Results tagged “men” from iVillage - This Fish
This URL is listed on my profile. Naturally. I've been writing this site for six years come July and it's as much a part of me as where I live or my phone number. Only, more so, because unlike my zip code, it doesn't change every few years.
As he read up on my (mis)adventures, part of me couldn't help but cringe. What a time to meet me! I was still, in my heart of hearts, convinced that I would never be happy again, despite a very sincere determination to try. It's worth noting that I was up front about all of that when we met; I don't believe in false advertising. The lesson he took away from his reading, however was not exactly what I'd expected. He did express concern over his bad timing, but then he said something unexpected. He asked if I'd ever intended for any of the relationships I wrote about to work out.
Kapow!
I'm pretty certain that punching me in the chops would have achieved the same effect. First, shock, then came some form of anger (indignation, maybe?), but then I cooled off, telling myself that he couldn't know. All he saw was a girl who put her love life (no matter how finely edited) out on the Internet for... entertainment.
"That's a fair question," I told him, finally. "And yes, of course I sincerely wanted them to work."
He took me at my word. Not everyone is willing to do that.
It crosses my mind, every once in a while, to retire the blog. I worry what it says about me to people who don't know me. I can understand how it looks reckless -- crazy, even -- and attention hungry. At one point, it probably was. But it stopped being any of those things many years ago. I worry that when I don't write clearly enough, it's hard to see that, even as a truly accomplished smart-ass, I am (with some notable exceptions) thoughtful, careful and well-intentioned. Or I try to be. Oh, the things I hold back! I don't (intentionally) exploit the people I love for a good story. I don't even rat out the rattiest of the rat bastards until long after their stars have faded and I can't remember having ever dialed their numbers.
But that isn't always how it appears. And lately, I've been wondering more and more if having a public life doesn't present a very real threat to my private one.
(Don't worry: I'm not going anywhere at the moment; just ruminating.)
*If you don't describe all your life events in terms of Friends episodes (weirdo), this scenario is best described as a younger female, dating an older, basically perfect-for-her male, until he announces he absolutely does not ever, not ever ever, want children. So, the romance terminates in a tragic stalemate, she cries herself to sleep (and awake) and eats way too much Ben & Jerry products. The end.
On Friday morning I woke up feeling better. I'm sure part of it had something do with admitting how I felt, typing it, putting it out there. My high school English teacher loved the word, catharsis. I do, too.
Now, I still get struck with twinges of sadness, but I'm definitely not wallowing in it anymore. I know this is not how everyone operates, but me, I need to wallow. I have learned to just be sad until I am done being sad, because fighting it, or even hiding it, can lead to some very dark times.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kind, healing words you've left here. I appreciate them, but to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised by them. Because I know that there are good, caring people out there - people who experience life in the same kaleidescope of emotions, who love and hurt and trust and mourn as I do. It's why I continue to blog; I love sharing what makes us human. What I am surprised at are the number of responses from people who are uncomfortable with it. People who needed a time line in order to understand or accept how I felt. People who thought my best friend should have shaken me and told me to "get the hell over it." People who, with their speculations and cynicism tried very hard to make a good man into a cad, and my prior happiness into a farce.
To the first group of people, let me say this: I guess I never thought it should matter if I knew him six days, six weeks, or six years. I was sad; there doesn't have to be a reason or a number to justify that. I never meant to confuse anyone, but if it wasn't clear, you should know I don't write about the current romantic climate of my life to protect my own interests. Omission saves a new relationship from too much scrutiny, spares the man himself from being too aware of my own tendency to over-think, and it protects me from over-exposing a sometimes too-tender heart.
To the second group, I will say that you have made me feel even more grateful for the friends I have. The non-judging, supportive, wonderful people who choose to share their time with me. The ones who don't always understand what I feel, but whose first thoughts are of comforting - not shaking me.
Three years ago, I was embroiled in a horribly dysfunctional relationship with a person whose behavior could, at best, be described as amoral, and at worst, just a hair shy of deliberately cruel. And because at the time, I was too busy hating myself for not having enough of a backbone, I didn't deal with things. Not really. One day, almost two years later, I woke up and realized I was mad. Really, bone-deep angry. And it was like poison. In the time that it took me to understand and process that nasty toxic hate (and it was months), not a single one of my friends uttered anything even remotely so calloused as, "get the hell over it." I am thankful every single day that they chose me, as I chose them.
And to the third group I say, shame on you. If I have to question his motives, then I am forced to question everything I came to know about him, everything that in my gut felt good and right and true - including and especially my own value. Is it so hard to believe that someone wonderful would think I'm wonderful, too? No. It damn well should not be. He is an honorable man who treated me better and more gently than any before him and you cannot make that into something ugly.
