Steve

Being a single woman in a big southern family is rather like those movies you see about being single in a Greek or Jewish family. All those romantic comedies show the woman being poked and prodded about her marital status, but for all their good intentions, they end up making her dating life more difficult.

The constant need to tell embarrassing stories, use embarrassing nicknames and point out all my character flaws . . . those things aren’t, technically, meant to scare off a man. They’re meant to test him. Is he worthy? Can he hack it in our gene pool? And, of course, it’s a warning of sorts. “If you didn’t know what you were getting into when you took her out the first time, we’re going to make damn sure you find out now, over pot roast. Hope you’re not squeamish.”

When I brought my first high school boyfriend home for dinner my father waxed poetic about his gun collection over the main course and mused that he could kill a man with his bare hands over dessert, if he felt so inclined. He hasn’t changed much in his old age, still uses the same old lines, but he’s more pragmatic about it. He knows that his unveiled threats of violence and dismemberment won’t keep a man from touching me, so he’s added a new tactic to his repertoire. He’s heard enough chatter from my cousins to make vague references about my sex life. This is, of course, completely inappropriate, which means he finds it endlessly amusing.

It was via one of these inappropriate references that Steve first met my father. At the time he was just a guy I’d met through work connections. A mutual friend invited him and his roommate to our after work bar hangout, we chatted, they expressed interest in spending time on the lake, and I invited them to come to one of our every weekend cookouts. I was unaware when I extended the invitation that half my family would show up. In particular, my father, who was working in Virginia and to my knowledge, safely out of embarrassment range. There’d been no time to develop any romantic interest in either of the roommates, but they were both single and that certainly hadn’t escaped my notice.

I was anxious all afternoon, which only made my cousins and everyone else more aware that there was potential for humiliating me later. I saw them pull into my driveway and, like a good hostess, made my way up the hill to escort them to the party. I should’ve warned them then about my father, my cousins, my brain damaged aunt, my papa and his Pilipino wife . . . but I didn’t know what to say. These were men I worked with, albeit indirectly, and who wants to announce all of that on the second meeting? They’d come for a party that had vastly changed direction and I was too chicken to mention it. I would brave it out and hope they didn’t notice anything was amiss.

But as we approached the gazebo, there stood my father front and center, grinning, tattooed arms flexed in a cut-off denim shirt, ready.

“So”, he bellowed, “which one of you is the booty call?”

They stood, looking at each other, clearly caught off guard. And I stood looking at them, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole, while everyone around us laughed and waited for their answer. 

Finally the roommate jerked a thumb toward Steve and said, “Must be him”.

This awkward beginning was followed by several more awkward hours in which they learned far more about me than a coworker, or a prospective date, should ever know.  Steve’s roommate was cornered by my Aunt who regaled him with stories of her brain injury and her 15 year long stretch of abstinence. And Steve? He was introduced to the more colorful aspects of my sexual appetite by my cousin Christine, who has always found it endlessly amusing to tell people that I like to beat my lovers. Despite the fact, of course, that because of my endorsement, she now enjoys a well-timed slap herself.

By the time the sun went down, the roommate was making none –to-subtle hints about leaving. I didn’t blame him at all. In fact, I was hoping they’d both go away and, when they saw me at work, pretend we didn’t know each other. But to mine, and his roommate’s surprise, Steve was reluctant to go. We’d managed to have a bit of interesting conversation in between my family’s well placed jabs, but apparently (as he later told me) I was so wrapped up in my own embarrassment that I’d failed to notice he was having a good time. Apparently his family is also large, loud, and a bit fucking nuts.

I offered my couch and a ride home the next day so he could stay and drink, and he accepted. His roommate left, looking a bit bewildered and relieved, and I finally relaxed. Steve and I spent the rest of the night, and well into the next morning, talking and laughing, singing and listening to music…all while getting absolutely hammered. It was when it was finally time for bed that I realized what I’d found: He was a gentleman, but not a pussy. A nice guy, but not a pushover. He was inappropriate, hilarious, intelligent, driven, and…most important, not at all phased by my father or the rest of the family.

There was flirting, of course, but he didn’t make a move at all. He slept on the couch and I lay awake in my bed, fighting my destructive baser instinct to make a move myself. It’s what I’d always done in the past – make everything sexual so it didn’t have to be real. Except that somehow, without even touching him, having only spent about 15 hours total in his company, I knew I had to do things differently.

It took him two more weeks to work up his nerve. I’d begun to think that we were just going to be friends, that he wasn’t interested.

We’d just come back from a party at the neighbor’s and he was staying over to go camping with us the next day. I walked in the door, threw my purse on the counter, turned around and found him staring at me. He smiled and announced, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

I grinned back and, before I could respond, he closed the space between us and grabbed me.

He kissed me like we were in a Nicholas Sparks novel, like we were being broadcast on a screen at a sporting event…like it was the last kiss either of us would ever have. It was corny. It was perfect. It was the end of who I used to be.

ABC's of dating

The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.

For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.

But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?

Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.

I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.

Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”

“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”

What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”

What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.

I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.

Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.

And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.

So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.

At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.

But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.

Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.

Allow me to commentate:

Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”

Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”

Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”

The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.

After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.

He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.

Where was I?

Ah, then there was the slip up.

The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”

And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.

And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.

Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?

I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.

I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”

So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”

Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.

At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”

We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”

But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.

I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.

Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.

There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.

My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.

Proof?

Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”

Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”

Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”

Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”

Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”

Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”

Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”

And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.

The changing bullshit is hard.

