he gets it.  Smiles.  His hands glide over my ass across my hips and come together over my lady bits.  He leaves one hand there and uses the other to undo his jeans.  The first hand disappears for only a heart beat (safety first kids) and he’s back.  One hand reaches around to my lady bits.  The other across my chest.  Strong he holds me.  Soft he holds them.  I arch my back.  Lean just a little bit forward.  And he slides in.

I’m a writer but I’m not sure how to write the rest.  Because when I think back it’s all in pictures and sounds.  There’s onomatopoeia I don’t know the words for.  Sounds that I can’t describe with ooohs and ahhhs because that’s just in bad pornos and not real sex.  But it’s strong and good.  It’s part bears in the woods and part swan lake or something equally as graceful.  There are smiles and eyes open.  Panting and eyes closed.  His right arm, the one across my chest.  Slides up to my neck.  Gently at first.  Then stronger.  Holding me.  Controlling me.  Because he knows thats what I want.  At one point I turn my neck.  Lean back a bit.  And his face is right there.  Lips brushing against lips.  Tongues stretch.  Kisses that strain to hold.  He works his magic until I’m done.  And then I work mine until his is too.  We’re all smiles.  I lay the quilt across my bed.  My studio apartment dorm bed.  And we lay there.  Exhausted.  Exhilarated.  Satisfied.  The what if being answered.  Butterflies fulfilled.


That’s not exactly what happens.  Because this is me after all and shit is just never straight forward laid out awesome like that.  And this is The Nick Name.  A man who I would characterize with epic retardation except for the fact that if he’s retarded what does that make me for playing along?  I’d rather not think about it.  See the thing of the thing is.  I read all the comments.  From blog readers.  From close personal friends.  And you all had valid points.  (I’d be more alarmed that a great majority of you were sending me into the Lion’s Den if it wasn’t for the fact that I know you’re doing it because you know I could handle whatever the Den had in store for me).  That being said.  I have a gut.  I often don’t listen to it.  I blame my eternal optimism and the faith I have to have that people are A. not all retarded and B. not all total shit.  But regardless I do have a gut.  That tells me things.  And on Wednesday night.  My gut was telling me.  It was not a good sign that when I texted The Nick Name during the Canucks game and there was no response.  Even though us hanging out on Thursday had been his idea.  So I sent a text.  Because I sure as fuck wasn’t going to wake up on Thursday and get all gussied up and drive out to UBC only to get bailed on or something.

Fuck.  You.  Silver Lining.  Well actually there’s a couple things.
1.  I didn’t reply.  Everybody loves Nonchalant Nancy.  Nobody loves Angry Angie or Bitter Betty.  Messages deleted.  Number deleted.  I will not be engaging in any further contact.
2.  Those “what if” butterflies that I had been wondering about (and The Hel had been hoping for in the comments section).  Done.  And not like angry-I’m-going-to-pretend-I-don’t-give-a-shit-even-though-I-actually-do kind of done.  But actual done.  Like actual butterflies-dead-fantasy-over-reality-trumped-turns-out-he-really-was-just-your-average-retard kind of done.  And I tell ya it actually feels pretty grand.
3.  And the most practical one of all.  I didn’t waste my Thursday waiting for a boy who wasn’t worth his salt in theory let alone in practice.
Now the truth is.  I do have a couple more thoughts sparked by this situation.  About boys.  And time wasting.  And general jack-assery retardation.  But this post is long enough so I’m saving it for another.  You’re welcome.
So in closing.  Hope the post was…er…stimulating.  If sadly it ends in disappointment.  Is it wrong that I think this post by far exceeds anything he would have actually been able to offer if we had hung out?  Hope it wasn’t too racy.  Love ya,  SSDated.


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

A Room with a View: Butterflies of Epic Proportions

BTW…My Actual View.  Till Friday.

You know when you want something.  Lust after it.  Crave it.  Fantasize about how amazing it will be.  How those little butterflies can be found aflutter in your stomach every time you think about it.  Palms sweating glee and you can almost taste it.  You know that feeling?