To the rest of you, thank you. For your stories, acceptance and encouragement. I wish I could hand out gold stars.
I imagine that even though it's truly not my intention, some readers will be offended by this. Some will fume and swear never to read this blog ever again, and vow never to comment. Well, let's address that right now: we both know you won't be able to stop yourself. Let's not kid a kidder. Besides, if I wanted to offend, I'd do it blatantly, by making fun or your wee hands.
I'd peeled my eyes away from the Pats game just long enough to watch him spit a big, fat, gooey wad onto the floor of the sports bar.
"Did he really just do that? Do people do that?"
Colleen nodded. We stared. The Spitter - a wee man with an oversized personality - went on to display so many varieties of bad behavior (the spitting was really only the beginning), that we wondered if we should have been paying for the show. He eventually noticed us watching, misinterpreted our awe for admiration, and made his way over. And lucky me, I was sitting on the end. An easy target.
When offering me a high-five failed (the Patriots had just scored), he tried rubbing up against me. We wanted nothing to do with him, but that only seemed to fuel his fire. He kept squaring off his shoulders, doing some strange nature channel dance. Finally, Jamie decided to let him in on the error of his ways.
"We're just a bit... disconcerted with all the spitting. On the floor."
He denied. We pointed to the gross evidence.
"I was starting to feel sorry for you," I said. "For being raised without a mother."
He looked dejected (the expression on his face had Colleen and me in giggles for several minutes) and went away. But then he was back, another beer in hand, ready to try again. More spitting. More rubbing up against me. He was cocky to an extreme I hadn't experienced in a long, long time.
"Please go away," I said, finally. I didn't want to be rude, but there were lines being crossed, and my patience was being tried.
"Why are you so serious?"
"Why are you so gross? GO. AWAY."
He did. And then he came back. Again with the rubbing and the high-fives.
Now, I have a pretty good idea of what it must be like to be a short man in a society that treasures its tall-dark-and-handsomes. As a fat bottomed gal living in an ultra low-rise jean world, I get it, believe me I do. But that doesn't mean you will see me behaving badly in public because I resent the genetic curse of being pear shaped. I throw my tantrums in private. Mostly in dressing rooms. And if I can mind my manners... well, I think it's a shame to allow a really well-developed Napoleonic complex to go unrewarded.
"Wow," I said, admiringly, as he offered another high five. "You have really little hands!"
We didn't see him again for the rest of the night.
It was like going to a party all dressed up, looking like a million bucks and knowing it. Standing in the center of the room, head thrown back, laughing, all lit up from the inside. Charming, witty and wonderful. That's how he made me feel all the time. Like I was this sparkly, amazing gift that the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol left on his doorstep and he just couldn't believe his luck.
And I was happy. I was relaxed and one hundred percent myself all the time. And not just accepted, but adored for it. I didn't care about the age difference, because it didn't seem to matter. Except in the singular instance when it did.
"I'm afraid that after I say this, I'm never going to see you again."
I knew what he was going to say. It had been hanging in the air between us for a while, but I hadn't been any more anxious to hear it than he was to say it. I wanted to be a mother one day. He's already had his shot at parenting and didn't want to do it again. He was crazy about me, but afraid I'd be missing out on the chance to have what I really deserved.
When I woke up this morning and rolled over in bed, it took a minute for the conversation to push its way into my head. I hid in bed for a long while, feeling sick and conflicted. I got up, paced the hallway. Then sank to my knees on the carpet and cried.
I surprised myself by being so upset. So mad at the universe for being unfair, for forcing me into deciding between certain happiness now, and a fuzzy hope for it sometime down the road. And sad.
Because I was happy, and now I'm not.
For months he'd been saying it was inevitable. We were going to hook up.
"No way," I'd said. "Our friendship would implode." There were illustrative hand-gestures and sound effects.
"Not necessarily."
"Yes, necessarily."
We'd go round and round and then, finally, he'd concede that I was right. If we hooked up, he couldn't tell me the sordid details of all his other hook-ups. And those were some of our best conversations.
One night, the tequila shots came out, and so did the old hooking-up discussion. He went over the same material as before - how he'd miss being able to tell me all his scandalous stories, how he liked our friendship. Only, this time, he was standing behind me, with his nose mere inches from my hair. If we were going to be just friends, he said, it wasn't fair that I smelled so good. Standard tequila conversation.
"That first kiss would be really awkward, though," he said, almost to himself.
Enough! I thought. And without saying a word, I turned around and kissed him. Just like that.
Huh," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Wasn't awkward for me."