The lunch date

Our first date happened almost seven years ago and I wasn’t attracted to him then. I was young, bored and I liked the way he complimented me with a serious expression, refusing any protests, feeble or otherwise. I let him take me out, I let him kiss me, and I let him buy me things to the point of being ridiculous.

But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.

Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.

When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.

Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.

Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.

So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.

I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.

Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.

Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.

And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.

“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.

“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.

He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.

Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.

“You look nice”, he said.

I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.

I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.

We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.

On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.

In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.

But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.

Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”

That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.

The Unseeing Eye

I can be nice when I want to be. That’s why I’m giving you fair warning (especially any family members, boyfriends of family members, or squeamish old people) – this post is about butthole (dis)pleasures. And just so we’re clear, being warned means you can’t complain if you read on and feel the urge to vomit, actually vomit, or maybe just die a little inside. I know I’ll likely participate in two out of three just by writing this.

**********

I was involved in a casual sexual relationship with The Fireman for a little over five years. He was a complete dick, but great in bed and, I’ve gathered, far more experimental than most men his age.

I had a lot of firsts with him – choking, an actual working threesome, handcuffs, pictures, shower sex, watching porn together, and more. But the most memorable experience he introduced me to, as you’ve already gathered, was anal sex.

Women have a way of saying no to anal sex without actually opening their mouths – it’s a bit like boxing. He does a bit of jabbing around, pretending to be going for one hole, when he’s actually faking you out and making a play for the exit. But with a quick shift, a bob and a weave so to speak, the woman throws him off balance and directs him back to the preferred course. Most men will recognize that for what it is – a body language “hell to the nah” – but there are always a few that can’t be deterred. I’ve been in a battle like that more than once: they kept trying, I kept dodging, and pretty soon we were locked in a dance worthy of Muhammad Ali. The end result was never pretty. No, or a sucker punch to the head, does in fact mean no.

The Fireman, thwarted more than once, finally decided he was going to win our ongoing asshole battle by stealth. And by stealth, I mean he waited until I came over one night blitzed out of my mind, talked me into getting in the shower, and pretended we weren’t doing anything but having a jolly, soapy old time.

I was blissfully unaware of the danger lurking behind me when I bent to pick up a rag from the tub floor. Then, suddenly, before I had a chance to stand back up he...well, he attacked me from the rear. With gusto. I would have shrieked, but I had to grab the sides of the tub to keep from toppling over and, as luck would have it, my head was directly under the spray. Every time I tried to open my mouth, water filled it; mascara burned by eyes and matted them closed. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown, and to say I was traumatized would be putting it mildly.

The next day we had a family dinner and I drew more than my fair share of attention with my duck like walk and geriatric sitting techniques. My cousin Christine, who I unfortunately told everything to back then, found it hilarious and made sure to work in plenty of snide remarks and ass slapping. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets ass raped in the shower”, I shouted at Christine. “I could’ve died! My obituary would have read, “Poor young woman dies from ripped rectum/drowning!”

And my best friend was also unmoved, telling me that I should’ve just done what she had done from the beginning. “The first time they try it or ask you to try it, just say ‘Why, are you a fag?’. They generally don’t ask again.”

Though The Fireman did indeed ruin my first anal sex experience, its more than safe to say that I’d never planned on having one to begin with anyway; it wasn’t something I’d been even remotely curious about. For a while after that episode, every time a man suggested or attempted it, I became borderline hysterical. There was no more body language bobbing and weaving, it was simply “don’t you even think about putting it in my ass, motherfucker”. I found out that there’s a whole clan of straight men that pursue asshole sex with a passion. It seemed like every man I slept with wanted to be a bun bandit.

Then, as most of you already know, I had quite a lengthy dry spell. Now, if there was one good thing about being celibate for almost nine months, it was that no one was trying to make me a human hot dog. But that also means that I forgot to be vigilant, to expect it, to be ready with a karate chop to the jugular if need be.

The first time I had sex again it was, as I said here, with Sam. And it was fantastic. It was hot, it was freaky, and so what if he did slip one little finger in there mid romp? It didn’t hurt and I was so busy with the rest, I barely even noticed. He has long, thin piano player fingers because, you know, he plays piano and just...there was only one. The only definitive reason I can come up with for why my ass didn’t blow the rape whistle is, I suppose, because the rest of my body was too busy trilling to the tune of “Whistle while you work”.

I didn’t think anything of it – it never crossed my mind again. Until the last time I went over there.

Everything started off grand. I showed up at his house dressed to fall over on my face in a tight black skirt, a ruffled blouse with an easy access zipper on the side, and the strappy caged high heels he liked so much. We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a few minutes of distracted conversation on the couch, it was clear that dinner would simply have to wait.

I was sitting astride his lap, shirt off and skirt ruched up around my waist when he stopped kissing me and said, “Bedroom. Now.” Standing up, I clacked up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. I hopped up on his bed, crawled to the middle, turned around, and started to pull my shoes off. “Did I tell you to take those off”, he asked, throwing his clothes left and right. “Nope”, I said laughing.

He was being a lot more forceful that he’d been before and that should have been warning number two (after the piano finger, you know). Forceful and hyped up are butt sex indicators, apparently. To his credit he waited until later, two O faces in to be precise, to pull his shenanigans.

I was on top, working on O face numero tres (perhaps to the rhythm of Digital Underground’s The Humpty Dance) when he said, “You know what I want?”

No, I didn’t. I had no idea; because I was too busy getting what I wanted. But I got all excited thinking it was going to be something awesome like, “I want you to let me slather you in Chick-fil-a dipping sauce, maybe slap your ass once or twice.” (He’s not really a hitter.) Or, you know, something simple like, “I want to make you scream”. Everybody likes screaming.

