I am on my second date with this guy I met online. The plan is to meet up for dinner. He picks a restaurant in Long Beach, which is near where he lives, but a long way from the West Side (for those of you who live in L.A.). How about something in the middle, I wonder, but whatever. I leave myself an hour to get there, but it takes about an hour and 15 minutes because the traffic was awful. Being considerate, I call from the car to say that I think I'm going to be about 10 minutes late. When I get there, he greets me with:
”You're actually 15 minutes late!”
Wow… Really?!? So now, I feel compelled to point out that I schlepped ALL the way from the west side to Long Beach AND had to find a place I had never been before so how about a little slack?? To which he replies:
“I thought you lived in Long Beach. Remember, we came here on our first date?”
Hmmm… NO….
”No", I say, "that wasn't me.”
And then, he proceeds to argue with me! You were wearing X. We met over there. You ate such and such.
Hmmm… NO…
“You've got me confused with someone else…”
Now, I'm a lawyer, so you know how we like to argue, especially when we're RIGHT. So I remind him of what we actually did do on our first date and reiterate that he is thinking of the wrong person. He remains unconvinced and tries again to persuade me that we've met at that very restaurant before. By this point I am thinking:
“Waiter! Can I have my food to go please!?”
And while the date didn't get any worse than that, he didn't come anywhere close to getting any of his toes out of his mouth, much less his whole foot. Needless to say, no third date for Mr. Unobservant.
-- Ms. West Side
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Worth the wait...
When, I was 21 years old and dating was still fun and simple, my buddies and I used to get very creative about meeting new women… we would come up with funny lines to pick women up on the streets, in coffee shops, at train stations… and on the phone. Yes…we used to call random numbers hoping to get a young beautiful female voice on the line in the hopes that we might ignite romance and start a dating adventure. Being a 21 year old guy, I mainly wanted to get laid, so I’d have probably settled for a throaty, annoying, whiny voice as well…if she was ready and willing enough.
One lovely autumn morning, I dialed a random number and heard what was probably most soothing, melodical, feminine voice full of beauty and potential. Her name was Natasha, and we hit it off right away. She lived close by and after half an hour on the phone, we agreed to meet at a post office. Why the post-office? Not sure, but probably because it was busy and crowded and if she turned out to be less-than-pretty, I could just walk out without being noticed and pretend I never even showed up to meet her.
So the next day, I anxiously walked to the post-office, waiting to meet the beauty behind that voice. At the spot where we agreed to meet, there was an older gentleman, curiously observing all the guys who walked in the door. We looked at each other for a second, our eyes full of questions and disbelief, and as I started to walk away, he called out my name. I turned around half-curious, half-scared, and this older (not bad looking) gentleman proceeded to tell me that he is Natasha’s father. He explained to me that in their family, he meets his daughter’s wooers first, to make sure they are worthy of his daughter’s attention. I was a bit shocked but still under the spell of her beautiful voice, so I decided to go with the flow.
We spent about an hour at the post office, an hour I would more likely describe as an interview than a date, but again… beautiful voice, potentially beautiful daughter, black lacy panties, nice legs… I was imagining all that while patiently answering her father’s questions. Yes, I have a job (I wonder how smooth her skin is); no, I don’t smoke (ooh, luscious delicious lips); yes, I love my mother (wait… damn, ruined my train of thought). Finally, after an hour, he smiled at me and said:
“Let me think about this, and I’ll get back to you soon.”
Hmm… I was hoping to be getting into his daughter’s boudoir sooner rather than later, but I guess I had no choice but to wait. A few days later I got a phone call from Natasha’s dad in which he asked me to meet him at the post office again. This was quickly turning into a dating relationship quite unlike the one I had imagined would result from my conversation with Natasha, but I humored her father nonetheless. That voice…
After 3 meetings in two weeks, all at the post office, (I was developing quite the stamp collection!) my interview was over and I was offered a position at the family dinner table to meet Natasha! FINALLY! I wasn’t sure why such formal family gathering was necessary, but I was getting a home-made meal and I already kinda liked her dad, so it promised to be a good evening.
At their house, there was a nicely decorated dinner table full of delicious-looking food and a bottle of wine (rare in the Ukraine back then, so must have been a special occasion). I was quite pleased to find seated at the table: Nathasha’ dad, his wife, his mother…and a really cute, charming girl about my age. My heart started racing as I realized that my patience had paid off… I’d tolerated the several pre-dating interviews to get a chance with a real, quality girl! With a big smile on my face, but vivid images of us kissing in a park (or the post-office) occupying my mind, I went to introduce myself to the girl. She smiled back at me with a smile that made my soul melt, my heart race, and my knees weaken. Then. She said:
“Hi, I am Elena. My sister, Natasha is getting ready and will be out shortly. Let’s sit down and start our dinner.”
Oh... I sat down at the dinner table, a bit disappointed but still hopeful considering that this family was clearly blessed with a good gene pool. Dinner went really well, delicious food (I still smile thinking about that borsch and ladkis), good company, fun conversation. I was intermittently looking around trying to figure out when Natasha was finally coming out, but we made it all the way through dinner without a sign of her. No bother.
I’d busied myself with entertaining Elena with my tales of boyhood misadventure with my friends, when a bedroom door opened…… and out came out a 40 year old, obese, woman half my height in a thick red robe…. She smiled at me shyly and said:
”Hi, I am Natasha. It’s nice to meet you.”
I politely smiled at her, shook her hand, and after a few moments of speechlessness I mumbled something to the extent of:
“The pleasure is all mine, but I’m afraid I must leave to go to work now.”