Only what if life got in the way.  And when it actually happens.  Or is it about to happen.  The butterflies which had stood on guard.  Waiting.  WAITING.  waiting.  Finally gave up.  And now instead of excitement.  You only feel irritation.  Irritated because it’s not exactly what you wanted.  Irritated that it seems your theory (that you had, in fact, stirred up those butterflies all on your own) seems quite likely to be true.  Irritated that not only do you feel you have to but pissed that you’re even considering cleaning your apartment for a boy that’s not.  Butterflies.  For a boy that’s.  What.  For what?  A booty call?  A one-off?

I’m not a phone talker.  I’d much prefer to just wait to hang out in person.  But when we talked.  It was magic.  At least for me.  And I think for him too.  At the beginning.  After our first conversation he already thought I was a genius.  But more than the ego boost of him thinking I was quite intelligent.  Was the fact that he wanted to hear about it.  My papers.  My essays.  My words.  Written academically.  He wanted to hear about it talk about it know about it.  My face was flushed with lust.  Even now.  Months and months later.  He asks.  About school.  About my grades.  How did you do?

I always see an ending.  With Trucker Joe, even if it had survived past the summer it would never have made it past Christmas.  With all the other “somethings” I always felt a sort of 3 month max. kind of just looming in the distance.  Not negative or positive.  Just obvious.  But with him it seemed.  A little different.  I actually.  Er.  Um.  Kind of liked him.  And maybe it was all just chemistry and pheromones and the way I amped it up by fantasizing about it on cold nights of studying and stress.  But the truth is.  I once sat in a restaurant.  And held a friends hand.  In the cutest way.  Just to show her how I felt about him.  Which in and of itself (revealing mushy feelings to a third party) was pretty apocalyptic.  But it was true.  At the time.

I’m the queen of booty calls.  Okay well sort of.  But I’m definitely the queen of being able to separate sex from feelings when the case benefits from it.  But there I was a  couple months ago.  Asking TheHel a question that I’ve never asked before.  Because I’ve never had a doubt.  Do you think I could handle it, with him, just a booty call?  And her answer.  Point blank.  No.  Real talk, she didn’t even fucking hesitate. It was that clear.  Whether the feelings were real or fabricated.  They were present.  And I liked him.  Wanted to hold hands kind of liked him.  Gross.

And it wasn’t all perfect and swoony because after all he wasn’t able to give me what I wanted.  And so when dating didn’t work.  To the contrary advice of TheHel, we attempted a booty call.  And maybe it was life.  First he was busy.  Than I was busy.  Or maybe there just wasn’t enough interest.  It’s hard to tell when the boy isn’t a sex-crazed 19 year old willing to sell his best friend into domestic slavery for the sake of a good bang.  But either way it didn’t happen.  And yet.  We never lost touch.  Kept in contact.  Sporadic certainly.  A lengthy text conversation every 2-3 weeks.  And I’m not retarded.  I know the lack of phone calling speaks volumes.  But in my defense I’m used to being able to portion out the emotions and just ya know…put them over there.  For the sake of a purpose.

Detour.  Unfortunately I have to write this blog post out of order (because I need advice now!) and I don’t have time to write all the details of the past weeks but just know that there are no other boys.  Right now.  In the last few months.  Besides him.  That have given me butterflies.  And turns out.  Sex.  Not as mind-blowing (for me) without the butterflies.

6 weeks till school/exams are over.  He tries to hangout.  There’s flirting.  Sexy innuendo.  I have butterflies.  I would if I could.  But I can’t.  School trumps boys.  No question.

5 weeks till done.  He tries to hangout.  Flirting.  Innuendo.  Butterflies.  Can’t.  School.