And by the dazed half-smile on his face, I could tell that awkward wasn't the word he was thinking of either.
When he climbed in bed next to me, I thought, no big deal. The five of us had come back to Venice hostel that night in various stages of drunk, and it was cold in the attic dorm room. Really cold. Obviously he just wanted someone to sleep next to. I mean, I was ten years older than the kid, so there was no way he wanted...
That's when he started rubbing my arm. And kissing my ear.
"I think you need to go to your bed," I said, ripping the yellow spongy earplugs out of my ears and inching away. It was a twin bed; there wasn't really anywhere to go.
"Do you really want me to?
"Yes! Yes, I really want you to!"
I was not about to turn Mrs. Robinson in a room full of sleeping strangers. He was out of his gourd!
And what he said next will go down as the biggest pillow-talk backfire in the history of... well, ever. The best worst line. Sliding his hand down my arm, he lowered his voice and said,
"Come on, Heather. You can be twenty again."
"Out!"
I can be twenty again? Flattering! And, uh, no thank you. I wouldn't be twenty again for a lifetime of spa pedicures and a day pass to Detective Elliot Stabler's wardrobe trailer. That is how much I do not want to be twenty again. I love my not-twenty crows feet and the age-acquired good sense to not hook up with a college kid while his friend is sleeping five feet away. Twenty again! Gah!
Besides, at twenty, I was Mormon and extremely uptight. And I'm betting he didn't climb into bed with me so we could pray together.
"No such luck."
I smiled down at the scruffy-faced guy in 38H. On my way down the aisle, I'd watched him eying the window seat with high hopes. A whole row to himself for the ten-hour flight from Rome to JFK. Like I said, no such luck. He helped me heft my bag into the overhead bin and the small talk began.
He was Brad. I was Heather. He was really handsome. And I was... well, I'd been living out of a backpack for way too many weeks, and looking rough. I was not in a position to flirt, or be flirted with, so we stuck to the basics.
"Is New York your last stop?" he asked after I'd settled in.
"No, I live in Dallas," I said.
"Me, too. Where in Dallas?"
"North Dallas," I said.
"Me, too! Where?"
"The Village..."
"Me, too!"
In the end, we figured out that Handsome Brad lives across the street from me. What a coincidence! And what relief! Because now all I have to do is prance up and down the street, three or four times a day, in my favorite ass-tastic jeans, until I run into Brad. You know, to prove that I do wash my hair and own clean clothes.
And then it's gonna be game on.
I hadn't been in Rome more than a couple hours when he stepped out next to me on the sidewalk - from the doorway of a bank. He was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit with all the trimmings - right down to the shiny cuff links. As he moved onto the sidewalk we made eye contact, and as I began to pass him, he commented (in English) on the beauty that was my hair.
I smiled politely. I do have a nice head of hair.
And, as I got a few steps away, the well dressed bank man amended his compliment with a politely-worded question.
"Would you like to f--k?"
Oh, Rome. You know just what to say to a girl.
This afternoon, I sat next to Aaron Eckhart in a cafe on Piccadilly. The last time I saw him, I ran ran face first into his chest on a temporary construction sidewalk in New York. He had strangely orange hair at the time, but that didn't matter -- I loved him just the same. Today, his hair was normal colored, but he was busy reading a script and drinking coffee and it just didn't seem appropriate to interrupt and inform him we were meant to be.
I think I'll wait for him to figure it out.
Ari: Does the Internet know about your first time? Because I'm realizing I do not.
Heather: Yeah, I think they do.
Ari: No, no. We don't!
Heather: Oh, come on. It's very uninteresting and anticlimactic... but I'll tell the story, just for you.
Ari: Oooh, yay!
As firsts go, I'm not kidding when I say mine was uninteresting and anticlimactic. It was, because I planned it to be that way. The story goes a little something like this:
I'd just gotten out of a several month long, high drama relationship with an older man. He was 11 years my senior and a highly experienced control freak. He didn't want to do the actual deed if I wasn't on birth control. I had grown a little tired of his charmless ultimatums and Guinness fueled temper, so I said no and settled for everything but. By the time I got out of that mess, I'd come to the conclusion (which, I suspect, will be unpopular with this crowd) that I wanted to do it and I wanted to have no lingering emotional attachment to the experience. I'd had emotional and wasn't cut out for it. One night, my roommate and I were at a party. I'd had a few to drink, and from the cab made a drunk dial to a friend. "Hey, I'm drunk. Wanna make out?" I knew what his answer would be, and I knew how the evening would unravel. His reputation as a ladies' man, and the fact that we'd found ourselves tipsy and making out on street corners on several occasions, made it a sure thing.