“Tell me”, I said – not breaking pace, because I’m a hardcore rodeo bitch like that. (“...I’m a freak. I like the girls with the BOOM...I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom...”)

He stared at me. I stared at him. He stared at me. I started to get nervous. He stared at me. I stopped waving my arm in a circle over my head and kicking his legs with my heels.

“Get on your knees.”

Happy clap! Doggie style! OOWA OOWA! We’ll get back to the Humpty Dance later.

Staring nerves temporarily forgotten, I did as he asked. But then, leaning over, he whispered in my ear the words I should have known were coming. “I wanna fuck you in the ass.”

“Um...I don’t...err...not really my thing...”

But for some ungodly reason, I ended up eventually agreeing. Maybe it’s because I like him and wanted to please him; I don’t really know. Either way, it turned out that done correctly (and by correctly I mean with a warning and lube), it isn’t painful at all.

That does not mean I enjoyed it. On the contrary, it did nothing for me what so ever. I thought it was extremely weird and I was counting down the minutes until it was over. And when it was, he was so happy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I was thinking the majority of the time: “I’m totally having prison sex right now. This is what people do in jail. Ohmygawd I'm his bitch. I wonder what they use for lube...ew, no I don’t. I said what what in the butt...”

Later, stretched out beside him, we talked about it. I relayed my horror story and he looked appalled. “No wonder”, he said, rubbing my hip. But he also went on to tell me just how much he enjoys that particular pastime and how much he was looking forward to doing it again...among other things, but still. Ugh.

On my way home that night, after a comfortable few hours of pizza and movies, I wondered if I would let him do it again. I thought to myself, “Even though it does nothing for you...it doesn’t hurt. And he really likes it. Maybe it could be like a ‘you’ve been a very good boy’ treat.”

However, I formed a very different opinion over the next few days.

I typically stop by the makeup store on my way home and catch up with the women folk – my lovely godmom and her sidekick, the hilarious Jules, who is also doing the online dating gig. We share our horror stories, our sex stories, our “you’d better never breathe a word of that to anyone stories”...and we laugh a lot.

That, of course, means they have to be kept up to date on all things Sam related...and no subject is taboo.

“How was the other night”, they asked.

“I let him put it in my butt”, I said matter of factly.

They laughed. And knowing my unhappy history with anal sex, then they asked questions.

“It wasn’t bad. I mean, it didn’t really hurt or anything.” I went on to explain the logistics of the encounter.

“So are you going to do it again?”

“Well here’s the thing. I’ve decided that it’s not the act that bothers me anymore, it’s the after affects. For almost two days after that my ass was FUCKED UP, ok! It was just...things were...gross...not cool. I don’t remember that happening before. My body was taking its revenge.”

They laughed, the bitches. And while they were laughing, Jules threw her palms in the air, made an ‘oh no’ face and said, “Your ass was like...GASP! Someone’s been here!”

Then I was laughing even harder than they were. Someone may or may not have said, “Abort, abort”, but I don’t rightly remember because I was too busy dancing in place with my legs crossed, trying not to pee.

Yes, we’re classy like that.

So, anyway, now over a week has gone by since I’ve seen Sam. He was out of town this past weekend with the boys, but he let me know when he got back on Sunday (which was cute and unexpected). We’re supposed to see each other later this week and, unfortunately, I need to have two very important conversations with him.

The first is the typical female need for clarification – I need to know if all he wants is sex...he’s never actually said exactly what he wants. I like him, but I find myself falling into my same old habits. We hang out and we talk, but the majority of the time we’ve spent together, we’ve spent in the bedroom. And even though I do immensely enjoy the (normal) sex, that’s not all I want anymore. It’s great that we want to rip each other’s clothes off, but I also want someone to go out and do things with more often, to meet my friends and come to the Halloween party. I (holy shit) actually want to date.

This is all very new to me and I want to be as honest as humanly possible without sounding like a needy girl. And I don’t think of myself that way, really, because even though I like him a lot, I’m not emotionally invested at this point. So I’m going to ask him where we stand and, hopefully, I’ll do it in a way that makes me sound normal...because sometimes I get nervous when I have to talk about shit like that.

Then, of course, the second important conversation we need to have (if we even need to have it after the first one is over) is about my ass. I’m looking forward to that one even less. Because, honestly, how am I supposed to tell him it isn’t going to happen anymore? We’ve already had the “that wasn’t so bad, was it” conversation. How do I explain?

Do I just come out and say,

“Listen, I don’t particularly like it and it doesn’t do anything for me. However, I was prepared to take one for the team every now and then because you enjoyed it so much. But you know...later...Sigh. Um. See, it’s like this:

Sometimes, in the case of organ transplants, the body will reject the foreign organ. The immune system’s job is to say “bitch, that don’t belong here” and then it goes all kung fu on said organ and tries to destroy it, which causes all sorts of problems. They have medicine to help with that, but it still happens sometimes.

Basically what I’m trying to tell you is that my ass rejected your dick and tried to destroy it, several hours later and for a period of almost two days, in a very unpleasant manner...but your dick wasn’t there anymore so I’m the only one that had to suffer. At the moment I’m unaware of a pill I can swallow that will make my ass happier about being invaded, and I’m worried that next time it’ll realize your dick is there much sooner than it did previously and...well, you know. Plus, I really don’t like spending that much time on the toilet. I don’t know how you men do all that reading there, it isn’t comfortable.”

