Mr. GoE and I had a good plan for our third date...in theory. We'd meet on my bench after work (in Carpenter's Hall Park- it's my favorite), collect all of the free weekly papers, and because it was a weekend, we would find something cool to do and have a thoughtful, interesting date (as opposed to the prior arbitrary bar stops that ended in raunchy make-outs).
While I was at work, I remembered that one of my coworkers, over a very drunken lunch with the printer earlier that week, had told me about a place in Old City that serves "Winter Warmers" like hard hot cider and mulled wine, two of my all time favorite things. And the weather was perfect for them: the October chill finally arrived, and there's nothing better than a drink that cuddles your insides. Especially when there's a tall man with you to cuddle everything else. I got the details, and thought this could be the perfect spot to begin our evening.
I waited on my bench, beginning to flip through the weeklies when I saw Mr. GoE coming toward me. With cut hair. I hate when guys get hair cuts, and this one was particularly bad. The thing about him is that he's not one of those guys that's cute as an overall package; Mr. GoE has very specific good-looking qualities about him. His height, his beard, his floppy hair, his eyes: if any of these things were to diminish, so would his attractiveness. And let me assure you, it did. Floppy hair was one of Mr. GoE's best features. I should say, I find this to be true about myself as well: my curly hair is a signature (a professor once told me that all of my power is in my hair), and when I straighten it, I'm much more homely looking. Previously, his hair was all Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, and now, it was that of a wannabe young republican. And on top of it, he trimmed his beard-- Mantoberfest was ending, as was his look that turned tall-and-goofy into handsome.
All the same, we kissed hello, and began walking toward South. After we walked a block, I inquired as to where we were gong, and he shrugged. I suggested mulled wine at this place, and he recoiled in a way that I've never seen a WASP react to alcohol. Seriously, what is there to have against mulled wine? But I went with it, because I don't have that reaction to any alcohol ever.
We meandered down South Street, deciding to flip through papers at a bar (and thus, kill two birds with one stone). We landed on Brauhaus, a mildly kitschy German joint where the waitresses dress up and polka music is constantly playing. However, I will give them this: they have great, imported beer for a relatively low cost. Mr. GoE and I got a couple, and mulled through the progression of our days while sipping away.
Eventually, we landed on what we would do that night. "Well, there's always BBG night at Sisters." I should begin by saying that Sisters is a gay bar near Rittenhouse, so already, the local struck me as a bit off. But I humored him and asked, "What's BBG night?""Britney, Beyonce, and Gaga. It's a drag show, and it's kind of amazing." Don't get me wrong, I like drag shows as much as the next girl, but as a fun group thing when everyone gets drunk and cheers and sings; for an intimate date, BBG was not exactly what I was jonesing for. But, for the sake of being agreeable, I nodded and noted that I had yet to be to a drag show in Philly (avoiding full-on committing to the plans, but confusing him by staying within the topic of conversation). And true to form, just when I think he is the most flamboyantly masculine straight dude I have ever met, he responded, "Yeah man, it's a fantastic show. I really admire good drag work- I mean, it's not easy." I should have left it, I should have stopped prying because I did not want to know, but the words were forced from my mouth: "How do you know it's not easy?" "Well, I used to do drag competitions in college. It engaged my competitive side. And most of my friends were queer, so it was something they were into that I then got into."
Why do I ask? Why why why?
With the impeccable timing that bartenders always seem to have, ours came to our portion of the bar and asked how we were doing on drinks. I, being low on money, said that I was good (although after the drag bomb dropped, I could have used a vodka the size of my head). He then looked at Mr. GoE, who, mimicking me, said he was good. Based on his next comment, I'm convinced the bartender heard the drag portion of our conversation, because he pushed further: "Are you sure? We also have a great schnapps list- that might be your thing." Coming from a burly guy's guy with muscles and a beard (who, might I add, I was flirting with a bit while my date was in the bathroom), how could it not have been loaded?
And true to form, what does Mr. GoE say? "What the hell, I got paid today, yes." Oblivious. We ordered a couple of glasses of apple schnapps that were delicious, and feeling buzzed and slightly horny, we decided to go back to his place, he would change out of his business garb, and we'd go out.
On the way to the 2nd Street Station, I picked his brain for a few more meaningful tidbits. On our last date, he had chatted to me about his brother, a 30-year-old guy who was socially incompetent, but had a girlfriend who was willing to put up with it, so much so that she was hoping for a marriage out of it. They even bought a dog as a practice baby. Apparently, simultaneously to our date, Mr. GoE's brother was asking this girl to marry him. And he was thrilled, not so much for his brother (he claimed it wouldn't last past an engagement), but because his pedigreed, Connecticut family would finally stop counting on him for grandchildren. Well, if that's not turning someone else's joyous event into self-gain, I'm not sure what is. We laughed about it, and I then reassured him (ironically, though I'm not sure he got that part) that this was a fortunate turn of events: he could now turn into a toxic bachelor. He was thrilled.
You know what they say about irony: it's a joke but it's mostly true. The thing is that W.G. has yet to call me back, and I'm oddly fine with that. At this point, I hope he doesn't, and I will not be putting forth that effort either. The more I consider it, the more I realize that there were too many red flags, too many flaws that I am unwilling to address or live with. Because I am not ready to settle. I don't know if I want a relationship; right now, I'm really into just playing the field and keeping things casual. And I wanted to put that in Mr. GoE's mind; I plan on being a toxic bachelor myself.
We finally got to 2nd and Market, took the subway to Girard, and began the five-block walk back to his apartment. There's something about that few-drinks-under walk back that boosts my sex drive- it's a fully-clothed, public version of foreplay. Things got handsy, but not obscenely so. There was kissing and some over-the-coat action, but nothing that required grabbing a headboard in ecstatic agony. As we walked up the to flights of stairs to his apartment, I was certain we wouldn't be going out that night. I blame it on the schnapps.
We got inside, and took our coats off. The quiet restraint was working for me (oddly enough), so I scooted onto his bed. Earlier that night (in a context I no longer remember), we were talking about Tom Waits, and so, in a truly in-the-moment act, I asked him to roll me a cigarette and put on some Tom. We lied there for a bit, motionless, watching the smoke float above our heads, and as I neared the make-shift cardboard filter, he took it from my hand, put it in the ashtray, and threw me down. That's the thing about Mr. GoE: he may be flamboyant as all get out, but the dude's got umph.
Clothes went flying and he began working his way down my body. Truth be told, I was still sore from W.G. a couple of nights before (who wouldn't listen when I told him, repeatedly, that my clit was not a penis and should not be rubbed as hard as one), so when Mr. GoE started going at it, I knew from the get-go that I wouldn't be able to come. I gave him a few minutes, but as soon as I could, I turned the tables and began going down on him.
Never in my entire life would think that Tom Waits would get me in the mood. Damien Rice, yes, Radiohead (oddly enough- but their later stuff, like Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows), Jeff Buckley, anyone mildly self-destructive but mostly smart and soulful. But Tom Waits: he sings about prostitutes and drinking until it hurts. And it's not even the content- it's his voice, his rough, sand-paper, filterless Marlboro Red voice. But that night, it worked, so well in fact that it became negligible, just part of the buzzing air of the room. That was until I was in the middle of giving him head. Actually in the middle. Like his penis was in my mouth and my head was bobbing up and down and I was suddenly made aware of Tom.
Now, I know what you're thinking: how does one become acutely conscious of the background music that was, a moment before, nothing? Something had to happen. Was I abruptly disgusted? Did I gag? Did he say something that turned me off? Because, at least for me, when I'm in it, it takes a lot to break my attention in the way that he did, and rarely is that interruption a good thing. Well you see, what made Tom Waits such a prominent presence in that room was Mr. GoE, ventriloquizing him. Yes, that's right, scratchy, 20-years-of-smoking voice and all. Let me say it one more time: the man who I was going down on, not in general but at that very moment in time, was singing Tom Waits, in the Tom Waits voice.
I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or insult: you're so good you make me want to sing OR your blow jobs are so mediocre that I have to sing Tom Waits in order to keep myself from falling asleep of boredom (for the record, I'm going to say it's the former: I may have a small mouth, but I have both tongue action and stamina in my court, although mostly, I just can't bring myself to believe that I am bad at fellatio). So I stopped, I looked at him, and asked, verbatim, "I'm sorry, are you singing Tom Waits in the Tom Waits voice as I go down on you?"
And then, a sort of beautiful thing happened: we laughed, and laughed hard. And naked. For me, that's important. I mean, don't get me wrong, orgasms and passion and all of that is a priority, but when they become so serious that the humor of nudity and clumsiness of bodies becomes ignorable or worse, embarrassing, that's never been something I do well. I have to laugh and feel like I'm with someone who can laugh, and for all of his shit, Mr. GoE can do that.
Eventually, we stopped (collecting myself after that episode was not a simple feat), and we started going at it again. He wanted to have sex. Of course he wanted to have sex. He didn't need to make the oh-so-eloquent proposal of "Wait, let me go condom up"- his feeble attempts of naked dry humping did me just fine. And then, I had to say no. I wasn't in it. Maybe it was Wednesday's date with W.G., but I can't juggle in that way. It's not something I'm capable of, or even want to be capable of. Toxic bachelor may be something I'm striving for, but casual sex is not. In true Mr. GoE form, he took this information very well (or at least, my short and simple, "No, I need to take this a bit slower. Is that ok with you?") and responded, "Yeah, I'm still going to get lucky tonight. [Pause.] Wait, I'm still going to get lucky, right?" I assured him he would, and followed through. Twice. There was no singing.
The next morning we woke up, did the hazy-lazy-early-morning lounge for a couple of hours, got up and went out to brunch. After a filling meal of pumpkin french toast and coffee, I headed back to center city to get my day started. At three. Dating is beginning to take a toll on my weekends. But what can I say, it keeps things interesting. After all, I would not have been serenaded giving my vibrator a blow job on a Friday night...
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Date #9: The Warm Gun (Fourth)
I had two very strange dreams during the nights preceding my fourth date with W.G.
The first came Monday morning, post-alarm, pre-wake-up. When I was in France, I met the best looking guy I have ever met in my entire life. He was the brother of a teacher I worked with, and just, well, walking sex in a very understated way. He has that artist thing, but is totally unpretentious, a good height, good build, used to play baseball so his butt is kind of amazing. He's on my fantasy roster for sure, and I believe a night or two before this dream, I brought him up to bat- home run all the way. Potentially a double play. (I've also been watching way more baseball than I'm comfortable with, and I feel like the terminology has been seeping into my vocabulary). Anyway, this wasn't a narrative dream, but more of a blip, like a little dream poem. We were in the Buda Bar in Agen, France, and I took my wallet out to show him this set of three Chinese coins that I carry. Lilian, the sister of my host dad in Rennes, lives in Paris, and gave them to me on my last visit. They're supposed to bring prosperity. Upon showing him my coins, the French guy mirrored my action and took the same coins out of his wallet.