And that was that.
I walked home the next morning, laughing. It's a memory I hold with absolutely no regret. And regret, I know. I regret the night that J carried me up my front steps, not because I was drunk, but because I was crying too hard to walk. When nine months into us, he said he was so sorry, but he couldn't love me. He couldn't stand the thought of being without me, but he couldn't love me. That, I'd rather not have experienced. Or the time, when after a night of wildish sexcapades, the man I'd been involved with for over a year made fun of something I'd done in bed. In front of his friends. He mocked my voice, my facial expressions, and I stood there betrayed and humiliated. I'd love to make that one go away. It affected me so profoundly - broke my trust mechanism, perhaps beyond complete repair. Every once in a while, I think about retaliating -- exposing him as the Oedipal mess that he is and revealing to the world his confessions about mother-lust. But then I think, that would be mean. And exceptionally satisfying.
At any rate, I understand that there's great value in the sex/love connection. But I also know the value of sex without love. Or hate. Or embarrassment. Or envy. Or guilt. Sex without anything but warm, naked flesh and twisted sheets. I know it's not something to build a lifetime of love on, but for me, it can be a lot more palatable than mornings spent sobbing in the shower over lopsided love affairs and good things gone bad.
I think I just fell a little bit in love with the guy behind the counter at Whole Earth. I'd stopped in there for ultra-glamorous items such as fast-drying underwear, a clothesline, and long johns, and somehow stumbled on a cashier crush. Monday, I might become a fan.
Quick tangent: Let me just break here to get into the whole fast-drying underwear thing. First, rock on, you clever inventors! You sure saved me some space in my backpack. But for a girl who hasn't purchased anything but itty-bitty thongs in eight or nine years, the selection process was just plain ugly. Now, I'm what you'd call a lobster (all the meat is in the tail) and that's why I gave up regular seat covers in the first place. I don't like buying things in size large. It makes me feel perfectly crappy. Sure, the store gives off a nice Love your body, love the Planet vibe, but you might as well plaster the package with a bright red sticker that says, "Junk in the Trunk!" so the adorable cashier knows exactly what he's dealing with.
Anyway, up I went to the counter with more than I'd come in for (a lock, a quick-dry towel, some very earth lip balm) and the tall, dark, and witty guy at the cash register wanted to know where I'm going with such remarkable purchases. So, we chatted about that. About Italy and how stupidly lucky I am. Then he took my credit card, and asked for ID.
"Ah, New Yorker, huh?"
"Kinda. On and off. Mostly off, now."
"You know, I have to disagree with people when they say that New Yorkers are rude. I think that if you take the time to understand them, and what it's like living in all that hustle and bustle, they're some of the greatest people out there."
"We are pretty splendid," I said, with a half-smile. "Until, you know, we're late for work and you step in front of us with your gigantic map and your stupid fanny pack. Then we get cranky."
Soon, I'd signed the credit card slip and I knew our time was drawing to a close. How could I tell him what was in my rapidly beating heart? Let's go away somewhere and make snide, perverse comments about the general population. We could share silly stories and very earthy lip balm and maybe you'd let me wear your leather wristband. Ooh, let's!
He finished a rant about grocery store idiots and stapled my receipt. My heart said, Let's go make grocery store enemies together! but my mouth said, "Thanks."
"Well, I guess, um, have a great day," he said. "And come back and see us. Soon."
"I think I just bought every provision I'll ever need," I said. "But I'm sure I can invent a reason."
And then I went out to my car to daydream about our very earthy, very sarcastic babies and how I'd look wearing that wristband.
We were in the middle of a round tequila shots on Wednesday night when the khaki-clad stranger took a look around the bar and said, "I'm definitely headed for some trouble."
I laughed and handed off my shot to Mike J. Tequila and I are a combustible combination, and out with Mike's uncle and his coworkers, I didn't think it was the best time to introduce Angry Drunk Heather. I like to save that for special occasions.
When I turned back to my martini and the man headed for trouble, I spied a wedding ring on his left hand.
"Looks like you'll be keeping trouble to a minimum," I said, and winked.
"We're about to get divorced."
I said nothing but raised my eyebrows. I didn't buy it. And I was right not to. According to his coworkers, Trouble Guy is nowhere near divorce; he's just a dick. Okay, they didn't call him a dick. That was all me.
Sometime later, during the fuzzier part of the evening, Trouble Guy, obviously (and erroneously) thinking I'd be on board with such a maneuver, waggled his fingers at me. His very naked fingers.
"I put it in my pocket!" He looked very proud of himself.
"You're an asshole." No sense in mincing words, I thought.
