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.
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