The second was on Wednesday morning, during that identical post-alarm, pre-wake-up time. I was back at Muhlenberg, and hanging out with my favorite professor, a late-50's, beer-bellied, large-bearded, 6'4" beast of a man that I had such a teacher-crush on. I've always said that if he were 30 years younger, he would be my soul mate (and I never say soul mate). But alas, he's a bit of a man whore and is currently married to a former student with two kids, and a third from a different fling. However, in my dream, I didn't operate under the knowledge of his wife or of his three kids. Or more so, I knew about them, but put them out of my mind, and he and I had sex on the grass right in front of the main part of the campus. Afterward, I was walking somewhere, and was stopped by a security guard who scolded me for my actions: "I don't care that you were sleeping with your former professor, who, might I mention, is married with kids, but you cannot have sex in public." And then I realized the consequences of who I had just slept with: shit, his wife and two children. He was going to tell her. I found myself on the ground floor of the social sciences building, having that very thought, when she appeared. She, in this oddly calm voice, asserted that she knew, that her husband had come home immediately after it had happened, and told her. And then, I began hysterical crying: I didn't realize, if I had thought..., I'm sorry to have disrespected you and your marriage in this way. It was bizarrely cathartic. She left as calmly as she came in, and told me that she forgave me. And then, the dream shifted, and I turned up on these railroad tracks in a train station about to get a train to who knows where. It was a place I hadn't seen before, but one that had vague hints of Europe.
The first I think is pretty easy to figure out: the two issues that I've had with W.G. are the fact that he is not particularly ambitious and that I'm not likewhoa attracted to him. I mean, it's there, don't get me wrong, but it is nothing in comparison to this French guy. And I think the fact that said French guy had those Chinese coins in his wallet, that he valued prosperity also brought to light what W.G. lacks.
The second I think was a mix of things. First and foremost, the thing that I like most about W.G. is that he is uncomplicated and sweet. There are no games, no guessing, that's it. Also, when he does work, he works with his hands and values that. I enjoy that. Both of these traits remind me of my former English professor, who, before he got his PhD in English literature at the age of 40, was a carpenter. But similar to the first dream, I think it highlighted what W.G. doesn't have, for me, which is that I-could-talk-to-you-for-hours intellectual connection.
The other thing, and this has been weighing heavy on my mind, is that around this time in the dating trajectory, things start to have consequences, as much as I'd like to ignore that. Feelings get involved, more time is invested, and the physical stuff starts to get amped up. It's funny, because I listen to people who have causal sex and kind of wish I could be one of them, but I think too much. I'm too consumed with what things mean and how they'll hold in some vague future. And as much as it pains me to say, sex does mean something for me, and more so, I'd like to think I choose for it to mean.
I was feeling good about W.G. Good...and restless. From about 6am on Wednesday and on, I had a turned-on buzz that not even an in-depth edit of a ferroelectrics journal could curb. I was in it. I left that day at 5 on the nose, thinking about what I was going to wear, what he would make, how it would be, and right then, my mom called. I considered not answering, but she knew I had this date, so I thought it must be something important. "Sarah, how are you getting there tonight? Are you taking a cab? Does he live far away?" Don't worry about it, Mom, I'm going to take the subway, it will be fine. "You're going to take the subway?!?! I don't know, Sarah, I just don't know. People are dangerous out there. I just don't want you to get hurt." Mom, I've lived across an ocean from you for 8 months, I think I can handle a subway ride. "Sarah, it's not you I don't trust, it's everyone else. Just, be careful, don't rush into anything, don't do anything stupid. Because you never know where people have been. They lie, you know. You don't know anyone's history." Way to passive-aggressively tell me to practice safe sex, Mom. And of course, by the time that conversation was over, I was about as turned-off as a person who's 99% guaranteed sex for the night can be.
Nonetheless, I went through the actions, shaved my legs, put some make-up on, bought some wine, but my heart (and loins) were a little less in it. She actually made me anxious. Partially, it was what she said (it's true, how do I know if any of these guys are clean in an STD sense), but equally, it was the way in which she said it. My mom would be great at getting an angry riot of suburbanites going, because she has this way of affecting mood. My mood, in particular. Generally, I'm calm, and no one will hear me yell unless I'm pissed off, but my Mom (really, all of the women in my family) is a 21st century, American parody of Pride and Prejudice's Mrs. Bennett. And it gets under my skin every time.
I waited for a trolley into West Philly, and when it finally came, I realized I would not be going home that night. He lives far away from me. And in a dodgy neighborhood, especially for a woman. When I got off, I was hoping he'd meet me: I'm directionally challenged, and once a city stops being a grid and starts being, well, confusing, I cannot navigate without a map. Guess which one West Philly is? Confusing. Very confusing. And guess who did not meet me at the dodgy corner? W.G. So I was standing alone at 8pm at an intersection, considering whether I should just wait for him to come get me or try to follow his directions (he said left after I left the trolley). I briefly went for the latter, but then found myself on a dark street, the man at the corner trying to sell me meth. Awesome. I went straight back to my well lit, trolley-stop corner, and waited. W.G. finally met me, but I couldn't help but think of this as a red flag. It's a consideration thing: if I had anyone coming to see me late at night, friend or otherwise, and he or she did not have a lay of the land, I would go pick he or she up. This, compounded by the fact that I am a girl, and he lives in a shitty neighborhood- in retrospect, meeting me would have been, objectively speaking, the right thing to do. But at the time, I didn't hold it against him. He had rounded the corner just as I began to get jittery, and he was followed by his dog, Rocky. We kissed hello and walked the five blocks back to his apartment. Seriously, I have NO idea how this guy expected me to find this place. We're talking in an alleyway behind a homemade fence.
We climbed the stairs up to his apartment and upon entry, all I could think was: well, yes, this makes sense. It reminded me of a college apartment: a lot of furniture from the 70's and 80's, Star Wars posters on the wall (in a mostly ironic way), a bootleg sound system in the bedroom, and Christmas lights around the bed post. Yes, I've woken up on loveseats still drunk from the night before in those apartments. He was dressed differently as well: on all of our dates previous, I would come home laughing a bit to myself because he is the epitome of a straight man dressing in what he thinks is trendy. Which is bad (it involved a lot of beige top stitching over tryingtoohardtobebutarenot short-sleeve vintage plaid button-ups). But this time, he was in worn jeans and a t-shirt, which I sort of loved on him. He looked better that night than he had ever looked before; it made sense.
And there's nothing that turns me on more than unaware confidence. He showed me the kitchen, the last of the one-bedroom apartment tour, and I couldn't help but pin him against a wall. What can I say? We had a heated make-out, and when my shirt began to come off and the crotch of his jeans got a bit tighter, I stopped him with a beautifully timed, "So, what's for dinner." We chuckled, but I knew I wasn't there yet. I wasn't buzzed enough, the dog was watching, and as strategic as it was, I knew I wasn't leaving West Philly that night for purely logistical reasons, so if the hook-up wasn't good, I'd prefer that it happened at 2, because then at least I could sleep and leave his place in the morning with minimal "let's talk about it" time.
Sometimes, I'm a bit of a dude.
So what was he making? Chicken Cordon Bleu. He was making fucking Chicken Cordon Bleu. Dude is way more adventurous then me when it comes to cooking (although, that doesn't say much). The best was: he wouldn't let me help. Not out of pig-headedness or fear of sharing the kitchen, but because he just wanted to cook for me. My investment in the night began there. As he cooked, I watched the Phillies (no seriously, I'm watching WAY too much baseball). At first, I was nervous about this. I knew the game was on that night and I even brought copy editing with me should boredom set in. I'm just not one of those girls who has ever enjoyed watching sports; my goat has never been gotten by some guy making loud testosterone-fueled grunts at the television as we intermittently cuddle. But for some reason, it was different this time. I liked him, and I was perfectly content with watching the playoffs with our limbs intertwined on his 80's loveseat. My copy editing never left my bag.
The food was finally ready at 10pm. I was a bit hungry, but my hunger was slightly suppressed by nerves; I get why girls eat salads on dates. I got half-way though my chicken and twice-baked potato (yes, twice baked, he went there), and could not eat any more. The wonderful and horrible thing about W.G.: he's a bit of a pot head. Like multiple times, everyday smoker. Which, in terms of a sustainable relationship, would not work for me unless you're really brilliant, but in terms of improving my appetite and increasing my libido just for that night, was perfect. So we smoked a bit, I had a couple more bites of my dinner, however, at that point, the Phillies were losing, and I just wanted to get some.
I should be said that prior to that moment, I really liked him. I was ready to cancel the other two dates I had scheduled for that week because I could no longer understand the point of them. W.G. won out. I liked him best all around. I was ready to see him and only him. We had talked about our families to a more in-depth extent, he was so uncomplicated and nonjudgmental and easy to be around. I could see weekends looking exactly like this, and being totally fine with it.
And then, we got naked. The kissing up until then had been fantastic, he seemed to know what to do with his hands. Shit, he's a carpenter-turned-freelance-lumberjack; I'd hope he knew what to do with his hands. Low and behold, my nipples became taffy pulls; my clit, a tinier, inverted penis that just needed to be rubbed really quickly and hard. I am not one of those women who's afraid to speak up when something isn't working; I full blown refuse to ever fake an orgasm. Ever. He just didn't get my verbal/physical cues (which, might I add, weren't difficult to get- I mean, how many ways can "be gentler" while repositioning my vagina be misconstrued?). I'm not sure if it was out of some machismo sense of "I know what gets girls off" or sheer embarrassment; he would not listen.
So I went on the offensive and went down on him instead. That provided several firsts for me as well. Whether he's normally honest about what does it for him, or if my honesty was insulting in some way and he was being passive aggressive, W.G. actually criticized me as I was going down on him. I don't mean this in an "I know everything about giving head" sort of a way, but that's never happened. My guess is that giving good head to a guy is not that difficult, but giving great, mind-blowing head is probably more of a challenge. And I'd be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, assume that he wanted a really amazing orgasm out of me. Except I was going at it for a good 25 minutes. Let me say it again: I was going for a good 25 minutes. He wasn't going soft, he had a few "I'm coming, I'm coming" moans, and then, nothing. Nothing except a rock hard phallus in my mouth. At one point, he tried to "move it to the next level" (his words, not mine), but I couldn't. The thing is, I went to his house assuming we'd have sex, but when we got to that point, I wasn't in it. I stopped being attracted to him because he was bad in bed. Eventually, I gave up, diluting myself that it was the pot or the few beers he'd had, that we'd go at it again the next morning. Never has that happened, that I couldn't get a guy off when I've tried for it.
We cuddled for a bit, both feeling defeated (at least, I was defeated), and I started dozing off when I felt my side go cold because he'd gotten out of bed. Bathroom run, I thought, nothing to be freaked out about. Yet, when he came back, he wasn't alone. He brought Futurama I and II with him. No, I'm not kidding. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a gentle lull to sleep by some background noise, but when I'm alone and it's emitted from my computer at a very low volume. Call me traditional, but naked spooning trumps sarcastic cartoons every time. Oh, and remember that homemade sound system? The thing's got base. For the life of me, I couldn't sleep. I resorted to putting a pillow over my head and turning to the other side of the bed. As a side note: if someone did that one their first night in bed with me, I would know something was wrong. Him, nothing. He switched the discs and slept like a baby. I, on the other hand, had to be in old city at 9 the next morning and kind of wanted to strangle him.