"Have you ever been married?" he asked, leaning closer.
"No."
"Then you don't have any idea what it's like."
This! This is why the older I get, the less I want to be married. I mean, if you can't trust a guy in pleated khakis (the ultimate indicator of gamelessness) who can you trust? You think you're sending your dopey husband off to a pharmaceutical conference, with no thought as to whether he'll keep it in his pants, because he's your pleated khaki-wearing man! He's safe. Instead, he's out on a school night, taking shots from college girls.
Oh, he's keeping it in his pants, alright. But it's his wedding band in there. Not his dick.
The three of us had just come from Girl's Night dinner in the Bishop Arts District and were holding court at an out-of-the-way table at the Old Monk. It was one of those nights where everything we said seemed brilliantly funny and became an inside joke that we were determined to run into the ground.
Did you know that the phrase "right up my alley" was dirty? It is. On par with, "that's what she said" and so much funnier.
Anyway, sometime around midnight, a couple of guys asked to join us. Sure, absolutely, why not. So Keith and The Guy Who Hates Sarcasm sat down. Obviously, they came over because of the stunning display of cleavage at the table - we'd all gotten dressed up for dinner in our end-of-summer finery - but ended up leaving with a heaping serving of smart ass.
Conversation was quick, witty and funny and the guys were holding their own (though, someone did leave that table with the unfortunate nickname Goulash). When it was nearing closing time, Keith slid a pen and an upturned receipt across the table and asked for a phone number. Whose, he didn't seem to care. Just a phone number. A flicker of Oh-no-he-didn't passed between us girls. A few awkward jokes were made and Keith took his receipt back just as empty as he'd offered it.
"Well, he was sure casting a wide net, wasn't he?" Jamie said, the moment we hit the sidewalk.
"Right? He really knows how to make a girl feel special," I said, shaking my head.
"Even if he'd said, 'Hey, you girls are a lot of fun. Can I get your numbers so we can all hang out again?' that would have been fine," Laura said.
"At least then he could be non-discerning where we can't see. That Anyone? Anyone? routine was just sad."
We agreed that what Keith clearly didn't realize was any one of us girls, had he asked us directly, would have gladly give him a phone number. Because until that point, he'd been charming enough. But then... well, I've never seen anyone crash and burn so thoroughly (excepting, you know, Britney last night).
Choosing sucks. I get that. What if the girl you prefer doesn't prefer to give you her number, what have you got then? Well, no digits, for sure. But you've got three girls who think you have the appropriate number of testicles, as well as pretty decent assurance that they won't spend the whole ride home discussing your bad, bad move.
Last week, I got an email from a potential suitor, declaring he had a crush on my profile. Well, that's kinda cute, I thought, and hit reply. We exchanged a couple of messages (literally, TWO), and then I got bored with him. He wasn't all that funny or particularly clever, and his insistence that we chat on instant messenger (I uninstalled mine many moons ago) was a bit too Degrassi Junior High for me. So, I didn't write back.
But he did. Three more times the same day. And then again late that night ("Are you awake?"). When I got home from Austin yesterday, there were five unread messages from the guy in my inbox. All varying degrees of boring, except the last one, which amuses me to no end:
Theres too much drama in your life.Thanks for the interest but I dont think we are a match. Hope your situation improves soon.
Regards
V
At first, I just stared at the message thinking he must have gotten me confused with someone else. What drama? Wait, do I have drama I don't even know about? I mean, to me, that's like finding money in my pants pockets. But then I realized, that it was just boy-speak for sour grapes. You can't reject me, because I reject YOU. Because of... your drama!
Oh, man, that's classic. I'm just glad he let me down gently... and without apostrophes. Otherwise, it might sting.
My friend Mike has an opinion on just about everything. He's always had an opinion on just about everything, which is why we needed about ten years of healing between screaming at each other in Ms. Minor's French III class, and meeting for happy hour the other night. Though, even with healing, we were still at our old games.
"Heather always thought she was smarter than everyone else," Mike told his buddy as we shook hands.
"Not true," I said, lowering my voice. "I just knew I was smarter than you."
Anyway, Mike and his opinions. He may hide them a little farther below the surface is his old age, but they're still there. And the other night, as we were celebrating my unemployedness by watching the spectacle of patrons at an uptown bar, Mike took one look at the pack of drunk females to our left, and declared that he ought to start a finishing school for girls. You know, to save them from themselves.
"All I'd need is a week - maybe ten days..."
Mike went on, and I pictured his finishing school, set up on some store front in a Dallas strip mall. And Mike teaching a bunch of hapless females how to walk in heels with the Oxford dictionary balanced on their heads, and how to properly wear hair accessories.