That’s what I’m working with right now, and I have less than a few days to polish it up and have it ready for presentation. I’ll draw a diagram if I must. It has to happen, no matter how uncomfortable a conversation it will be, because there is no fucking way I’m going through that shit again. Pun, unfortunately, completely intended.

“Peace and humptiness forever.”

Online dating - The first date...and then some.

Thursday afternoon, as I was looking over a printout of eye shadow selections and shooting the shit with my favorite godmom , I received a lovely text message from the guy that’s now stood me up not once, not twice, but (as of Wednesday night) three times. “Hey. Sorry about last night. I had a rough night.”

I thought to myself, “Self, you should really hear him out. He could have been gang raped by a group of bikers and be in the hospital recovering from reconstructive asshole surgery.” Then I smiled and typed “No biggie.”

“I got a job offer in a ‘big far away’ city and I was thinking about it. I need to walk and clear my head.”

I couldn’t help myself – I snorted. It was definitely not one I’m familiar with, and I pride myself on having an excellent repertoire of excuses. He went on to say how he hadn’t slept the previous night and had to make a decision by Friday evening. Really? I admit I went into a mini tantrum - ranting to my godmom about what a dickface he is and how it must be so hard to text someone and say “I can’t go” because you’re too busy thinking.

While she went to help a customer and I sat silently stewing, glaring at my text messages, up popped a new one from someone unexpected. The original online dating candidate – Mr. 39 year old (whom we will from here on out refer to as Sam). I wasn’t necessarily surprised to hear from him because he’d been texting me sporadically over the past few weeks, trying to set up a dinner date, but I’d been so wrapped up in trying to get things off the ground with dickface that he’d slipped my mind.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

It was last minute and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t accept a date on those terms. However, weak and irritated at being stuck in a constant cancellation rut, I immediately agreed. I moved around a few things, got a sitter for the kid, rushed around the makeup store fixing myself up, and off I went.

That’s when the nerves hit.

The closer I got to my destination, the more nervous I became. I have no idea where it came from or why, because I’m not usually like that. By the time I was in the home stretch, about two miles from the restaurant, I’d resorted to talking to myself.

“You’re going to be fine. Just be yourself. But not too much like yourself! Don’t say vagina...or masturbate...and definitely don’t call him a menstrual chunk. He’s not your friend – nasty name calling is not appropriate. Unless he really insults you...then it might be ok. Shit. Deep breaths, deep breaths.”

I sent him a text letting him know that I arrived and without waiting for his response, got out of the car, straightened my skirt, and walked purposefully toward the door. We were meeting in a popular Mexican restaurant that is usually filled to the brim with people I know and would rather not run into – especially on a blind first date. Seating is by choice, so I hoped to see him as soon as I walked in the door rather than standing there awkwardly or walking from section to section, inviting people to ask me what I was up to.

Two Mexican men smiled at me as I clacked across the tiles, looking left and right. “Sit anywhere”, one said. “How many”, said the other. Still glancing around, now getting a bit more nervous because no one was coming forth to claim me, I mumbled that I was meeting someone. My phone buzzed in my hand. “Had to stop for gas. Five minutes.”

I had a tiny flash of annoyance since I’d driven all the way from downtown and managed to make it on time, yet he lived virtually next door and was late. But I quickly reminded myself that tardiness was not something I could fault anyone else for, and made my way to a booth visible from the reception area. The waitress dropped menus on the table and asked for my drink order. I needed alcohol, that much was clear, but I didn’t want to order anything strong or expensive. I settled on a Mic Ultra in a bottle and leaned back to wait.

I felt awkward, sitting there sipping my beer and staring at the door, so I started texting my sister. “My hands are shaking”, I wrote. (She has been oddly supportive about my foray into the world of online dating and has spent several evenings stretched out across my bed, listening and chiming in with words of encouragement.) “You’ll be fine. Relax.”

I glanced up from my phone, a half smile on my face over the fact that my 17 year old sister was giving me dating advice, and there he was. Infinitely better looking than his pictures, which I hadn’t expected, and with a grin on his face that immediately put me more at ease. “Hi”, he said, sinking into the opposite seat, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d decide to wait in the car or not.” I reached across the table to shake his hand, which seemed to surprise and amuse him. He ordered a sweet tea from the waitress and I briefly regretted the beer, then inwardly shrugged. At least I hadn’t ordered Jack.

The conversation was comfortable, normal, at first. We covered the usual topics – work, family, geography, and kids. Contrary to my earlier belief, he hadn’t been scared away by the single mom stigma. He asked questions and relayed stories about his nephew who is around the same age.

Then it moved into hilarious territory. We somehow got on the subject of gay men, which turned into me relaying the story of the 40 something man in women’s underwear that was online stalking me, which turned into him telling a story and so on. We covered a wide variety of topics – from homosexuals to bums, go-cart racing, books and movies. The only part that gave me a minute’s pause was when the story of my amorous drag queen turned into a discussion on men that wear their wives underwear, which turned into a discussion on violence in the bedroom.

“Sex is like...vanilla ice cream. It’s already good. All that other stuff is just toppings, nice to have sometimes but not really necessary. A little chocolate syrup – alright. Some whipped cream – ok, yeah. Sprinkle on a few chopped nuts – alright, but that’s probably enough...let’s not get too crazy. This hitting shit, I don’t know. A little slap on the ass and tug on the hair occasionally should be good enough, but not every time.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “If you won’t bruise me, you can’t use me”, but I refrained. I was, however, a little worried about all this vanilla sex talk. I happen to like toppings. But we continued to laugh and I wiped that part of the conversation from my mind for the time being. I told myself that I shouldn’t be concerned with his sexual prowess at the moment anyway. Besides, he fascinated me. He was so confident and relaxed. When our eyes met there was undeniable chemistry. We would periodically lean across the table toward each other and every now and then, though I wasn’t certain if it was purposeful or not, his foot would brush mine.