It finally stopped at 3am (thank god), and I got four hours of restless, firsttimeinbedwithsomeone sleep before work the next day. That is always awful sleep, at least for me. Not to mention our sleep chemistry was awful. I've only ever been able to sleep well with someone on the first night once; I'm not just talking about the REM, but the unconscious body chemistry, the effort made by both parties to do a comfortable spoon and when not tangled in each other, a kiss on the shoulder or neck. It's not a sexed up thing, but creating a protective, safe, homey space. In his bed, I was all the way to the right, my pillow over my ears in a very solitary comforter cocoon.
My alarm went off at 7, and I wanted to murder it. But I tried to overcome my desire to snooze with fuzzy early morning cuddling and hooking up. And as silly as it sounds, I wanted to succeed in getting him off before I left. It wasn't out of exorbitant pride, you know, deriving some self-satisfaction from knowing that I could make him come; I've never much cared about validating myself as a worthwhile sexual partner unless I'm with someone who deserves the worthwhile-ness. With W.G., I wanted to believe that our physical chemistry was good, because our personal chemistry, although not mind-blowing, was relatively good. So at 7:15, I embarked on a long and tedious fallacio adventure, and by 7:40 (yes, by 7:30 I started to look at the clock and wondering if I could make it), I succeeded.
He, after he came down, went at me for a bit, giving his best, last-stitch effort. Honestly, I was sore from the night before (I cannot stand when guys don't listen to me in bed- believe me, I know my body better than you do), so I stopped him, insisting I had to get ready for work. I brushed my teeth, ruffled my hair (thankfully, between my shitty sleeping and his ignorance of a firm head hold in the middle of kissing, my head looked great), got dressed, and tried not to look completely turned off (although, I wear my attitude on my sleeve, so fat chance of that). I semi-jokingly asked him if he would walk me to the bus stop, "Come on, you get to go back to bed. I have to go to work. It's the least you could do." No, he decided to stay in bed. And it wasn't a malicious thing; I just think it's how he is. So I kissed him goodbye, unsure of where I stood on the matter.
With Mr. GoE, the physical stuff is so easy and was good right on, but he's arrogant and from Connecticut, which is not my thing. However, I've said this before and I'll say it again: I have learned from my mistakes in an incredibly instinctual way. If the chemistry isn't there, if the carnal animalistic desire to see a guy naked doesn't exist, I'm not going to work for it. That, at the very least, is not supposed to be hard. And I won't complicate it unnecessarily: I will never put myself in the position where I am without, and I refuse to overlook it and compensate for it. So. We will see.
The first came Monday morning, post-alarm, pre-wake-up. When I was in France, I met the best looking guy I have ever met in my entire life. He was the brother of a teacher I worked with, and just, well, walking sex in a very understated way. He has that artist thing, but is totally unpretentious, a good height, good build, used to play baseball so his butt is kind of amazing. He's on my fantasy roster for sure, and I believe a night or two before this dream, I brought him up to bat- home run all the way. Potentially a double play. (I've also been watching way more baseball than I'm comfortable with, and I feel like the terminology has been seeping into my vocabulary). Anyway, this wasn't a narrative dream, but more of a blip, like a little dream poem. We were in the Buda Bar in Agen, France, and I took my wallet out to show him this set of three Chinese coins that I carry. Lilian, the sister of my host dad in Rennes, lives in Paris, and gave them to me on my last visit. They're supposed to bring prosperity. Upon showing him my coins, the French guy mirrored my action and took the same coins out of his wallet.
The second was on Wednesday morning, during that identical post-alarm, pre-wake-up time. I was back at Muhlenberg, and hanging out with my favorite professor, a late-50's, beer-bellied, large-bearded, 6'4" beast of a man that I had such a teacher-crush on. I've always said that if he were 30 years younger, he would be my soul mate (and I never say soul mate). But alas, he's a bit of a man whore and is currently married to a former student with two kids, and a third from a different fling. However, in my dream, I didn't operate under the knowledge of his wife or of his three kids. Or more so, I knew about them, but put them out of my mind, and he and I had sex on the grass right in front of the main part of the campus. Afterward, I was walking somewhere, and was stopped by a security guard who scolded me for my actions: "I don't care that you were sleeping with your former professor, who, might I mention, is married with kids, but you cannot have sex in public." And then I realized the consequences of who I had just slept with: shit, his wife and two children. He was going to tell her. I found myself on the ground floor of the social sciences building, having that very thought, when she appeared. She, in this oddly calm voice, asserted that she knew, that her husband had come home immediately after it had happened, and told her. And then, I began hysterical crying: I didn't realize, if I had thought..., I'm sorry to have disrespected you and your marriage in this way. It was bizarrely cathartic. She left as calmly as she came in, and told me that she forgave me. And then, the dream shifted, and I turned up on these railroad tracks in a train station about to get a train to who knows where. It was a place I hadn't seen before, but one that had vague hints of Europe.
The first I think is pretty easy to figure out: the two issues that I've had with W.G. are the fact that he is not particularly ambitious and that I'm not likewhoa attracted to him. I mean, it's there, don't get me wrong, but it is nothing in comparison to this French guy. And I think the fact that said French guy had those Chinese coins in his wallet, that he valued prosperity also brought to light what W.G. lacks.
The second I think was a mix of things. First and foremost, the thing that I like most about W.G. is that he is uncomplicated and sweet. There are no games, no guessing, that's it. Also, when he does work, he works with his hands and values that. I enjoy that. Both of these traits remind me of my former English professor, who, before he got his PhD in English literature at the age of 40, was a carpenter. But similar to the first dream, I think it highlighted what W.G. doesn't have, for me, which is that I-could-talk-to-you-for-hours intellectual connection.
The other thing, and this has been weighing heavy on my mind, is that around this time in the dating trajectory, things start to have consequences, as much as I'd like to ignore that. Feelings get involved, more time is invested, and the physical stuff starts to get amped up. It's funny, because I listen to people who have causal sex and kind of wish I could be one of them, but I think too much. I'm too consumed with what things mean and how they'll hold in some vague future. And as much as it pains me to say, sex does mean something for me, and more so, I'd like to think I choose for it to mean.
I was feeling good about W.G. Good...and restless. From about 6am on Wednesday and on, I had a turned-on buzz that not even an in-depth edit of a ferroelectrics journal could curb. I was in it. I left that day at 5 on the nose, thinking about what I was going to wear, what he would make, how it would be, and right then, my mom called. I considered not answering, but she knew I had this date, so I thought it must be something important. "Sarah, how are you getting there tonight? Are you taking a cab? Does he live far away?" Don't worry about it, Mom, I'm going to take the subway, it will be fine. "You're going to take the subway?!?! I don't know, Sarah, I just don't know. People are dangerous out there. I just don't want you to get hurt." Mom, I've lived across an ocean from you for 8 months, I think I can handle a subway ride. "Sarah, it's not you I don't trust, it's everyone else. Just, be careful, don't rush into anything, don't do anything stupid. Because you never know where people have been. They lie, you know. You don't know anyone's history." Way to passive-aggressively tell me to practice safe sex, Mom. And of course, by the time that conversation was over, I was about as turned-off as a person who's 99% guaranteed sex for the night can be.
Nonetheless, I went through the actions, shaved my legs, put some make-up on, bought some wine, but my heart (and loins) were a little less in it. She actually made me anxious. Partially, it was what she said (it's true, how do I know if any of these guys are clean in an STD sense), but equally, it was the way in which she said it. My mom would be great at getting an angry riot of suburbanites going, because she has this way of affecting mood. My mood, in particular. Generally, I'm calm, and no one will hear me yell unless I'm pissed off, but my Mom (really, all of the women in my family) is a 21st century, American parody of Pride and Prejudice's Mrs. Bennett. And it gets under my skin every time.
I waited for a trolley into West Philly, and when it finally came, I realized I would not be going home that night. He lives far away from me. And in a dodgy neighborhood, especially for a woman. When I got off, I was hoping he'd meet me: I'm directionally challenged, and once a city stops being a grid and starts being, well, confusing, I cannot navigate without a map. Guess which one West Philly is? Confusing. Very confusing. And guess who did not meet me at the dodgy corner? W.G. So I was standing alone at 8pm at an intersection, considering whether I should just wait for him to come get me or try to follow his directions (he said left after I left the trolley). I briefly went for the latter, but then found myself on a dark street, the man at the corner trying to sell me meth. Awesome. I went straight back to my well lit, trolley-stop corner, and waited. W.G. finally met me, but I couldn't help but think of this as a red flag. It's a consideration thing: if I had anyone coming to see me late at night, friend or otherwise, and he or she did not have a lay of the land, I would go pick he or she up. This, compounded by the fact that I am a girl, and he lives in a shitty neighborhood- in retrospect, meeting me would have been, objectively speaking, the right thing to do. But at the time, I didn't hold it against him. He had rounded the corner just as I began to get jittery, and he was followed by his dog, Rocky. We kissed hello and walked the five blocks back to his apartment. Seriously, I have NO idea how this guy expected me to find this place. We're talking in an alleyway behind a homemade fence.
We climbed the stairs up to his apartment and upon entry, all I could think was: well, yes, this makes sense. It reminded me of a college apartment: a lot of furniture from the 70's and 80's, Star Wars posters on the wall (in a mostly ironic way), a bootleg sound system in the bedroom, and Christmas lights around the bed post. Yes, I've woken up on loveseats still drunk from the night before in those apartments. He was dressed differently as well: on all of our dates previous, I would come home laughing a bit to myself because he is the epitome of a straight man dressing in what he thinks is trendy. Which is bad (it involved a lot of beige top stitching over tryingtoohardtobebutarenot short-sleeve vintage plaid button-ups). But this time, he was in worn jeans and a t-shirt, which I sort of loved on him. He looked better that night than he had ever looked before; it made sense.
And there's nothing that turns me on more than unaware confidence. He showed me the kitchen, the last of the one-bedroom apartment tour, and I couldn't help but pin him against a wall. What can I say? We had a heated make-out, and when my shirt began to come off and the crotch of his jeans got a bit tighter, I stopped him with a beautifully timed, "So, what's for dinner." We chuckled, but I knew I wasn't there yet. I wasn't buzzed enough, the dog was watching, and as strategic as it was, I knew I wasn't leaving West Philly that night for purely logistical reasons, so if the hook-up wasn't good, I'd prefer that it happened at 2, because then at least I could sleep and leave his place in the morning with minimal "let's talk about it" time.
Sometimes, I'm a bit of a dude.
So what was he making? Chicken Cordon Bleu. He was making fucking Chicken Cordon Bleu. Dude is way more adventurous then me when it comes to cooking (although, that doesn't say much). The best was: he wouldn't let me help. Not out of pig-headedness or fear of sharing the kitchen, but because he just wanted to cook for me. My investment in the night began there. As he cooked, I watched the Phillies (no seriously, I'm watching WAY too much baseball). At first, I was nervous about this. I knew the game was on that night and I even brought copy editing with me should boredom set in. I'm just not one of those girls who has ever enjoyed watching sports; my goat has never been gotten by some guy making loud testosterone-fueled grunts at the television as we intermittently cuddle. But for some reason, it was different this time. I liked him, and I was perfectly content with watching the playoffs with our limbs intertwined on his 80's loveseat. My copy editing never left my bag.
