All the Way Here: A Story of the Worst and Best Moments of My Life

The Joy of Dating

 

I’ve never liked the idea that one decision or one event can change your entirely life (mostly because it would paralyze me with fear given the pressure this would put on every choice I would ever have to make).

That being said, there is one moment that changed my entire life.  Not on its own.  Not without the other decisions and events that followed.  But like a metaphorical patient zero, I can trace the current trajectory of my life back to one moment, that changed everything for the better.

I won’t bore you with tales of teenage sadness, except to say that teenage sadness bled through the majority of my years.  I was severely, desperately, blindingly depressed from the age of 12 to 26.

14 years.  (cue GnR).  14 years is a long time to be sad.

I used to think that I would never get through it.  Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had been born broken, that something in my brain just didn’t work right and that was the reason that I was this way.  I still very vividly remember cutting myself because at least it made sense, if you were upset because your arm was bleeding that was logical.  If life feels hopeless, when surrounded by a family that loves you and your future is (almost inherently) bright, that can seem incomprehensible.  How do you find your way out of something when nothing makes sense?

And then, one simple thing happened…followed by another…and then another…and so on and so on until now.  A string of events, where everything pointed in the right direction.  And it wasn’t just chance, but dammit if I don’t feel lucky.

_________________

It happened the year I turned 26.  I was working at Coast Mountain Bus Company call centre, a union job, making more money than I ever had before and I was absolutely miserable.  I hated answering the phones–less because the people were awful (but just to be clear they were awful) and more because I felt like management didn’t have our backs.  It was probably just a symptom of the union/management dichotomy but the point (for this story, at least) is that I was absolutely fucking miserable.  I had been moved to day shifts (which, as a night owl, sucked big time).  I remember leaving for work at 5am and getting home around 3pm.  I had started going to bed by 5pm.  I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t miserable.  I couldn’t hide it.

Which, as it turns out, became a much more literal truth then I was expecting.

One day in February, 2008, I was standing in my parents’ kitchen, with my back to my mother, when she asked if I had been scratching at the back of my head.  I was irritated.  I was cranky.  I was miserable.  It seemed like an insane question.  It felt like she was hassling me.

“No,” I answered sullenly.  But she wouldn’t let it go.  I thought she was just going to give me some motherly advice about how I shouldn’t wear my hair in a ponytail all the time but instead she walked over and tried to examine it.  I went to the bathroom and used the old two-mirror-hairdresser-method until I saw what had her so alarmed.

My hair had fallen out.  In a huge round patch.  Bald.  Disgusting.  Even my own hair couldn’t stand to be around me.  I’m not sure I entirely believe it, but sometimes I like to think that this was my body speaking for me when I couldn’t speak for myself.

The great irony of my life is that the worst job I ever had, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I started working at Coast Mountain Bus Company.

On December 25th 2008, I had my last drink of alcohol.

A month and a half later, my hair fell out.

I was lucky enough to get to go on paid medical leave.

I started counselling (that like every other counselor/psychiatrist/etc. that I had been to since I was a preteen wasn’t great – or at the very least, I wasn’t ready to let in).

I went back to work.

It was even worse than before.

One day, on the phone, after a snafu in scheduling, I yelled at my boss (nothing crazy just a raised voice).

The next shift I was fired.

By some miracle, I wasn’t technically “fired” but actually just “let go” (reason K – other) and thus I qualified for unemployment insurance.

The counselor I had been seeing was through my job and since I didn’t work there anymore, I had to find someone else.

My counselor recommended a government-subsidized mental health centre (conveniently located 10 minutes from my house).

And that’s where I found both a psychiatrist and a counselor that would help me to change everything.

I went on anti-depressants and put the CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) techniques I was learning to good use.

 

The way I am listing things here makes it seem so quick and easy but don’t get me wrong–it was a goddamn struggle.  I remember one time, after my psychiatrist was supposed to have upped my dosage again, returning from the drugstore and finding out he had mis-written the Rx and it was the same dose (and the pills were time release so you couldn’t just split them).  I remember flipping the fuck out, falling to the floor in sobs.  I was gutted.  The money it would cost to fill the prescription again.  The wasted pills.  The days it would take until the problem was solved.  Looking back now it seems ridiculous but I remember feeling like I had fallen overboard and just when the life raft was close enough to grasp it sunk.