We sat there long after the waitress placed the bill on the table (which he snatched up immediately) and I was so loathe to end our time together that I’d been delaying a visit to the bathroom for a good thirty minutes. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore; I excused myself and he went to pay. When I returned he was sitting on the edge of his seat and I was disappointed. It was time to call it a night. I perched on the edge of mine and gathered my things.

“Are you in a hurry? Do you have anywhere to be”, he asked.

“Not really”, I replied nonchalantly.

“Do you want to hang out some more...do something else?”

“....sure. Ok.”

“What do you want to do?”

I shrugged, assuming we’d just go to a bar and have a few drinks. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want to come over and watch that movie we were talking about?”

I paused to consider my answer, my thoughts going back and forth, weighing the good and the bad: “I shouldn’t – I don’t know him. But I like him. But I shouldn’t because I’ll be tempted to sleep with him. What if he puts the moves on me? What if he doesn’t put the moves on me? I’d be an idiot to go. But I want to go. But an invitation to “come over and watch a movie” is an invitation for sex. Or at least in my experience it’s usually been that way.”

I smiled and said, “Ok.” Adding in my head, “I’m not fucking you...even if your green eyes are making me all tingly. Damn it.”

I followed Sam around the corner and into a neighboring subdivision that, coincidentally, I take the kid to every Halloween for trick-or-treating. I wondered if I stood on his doorstep and smiled at him last year, without even noticing him at all.

Pulling into the driveway of a simple brick house, I cut the engine. I was nervous all over again as I stepped out of the car and walked toward him, my heels tapping on the pavement and echoing down the dark, quiet street. He smiled and turned to lead me up the steps. “It’s a little messy”, he said as he unlocked the door.

It wasn’t messy at all. It was lovely. The kitchen was light and airy with a breakfast nook and a tall, two-seater table. A large wine rack was stocked with glasses and bottles next to a high backed wooden bench with hooks for hats. I followed him down a short flight of stairs into the living room. A huge, squishy looking white sofa was in the center of the room, one corner angled out like a chaise lounge. Black and white photos decorated the wall, along with an astounding array of movies and pictures on a wide black shelf. There was some sort of contraption in a corner that’s point swirled designs in a plate of sand. It was comfortable, yet modern...and exactly the sort of thing I’d do in my own home (should I ever again have the chance).

When I asked if he was a “techie” because of the seemingly large amount of equipment around the entertainment center he smiled and said, “I like gadgets. C’mon...I’ll show you.” I followed him back through the kitchen and into a side room. There were glass patio doors on one wall, a computer desk filled with monitors on another, and what looked like a lot of high tech audio equipment and huge speakers on the remaining wall. I thought of asking if he was in a band, but didn’t because I couldn’t remember if it was on his profile or not. I didn’t want him to know that I might have confused his stats with another’s.

Through another doorway I caught a glimpse of a big, gleaming black piano with the lid propped open. I’m ashamed to say that on our trek back to the living room I may have had a mini Pretty Woman fantasy.

We chatted about the house while he grabbed me a beer and squatted in front of the TV to find the movie. “Make yourself at home”, he said over his shoulder. The couch was so big that I had to wiggle back into it, my feet lifted awkwardly off the floor. I decided to angle myself on the chaise portion, stretching out my legs and crossing them. “Those are hot shoes, by the way”, he said, smiling as he walked toward me. “You can take them off if you want.”

“I’m alright.” They were black, caged high heels; I don’t know why I didn’t want to take them off. He flicked the light and settled down next to me, but not too close.

And then....

We watched the movie. I’m not even kidding. Occasionally one of us would make a comment about what was going on, but for the most part there was contented silence. About halfway through he told me I could take off my shoes again and I couldn’t find a reason not to. It seemed silly by then that I hadn’t. I had to scoot all the way to the edge of the couch to unzip the back of them and slip them off. I could feel him watching me, but I ignored it and wiggled back into place.

A short while later he stretched out and pulled me to him, put his arm and a pillow under my head, and spooned with me, his hand stroking my hip. But he didn’t try anything else and I relaxed, leaning back into him and feeling his chest rise and fall against my spine. I was entirely too content when the end credits rolled and he excitedly asked if I’d liked the movie. “I wasn’t sure you would”, he said, “but I hoped...”

I rolled over onto my back and propped up on my elbows, his arm draped casually over my waist. “Yes, I liked it.” We smiled at each other and discussed all the clues that led up to the surprise ending. I was charmed that he’d not only behaved throughout the whole thing, but that he’d wanted me to like it so much that when he asked, his face had been creased with something akin to worry.

Movie rehashing over, we stared at each other. He shifted a bit, half sitting up, and drew me toward him. I closed my eyes as his lips softly touched mine.

And for a long time he kept that soft, sedate pace, brushing his lips across my neck and back to my lips again, just barely teasing my tongue with his, until my mouth was begging for more pressure. I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed quite that way. It was delicious.

A few minutes later we became more urgent and he pressed me down into the couch. My skirt was twisted around my hips, my legs wrapped around his waist. My phone buzzed on the seat by my head as his hands wound themselves in my hair and his lips found my ear. I sighed, knowing exactly who it was. Mom had been texting me all evening, wanting to know when I was planning on coming home.

“Sam”, I said reluctantly.