"So," I said, when he'd finished explaining the ins and outs of Mike J's Finishing School for girls. "How much finishing do I need?"
My eyebrows were raised in expectation of some snide, provoking reply about how some people are just beyond repair, but without hesitation Mike set his beer down on the table and said,
"None. You don't need any finishing."
"You do! I mean, what?"
I was stumped. I thought at first, that Mike had been through some rigorous training of his own. Schooled by the ladies. But then I realized that not only had he left the rules of engagement behind, but in not delivering a smart-ass answer, Mike got me to do something I have never, ever done. I was forced to agree with him.
Tricky bastard.
P.S. I filed for unemployment today. Man did that feel way less awesome than I'd have expected. Who doesn't love the idea of free-ish money? Turns out, I don't.
It's Thursday, so you're probably expecting to read about phalluses and the men-children who name them, but it is not to be. I did say Thursdays were for "dating, mating and that guy who was not only really bad in bed, but stole my favorite sweater." Well, we've covered the sweater guy, and I'm just not in the mood for sex (talking about it anyway). But I do have a little something to say about dating -- online dating, actually.
Despite what I do for a living, I've never been a big fan of finding love on the old interweb. I'm not judging - if you've met the love of your life online, I'm ecstatic for you. It's just... it's always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. You know, somewhere on par with suddenly finding yourself watching a Vagisil commercial with your brother or dad next to you on the couch. Awkward. It just makes me squirmy.
Last week, though, I decided that I was going to have to get over my little phobia and go online to get some offline socialization. And you know what I found? There seem to be a lot of nice, well-adjusted guys looking for love on the internet. Shocker! Problem is, there are even more who are... well, not. I've learned that in the online dating circus, it takes patience and focus to get through the weirdos to find the guys you'd not pepper spray as soon as meet out for a drink.
The face only a mother...
The first thing I do is click the little red x next to the photo of any man that looks like a criminal. I totally understand the disservice I can do myself by judging on a man on looks. But if he's sporting a pedophile mustache, or looks like he has experience with a switchblade, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I also -- and this is clearly my own issue -- click the x next to men without visible jawlines. I'm not looking for the Brawny paper towel guy, but I am certainly not interested in bearing children with the mark of the inbred. I absolutely refuse to have Hapsburg babies. I once knew a girl whose chin all but disappeared into her neck, and I won't lie: it was an impediment to our friendship. People without jaws, you give me the willies. There, I said it.
Just an average guy
Next, I take a look at the first line of his profile. "My friends would describe me as laid back..." Yawn! Or, "I'm just an average guy..." Click! If you don't think you're special, why should I? If you truly are nondescript (and honestly, I have a hard time believing that anyone is entirely quirk-free), you totally deserve the kind of girl who would be intrigued by such a statement. May the lord bless you with a houseful of talentless children. And do the literate girls a favor - run a spell checker on that puppy. I just glanced at a dude's profile, where in the first three lines, four words were misspelled - all in a statement about how he should write dating profiles for a living. Yeah, buddy. Just you do that.
Better off with a thousand words
Once a guy's passed the first-glance, first-read test, I have a look through the rest of his profile. Occupation, religion, other photos. For a lot of you, this will be a big duh, but I expect, for some of you fellas, this will be something of a public service announcement. If you think that a picture of you with a beer bong belongs anywhere on your dating profile, you are an idiot. You probably drive drunk on a routine basis, eat spray cheese right out of the can, and say things like, "It's T-dawg in the hiz-ouse!" when you get home from your job as a fraternity recruiter. You are an idiot. And I did not pay a membership fee to meet idiots. I can do that for free, thanks. My point is, lots of people have a beer bong picture. They just have enough sense not to display it before getting some third date nookie. To be safe, let a girl choose your picture for you. That's pretty idiot-proof.
Picky, picky
If a guy makes it past the online dating gauntlet, and we start emailing, that's all great and good. I've met a few very nice men. But mostly, I spend my time right clicking -- copying and pasting scary photos into emails I send to family members. It's kinda like The Dating Game. Yesterday's Bachelor Number One described himself as "unable to relate to people well," and in his photo, he bore a strong and alarming resemblance to Sloth from Goonies. Obviously, this is why I am still single - because I'm mean. Also because I have a whole cadre of arbitrary rules fixed in my brain about what a man should be. But frankly, I'm fine with that. Because if it's a choice between settling, and spending my life with Ari, our pets, and a mishmash of adopted children - that's not really much of a choice at all. Ari is an awesome cook and I have never, ever seen her with a beer bong.