The food was finally ready at 10pm. I was a bit hungry, but my hunger was slightly suppressed by nerves; I get why girls eat salads on dates. I got half-way though my chicken and twice-baked potato (yes, twice baked, he went there), and could not eat any more. The wonderful and horrible thing about W.G.: he's a bit of a pot head. Like multiple times, everyday smoker. Which, in terms of a sustainable relationship, would not work for me unless you're really brilliant, but in terms of improving my appetite and increasing my libido just for that night, was perfect. So we smoked a bit, I had a couple more bites of my dinner, however, at that point, the Phillies were losing, and I just wanted to get some.
I should be said that prior to that moment, I really liked him. I was ready to cancel the other two dates I had scheduled for that week because I could no longer understand the point of them. W.G. won out. I liked him best all around. I was ready to see him and only him. We had talked about our families to a more in-depth extent, he was so uncomplicated and nonjudgmental and easy to be around. I could see weekends looking exactly like this, and being totally fine with it.
And then, we got naked. The kissing up until then had been fantastic, he seemed to know what to do with his hands. Shit, he's a carpenter-turned-freelance-lumberjack; I'd hope he knew what to do with his hands. Low and behold, my nipples became taffy pulls; my clit, a tinier, inverted penis that just needed to be rubbed really quickly and hard. I am not one of those women who's afraid to speak up when something isn't working; I full blown refuse to ever fake an orgasm. Ever. He just didn't get my verbal/physical cues (which, might I add, weren't difficult to get- I mean, how many ways can "be gentler" while repositioning my vagina be misconstrued?). I'm not sure if it was out of some machismo sense of "I know what gets girls off" or sheer embarrassment; he would not listen.
So I went on the offensive and went down on him instead. That provided several firsts for me as well. Whether he's normally honest about what does it for him, or if my honesty was insulting in some way and he was being passive aggressive, W.G. actually criticized me as I was going down on him. I don't mean this in an "I know everything about giving head" sort of a way, but that's never happened. My guess is that giving good head to a guy is not that difficult, but giving great, mind-blowing head is probably more of a challenge. And I'd be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, assume that he wanted a really amazing orgasm out of me. Except I was going at it for a good 25 minutes. Let me say it again: I was going for a good 25 minutes. He wasn't going soft, he had a few "I'm coming, I'm coming" moans, and then, nothing. Nothing except a rock hard phallus in my mouth. At one point, he tried to "move it to the next level" (his words, not mine), but I couldn't. The thing is, I went to his house assuming we'd have sex, but when we got to that point, I wasn't in it. I stopped being attracted to him because he was bad in bed. Eventually, I gave up, diluting myself that it was the pot or the few beers he'd had, that we'd go at it again the next morning. Never has that happened, that I couldn't get a guy off when I've tried for it.
We cuddled for a bit, both feeling defeated (at least, I was defeated), and I started dozing off when I felt my side go cold because he'd gotten out of bed. Bathroom run, I thought, nothing to be freaked out about. Yet, when he came back, he wasn't alone. He brought Futurama I and II with him. No, I'm not kidding. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a gentle lull to sleep by some background noise, but when I'm alone and it's emitted from my computer at a very low volume. Call me traditional, but naked spooning trumps sarcastic cartoons every time. Oh, and remember that homemade sound system? The thing's got base. For the life of me, I couldn't sleep. I resorted to putting a pillow over my head and turning to the other side of the bed. As a side note: if someone did that one their first night in bed with me, I would know something was wrong. Him, nothing. He switched the discs and slept like a baby. I, on the other hand, had to be in old city at 9 the next morning and kind of wanted to strangle him.
It finally stopped at 3am (thank god), and I got four hours of restless, firsttimeinbedwithsomeone sleep before work the next day. That is always awful sleep, at least for me. Not to mention our sleep chemistry was awful. I've only ever been able to sleep well with someone on the first night once; I'm not just talking about the REM, but the unconscious body chemistry, the effort made by both parties to do a comfortable spoon and when not tangled in each other, a kiss on the shoulder or neck. It's not a sexed up thing, but creating a protective, safe, homey space. In his bed, I was all the way to the right, my pillow over my ears in a very solitary comforter cocoon.
My alarm went off at 7, and I wanted to murder it. But I tried to overcome my desire to snooze with fuzzy early morning cuddling and hooking up. And as silly as it sounds, I wanted to succeed in getting him off before I left. It wasn't out of exorbitant pride, you know, deriving some self-satisfaction from knowing that I could make him come; I've never much cared about validating myself as a worthwhile sexual partner unless I'm with someone who deserves the worthwhile-ness. With W.G., I wanted to believe that our physical chemistry was good, because our personal chemistry, although not mind-blowing, was relatively good. So at 7:15, I embarked on a long and tedious fallacio adventure, and by 7:40 (yes, by 7:30 I started to look at the clock and wondering if I could make it), I succeeded.
He, after he came down, went at me for a bit, giving his best, last-stitch effort. Honestly, I was sore from the night before (I cannot stand when guys don't listen to me in bed- believe me, I know my body better than you do), so I stopped him, insisting I had to get ready for work. I brushed my teeth, ruffled my hair (thankfully, between my shitty sleeping and his ignorance of a firm head hold in the middle of kissing, my head looked great), got dressed, and tried not to look completely turned off (although, I wear my attitude on my sleeve, so fat chance of that). I semi-jokingly asked him if he would walk me to the bus stop, "Come on, you get to go back to bed. I have to go to work. It's the least you could do." No, he decided to stay in bed. And it wasn't a malicious thing; I just think it's how he is. So I kissed him goodbye, unsure of where I stood on the matter.
With Mr. GoE, the physical stuff is so easy and was good right on, but he's arrogant and from Connecticut, which is not my thing. However, I've said this before and I'll say it again: I have learned from my mistakes in an incredibly instinctual way. If the chemistry isn't there, if the carnal animalistic desire to see a guy naked doesn't exist, I'm not going to work for it. That, at the very least, is not supposed to be hard. And I won't complicate it unnecessarily: I will never put myself in the position where I am without, and I refuse to overlook it and compensate for it. So. We will see.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Most Wanted: Libido Killer at Large
There is nothing like a phone call from your mother telling you to practice safe sex to kill your drive. Namely when she's my mother and it is 1.5 hours before my 4th date with W.G. at his place. I didn't think anything could do it; I've had naked bodies on the brain since 6 am, but right now, I'm all dry sand and deserts. Thanks, mom.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Date #8: The Warm Gun (Third)
I came home "smiley" last night. I haven't been smiley in a while.
Because W.G. called me to schedule our second date, I didn't feel bad about being the one to contact him for a third- you have to meet them halfway, right? On Sunday night, just before I texted Mr. GoE, I called W.G. and we made a date for Wednesday night. Similar to the last time, we decided to go out to dinner, again, in his neck of Philly (I am going to have to buy myself some cute walking shoes if this continues), but he told me he would let me know about the choice of restaurant when we got closer to the date. On Monday night, he sent me a text suggesting a BYO sushi place, and I told him that I'd bring the wine.
As I was walking home from work on Wednesday and about to get the wine, I received another text saying that the sushi place was not BYO after all, and instead, we should go to Distrito. Now, I know nothing of restaurants that are outside of Rittenhouse or Fitler Square, so this meant nothing to me. I came home to get ready, and nonchalantly informed Danielle of the change of plans. "Sarah, you know Distrito is a pretty expensive Hose Garces restaurant, right?" No, not right at all. The thing is, this guy just recently got laid off, is doing freelance lumber-jacking, and maybe makes $600 a week. He doesn't have the money to bring me out to a fancy restaurant; I don't even like fancy restaurants unless I'm going out with my family. And normally, I wouldn't feel bad about that kind of a thing, but he is a genuinely nice guy who wants to spend money on me, which I guess would be fine if he had it. But frankly, I'm indifferent to it in this circumstance and would be more than happy to grab a slice of pizza and brown-bag it in the park.
With this new-found knowledge, I bucked up, mentally prepped myself on eating a very small dinner of soup or salad or chicken or whatever, and walked the 20 blocks to meet him. I got to the restaurant 5 minutes late (I'm perpetually 5 minutes late), and he was already there (he's perpetually early). We had a beer at the bar, and I told him about my minor promotion at work that day (I became the Editor of two publications, although no raise, or I would have gotten dinner). We went outside for a post-beer cigarette and a pre-dinner make-out, and then headed upstairs to a cute little table with a couch. I've never actually sat at a couples table before; there were pillows and candles and ambiance. Very romantic, but very not us. Just like I'm very low maintenance, I think he is as well; it's one of my favorite things about him, that he's uncomplicated and no muss, no fuss. And that doesn't mean a total lack of romance, but I sort of prefer the cuter things. Like on our previous date: we were kissing on the way home, and it was a bit drizzly out. It had stopped for most of our walk home, and so the need for an umbrella didn't exist until right then when the light rain started. He went to put the umbrella up, but I pushed it away, and we just continued kissing. And later, he commented that it was romantic, you know, kissing in the rain. That kind of romantic I can appreciate because it's much more down to earth than pink pillows and cushions on a wrap-around bench. Nonetheless, I was thankful for the sentiment and dinner went very well. We each got a margarita and split a couple of tapas (we both could have eaten more and they were delicious, but geeze, way too pricey): octopus tacos and a crab meat enchilada.
One of my favorite things about this guy is that I can talk to him in a shoot-the-shit way or in a real way. And while during dinner, it was more recapping of weekends and exchanging musical tastes, the conversation grew from there. After we left, he asked if I was up for another drink (I broke my two-drink date limit for him), so we went to City Tap House, a bar with 60 beers on tap, which was cool, along with outside benches and fire pits. We each grabbed a pint, and cuddled outside in front of a fire; I was freezing and he's easy to curl up into. Finally comfortable (and a bit warmer), we began talking about The Fountainhead, of all things. Howard Roark is one of my favorite literary characters, and W.G. reminds me of him, particularly in that scene where he's in the quarry picking up rocks and looking damn sexy. Not to mention, they're both redheads. So I told him this, not expecting much of a response because he's not a huge reader, but it, apparently, is one of his favorite books. Which just made me want him more.
We finished at around 11pm, and he asked if I'd go back to his place. I wouldn't. See, this is how you know I sort of like the guy, because I don't just see him as a means to an orgasm, but as someone with whom I enjoy passing the time. That being said, a means to an orgasm isn't completely off my radar, plus, the guy is not making enough money to be taking me out to these dinners and drinks. So I offered, for our next date, to eat the least date-y food possible, greasy chinese, in his apartment, watching The Life Aquatic. I'm looking forward to it, actually: less of this artificial, dating stuff and more everyday life.
I sort of like a freelance lumber-jack. Didn't expect that to happen...
Because W.G. called me to schedule our second date, I didn't feel bad about being the one to contact him for a third- you have to meet them halfway, right? On Sunday night, just before I texted Mr. GoE, I called W.G. and we made a date for Wednesday night. Similar to the last time, we decided to go out to dinner, again, in his neck of Philly (I am going to have to buy myself some cute walking shoes if this continues), but he told me he would let me know about the choice of restaurant when we got closer to the date. On Monday night, he sent me a text suggesting a BYO sushi place, and I told him that I'd bring the wine.