“Mmm”, he replied, still nuzzling my neck and pressing closer.

“I can’t stay long. I mean...I can’t...I don’t want you to think that I...”

He chuckled and kissed me again. “It’s ok, I understand.”

“Good”, I said, relieved, kissing him back.

He leaned back and sat up, pulling me with him so hard that I tumbled into his lap. We laughed. And then we were at it again, his hands pressing down on my hips and my hands clutched in his hair. I pulled away a few minutes later, breathless, and he flopped back onto the couch with a sigh, leaving me straddling him and grinning. “You’re killing me”, I said with a laugh.

I reached over and picked up my beer from the table, taking a huge swallow while he laughed underneath me. I clambered off of him, tugging my skirt down and perching on the edge of the couch to put on my shoes. While I slipped a foot in one and zipped the back, he picked up the other and turned it over in his hand. “Yeah...I really like these. You were killing me by not taking them off.” We laughed and he handed it over.

I clacked across the living room and up the three stairs to the kitchen, with him hot on my heels. Picking up my purse from a chair, I turned to tell him goodbye. He wrapped me in a tight hug and held me up on my tiptoes. “I had a really good time”, he said.

“Me too.”

“When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know”, I replied a bit glumly. “I have a wedding this weekend that’s going to keep me busy.”

“I’ll be around. Let me know when you have some time.”

It took forever for me to get out of there –because my resolve was crumbling and every time he put his lips on me, I forgot where I was for a moment. Finally, pressed up against the wall next to the front door, I found the willpower. “I have to go. Really.” I dunked under his arm and backed out smiling. He grinned back at me and waited until I was in the car to close the door.

I drove out of the neighborhood in a state of barely suppressed agitation. My arms were covered in goose bumps and tingles ran up and down my spine. I lit a cigarette and attempted to calm down, but nothing could stop the squeal that came out of my mouth. “I’m like a fucking teenager”, I thought. But I didn’t care. My face was started to hurt from the grin that wouldn’t move.

My phone buzzed in my lap and I jumped. It was a text message from Sam. “That was really hot.”

My grin stretched even wider and I knew I was in serious danger of cracking my face in half.

“I agree”, I replied. “Though now I am incredibly frustrated.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way”, he said, “but I kind of like the idea of you going home all hot and bothered.”

Sleep did not come easy that night, but I was bright eyed and ready to go Friday morning. And luckily, I get off early on Fridays, because I was very distracted. I was home by 3:30 that afternoon and in the shower to get ready for the rehearsal and dinner. I had to be at the church by 6.

Arriving right on time, I stood around and waited for things to begin. The wedding was outside on a point overlooking the water and it was still quite hot outside. I was chatting with the bridesmaids when my phone buzzed. It was Sam.

We texted back and forth for awhile before I told him I’d get in touch with him after the rehearsal. I knew I was going to try to sneak out early to see him and it was making me antsy.

Around 8:30, after I’d socialized at the dinner for an hour and had a few drinks, I sent him a message.

“What are you up to?”

“Just finished dinner. Headed back home I guess. You?”

“Finishing up at this rehearsal dinner.”

“And then?”

I grinned as I typed, “No plans.”

“Not the right answer”, he said.

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“Much better.”

After several high fives from the bridesmaids and one “No more ‘Since January’ for you!” cat call, I was on my way to the car. There were tons of people there and I wouldn’t be missed. Besides, there was always the reception the following night.

I realized on the drive to his place that I was a little more tipsy than I originally thought and I had to be extra careful. I was relieved when I finally pulled up in his driveway. For about half a second. Then I saw him sitting on the steps, talking on the phone, and it hit me. I was there for one reason and one reason only. He knew and I knew it. And it had been such a long time...I was suddenly nervous.

There was a heavy night breeze as I got out of the car and my dress sucked to my legs as I walked toward him. He smiled and reached out his hand, still on the phone, and I took it. He squeezed my fingers and rolled his eyes in the direction of the phone.

“Where’s your bathroom”, I whispered.

He pointed to one side and mouthed, “Hallway.”

I went inside, dropped my purse in a kitchen chair, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. I stared at myself in the mirror – a mass of curls around my face and eyes wide. I turned the water on and rinsed my suddenly dry mouth, then took a deep breath and went back outside.

He was still on the phone and made an apologetic motion at me. I felt awkward standing there, listening to his conversation, but I didn’t want to sit in his house either. Instead I leaned on the railing and looked up at the sky, tuning him out. The moon and the stars looked particularly bright, but I imagine that had more to do with the closest street lamp being out and my level of inebriation, rather than anything else.

Finally he said goodbye, stood up and came toward me. “Hi”, he said smiling.

“Hi.”

He gathered me in his arms and kissed me, right there on the front steps. And as I kissed him back, as his hands stroked my shoulders and my hair, I realized I wasn’t nervous anymore. Not at all.

Time management can suck it

I am fully aware that I need to be awake by 4:30am in order to have a shower, look decent for work, and arrive on time. This doesn’t change the fact that, 9 times out of 10, when my alarm clock starts blasting, I will reach over and beat it like Ike beat Tina. Like a teenage boy after he gets his first look at a naked woman. Like a convict...

What I mean to say is – I will pound it quite vigorously and with apparent relish, effectively putting it out of commission and, consequently, I am often late. My alarm clock has now taken so many beatings that the volume won’t stay at one level and the radio stations skip around on their own, likely seeking to dodge the next blow.

Obviously work is my biggest issue since I’m about the furthest thing from a morning person you will find. I sleep like the dead and when woken suddenly, tend to swing first and ask questions later. But my violent tendencies aside (unless you’re into that sort of thing...’sup.), I have issues with time in general.