I remember being so so fucking sad.  I felt like a complete failure.  A burden to my parents (would I ever be anything other than someone they had to worry about?).  I was living at home with my parents, had a degree I felt was useless, I’d been fired (in my mind) for the first time in my life and from a job I hated no less (it felt like getting rejected by someone you didn’t even want in the first place), I was overweight and in debt up to my eyeballs.  I was depressed and everything seemed worthless.  The world was terrifying.  I was ashamed and felt as if my life was meaningless, the only reason not to give up was my family who loved me so deeply (and I them) that regardless of the sad I couldn’t imagine leaving them with the kind of pain that a suicide would create.

When I started CBT, the goal was just to shower.  Just get up, and shower.  If I could do that, the day was a success.  And then it was about doing things.  Make a list.  Accomplish a thing.  Get dressed.  Go out and have a cup of coffee.  It was about not becoming overwhelmed.  It was about not seeing the world as a terrifying place (I don’t always succeed at this one).  I learned that I had to do things that I would eventually love, long before I would love them because when you’re depressed things are backwards and you can’t love anything.  So you just have to do…get out and DO…because it will get better.

And in time, I did get better.  Not quickly.  Not all at once.  But an inch of happiness here, and a moment of peace there, and life was just better.

 

And while all this was going on, I decided to go back to school.  I already had a BA in Psychology (let’s not discuss the irony), but I wanted to go grad school and revive my dream of being an English Professor and writer (something that seemed to have gotten lost along the way).

I had no idea if I could do it.  I needed to get another BA first though, so I applied to UBC and was accepted in.

I sold all the useless material things I owned and, in July and August, went on a 5 week solo trip to Europe (a similar trip I had tried but failed to complete ten years before–coming home after a week, hysterical and traumatized).

This time though, the trip was amazing.  It changed me.  I was stronger, more self-reliant, more durable.  I set out to do a thing and I did it.

September 2009, I went back to school.

I only took a few courses because, honestly, I wasn’t sure at all that I could do this (this being a second BA, this being going to grad school, this being anything but being the failure I felt like I was)

Thanksgiving (Canadian) 2009, my long-distance boyfriend of 6 years and I broke up.

January 2010, I started dating and because I didn’t want to keep telling the same story to different friends, I started the blog Something She Dated.

In the next two years:  I joined Twitter, I got a paid writing gig, I dated several boys, I lost weight, I gained some of it back (this one is still a real struggle for me), I started blogging for The Province Newspaper, I worked hard and got good grades (something I’d never really done up till now–I’d always just coasted).

In my final year, I applied to 6 graduate school programs.  In all honesty, I never really expected to get into any of them.  I got into 5.  I still remember calling my father in tears when the first letter arrived from Georgia State University saying that they wanted me.  Somebody wanted me!

I graduated with my 2nd BA (English Literature).

I ended up choosing Concordia (in Montreal) because they offered me the most funding and Montreal sounded like a great place to live, oui non?

I moved to Montreal.  The first week was brutal but now I feel like I could move anywhere, could do anything.

Grad school was great (even the times when it wasn’t great).  I became a TA in the English Department.  I did some teaching in the Engineering and Computer Science faculty.  And in this last term I even got a job teaching an English course all on my own (part time faculty, yo!).

In September 2013, I took my last anti-depressant. 

After a year in the academic stream of my degree, I decided that I’d rather do my thesis in Creative Writing.  While I have loved my time in grad school, I have realized it is unlikely that I will want to pursue a PhD in English (if anything, I’d be more likely to apply to law school but that’s another story).  I applied to the Creative stream, was accepted, and on March 26th my thesis was accepted.  I finished my courses and I will graduate with an Masters Degree in English Literature on June 9th.  

The plan is to stay in Montreal till July 31st when my lease runs out and then move back home to Vancouver to spend a few weeks (to a few months) chilling at my parents’ while I look for a job.  I’m hoping to move up north (Yukon, NWT, Nunavut)–for the adventure, for the writing inspiration, for the money.

I feel like this story explains everything, about me, entirely.  But I can’t really be sure, because I’m on the inside, I know what the puzzle looks like complete, and you guys all just have the pieces.

This is why, when it comes to dating and life, I’m always looking for the fun–the joy–the happy.