As I was walking home from work on Wednesday and about to get the wine, I received another text saying that the sushi place was not BYO after all, and instead, we should go to Distrito. Now, I know nothing of restaurants that are outside of Rittenhouse or Fitler Square, so this meant nothing to me. I came home to get ready, and nonchalantly informed Danielle of the change of plans. "Sarah, you know Distrito is a pretty expensive Hose Garces restaurant, right?" No, not right at all. The thing is, this guy just recently got laid off, is doing freelance lumber-jacking, and maybe makes $600 a week. He doesn't have the money to bring me out to a fancy restaurant; I don't even like fancy restaurants unless I'm going out with my family. And normally, I wouldn't feel bad about that kind of a thing, but he is a genuinely nice guy who wants to spend money on me, which I guess would be fine if he had it. But frankly, I'm indifferent to it in this circumstance and would be more than happy to grab a slice of pizza and brown-bag it in the park.
With this new-found knowledge, I bucked up, mentally prepped myself on eating a very small dinner of soup or salad or chicken or whatever, and walked the 20 blocks to meet him. I got to the restaurant 5 minutes late (I'm perpetually 5 minutes late), and he was already there (he's perpetually early). We had a beer at the bar, and I told him about my minor promotion at work that day (I became the Editor of two publications, although no raise, or I would have gotten dinner). We went outside for a post-beer cigarette and a pre-dinner make-out, and then headed upstairs to a cute little table with a couch. I've never actually sat at a couples table before; there were pillows and candles and ambiance. Very romantic, but very not us. Just like I'm very low maintenance, I think he is as well; it's one of my favorite things about him, that he's uncomplicated and no muss, no fuss. And that doesn't mean a total lack of romance, but I sort of prefer the cuter things. Like on our previous date: we were kissing on the way home, and it was a bit drizzly out. It had stopped for most of our walk home, and so the need for an umbrella didn't exist until right then when the light rain started. He went to put the umbrella up, but I pushed it away, and we just continued kissing. And later, he commented that it was romantic, you know, kissing in the rain. That kind of romantic I can appreciate because it's much more down to earth than pink pillows and cushions on a wrap-around bench. Nonetheless, I was thankful for the sentiment and dinner went very well. We each got a margarita and split a couple of tapas (we both could have eaten more and they were delicious, but geeze, way too pricey): octopus tacos and a crab meat enchilada.
One of my favorite things about this guy is that I can talk to him in a shoot-the-shit way or in a real way. And while during dinner, it was more recapping of weekends and exchanging musical tastes, the conversation grew from there. After we left, he asked if I was up for another drink (I broke my two-drink date limit for him), so we went to City Tap House, a bar with 60 beers on tap, which was cool, along with outside benches and fire pits. We each grabbed a pint, and cuddled outside in front of a fire; I was freezing and he's easy to curl up into. Finally comfortable (and a bit warmer), we began talking about The Fountainhead, of all things. Howard Roark is one of my favorite literary characters, and W.G. reminds me of him, particularly in that scene where he's in the quarry picking up rocks and looking damn sexy. Not to mention, they're both redheads. So I told him this, not expecting much of a response because he's not a huge reader, but it, apparently, is one of his favorite books. Which just made me want him more.
We finished at around 11pm, and he asked if I'd go back to his place. I wouldn't. See, this is how you know I sort of like the guy, because I don't just see him as a means to an orgasm, but as someone with whom I enjoy passing the time. That being said, a means to an orgasm isn't completely off my radar, plus, the guy is not making enough money to be taking me out to these dinners and drinks. So I offered, for our next date, to eat the least date-y food possible, greasy chinese, in his apartment, watching The Life Aquatic. I'm looking forward to it, actually: less of this artificial, dating stuff and more everyday life.
I sort of like a freelance lumber-jack. Didn't expect that to happen...
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Date #7: Mr. Gay or European (Second)
At first, I had no plans to see Mr. GoE again. His boyish arrogance and inability to converse sort of annoyed me. Not to mention I straddled him on a park bench, and really, what good could that lead to?
However, after my trip to D.C. last weekend to visit a friend, the tides turned. We spent Saturday night celebrating her birthday with some of her law school friends, and let me just say: Mr. GoE's boyish arrogance paled in comparison to these men. It's not that they were bad guys, they were just her-type-guys (majority were cocky and a bit too sure of themselves). It's hard for me to see appeal in that, when I'm speaking with a guy and can actually sense him judging me against him. And I know, they're lawyers, judging is sort of their schtick, but I don't engage in pissing contests unless specifically provoked; for the entirety of that evening, I was pissing and wagging my nine-inch penis in the air.
On the bus ride home, I had a good long think: I had really great physical chemistry with this guy, like really good. And he doesn't make me competitive or feel like I have something to prove. Screw it, I'm going to text him and see if he wants to go out again. And so, I did. Immediately after, I regretted it. I was breaking one of my cardinal rules of online dating: he should always call for the second date. But the deed was done, I couldn't go back, and if need be, I would lie in my self-made bed of rejection. I got home a couple of hours later to that I had two missed calls, a text, and a voicemail. All from Mr. GoE. For someone who wasn't too eager to initiate the calling, the dude was pretty keen on getting ahold of me. I called him back, and we made a date for Tuesday night. We decided he would meet me after work and we'd walk up to his neck of the woods, Northern Liberties, to grab a drink or a bite or whatever.
I was sitting on a park bench reading as he strolled up. It's always a bit questionable to me, how to greet a guy that I'm not serious with. Do we kiss hello as if it's commonplace? Do we do the awkward hug that lasts a bit to long? And then, do we hold hands to get to wherever we're going? I know, I know, I think too much. We kissed on the mouth, and walked side by side occasionally knocking elbows, while walking 15 blocks from Old City to NorLibs as he notsocharmingly calls it. The conversation was awkward; we both felt compelled to fill the silences with the stories of our weekends. I feigned interest in his Obama-Sunday, when he went to go see the president campaign for 2012. I gave him my take on how Obama's political rhetoric has been diminishing as of late, and he tried to rationalize it and gave me a talk on the importance of democratic unity. I could sort of care less, especially in that context when discussion is trumped by righting my (incredibly valid) opinion. But I let him finish, nodded him off, and then changed the subject to my weekend in D.C. It was all fine, just not a genuine conversation.
He decided to take me a Standard Tap, a bar that I've been to once before with my former neuroscience professor and Danielle (I remember having an delicious salmon burger there). Based on our last date, I resolved, well before Mr. GoE and I went out, that I would have, maximum, two beers. Plus, he didn't pay, and two beers is really perfect for me. We got a couple, split a burger (the appetizers didn't peak our interest), and talked about family, friends, backgrounds, very typical second date chatter. He has a funny relationship with his older brother, with whom is in constant competition. He's getting married, which I think gets under Mr. GoE's skin. Though his parents sound interesting; they're believers in "life-long learning" and plan to get PhD's when they retire. They were also married later in life after dating for 8 years, which is what he names as the reason for their successful relationship. I told him about my sister, my mom, even a brief sentence on my relationship with my dad (that I haven't talked to him for 10 years). It wasn't entirely superficial. Though we did talk about fashion (men's and women's) for a good 15 minutes... The dude earned his nickname.
We left at around 7:30, and part of the reason that I pushed for Northern Liberties was that I had never seen the Piazza. I was picturing a Rittenhouse Square-like area, with Christmas Lights on the trees and a gazebo in the center. I'm not sure why, but no one has ever corrected me. So we walked to go see it, making out in the street as we went. He's such a good kisser, it's awful. When we finally got there (kissing and walking takes a bit of a toll on speed) I realized what the piazza actually was: this anomaly of a lifestyle-center with a baseball game projected on a white wall with a few standard, unoriginal bars lining the rest of the square. Unless we got another drink, which I wasn't going to do, we were going to be able to spend 2 minutes total looking around this place.
The look of indifference must have read on my face, because at that point, he asked the big, bad, make-it-or-break-it question, "So what do you want to do now?" I had chosen Northern Liberties as our date neighborhood for this questions to be asked while still fearing the possible consequences. It is far from my apartment, and there's no direct public transportation between the two. There are subways, but I'm less than thrilled about taking them by myself after 10pm. And I do not believe in cabs unless there are dire circumstances involved, like my feet are bleeding from the hooker heels I'm wearing and I cannot walk another inch. And so, I had to choose: commit to the night and just do what my body so badly wanted to do or play it safe and go home.
I prolonged the inevitable. "What are my choices," I asked. "Well," he started, "there's always the option of getting another beer. We could go to a park if you want- it is a nice night." "Park sounds great," I interrupted. "How about this," he suggested, "we'll go back to my place because I could use to go to the bathroom, we'll get some stuff and go smoke a bit in the park." Yes, that was exactly what I wanted. Not to mention, smoking, in lower quantities, makes me hornier than any amount of alcohol. It would quiet my virtuous side that was critical of engaging in something that would make this a purely physical relationship.
We went back to his place, this refurbished school where only single male hipsters could bare to live. I'd forgotten how disgusting man apartments are. They're gross. When dudes are left to take care of themselves, it's pretty awful. And I always forget this, because between Danielle and I, I am the dude. I hate cleaning, I sometimes don't eat dinner because I just can't be bothered to cook and am satisfied with a couple of drinks instead. I am not a domesticated woman (aside from the knitting and sewing and occasional cooking for dinner parties and things). In comparison to Mr. GoE, I am freaking Martha Stewart. There were clothes everywhere, half-eaten potato chip bags, socks, beer bottles, half-consumed glasses of liquid. It was gross. I was waiting for a cockroach to crawl out from under a pile. But we were going to the park, so he would pee, and we'd be on our way.
Wrong. As I was looking at the books on his bookshelf, the only organized thing in his apartment, he came out of the bathroom and started kissing me. We weren't going anywhere. Let me just say: the guy has throwdown, hardcore throwdown. We fell into his sosomessy, unmade bed, and clothes began flying off more quickly than I could actually process what was going on. I've never had such a purely physical experience with a guy, where my body just took over and my brain shut off. Any thought that wasn't concerned with achieving an orgasm was hushed.
And so, we went at it. We didn't sleep together, but we both came a couple of times. It was nice, because it wasn't hurried or anxious; it just was what it was, simple, no frills. There were cuddle sessions in between, smoke breaks, cat naps, and what felt like a span of an entire night brought us to 11pm. Which was when the plans had to be made: I would spend the night if and only if he would drive me back to my apartment the next morning at 6 so I could shower and prep for work. Normally, I wouldn't mind going in wearing yesterday's skirt with a man's shirt, but I'd recently gotten a baby promotion and had been assigned two journals to edit, which I had turnover meetings for the next morning. I couldn't be disheveled. Spending the night became a bit too complicated, and too early of a morning, so he offered to drive me back then, which I was surprisingly ok with. I like my bed. A lot.