4 weeks till done.  I’m back on PlentyOfFish in preparation of pending freedom.  I notice his profile is gone.  Recently.  Not that I occasional check to see.  Whaaatt!?!?!  Shut up I’m human. lol.  And he was right.  I’m a smart cookie.  He’s dating someone.  I don’t know really why I assume this rather than he’s taking a break from dating or something.  But I do.  And then we’re texting.  I ask if he’s met any cute girls lately?  He says yeah…asks about me.  I congratulate him That’s awesome 🙂 and tell him no but I just put up a POF profile again.  He responds I’m sure you’ll get tons of hits 🙂 and I smirk to myself.  Damn straight.  Though of quality…and I can hear myself sigh lol.  You’re too smart for most guys he quips the sexy is obvious.  And I feel a bit swoony.  Because I know he believes it.  Though I wonder if he includes himself in the “most guys” category?  I ask about the new girl (I assume we’re going to be buddies…one of the many options on the table for awhile now).  He says She’s pretty cool, maybe too sweet, but we are both making efforts.  And I think to myself.  I bet they`re a perfect match.  Or at least a lot better of one than we are.  Good for him.  And I actually mean it.  Only.  While I`m trying to be buddies.  The conversation keeps taking a turn (driven by him) to sexy and flirting and whatnot.  At first I feel guilty.  I don’t DO interference.  If you’ve got a girl.  I don’t run temptation.  That being said.  Is it even my responsibility.  I mean 100% yes if he’s married.  85% yes if they’re committed.  But a dude who just started dating a chick?  Not sure.  He still wants to see my new apartment.  I bet his does.  I suggest we go play pool somewhere or something lol.  But either way.  Right now I’m studying.  School.  First.  Boys.  Second.  Or Eighth.

3 weeks till done.  He texts.  I don’t partake in the flirting.  I have no time.  School is burying me.  I text back.  No time for hanging out/flirting I’ll text when school is over.  He responds.  Ok.

And then I’m done.  And almost a week goes by.  I think about texting.  Like I said I would.  But I pause.  Because it suddenly feels like we had an expiry date.  The butterflies took off.  They just got tired of waiting.  For him.  For me.  For life.  But I’m an optimist.  And a single girl who hasn’t had the kind of hot sex I’ve wanted as of late.  And I’ve got an apartment all to myself.  For only 4 more days.  Sure I’ll have one again in September.  But that’s 4 fucking months.  Privacy is a bitch, no?  I digress.  So although the butterflies have faded, their memory is still impressed into my body.  And so I text.  I’m done.  I survived.  He asks about my grades.  I ask about his work.  We talk about school.  And hockey.  It feels like we’re talking about the weather.  But the truth is every time we do text.  There’s always a bit of a butterfly resurrection.  It might not be butterfly Armageddon but there’s a definite resurgence.  He asks how long do you have your place till?  I tell him Friday.  But I’m mostly all moved out.  Just have to clean it.  And then I ask Do you still want to hang out or was my prime real-estate the real draw ;)?

And to be clear I don’t think I’m totally retarded in thinking he wants to be buddies.  Who flirt.  Because a. He’s said so before.  b. he’s now dating someone (and however, committed or not they are, it’s enough that he took down his profile).  c. Apparently some of you folk out there in the real world think men and women can be just friends.  However, that is until this last bit of conversation.  Because no joke he seems really disappointed I won’t have my own place.  Which I would understand more if he didn’t have one either, but he’s a grown man with his own place.  So it’s not like there wouldn’t be a place to bone?

Detour.  In writing this last bit I figured out a bit more about his disappointment.  He once told me that after our first date, he was kind of bragging about how I was only 29 to his friends, being just on the verge of 40 himself.  Which btw I was hugely flattered by.  Say what you what about superficiality but who doesn’t love being a hot young thing.  Just Sayin’.  And since my apartment is in a dorm after all.  I’m guessing someone has a little fantasy about banging some hot young co-ed.  It all becomes a little clearer.

His response to the text about real-estate?  LOL.  Yeah [I still want to hang out] that would be nice.  But having your own place was hot 🙂

1.  Ouch.
2.  I agree.
3.  Okay no way to rationalize now.  He does not want to be buddies who flirt.

Haha.  Part of me feels my ego just took a hit…but the other part completely agrees…having my own place is hot…guess I’ll just have to be extra adorable to make up for it 😉.  And here is where I should quite possibly have stopped typing.  But I didn’t.  Because I’m a flirty bitch who’s got all kinds of pent up energy from months of studying and sex that wasn’t-hair-pulling-body-slamming-tell-your-friends-too-much-information-later-while-you-regale-them-with-hot-stories-to-vicariously-live-through-your-SLUTmazing-ways type sex.  And ya know.  I’m feeling a bit butterfly-ey.  Technically I have it [the apartment] till Friday 😉  Just Sayin’.  And thus he responds I could come by Thursday before or after my meetings in Vancouver.  Just Sayin’.  I ask something about whether or not it’ll dampen the hotness by the fact that none of my stuff is there anymore?  And then I ask what time his meetings are.