I want to date and have happiness.  I want to enjoy things just as they are.  I don’t want commitments and promises of happiness forever, I just want to enjoy the happy when it happens.  (now if only I could find a way to explain this to men that doesn’t sound like I’m using “fun” as a code word for fucking).  Because, believe you me, there are very VERY few men, that I come in contact with (online or otherwise), who can understand my desire for fun and can get on board with it.  I just want to date people and enjoy them for the time we have together.  I want to be treated like a human being, not a talking vagina.  But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find someone who agrees.  Who can see the value in the middle ground.  Who has the ability (and desire) to care about someone generally as a person, or maybe even specifically, but doesn’t feel the need to tie their futures together.  I just want to laugh and talk and fuck and have more fun than anyone should legally be allowed to have.  

I want to date happy

Because I was so so sad for so so long and I’ve come so so far.  And I’m aware that others have definitely struggled more but this isn’t a competition, just (an abridged) story about how I got all the way here—-from way back there.

And I just hope, that if any of you are ever back there that you can hang on long enough to find your way up here because it is good.  Oh god, it is so good.  And even if I don’t always know how to help or make it better for you, just know that I’m here.  And that there is a way.  Ugh.  This is starting to sound all preachy and sappy and stuff but ya know, I’m actually a mushball (most evidence to the contrary) so whatever, I love you.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog: You Can Always Come Home To Me

How to Write a Dating Profile

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been meaning to write it for ages.

But somehow I just kept putting it off.

Because it’s not really a dating post, or a humor post, or a sex post, or a poetry post even, it’s a post about me.  Little old me, and what I’ve been up to and what (not who) I’ve been doing.  Because admittedly, in this last year, it might have gotten a little confusing.  So I’ll try to keep it as short and sweet as possible and if there’s any questions at the end…well…that’s what the comment section is for, right?

In September I started back at UBC.

I was approached by a dating website who wanted to buy (like with real money) my writing, both past and future.  I thought long and hard about it and though I hated the idea of parting with my writing (not a first rights kind of deal, a complete selling of ownership type deal) I figured I’d always have more material and beggars can’t be choosers and a number of other considerations that had me agreeing.  And so that’s what I did (which is why, you may or may not have noticed, many of my old blog posts disappeared).  For the next 6 months or so things were peachy.  I mean school was insane and my own blog pretty much fell to the way-side but I simply directed all my readers over to the dating website I had been working for to read my posts.  And then sometime around the end of January-ish something happened.  I had to sever ties with the site.  Unfortunately, the owner and I had some very different ideas about the ethics of editing (much like the differing laws in Canada and the States) and that was that.  He owned my words and I asked for my name to be removed from all content.  Ties severed.

However, very close to the same time I was approached by an Editor at The Province who asked if I would like to blog for them.  Ecstatic, I, of course, agreed.  And that was that, I’ve been happily blogging for the Province ever since.  But, I mean, there’s only so much writing about sex and dating a girl can do, especially when I was still in school at the time.  So for the time being, I publish on The Province and shortly after the article goes up on my own blog, this one right here.  Now of course, there’ll probably be exceptions (like say with this post, this one has no need to go on The Province’s site, and posts that contain poetry will always only go up here).

Additionally, I’ve started blogging as a #SWEXPERT for a UK dating site called Singles Warehouse, along with numerous other bloggers.  And while I’m not certain how or where the relationship will progress too, like my work for The Province, it will eventually end up on my own site (this one, in case that wasn’t clear lol).

Now, here I am in early May and I’ve graduated from UBC with my 2nd BA.  I have been accepted to Georgia State University, North Carolina State University, University of Massachusetts (Boston), and University of Saskatchewan, and I’m still waiting to hear back from Concordia and George Washington University.

What any of this means for the future I don’t know.  Will I be moving from Vancouver in September?  Can I really afford to take on the debt of an American University?  What would it be like to live in Saskatoon, a place I’ve heard I would eat the boys alive, and what if there were no boys at all who wanted to be eaten?  Will I take a year off, work and save as much as possible, and then reapply to schools next year (because at least now I know that getting in is a likely possibility; to be honest, I had been bracing myself for an across the board rejection)?  Could I continue to write about “Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time” or write for The Province, if I neither lived in Vancouver, nor the province of BC?  Will I spend the summer writing a book?