Tim once told me I was a "punishing woman." You'll have to take my word for it that, at the time (I believe I had a fistful of his hair), he meant it as a compliment. I don't think he meant it in exactly that way later on, though..
The night before he flew from Dallas to New York to stay with me, my phone lit up with a flurry of text messages, most of which bordered on scandalous. There was even the suggestion (his, incidentally) that we do it right there in the baggage claim. You know, raise a few eyebrows. Possibly get arrested.
But as exciting as all that sounded, it was not to be.
He arrived drunk. And not just airplane liquor tipsy. Drunk. Unshowered and reeking of the previous night's adventures in booze and cigarettes, he stood at the baggage carousel, looking miserable. I wasn't feeling much better. It was an auspicious beginning to a weekend I'd anticipated spending scantily (if at all) clad... and not smelling like a hobo. Determined to salvage things, I sent him straight to the shower the minute we got home. We were having dinner at Grimaldi's later, and I wasn't taking him anywhere like that.
He emerged from the bathroom a half hour later wearing make up.
"I found your eyeliner."
"I can see that."
I was tempted to tell him that Jared Leto hadn't been hot since the Jordan Catalano days, and that mimicking him now was just bad form, but before I could say a word, he disappeared back into the bathroom... to straighten his hair. Such fanciness, I thought, for walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Still, I held onto a bit of hope that things would improve.
They didn't. He spent the entire four-day weekend falling-down drunk, and I spent it feeling like Peg Bundy. For a fuckation, there sure wasn't much sex going on. And what there was of that, was hardly recognizable. I mean, I've heard of a quickie, but the speed at which he pawed (and I do mean pawing. They're attached, son. Might wanna be careful with those.) his way through it was ridiculous. And after we were done? Back to the booze.
I'd gone to a lot of trouble to make plans, take him to music venues that he'd like. I even wasted my Natural History Museum make-out on him.
"She's mad at me," he told his friends when we met them for brunch the morning he left.
"I'm glad you picked up on that," I said, wishing the waiter would bring the damn coffee. I hate to be a pouter, but seriously, no one puts baby in a corner and no one makes me feel like Peg Bundy. I wasn't pouting. I was pissed.
"Why? I came to see you."
"No," I said finally. "You came to see the bottom of a pint glass. And I hear they have those back home."
His friends laughed and teased him about not earning his keep, but I'm not sure he heard them through his hangover.
I know I should try to have some compassion - he obviously has a serious drinking problem - but when he left, that drunk bastard packed my favorite black cashmere sweater. And after everything else? Well, I was plum out of good feelings. One day, when finally he gets to that all-important step of his 12 step program, I better get an apology and a damn gift card. I don't care what your excuse. You don't fuck with a girl's best sweater.
Alternatively titled: If you are my mother, you might want to stop reading now
"Blowjobs are for boyfriends."
"You mean you don't..." Ari made a crude but familiar gesture.
"Nope."
Ari sat in silence for a minute. Presumably in awe. Clearly, she'd never considered it as an opt-out.
We all have our lines in the sand, and that is one of mine. Blowjobs are for boyfriends. If I remembered how to cross-stitch, I'd hang that, gilt framed, over my bed. Surely I'm not the only woman who thinks that oral sex is more intimate and more... involved than a good, old-fashioned shag. Nor can I be the only woman to say that a blowjob can be a lot of effort (um, they call it a 'job' for a reason). And who, I ask, wants to go to all that effort when you're not sure he's going to stick around to reciprocate? And by reciprocate, naturally, I mean taking out the trash and killing spiders; for the most part, his... err, efforts down there don't do much for me.
Now I know there are plenty of people who will tell me that if I'm not sure of a man's character or staying potential, I shouldn't be sleeping with him in the first place. On that, we're just gonna have to agree to disagree. I like sex. So there.
Besides, even if you don't get all benevolent in the bedroom, sex is just plain risky. Blowjob or no, you still have a good chance of brushing up against the ever unpleasant Penis is Magic Syndrome, so why compound the issue?
What? Never heard of it? I'll enlighten.
Penis is Magic Syndrome
If you sleep with a guy, no matter what your level of relationship interest, he will automatically assume you mean to spend the REST of your LIFE with him, have his babies and drain the virility out of him. Why? Because his penis is magic, obviously. So magic, it will make you take leave of all your senses. Just watch how squirrely he gets about communication after you've done the deed. Proof positive.
Most of the conversations Ari and I have on the subject of men and sex are not fit for public consumption. Which is not to say that the ladies at the nail salon don't get a good deal of enjoyment out of them (we see you snicker behind your old copies of US Weekly, oh yes, we do). But those ladies are hardly what I consider public. Everyone knows that a nail salons are as soundproof as a confessional box; none of those ladies are running off to tell my mother what I just said about penises. I hope.