11am and 1pm.  Butterflys stop moving.  What is it with dudes and daytime.  Daytime is NOT sexy.

I respond.  lol definitely after :).  And thus the conversation ends.  Butterflies are at a minimum at this point. But still ya know…present.  Albeit laying dormant.  But still.

Detour.  Here’s a random aside for you to ponder.  A thought just occurred to me.  He wouldn’t know that since my apartment was technically part of UBC residence, the bed comes with etc.  Aka that it’s still there.  What does he think…doing it on the floor? lol not that I’m opposed to that.  But just saying.

So this kind of brings us to now.  Like right now.  2pm on Wednesday April 27, 2011.  And tomorrow is D-Day.  Or not.  We’ll see.  Because the truth is.  Right now.  With him.  I’m being a fickle bitch.  All term I would’ve been gung ho to get it on with him.  Monday I was all butterflies.  Little fewer with the talk of hanging out in the daytime.  And then last night I texted him.  How are you doing??? I can barely breathe lol (for those not local or…not being local is the only excuse for not knowing…but last night was Game 7 of the Canucks vs. Blackhawks round one – Stanley Cup – Game) and so yeah that’s how the text makes sense. But that being said.  no response.  Now sure I’ll admit maybe he was too into the game to answer a text even on a commercial break.  Plus maybe he was…er…with someone.  But this morning rolls around and no response.  Which for him is actually a little bit unusual.  And thus.  All butterflies disappear.

And now I’ve just got dread.  And irritation.  And I keep flip flopping between what to do.  Options:

1.  Forget about it.  If he texts tomorrow…ignore it.  And honestly never talk to him again.  He doesn’t like me.  And since he can’t give me exactly what I want in a booty call…is there really any point?  No.  Drop him.  Leave him.  Ignore him.  Become a lesbian.  Whatever.

2.  Text something.  (for this option I’d really need some advice).  Text something that gets you out of this predicament but keeps future sexy predicaments a possibility.  For reference, I’m not sure what that text would say…so advice would be mucho requireo.  That’s right.  I make Spanish words by adding an O.

3.  Text him something about just being friends.  Real talk.  He’s got a girl.  It makes me feel weird.  Or at the very least it’s a good guise to get out of this situation and possibly become friends.  Is that even possible?  Do I even want to?

4.  Hurry the fuck out to UBC, clean my damn apartment, go to ball practice at 6pm, come back to suburbs to sleep.  And tomorrow morning/afternoonish head get dolled up…go out to UBC.  Throw some sheets on the bed.  Hang out with him.  Bang his brains out.  Have disappointing sex?  Have amazing sex?  Have super awkward situation?  Have amazing story to tell?  You’ll never know unless you do it.

5.  Don’t bother cleaning apartment.  Go to practice.  Go out to UBC tomorrow.  Fuck in the filth.  THIS IS A JOKE….all my OCD and need to be smokin’ hot when hanging out with boys I do smokin’ hot things with would totally prevent this from even being a possibility.  Do you know me at all?!?!? lol

6.  Some option I haven’t considered.

So there you have it.  Fuck.  I rarely ask.  So you know that means I’m seriously torn about what to do.  Help me!!!!!!! lol.  Seriously.  And be quick about it lol.

Oh and BTW.  I’m talking about The Nick Name.  Oh shut up lol you saw this coming.


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

They Blew My Mind. Twice.

[dropcap]There[/dropcap] we were.  Having ladies night.  A night filled with boy chatter.  My boys.  Their boys.  Boys in general.  Boys in specific.  Boys doing stupid boy things.  Boys and their special boy ways.  Boys we were swooning over.  Boys making us want to tear our hair out.  Boys to laugh with.  Laugh at.  Loathe.  Love.  Boys Boys Boys.

And I can’t even tell you exactly how we got there.  To that point in the conversation.  But there it was.  Dropped like a bomb.  This thing I couldn’t comprehend.  Not in the sense I didn’t believe it to be true.  But that I couldn’t…Empathize?  Associate?  Relate?  I literally couldn’t imagine life as such.  No judgment.  And it really was like dropping bombs.  They fucking blew my mind.  The first one.