The funniest part of the evening was what came next. As I was gathering my things which had been thrown around the room, he went to put clothes on. He came out of the bathroom, and I looked down at his feet: his toe nails were fluorescent blue. We're talking the color that 13 girls paint their nails. When he mentioned getting pedicures on the last date, I was imagining a quick clip, file, and clear coat, not BLUE. It took everything I had in my body not to burst out laughing. The thing is: I have nothing against being queer. I could see myself dating a queer guy if it were the right situation. But to so adamantly, as he has earlier that night, call yourself straight, and paint your toes blue; it just threw me for a loop. But I shut up because I needed the ride, and because I find him sexy in spite of his stupid blue toes.
He drove me home, we said goodnight, and honestly, I'm not sure what will happen. I've promised myself that I will not call him. I feel like once I do that, the floodgates will open and I'm not sure I'm disciplined enough to just have a fuck buddy on call. I will say this: Mr. GoE has really made me critically think about the way I've valued physicality in the past versus how I will in the future. Up until him, I've always prioritized having an emotional, intellectual connection with someone over the physical stuff. But I can tell you, all that kind of thinking did for me was leave me frustrated and sexless in a very tiny Eastern-European country, having wasted a good seven months on a guy who could never give me the kind of orgasm Mr. GoE did. And I'm not saying this is by any means a sustainable relationship; it's not. But putting more value in one over the other is neglecting something so important, in either case. At least for me.
He decided to take me a Standard Tap, a bar that I've been to once before with my former neuroscience professor and Danielle (I remember having an delicious salmon burger there). Based on our last date, I resolved, well before Mr. GoE and I went out, that I would have, maximum, two beers. Plus, he didn't pay, and two beers is really perfect for me. We got a couple, split a burger (the appetizers didn't peak our interest), and talked about family, friends, backgrounds, very typical second date chatter. He has a funny relationship with his older brother, with whom is in constant competition. He's getting married, which I think gets under Mr. GoE's skin. Though his parents sound interesting; they're believers in "life-long learning" and plan to get PhD's when they retire. They were also married later in life after dating for 8 years, which is what he names as the reason for their successful relationship. I told him about my sister, my mom, even a brief sentence on my relationship with my dad (that I haven't talked to him for 10 years). It wasn't entirely superficial. Though we did talk about fashion (men's and women's) for a good 15 minutes... The dude earned his nickname.
We left at around 7:30, and part of the reason that I pushed for Northern Liberties was that I had never seen the Piazza. I was picturing a Rittenhouse Square-like area, with Christmas Lights on the trees and a gazebo in the center. I'm not sure why, but no one has ever corrected me. So we walked to go see it, making out in the street as we went. He's such a good kisser, it's awful. When we finally got there (kissing and walking takes a bit of a toll on speed) I realized what the piazza actually was: this anomaly of a lifestyle-center with a baseball game projected on a white wall with a few standard, unoriginal bars lining the rest of the square. Unless we got another drink, which I wasn't going to do, we were going to be able to spend 2 minutes total looking around this place.
The look of indifference must have read on my face, because at that point, he asked the big, bad, make-it-or-break-it question, "So what do you want to do now?" I had chosen Northern Liberties as our date neighborhood for this questions to be asked while still fearing the possible consequences. It is far from my apartment, and there's no direct public transportation between the two. There are subways, but I'm less than thrilled about taking them by myself after 10pm. And I do not believe in cabs unless there are dire circumstances involved, like my feet are bleeding from the hooker heels I'm wearing and I cannot walk another inch. And so, I had to choose: commit to the night and just do what my body so badly wanted to do or play it safe and go home.
I prolonged the inevitable. "What are my choices," I asked. "Well," he started, "there's always the option of getting another beer. We could go to a park if you want- it is a nice night." "Park sounds great," I interrupted. "How about this," he suggested, "we'll go back to my place because I could use to go to the bathroom, we'll get some stuff and go smoke a bit in the park." Yes, that was exactly what I wanted. Not to mention, smoking, in lower quantities, makes me hornier than any amount of alcohol. It would quiet my virtuous side that was critical of engaging in something that would make this a purely physical relationship.
We went back to his place, this refurbished school where only single male hipsters could bare to live. I'd forgotten how disgusting man apartments are. They're gross. When dudes are left to take care of themselves, it's pretty awful. And I always forget this, because between Danielle and I, I am the dude. I hate cleaning, I sometimes don't eat dinner because I just can't be bothered to cook and am satisfied with a couple of drinks instead. I am not a domesticated woman (aside from the knitting and sewing and occasional cooking for dinner parties and things). In comparison to Mr. GoE, I am freaking Martha Stewart. There were clothes everywhere, half-eaten potato chip bags, socks, beer bottles, half-consumed glasses of liquid. It was gross. I was waiting for a cockroach to crawl out from under a pile. But we were going to the park, so he would pee, and we'd be on our way.
Wrong. As I was looking at the books on his bookshelf, the only organized thing in his apartment, he came out of the bathroom and started kissing me. We weren't going anywhere. Let me just say: the guy has throwdown, hardcore throwdown. We fell into his sosomessy, unmade bed, and clothes began flying off more quickly than I could actually process what was going on. I've never had such a purely physical experience with a guy, where my body just took over and my brain shut off. Any thought that wasn't concerned with achieving an orgasm was hushed.
And so, we went at it. We didn't sleep together, but we both came a couple of times. It was nice, because it wasn't hurried or anxious; it just was what it was, simple, no frills. There were cuddle sessions in between, smoke breaks, cat naps, and what felt like a span of an entire night brought us to 11pm. Which was when the plans had to be made: I would spend the night if and only if he would drive me back to my apartment the next morning at 6 so I could shower and prep for work. Normally, I wouldn't mind going in wearing yesterday's skirt with a man's shirt, but I'd recently gotten a baby promotion and had been assigned two journals to edit, which I had turnover meetings for the next morning. I couldn't be disheveled. Spending the night became a bit too complicated, and too early of a morning, so he offered to drive me back then, which I was surprisingly ok with. I like my bed. A lot.
The funniest part of the evening was what came next. As I was gathering my things which had been thrown around the room, he went to put clothes on. He came out of the bathroom, and I looked down at his feet: his toe nails were fluorescent blue. We're talking the color that 13 girls paint their nails. When he mentioned getting pedicures on the last date, I was imagining a quick clip, file, and clear coat, not BLUE. It took everything I had in my body not to burst out laughing. The thing is: I have nothing against being queer. I could see myself dating a queer guy if it were the right situation. But to so adamantly, as he has earlier that night, call yourself straight, and paint your toes blue; it just threw me for a loop. But I shut up because I needed the ride, and because I find him sexy in spite of his stupid blue toes.
He drove me home, we said goodnight, and honestly, I'm not sure what will happen. I've promised myself that I will not call him. I feel like once I do that, the floodgates will open and I'm not sure I'm disciplined enough to just have a fuck buddy on call. I will say this: Mr. GoE has really made me critically think about the way I've valued physicality in the past versus how I will in the future. Up until him, I've always prioritized having an emotional, intellectual connection with someone over the physical stuff. But I can tell you, all that kind of thinking did for me was leave me frustrated and sexless in a very tiny Eastern-European country, having wasted a good seven months on a guy who could never give me the kind of orgasm Mr. GoE did. And I'm not saying this is by any means a sustainable relationship; it's not. But putting more value in one over the other is neglecting something so important, in either case. At least for me.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Date #6: Mr. Gay or European
I've had a sort-of skanky couple of days. Not actually skanky by normal 23-year-old standard, but by my standards, yes. Two raunchy make-outs in a 24-hour period with 2 relative strangers, to me, is skanky in comparison to the rest of my life.
Mr. GoE and I had a quickmatch on okcupid. This is actually one of my favorite aspects of the site because it indulges my superficial side. What happens is: after you click on the quickmatch tab, random photos of individual members appear one by one. You can see their information as well, but you can't see their username until you rate them on a 5-star scale. If you give the member in question 4 or 5 stars, they are alerted that someone has given them a high rating, and are then prompted to go through the same quickmatch process. If they then give you a 4 or 5 rating, the site alerts both of you that you find one another attractive. Well, Mr. GoE and I both gave each other 4 or 5 stars and received alerts. I was in the thick of some other messages at the time, so I didn't respond. He, after about a week or so, emails me a pretentious-as-all-get-out (but still, attentive) message querying if it was accidental or coincidence that I only listed American poets in my "favorite books" section.
True to form, I respond: "Coincidentally intentional," because really, what kind of question is that?
We go back and forth for a couple of messages, discussing pop culture and white middle class notions of democratic politics. He likes Chuck Klosterman, I like Chuck Klosterman; he hates John Cusack, I hate John Cusack. Did I mention he is particularly good looking? Well, he is. It's all very promising. After a collective five messages, he asks if I'd like to grab a drink at some point. I say yes and leave him my number.
By no means am I a prude with my contact information, but I only give out my number if I expect to receive a call. None of this hard-to-get, I'm-really-busy-and-will-call-you-in-two-weeks crap. With this in mind, I thought that Mr. GoE would call me within a couple of days and we'd grab a drink later that week. And then, there was no call. For a week. Don't get me wrong, I don't take stuff like that personally; I just send you off to the island of lost men who are cowards or hung up on ex-girlfriends.
So when he finally did call a week later, I was taken aback. It was Tuesday night, the night after Date #4 with Q. I was having friends over for dinner that night, was particularly exhausted, and see that I have a new voicemail: "Hi Sarah, is Mr. GoE from okcupid. Wondering if you want to grab a drink at some point this week. Give me a call back when you get a chance." I sat in my living room for a good 10 minutes, drinking a screwdriver and laughing at the timing of it all. What the fuck, I thought? I can make this a three-date week. I called him back, and we planned for Thursday at 6, drinks at National Mechanics.
Thursday rolled around, and I spent the bulk of the afternoon being relatively unproductive in my cube. Even the 6 cups of coffee I consumed between the hours of 2 and 5:30 could not make up for the 1am evening I had the night before. However, when I finally did leave work, I found myself anxious, like actually nervous about the date. Mr. GoE, in my own, perhaps negatively biased opinion, was WAY cuter than me. Like way cuter. I walked over to the bar from work, and left Danielle a surprisingly insecure message: "Holy shit, I need a pep talk. I'm feeling particularly disheveled and ugly. But you're not there, and it's 6, so I guess I'll get myself out of this one."
And I did. At 6:05, Mr. GoE had yet to show up. I was waiting outside, looking like one of those people who was having a minor internal freak-out (you know, when someone is so self-aware that all of their energy points inward), so I decided to text him and let him know that I'd be outside when he got there. Rip off the bandaid. Turns out, he was inside already, and walked out of the bar to come get me.
My first thought: holy crap, this is a tall man. My second: he is wearing pink and brown argyle. I'm incredibly pragmatic in terms of my man-selection. That, and mildly narcissistic. Meaning: I go for guys who I perceive to be in my league, and semi-subconsciously, "in my league" means that we have similar features and body traits. For me, this usually entails a shorter guy, maybe 5'6" to 5'8", someone with brown hair and brown eyes, someone who is not too masculine (because I'm not too feminine) and of average build, not fat, not thin, not too muscular. Mr. GoE has the brown hair and eyes thing, but he is an astonishing 6'6", by far the tallest guy I've ever been interested in, and is lean, which is not a body type I would ever go for because really, in what realm does that work with someone who is 5'3" and a size 12? To the naked eye, this is a man, like the kind of man a sophisticated woman in her 20's dates. Not so much a manlyman who cuts down trees, but a politics/business man who has working lunches with other rich men.