My boss is in a constant tizzy over my lack of time management skills. “You have got to get here on time”, she says at least once a week. It’s only thanks to her leniency and my apparent charm that I’m able to continue trucking along at a snail’s pace, popping in, breathless and disheveled, with the next excuse on the tip of my tongue.

I like the idea of a schedule; it’s the execution that eludes me. See, I’ve been a top notch procrastinator since I was a child (though I can’t remember a time that I ever willingly missed a meal...). It was generally the mundane, everyday tasks that were neglected – like homework and chores. As an adult its mostly important paperwork, phone calls, making dinner, and other household related things.

It was all well and good when I was putting off the boring tasks that had to be done, but I’ve now started putting off the stuff I enjoy doing. In the past, when there was something I was really looking forward to, I’d jump up and go through all the preparations to get me to my goal as quickly as possible - including vaulting out of bed when the alarm went off. However, my procrastinating has reached an all time high. It is no longer selective.

Take last night for example.

I was texting my would-have-been date from this past weekend. (For those that don’t follow my every move on Twitter, he had to cancel because he and his child came down with strep throat.) We were discussing having dinner together tonight. It was decided that we would catch up this afternoon and if we’re both still available we’ll go, and I will stay in the city at The Grandmother’s house so I don’t have to drive all the way home so late on a work night.

A seemingly simple plan, yes? No! There is a part two that the man has no idea about. Preparations, people! And as soon as we ended our conversation I began laying it all out in my head:

“Ok. Since it’s highly likely that this is going to happen tomorrow night, I need to get moving and get some shit done. Let’s see....laundry! I need those black lace boy shorts. Just in case, it’s not like I plan on removing them or anything, but what if the wind blows my dress up? He should know that even though I have no intention of sleeping with him on the first date, I’m wearing the underwear that says ‘could if I wanted too bitch, HA’!

Um, I need to pack options...clothes to change into after work. I’ll get ready at The Grandmother’s. I’ll already have my hair and makeup done so that won’t take long. Let’s see, feel the legs...wow! That’s shameful. I won’t have time to do it in the morning so as soon as Glee is over it’s time to shower and shave those bad boys. And should I maybe make sure the rest looks good? No. No, if I do that I’ll probably sleep with him. I mean, yes! I should...just in case there’s a freak accident and we end up in the same hospital room and the nurse doesn’t cover my bits. That is a completely valid excuse.

So let’s put it all together now, tick it off on the fingers: Glee, laundry, shower, shave, exfoliate, pack, go to sleep and wake up thirty minutes early in order to have time to do my makeup extra well. Go to work, go to TG’s, model three or four clothing options while TG frowns disapprovingly and asks questions about his religious background, meet him for dinner, go to the bathroom at some point to check nose for boogers, teeth for food, and Tweet about how drunk I’m getting on wine.

Should I write all of this down? Nah...Totally got it.”

However things didn’t exactly happen that way. As soon as Glee was over, I launched into full procrastination mode.

“I’ll just finish this one episode of Mad Men that I was watching before Glee came on. I won’t watch the other two that are on this disk. Just the one.”

A little over two hours later:

“Fucking fuck – its 11:15! Sigh. Oh well, I’ll just set my alarm for 4am. I’ll have plenty of time to do everything in the morning.”

4:30am this morning:

“SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! Fuck you, Tina!”

6:15am this morning:

“SHIT! 15 minutes! SLAM! This is all your fault!”

And that, my friends, is how it is done.

That means that its 11am and I’ve done none of the preparations on my list, other than throwing all of my outfit choices, makeup, and toiletries in a bag and running out the door. On the plus side, I was only four minutes late for work this morning. Unfortunately, I’m now going to TG’s to shower on my lunch break so my hair will look decent by this evening, then going back after work to finish the process. You know, if I was a dude and I didn’t have to go through all of this grooming stuff, I probably wouldn’t be such a procrastinator. Maybe. It’s so tiring!

Anyway, my mother says that there is something mentally wrong with me, that no one can knowingly put off things that are really important without having a screw loose. “You just sit there with your damn book! Get up! Get up! What are you looking at? There’s nothing there! Did you pay that bill? Did you get the clothes out of the dryer? Did you call and make that appointment? Well, did you?!”

“Er...no.”

“WHY NOT?”

“I dunno. I was...hey! Listen to this! Do you hear that? ‘Dun nuh! Dun nuh, dun nuh, dun nuh! I want it with whipped cream on it baby gimmie gimmie gimmie your loooooove!’ OMG, Ma, I love this song!”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Apparently, shocker of shockers, my mother is actually right. Not about killing me, I don’t think she has the stomach for that. But behold this sentence from Wikipedia: “Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.” Sigh. Of course, I’m forced to believe it because Wikipedia is the internet Bible for gangstas. Wicky wicky.

Unfortunately, though I searched for quite some time, I was unable to find a website that claims procrastination is hereditary. In fact, several of them shockingly claim that there is no possible way it could be. This was most disheartening and I’d all but given up on my plans to print out an article on the subject and share it with my mother. Until I read this sentence:

“Procrastinators often have great difficulty in seeking help, or finding an understanding source of support, due to the stigma and profound misunderstanding surrounding extreme forms of procrastination.”

In your FACE ma! All you had to do was be an understanding source of support, instead of nagging me all the fucking time.

“Why haven’t you found a new therapist? Why can’t you make a stinking appointment with a therapist? Huh, huh, why!”

