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.
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