Still overcome with minor shock, I follow him inside and we grab a beer. From the get-go, I assume this will be a one-drink date, that we'll say our polite goodbyes and not call each other again. And I assume this will be his doing and not my own. But as soon as he opened his mouth, the tables turned. He told me about his job (accounts for a non-profit) and his background (a theater/business major at a jewish, liberal arts college) and his family (Long-Island Italian gone Connecticut). And as he monologued for about 20 minutes, I realized that what I lack in woman-in-her-20's sophistication, I greatly compensate for in my ability to have a conversation. This guy loves to hear himself talk. And I don't think it was in a conceited, I'm-better-than-you sort of a way; he just doesn't understand what it means to have a back and forth discussion. So the night went on like that for three beers: I would tell him a story, he would tell me a story, and so forth. But as the beers kept coming, his talking became less and less annoying, and he became more and more attractive.
So when he suggested that we find another bar, I thought it was a great idea. I was feeling buzzed, happy, a little hungry (because it was about 8:30 and I had last eaten at noon), and very attracted to him. We found ourselves a couple blocks away at Sugar Mom's, a bar that's the occasional apres-work, happy hour watering hole for my company. It's a notsodivey dive bar. At least from 5 to 7. After 7, as I found out upon entering, it is empty. Me and Mr. GoE were two of four patrons. And we had run out of stories to exchange.
As I've gone on more and more of these dates, I've realized that I can make most people believe that I'm genuinely engaged and interested in what they're saying. Even if the motivation is as superficial as wanting to make-out, I usually am somewhat engaged and interested, so it's not too bad of a stretch. But as soon as another person is thrown into the mix, in this case, the bartender, I realize how uninterested I actually am. Mr. GoE just kept talking, and I kept drinking and exchanging rolled eyes with the bartender. And then, things get a bit hazey.
I remember at one point, he went upstairs to go to the bathroom, and I started talking to these two guys at the bar about In Bruges, a film that I tried to talk to Mr. GoE about with no avail. I was getting frustrated. Frustrated and drunk. Which means one of two things: I get mean, or I turn up the flirting. I know, these are the two most ridiculous extremes ever. So when he came back downstairs to see me high-fiving another guy at the bar, he suggested we go outside for a cigarette. Smart move on his part. When I go for drunk flirting, I have no mark. We went out, and in a moment of silence that could have turned awkward, I looked at him, and said, "You should probably kiss me." And he did. Thank god. It shut him up for 30 minutes. Not to mention: he was an amazing kisser. Not too much tongue, soft, still fiery.
Except: 30 minutes into our make-out, I started to get that feeling that no one should ever get in the middle of a make-out. Vomit. Yes, vomit. On a date. On a Thursday night. I should have known better: it was 9:30, I hadn't eaten for 9 hours. What else was I expecting? So I quickly excused myself, telling him I was going to run to the bathroom, and that we should go when I got back down. My timing was impeccable, because as soon as I got into a stall, I barfed. Like full-on barfed in a way that I NEVER do in public. Shit, until this summer when Amy came to visit, I had remained vomit free since 2007. But I got myself together, found one last piece of gum in my purse, and returned to my date looking less than fabulous, but normal enough.
We paid the tab, left, and after turning down the suggestion to go to his place (I am not that skanky), went to a park. We found a bench, and I laid down on it with my feet on his lap Notting Hill style (his reference, not mine), and he took off my shoes, and rubbed my feet. It sounds strange, but was actually kind of great and exactly what I wanted at that moment in time. Plus, I was taking a baby cat-nap, so he needed something to do.
After I felt sufficiently rested and pampered (as pampered as I could be in the park across the street from my job with a guy I had just met giving me a foot massage), I wanted to continue our bar make-out. We were relatively secluded, and I was still very uninhibited, so I put my shoes back on, hiked up my skirt, and straddled him as we kissed. Let me just say: I am not one for public indecency, but this was hot. And I was wearing a long coat, so should anyone have come by, it would have been fine.
Which is exactly what I was thinking when someone did come by. "Hi folks, how are you doing tonight?" It was a man in a wind-breaker, a harmless do-gooder on a late-bight stroll. "Um yeah, we're doing fine. How are you," I asked, very tongue-in-cheek. "I'm fine. Just remember, you folks are in public," he answered. "Oh don't worry, I'm wearing tights," I retorted.
As we chuckled to ourselves as he walked away, I saw out of the corner of my eye the holster hanging around his waste. Yes, I talked back to a cop in a park a block away from my job. That was my cue to go home. I hopped on the 21, got home at midnight, and was, shockingly enough, still very turned on by this guy. Never in my life has that happened, that I don't really like someone and still find them attractive.
Oh! The nick-name, I almost forgot. It was the pink argyle that first alerted me to Mr. GoE's potential flamboyance. I think particular breeds of Guidos and other Mediterranean-Americans of that nature can pull off pink, but wanna-be Northern Liberties-hipster business men? It's questionable. He also has a very specific way of talking, like he's hung out with high-pitched gay men for most of his life and has picked up their intonation. The thing that throws me off is that he has this great, deep, rich voice that would be hot if he didn't tail the end of his sentences, you know, elongate the last syllable he speaks. But the kicker, oh the kicker, was that as he was rubbing my feet in the park, he made an off-handed comment: "This is the best thing about getting pedicures, the foot rub." At that point, I sat up out of my drunken exhaustion, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "I'm sorry, pedicures?" "Yeah, I get them every couple of weeks. I like my toes painted." I'm sorry, WHAT! I don't get pedicures ever. I haven't gotten one since my senior prom over 5 years ago.
I laughed it off, of course, because I wanted to keep kissing him, but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that he is very open minded about sexuality. I would not be surprised if he's been with a man before. But I'm not sure I mind that possibility because he definitely wanted me then.
Hot is hot is hot is hot, and who am I to fuck with that?
Mr. GoE and I had a quickmatch on okcupid. This is actually one of my favorite aspects of the site because it indulges my superficial side. What happens is: after you click on the quickmatch tab, random photos of individual members appear one by one. You can see their information as well, but you can't see their username until you rate them on a 5-star scale. If you give the member in question 4 or 5 stars, they are alerted that someone has given them a high rating, and are then prompted to go through the same quickmatch process. If they then give you a 4 or 5 rating, the site alerts both of you that you find one another attractive. Well, Mr. GoE and I both gave each other 4 or 5 stars and received alerts. I was in the thick of some other messages at the time, so I didn't respond. He, after about a week or so, emails me a pretentious-as-all-get-out (but still, attentive) message querying if it was accidental or coincidence that I only listed American poets in my "favorite books" section.
True to form, I respond: "Coincidentally intentional," because really, what kind of question is that?
We go back and forth for a couple of messages, discussing pop culture and white middle class notions of democratic politics. He likes Chuck Klosterman, I like Chuck Klosterman; he hates John Cusack, I hate John Cusack. Did I mention he is particularly good looking? Well, he is. It's all very promising. After a collective five messages, he asks if I'd like to grab a drink at some point. I say yes and leave him my number.
By no means am I a prude with my contact information, but I only give out my number if I expect to receive a call. None of this hard-to-get, I'm-really-busy-and-will-call-you-in-two-weeks crap. With this in mind, I thought that Mr. GoE would call me within a couple of days and we'd grab a drink later that week. And then, there was no call. For a week. Don't get me wrong, I don't take stuff like that personally; I just send you off to the island of lost men who are cowards or hung up on ex-girlfriends.
So when he finally did call a week later, I was taken aback. It was Tuesday night, the night after Date #4 with Q. I was having friends over for dinner that night, was particularly exhausted, and see that I have a new voicemail: "Hi Sarah, is Mr. GoE from okcupid. Wondering if you want to grab a drink at some point this week. Give me a call back when you get a chance." I sat in my living room for a good 10 minutes, drinking a screwdriver and laughing at the timing of it all. What the fuck, I thought? I can make this a three-date week. I called him back, and we planned for Thursday at 6, drinks at National Mechanics.
Thursday rolled around, and I spent the bulk of the afternoon being relatively unproductive in my cube. Even the 6 cups of coffee I consumed between the hours of 2 and 5:30 could not make up for the 1am evening I had the night before. However, when I finally did leave work, I found myself anxious, like actually nervous about the date. Mr. GoE, in my own, perhaps negatively biased opinion, was WAY cuter than me. Like way cuter. I walked over to the bar from work, and left Danielle a surprisingly insecure message: "Holy shit, I need a pep talk. I'm feeling particularly disheveled and ugly. But you're not there, and it's 6, so I guess I'll get myself out of this one."
And I did. At 6:05, Mr. GoE had yet to show up. I was waiting outside, looking like one of those people who was having a minor internal freak-out (you know, when someone is so self-aware that all of their energy points inward), so I decided to text him and let him know that I'd be outside when he got there. Rip off the bandaid. Turns out, he was inside already, and walked out of the bar to come get me.
My first thought: holy crap, this is a tall man. My second: he is wearing pink and brown argyle. I'm incredibly pragmatic in terms of my man-selection. That, and mildly narcissistic. Meaning: I go for guys who I perceive to be in my league, and semi-subconsciously, "in my league" means that we have similar features and body traits. For me, this usually entails a shorter guy, maybe 5'6" to 5'8", someone with brown hair and brown eyes, someone who is not too masculine (because I'm not too feminine) and of average build, not fat, not thin, not too muscular. Mr. GoE has the brown hair and eyes thing, but he is an astonishing 6'6", by far the tallest guy I've ever been interested in, and is lean, which is not a body type I would ever go for because really, in what realm does that work with someone who is 5'3" and a size 12? To the naked eye, this is a man, like the kind of man a sophisticated woman in her 20's dates. Not so much a manlyman who cuts down trees, but a politics/business man who has working lunches with other rich men.
Still overcome with minor shock, I follow him inside and we grab a beer. From the get-go, I assume this will be a one-drink date, that we'll say our polite goodbyes and not call each other again. And I assume this will be his doing and not my own. But as soon as he opened his mouth, the tables turned. He told me about his job (accounts for a non-profit) and his background (a theater/business major at a jewish, liberal arts college) and his family (Long-Island Italian gone Connecticut). And as he monologued for about 20 minutes, I realized that what I lack in woman-in-her-20's sophistication, I greatly compensate for in my ability to have a conversation. This guy loves to hear himself talk. And I don't think it was in a conceited, I'm-better-than-you sort of a way; he just doesn't understand what it means to have a back and forth discussion. So the night went on like that for three beers: I would tell him a story, he would tell me a story, and so forth. But as the beers kept coming, his talking became less and less annoying, and he became more and more attractive.
So when he suggested that we find another bar, I thought it was a great idea. I was feeling buzzed, happy, a little hungry (because it was about 8:30 and I had last eaten at noon), and very attracted to him. We found ourselves a couple blocks away at Sugar Mom's, a bar that's the occasional apres-work, happy hour watering hole for my company. It's a notsodivey dive bar. At least from 5 to 7. After 7, as I found out upon entering, it is empty. Me and Mr. GoE were two of four patrons. And we had run out of stories to exchange.