It’s simple! I can’t, it’s too difficult to seek help! I am doomed to circle the drain of task aversion (including, but not limited to, the task of finding a new therapist) until I’m eventually sucked down into the rusty pipes of underachievement and overwhelming failure. Whereupon I will be committed, someone will finally have done it all for me, and I can blame it all on my father in the therapy sessions they haul me to three times a day in a straight jacket. I win.

Sweet! Lunch time!

Online dating - the saga continues

So, this is day what in the online dating chronicles? I don’t even know.

I haven’t spent much time at all researching matches or browsing through profiles. I haven’t had to. That’s not an ego thing, it’s just a fact. I’ve been bombarded with messages since day one, hour one. I think this has less to do with them finding me attractive and more to do with the fact that I’m young. I can just see the wheels turning in the brains of these older men that are so gung ho about meeting me. “She’d fetch my beer and make me sandwiches a hell of a lot faster than those older broads. And she’d put out more too.”

During the first two weeks I received some pretty unfortunate messages. (I shared a few of them already here.) I was sorely disappointed in the quality of the site I chose to try first. The only decent candidate stood me up last weekend. Well technically we had no concrete plans, but we’d discussed doing something and then after Wednesday of last week, he never messaged me again. I was a little let down, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t as interested when he realized I had a daughter. Apparently he didn’t read my profile very clearly.

The other weekend, after the millionth request for sexual favors, I decided to try a different website. And I was immediately reassured. The matches were much, much better. Though, of course, there’s no keeping away all of the strange, disturbing, and borderline illiterate. There are also a lot of different features that make finding matches easier.

The neat part is seeing who looks at your profile. I’ve come across some interesting people – an English teacher, a Marine, and a man that prefers to live his life on the go, selling things out of his trunk. Anybody need a watch? But the most interesting by far is a 40 year old married man. All of his pictures are taken from the back, waist down, and he’s wearing women’s lingerie – black stockings, garters, high heels, and a thong. When I first saw it I simply stared with open mouthed horror, but before long I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face. His entire ass is covered in black hair.

I’ve never been a fan of hairy men to begin with, but really? It’s bad enough that your profile picture is of you wearing heels and stockings, meaning that the thumbnail is unavoidable, but why would you put up a picture of your ass when it looks like the face of a particularly ugly gorilla? Not cool, dude. No wonder he’s out seeking another playmate. His wife is probably in intensive care with the only 3rd degree rug burn on record.

He’s viewed my profile approximately 7 times now and has marked me as someone he’d like to “get to know”. The scary part is that he lives in this city. I keep looking around as I walk downtown, wondering if one of the suits passing by is hiding his hairy ass. See, my face is on my profile. His isn’t. Freaky.

But, like I said, it’s not all bad. This past week I started talking to a seemingly perfect candidate. We were matched by the site and both happened to read the other’s profile and rate each other highly.

He’s 32, divorced with two kids, and runs his own business. Though I’m not a huge fan of kids in general, I can’t rule out other parents. It would just be hypocritical. Not only that, but if they have their own kids they’ll probably be less likely to want another one...which makes my uterus breathe a sigh of relief. I really don’t want to have to explain to a man that pregnancy and childbirth is on my “never do again” list, right along with anal sex and the cha-cha slide.

Anyway, we’ve started emailing and recently progressed to text messages. And he’s funny. Not just funny, but my kind of funny. He’s witty, inappropriate, and smart. He reads as much as I do. And he writes. Not anything big, he says it’s just a journal, but c’mon...he writes! Finding a man that reads (things other than Field and Stream or Reader’s Digest because it’s on the back of the ‘shitter’) and writes around here is like winning the lottery.

We have plans to go out this Saturday night for drinks, dinner, and maybe some live music and I’m incredibly, uncommonly nervous. I think it’s because, unlike the first guy I was supposed to go out with, this one has most of the qualities that I’m looking for. I went into this with low expectations and I wasn’t disappointed, I was having a good laugh. Now, who knows? This shit might work after all.

He’s been trying to nail me down all week for a lunch date or a walk in the park, but I’ve been too busy. And I also kind of want to wait until Saturday. It gives me more time to plan, you know. Anyway, if we don’t click in person it won’t be the end of the world, but I find myself hoping that we do. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to write a hilarious post about a horrible date. Yep, I said it.

Surprisingly, Mr. 39 year old that sort of stood me up sent me a message a few nights ago. He wanted to know if I wanted to go grab some dinner. I’d chalked him up as gone. I said no, of course. Last minute plans are not something I often agree to, or even that I’m able to agree to because of the kid. He said, “No worries, there’s always next time :).” And after thinking about it for a minute I said, “Yes, there is.” Because if he ever asks me a few days in advance and sticks to it, I may consider it. At least for the experience, right?

There’s one other possible interest in the pipeline, but so far it hasn’t gone further than a few emails – which is fine because I don’t know how people have time for all of this business. It’s one thing to juggle a few booty calls – you don’t have to necessarily do any talking there. This getting to know people stuff is a little like work. Not that I’m complaining...yet.

Coincidentally, how many dates do you think it’s appropriate to have before you throw caution to the wind and do the horizontal mambo? And by throw caution to the wind, I mean make it as far as the car. Not like going for it without protection or anything. I’m no maverick when it comes to that. I know all about the pullout method – it just turned 5 in April and answers to the name of “PUT THAT DOWN”. Not that I plan on sleeping with any of them. Ever. I’m doing this the right way. I’m just curious is all.

So...I’ve got the dress. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the date. Now all I need to do is relax and try not to get drunk accidentally on purpose and fuck it all up. Stay tuned.