Who knows.  I have no real answers.  Yet.  But I’m happy.  And the future is bright.  And when in doubt over where to find my writing, know that it will always come home here at Something She Dated, ready and waiting for your loving eyes with its open arms.

xoxo
~SSDated

Playing Catch Up, Like Playing Catch But With Fewer Balls Thrown At My Face

Playing Catch Up

[dropcap]January[/dropcap] was all about finalizing grad school applications and the disastrous effects of dating Cry Baby Romeo.  I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it but on that first date of ours, he had told me about how he dated a girl from Vancouver.  They’d gone out, had a nice time and chastely parted ways.  However, the next morning she was sexting dirty messages and asking when he’d be over.  He, of course, went to her place later that night, they boned and that was that.  He said she called him two weeks later, just to say that she couldn’t see him again because she didn’t want him to think she was that kind of girl.  At the time, I joined in his laughter, ha ha ha fucking crazy chicks ha ha ha.  Because with the way he told it, that was how it sounded.  But after my own experience of awful sex, followed by him texting a joke about how you’re not going to never talk to me again are you?, I began to see what had really happened with them.

I bet they had sex.  It was awful.  She ceased contact.  Eventually he reached out with a phone call and she was so flustered that instead of beating down his manhood with a quick and to the point um…you suck at sex, also you’re boring, she simply hit him with something that would scare any boy off: crazy talk.

And here’s why I’m so certain that’s what happened.  Because we had sex.  It was awful.  I ceased contact.  And lo and behold two weeks later, I get a text about what’s up Houdini?  To which I promptly informed him I wasn’t interested.  I hadn’t felt compelled to inform him earlier since to be honest, he hadn’t contacted me until then.  Obviously, he had one playbook and wasn’t about to stray in order to throw a hail mary.  Sadly, it’s too bad he didn’t have a better coach working with him on some plays.  But I digress.  So that was January.  Worst.

February was…slow.  At least in the dating department.  I read once that dating websites (and probably dating in general) see a big lull in February.  This is mostly because in the few weeks before Valentine’s Day people don’t want to get involved with someone new.  It opens the door to a ton of problems, or potential for missteps.  Is a 2nd date on V Day weird?  do you have to get her a gift? was the teddy bear just a cute gesture or a sign he’s really into me?  and the list goes on.

And in the weeks after Valentine’s Day people are generally at work on themselves.  Maybe you spent V day alone (and felt bad about it) and now you’re working on you.  Maybe Debbie dumped your ass or Teddy told you to take a hike.  Maybe you just have the winter blues.  Who knows.  But they were totally right.  In the 2 weeks before Valentine’s day I saw a 98% drop in contact.  No joke, I almost didn’t get a single message, not even a Nice Tits from a lonely web trawler.  And then about a week after Valentine’s day the flood gates crashed and I was swept away in a torrent of stupidity.

March.  And then March happened.  Final push for grad apps.  Final push for school.  It was term papers and class presentations and to be honest…even for me…sometimes the stupidity of peoplethe sheer idiocy and social dysfunction of the masses, it just all becomes too much.  And so at the beginning of March, I deleted my Plenty of Fish.  But not before messaging two fellas.  You see, somewhere among the 40 odd messages, left un-responded to, were two guys who seemed…well…promising.  Sure, I wasn’t super excited.  Sure, we’d barely messaged.  But they were both clearly interested and both had relatively good profiles.

So, I went balls to the wall.  Let them think I’m weird and acting hysterical by removing my profile I thought.  To be honest, I didn’t care enough to worry about it, I had shit to do.  So I told them I was off Plenty of Fish but if they wanted to talk more they could hit me up on my email.  And that was that.  I actually thought I was miss it more.  And maybe it was school, or friends, or the fact that MegaLove and I still hang out every few weeks, but I barely even noticed.

And I know what you’re thinking.  Wait…it’s almost May…where’s the entry about April…and that’s when I say the words all blog readers hate…except for those who like mystery and suspense.

To Be Continued…

 

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)

Snowballs

 

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)

Snowballs

 

[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?
*crickets* 
*crickets*
*crickets*
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

Butterflies Fulfilled: WARNING 18+ [X Rated]

Butterflies

[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.

Only….

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

Hearts
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