As I've gone on more and more of these dates, I've realized that I can make most people believe that I'm genuinely engaged and interested in what they're saying. Even if the motivation is as superficial as wanting to make-out, I usually am somewhat engaged and interested, so it's not too bad of a stretch. But as soon as another person is thrown into the mix, in this case, the bartender, I realize how uninterested I actually am. Mr. GoE just kept talking, and I kept drinking and exchanging rolled eyes with the bartender. And then, things get a bit hazey.
I remember at one point, he went upstairs to go to the bathroom, and I started talking to these two guys at the bar about In Bruges, a film that I tried to talk to Mr. GoE about with no avail. I was getting frustrated. Frustrated and drunk. Which means one of two things: I get mean, or I turn up the flirting. I know, these are the two most ridiculous extremes ever. So when he came back downstairs to see me high-fiving another guy at the bar, he suggested we go outside for a cigarette. Smart move on his part. When I go for drunk flirting, I have no mark. We went out, and in a moment of silence that could have turned awkward, I looked at him, and said, "You should probably kiss me." And he did. Thank god. It shut him up for 30 minutes. Not to mention: he was an amazing kisser. Not too much tongue, soft, still fiery.
Except: 30 minutes into our make-out, I started to get that feeling that no one should ever get in the middle of a make-out. Vomit. Yes, vomit. On a date. On a Thursday night. I should have known better: it was 9:30, I hadn't eaten for 9 hours. What else was I expecting? So I quickly excused myself, telling him I was going to run to the bathroom, and that we should go when I got back down. My timing was impeccable, because as soon as I got into a stall, I barfed. Like full-on barfed in a way that I NEVER do in public. Shit, until this summer when Amy came to visit, I had remained vomit free since 2007. But I got myself together, found one last piece of gum in my purse, and returned to my date looking less than fabulous, but normal enough.
We paid the tab, left, and after turning down the suggestion to go to his place (I am not that skanky), went to a park. We found a bench, and I laid down on it with my feet on his lap Notting Hill style (his reference, not mine), and he took off my shoes, and rubbed my feet. It sounds strange, but was actually kind of great and exactly what I wanted at that moment in time. Plus, I was taking a baby cat-nap, so he needed something to do.
After I felt sufficiently rested and pampered (as pampered as I could be in the park across the street from my job with a guy I had just met giving me a foot massage), I wanted to continue our bar make-out. We were relatively secluded, and I was still very uninhibited, so I put my shoes back on, hiked up my skirt, and straddled him as we kissed. Let me just say: I am not one for public indecency, but this was hot. And I was wearing a long coat, so should anyone have come by, it would have been fine.
Which is exactly what I was thinking when someone did come by. "Hi folks, how are you doing tonight?" It was a man in a wind-breaker, a harmless do-gooder on a late-bight stroll. "Um yeah, we're doing fine. How are you," I asked, very tongue-in-cheek. "I'm fine. Just remember, you folks are in public," he answered. "Oh don't worry, I'm wearing tights," I retorted.
As we chuckled to ourselves as he walked away, I saw out of the corner of my eye the holster hanging around his waste. Yes, I talked back to a cop in a park a block away from my job. That was my cue to go home. I hopped on the 21, got home at midnight, and was, shockingly enough, still very turned on by this guy. Never in my life has that happened, that I don't really like someone and still find them attractive.
Oh! The nick-name, I almost forgot. It was the pink argyle that first alerted me to Mr. GoE's potential flamboyance. I think particular breeds of Guidos and other Mediterranean-Americans of that nature can pull off pink, but wanna-be Northern Liberties-hipster business men? It's questionable. He also has a very specific way of talking, like he's hung out with high-pitched gay men for most of his life and has picked up their intonation. The thing that throws me off is that he has this great, deep, rich voice that would be hot if he didn't tail the end of his sentences, you know, elongate the last syllable he speaks. But the kicker, oh the kicker, was that as he was rubbing my feet in the park, he made an off-handed comment: "This is the best thing about getting pedicures, the foot rub." At that point, I sat up out of my drunken exhaustion, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "I'm sorry, pedicures?" "Yeah, I get them every couple of weeks. I like my toes painted." I'm sorry, WHAT! I don't get pedicures ever. I haven't gotten one since my senior prom over 5 years ago.
I laughed it off, of course, because I wanted to keep kissing him, but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that he is very open minded about sexuality. I would not be surprised if he's been with a man before. But I'm not sure I mind that possibility because he definitely wanted me then.
Hot is hot is hot is hot, and who am I to fuck with that?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Date #5: The Warm Gun (Second)
As I was walking across the bridge into University City for this date, all I could think was: I cannot believe I'm crossing a river in heels to meet a guy who I will probably hate the second time around. This will be awful. But think of where I was coming from: the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Date #4 second date. I let my hopeless-romantic, believe-in-the-good-in-people side (yes, it exists) trump my original intuition that this guy was a loser. And low and behold, he was. Of course I thought this date would go badly. Because I had the same mediocre intuition after W.G. that I had after Q.
But when I got home at 1am after a 6 hour-long evening, I remembered why I like second chances and occasionally root for the underdog; sometimes, they pull through.
I'm getting ahead of myself. A couple of days after our first date, W.G. called me to see if I wanted to grab a meal some time the following week. I perseverated for a couple of days, honestly unsure I would call him back. It went beyond the initial reaction after we met; he is from an entirely separate world than I am. How much could we really have in common in a long-term way? And part of this hesitation also comes from an unwillingness on my end to change: I don't want to be influenced by a guy who watches a ton of movies, hangs out with his dog, and doesn't normally pick up a book because I like reading and walking around and having thoughtful talks. But to not call him back would have been operating under incredibly judgmental, unfair assumptions that for all I knew, were self-sabotaging. So I called him back and reluctantly made a date for the following week.
In the middle of the day before our dinner, I remembered that we hadn't actually chosen a restaurant- I left it up to him and told him to let me know. Just as I went to call him, I received a text that said, "How about New Deck? On Sansom between 33 and 34?" Sitting in my cubicle during the early afternoon, I burst out laughing. Occasionally, I have these moments when I realize how small of a city Philadelphia actually is. It's miniscule and there in no getting away from any poor choice you've made in the past. That text was one of those moments. I knew exactly where New Deck was because I had been on a date there two years before with a man I call the Pecker. The dinner with him was relatively terrible; he was a bad person with an even worse sense of humor and had an attention span built only for the Phillies. Still, I was desperate, had too many beers, and went home with him that night. I left his west Philly apartment at 8 am the next morning unable to walk because of his name's connotations. Yes. That was the worst date I've ever been on.
Poor W.G. was getting the blunt end of the stick: I had a speculative attitude going into this, I was exhausted from the work day, and now, bad juju from a date past were haunting us. The odds were against him as I walked to meet him that night. I walked inside to find him sitting at the bar with a beer, very comfortable just watching the game. Oh no, I thought, here we go again. But unlike the Pecker, W.G. pulled up a chair for me at the bar, and started talking, with the game was in the top of the 8th and the bar buzzing with middle-aged beer-guzzling, pot-bellied men. He was trying.
So we chatted: I found out he had officially been let out of his building contract that he was on for three months, and hoping to turn into something full time. There just wasn't enough work at the office. But he's not completely strapped; in fact, he is cutting down trees until he finds something a bit more permanent. That's right: I'm dating a lumberjack. His family background is also similar to mine: his parents are divorced, he has a complicated relationship with his father, talks about his mother fondly (and although that could mean something different for guys, in this scenario, I found it endearing).
The game finally finished (the Phillies pulled off a no hitter- it was apparently good), and after a couple more beers at the bar, he asked me if I wanted to get a table and grab a bite to eat. True to anti-date food form, my absolute favorite bar food are wings. I was feeling good with W.G.: we were touching, our legs were alternating between one another as we faced on bar stools, so I let my dirty secret spill. "I have to tell you if we're going to eat, I don't really believe in date food. If it were up to me, we'd get wings." He looked at me, mostly amused and unsure how serious I was. "Really, you want to get wings? Like wings on the bone that you eat with your hands?" "Um, yeah," I responded, "You have to earn that wet nap." The wings were delicious, and if I do say so myself, sort of cute in an unconventional way. The way that sucking on bone marrow is attractive, I guess.
All of a sudden, our wing-eating foreplay was interrupted by a man's voice on speakers announcing Wednesday Night Quizo. It was around 10 then, so we'd put a lot of time in already, but when he asked if I wanted to stay and play, I couldn't say no. The date had already exceeded my expectations. Plus, what did I have to do the next day? Work? Another date? Eh, I'm young. I can do it. We played a grueling (not really) four rounds, ordered a couple more beers, and by the time we left, it was midnight and I was sufficiently buzzed enough for a raunchy make-out. We left, arm in arm, and he kissed me most of the way home (I walked the last four blocks by myself after the first 10 took an hour).
All in all, it was a good date. I can tell you, the things that will get to me and prevent this from being any more than casual: he smokes too much weed. Having friends who smoke everyday doesn't bother me, I think I could even date someone who smoked everyday if we connected on an intellectual level, but W.G. and I don't. I'm having trouble identifying if it's the pot that's nagging me or the value of education. He calls himself disenchanted by the English major he earned, and I am as well, but to an extent. Did I think I would like my editing job much more than I do? Absolutely. Did I actually think about careers when choosing a major? Not at all. However, am I embittered that I learned a skill set that is not valid in the real world? No, because I think that skill set improves who I am as a person. Critical thinking thrills me. And that's just not there with him.
That being said, I find him sort of adorable and endearing, not in the sad puppy way, but in the man-ish way. He has calluses on his hands and drinks beer and has terrible hand writing. He's a good kisser, is uncomplicated and honest, non-judgmental, uninhibited; all things that I need, things that, when they haven't existed in the past, have ruined men for me. And I want him; the physical throw-down factor is there.
I'll go out with him again, I'm just not sure how far it will go.
All in all, it was a good date. I can tell you, the things that will get to me and prevent this from being any more than casual: he smokes too much weed. Having friends who smoke everyday doesn't bother me, I think I could even date someone who smoked everyday if we connected on an intellectual level, but W.G. and I don't. I'm having trouble identifying if it's the pot that's nagging me or the value of education. He calls himself disenchanted by the English major he earned, and I am as well, but to an extent. Did I think I would like my editing job much more than I do? Absolutely. Did I actually think about careers when choosing a major? Not at all. However, am I embittered that I learned a skill set that is not valid in the real world? No, because I think that skill set improves who I am as a person. Critical thinking thrills me. And that's just not there with him.
That being said, I find him sort of adorable and endearing, not in the sad puppy way, but in the man-ish way. He has calluses on his hands and drinks beer and has terrible hand writing. He's a good kisser, is uncomplicated and honest, non-judgmental, uninhibited; all things that I need, things that, when they haven't existed in the past, have ruined men for me. And I want him; the physical throw-down factor is there.
I'll go out with him again, I'm just not sure how far it will go.
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