Which reminds me: I recognize that things have gotten a little... safe around here. You can't blame a girl for trying to keep her mother from a heart attack. But now that mom's been forewarned, and on new blood pressure meds, I'm instituting Tawdry Thursdays (I know, Tawdry Tuesdays sounds so much better, but what can you do? Come up with a better name and I'll buy you a beer). Anyway, Thursdays are now dedicated exclusively to tales of dating, mating and that guy who was not only really bad in bed, but stole my favorite sweater.
So. Got requests? Want me to make good on stories I promised and never delivered? Remind me in the comments box.
On Friday, I had some time to kill before picking my sister up at the (sketchiest ever) Greyhound station downtown. So after dinner, I joined some friends on the patio at Gingerman for some Belgian beer and people watching. Very focused people watching. Ordinarily, I don't pay much attention to other folks at bars, except to play Who is your daddy and what does he do? (I'll explain later), but that night, I was on a different sort of mission entirely. I was man watching.
A few days ago, after realizing that I wasn't any closer to ending my aloneness by hanging out with my buddies doing home decorating projects and watching suffering disappointment over The Starter Wife, I decided that it was time to get back out there. You know, meet new people. Date. Shudder. I mean, as much as I love men, I can't help but feel that dating is quite possibly the most tedious task ever invented. Tell me I'm not the only gal to feel that way.
Oh! Speaking of things girls can agree on (if you'll excuse the totally disjointed tangent), I've started a little list:
One, how about that scruffy-faced environmentally-conscious dude in the new Subaru commercials? Boy, have I got it bad for him. Holy cow. What was that you said, Subaru Man? I'm sorry, I was picturing you naked. Rowrr.
Two, the new Tampax Look at me! I'm on the rag! packaging. Ladies who work in an office space populated predominantly by men (I'm thinking architecture or finance), I'm pretty sure Tampax made those nuclear goldenrod yellow tampons just for you. No more discreetly palming and little white package and slipping off to the ladies' room. Oh, no. Tampax wants your male co-workers to be reassured that they didn't really merit that tongue lashing you gave them; it's just that time of the month.
Anyway, back to dating. Goodness knows I'm so more of a torch carrier -- a suffer for love kinda gal -- than a dater, but turns out, dating's a necessary evil if I want to have someone to help carry in groceries and take up the other half of the bed. Which I do. And while I vastly prefer making out with strangers in the dark corners of seedy bars to actual courtship, we all know how far that's gotten. So, I'm putting myself out there. I'm wearing mascara and smiling at strangers, accepting drinks from those with interesting faces (and, if experience has anything to say about it, superbly twisted Oedipal complexes and/or issues with commitment) and... dating.
Remember when I tried the date-like-you-mean-it thing last year? Yeah, well, here's to hoping this adventure is just as blog-worthy.
"Well, would you look at that!"
"Mmmhmm," I said, sliding into the car across from Scott. "Already noted."
In unison, we pivoted in our seats and stared out the rear window. He came down the balcony stairs in a pair of flip flops and faded camouflage cargo shorts. But you can forget the shorts - we did - because what rose above them was a shirtless, knuckle-bitingly sculpted torso.
"Holy cow," I said as we shamelessly followed his movements to the parking lot, where, in one swift movement, he hefted a dining room table above his head and climbed the stairs to his apartment.
"That was amazing." I sighed and put the key in the ignition.
"That was hot, was what that was."
"And satisfying because he was so hamming it up."
"But the question is, was he hamming it up for you or for me?" Scott asked, with a suggestive raise of the eyebrows.
"Don't you dare go turning him gay before I have a chance to."
"Fair enough. So, now we have a project for the summer," he said, grinning. "To get you some of that."
"What if he's impossibly dim-witted?"
"Well, of course he is. Did you see that body?"
"Mmmhmm..." I was still a little soft-headed over the experience.
"You don't need him to say anything, silly. You just need him to lift things. You know, like, groceries. And you."
And thus, Lifting Guy came into our lives, along with a plan to lure him into some... lusty summer activities. The gays, it turns out, are phenomenal man-trap planners.
Step One: Strategic Parking. Put into effect yesterday evening, this will increase the number of potential run-ins.
Step Two: Damsel in Distress. Get Lifting Guy to put his finely honed skills to use to help a lady.
Friends, I am off to purchase something very heavy to stow in my trunk. And something not so heavy, in a wee pink Victoria's Secret pink bag. You know, so I have something to carry, too.
Rarrrr.