I’ve only slept with 2 people.  In my life.

Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  And then the other.
I’ve only slept with 3.  Ever.
Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  I was speechless.  

Okay that’s not totally true.  There were a lot of Oh My Gods and I can’t…how…I can’t…how is that even possible…I can’t even fathom.  And then Seriously?!?!?!  Seriously?  And then of course the statement that characterized the night.  You two just blew my mind.  My mind is fucking blown.  *hand gestures to indicate head being blown*  BLOWN!  And for reference yes.  I believe the table of 10 guys sitting right next to us.  May have gotten a kick out of this whole scenario.  BLOWN!!!!

Because the thing of the thing is.  It’s not something I can even imagine.  I can’t even fathom what life is like having slept with less than a handful of people.  And there’s no judgment on them.  And no judgment back at me.  But I will admit that it made a ton more sense now.  You see I had spent the evening advising one of them on her booty-callesque situation.  And now it all made sense.  For christsakes.  It all made sense now.  Because throughout the night I had been undecided.  I’d been trying to suss it out.  Figure out whether or not she was the kind of chick who could separate from the sex.  A girl who could have sex with a boy and have that be just it.  See…we’ve known each other less than a year.  A year in which there haven’t been any drunken nights at the bar.  I haven’t seen her work magic on the boys.  She hasn’t seen me work mine (well the magic I used to have when drunk).

And while I had an inkling that she was a cutie pie who could not handle it.  A sweetheart who would get crushed by this dude (who btw probably also didn’t know this valuable info).  Because it had never even occurred to me that this was the situation.  I’d been leaning towards go ahead.  Do it.  Sure I’d tried to arm her with advice.  What to expect from him.  Very little.  From the sex.  Better be good.  When to call.  Only late at night.  What to talk about.  Nothing really, the less chatter the better, he’s not trying to be your friend.  The dude, truthfully, was a bit of a dick.  And as we all know, I’m experienced with those.  Well technically I think it’s becoming clear I’m experience with a lot of things.  But I digress.  So when they hit me with the bombs.  When she hit me with the bomb.  I knew the right answer.  Right away.

You can’t do it.  I said.  Nope.  Not at all.  Don’t do it.  Get out.  Get out now.  Delete his number.  Out Out Out.  Because see the thing is.  I had been uncertain whether or not she could handle the situation as he was offering it when I assumed she’d slept with at least half the amount of people I had.  But 3.  Just 3.  Ever?!?!  No fucking way.  She was not the kind of girl that could handle the terms his actions made clear.  So that was that.  Case closed.  Answer given.  The Guru has spoken.

But that night got me thinking.  Were they the aberration?  Or was I?  There isn’t really a clear answer.  I’ve read the average number of guys a chick has slept with by the age of 30 is 9.  I’ve also read 11.  There was this survey by YourTango.  And the Kinsey Institute had some numbers based on lifetime partners that frankly, I just can’t believe.  Plus there’s the old adage that men lie-up and women lie-down.  Haha just realized my inadvertent pun there.  Awesome Sauce.  So basically what I’m saying is I have no idea.  But if I had to guess.  If I really had to guess.

I’d say it’s a little less sparse out here on Sluts Island.  The Gen. Pop. is a bit smaller in Slutstown, West Slutterton.  Mighty Casey doesn’t strike out in Slutsville.  But then again, I’ve heard that the chicks living there make Slutmazing neighbors.  It’s a veritable Slutopia of awesomeness.  You wish you were this slutterrific.

But no.  I’m not going to tell you my number.  Because frankly your math skills have been slipping.  And I think you could use the practice.  So get out your pencil and paper.  An abacus maybe?  Or a calculator for you cheaters.  And get ready to crunch some numbers.  So let’s see.  What’s half of Vancouver.  Plus the majority of Washington.  Plus that one guy in New Orleans.  Oh well.  I’m sure you can figure it out.  Get back to me when  you do.  And I’ll consult my list.  And see if you got the statistics right.  Though I’m going to have to check your work either way.  It’s not just about the answer.  It’s how you got there.


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