I ran out of that apartment as fast as I could and never called her back. I was not a superficial guy even back then, but with so much anticipation and waiting, I was hoping to meet somebody who would be a bit more enchanting… like her voice.
At least it wasn’t a complete failure. I got to know my local postman very well and I got a great dinner out of it!
-- Mr. Papichki
One lovely autumn morning, I dialed a random number and heard what was probably most soothing, melodical, feminine voice full of beauty and potential. Her name was Natasha, and we hit it off right away. She lived close by and after half an hour on the phone, we agreed to meet at a post office. Why the post-office? Not sure, but probably because it was busy and crowded and if she turned out to be less-than-pretty, I could just walk out without being noticed and pretend I never even showed up to meet her.
So the next day, I anxiously walked to the post-office, waiting to meet the beauty behind that voice. At the spot where we agreed to meet, there was an older gentleman, curiously observing all the guys who walked in the door. We looked at each other for a second, our eyes full of questions and disbelief, and as I started to walk away, he called out my name. I turned around half-curious, half-scared, and this older (not bad looking) gentleman proceeded to tell me that he is Natasha’s father. He explained to me that in their family, he meets his daughter’s wooers first, to make sure they are worthy of his daughter’s attention. I was a bit shocked but still under the spell of her beautiful voice, so I decided to go with the flow.
We spent about an hour at the post office, an hour I would more likely describe as an interview than a date, but again… beautiful voice, potentially beautiful daughter, black lacy panties, nice legs… I was imagining all that while patiently answering her father’s questions. Yes, I have a job (I wonder how smooth her skin is); no, I don’t smoke (ooh, luscious delicious lips); yes, I love my mother (wait… damn, ruined my train of thought). Finally, after an hour, he smiled at me and said:
“Let me think about this, and I’ll get back to you soon.”
Hmm… I was hoping to be getting into his daughter’s boudoir sooner rather than later, but I guess I had no choice but to wait. A few days later I got a phone call from Natasha’s dad in which he asked me to meet him at the post office again. This was quickly turning into a dating relationship quite unlike the one I had imagined would result from my conversation with Natasha, but I humored her father nonetheless. That voice…
After 3 meetings in two weeks, all at the post office, (I was developing quite the stamp collection!) my interview was over and I was offered a position at the family dinner table to meet Natasha! FINALLY! I wasn’t sure why such formal family gathering was necessary, but I was getting a home-made meal and I already kinda liked her dad, so it promised to be a good evening.
At their house, there was a nicely decorated dinner table full of delicious-looking food and a bottle of wine (rare in the Ukraine back then, so must have been a special occasion). I was quite pleased to find seated at the table: Nathasha’ dad, his wife, his mother…and a really cute, charming girl about my age. My heart started racing as I realized that my patience had paid off… I’d tolerated the several pre-dating interviews to get a chance with a real, quality girl! With a big smile on my face, but vivid images of us kissing in a park (or the post-office) occupying my mind, I went to introduce myself to the girl. She smiled back at me with a smile that made my soul melt, my heart race, and my knees weaken. Then. She said:
“Hi, I am Elena. My sister, Natasha is getting ready and will be out shortly. Let’s sit down and start our dinner.”
Oh... I sat down at the dinner table, a bit disappointed but still hopeful considering that this family was clearly blessed with a good gene pool. Dinner went really well, delicious food (I still smile thinking about that borsch and ladkis), good company, fun conversation. I was intermittently looking around trying to figure out when Natasha was finally coming out, but we made it all the way through dinner without a sign of her. No bother.
I’d busied myself with entertaining Elena with my tales of boyhood misadventure with my friends, when a bedroom door opened…… and out came out a 40 year old, obese, woman half my height in a thick red robe…. She smiled at me shyly and said:
”Hi, I am Natasha. It’s nice to meet you.”
I politely smiled at her, shook her hand, and after a few moments of speechlessness I mumbled something to the extent of:
“The pleasure is all mine, but I’m afraid I must leave to go to work now.”
I ran out of that apartment as fast as I could and never called her back. I was not a superficial guy even back then, but with so much anticipation and waiting, I was hoping to meet somebody who would be a bit more enchanting… like her voice.
At least it wasn’t a complete failure. I got to know my local postman very well and I got a great dinner out of it!
-- Mr. Papichki
Monday, May 7, 2007
From Russia with love...
One day, I opened my match.com account to check if any new hot girls have posted their profiles in my area, I found this letter in my inbox:
"Good DAY!!!
I have decided to write to you and my name is Larisa!
You profile has liked to me.
First of all I want to tell to you that I search for serious relations andI want find that with whom could to live for a long time and happily.
I would like to tell to you a little about myself. I the educated girl, a harmonious body; mine tall 5 ' 7 ", my weight 120 pounds. I cheerful, with good sense of humor. For me it is really necessary soul mate and the reliable friend!
I hope that you will answer me and I ask you to write to me. I would like to send you some pictures myself and I shall be pleased to answer you if you write to me.
I shall wait and hope, that you will not ignore my letter. Thanks!
Yours faithfully,
Larisa
PS I would like to ask you that you wrote to me on email, as I have no a lot of time to be on the Internet."
What do you think, guys, should I take my profile down for this harmonious body?
-- The Camel Rider
"Good DAY!!!
I have decided to write to you and my name is Larisa!
You profile has liked to me.
First of all I want to tell to you that I search for serious relations andI want find that with whom could to live for a long time and happily.
I would like to tell to you a little about myself. I the educated girl, a harmonious body; mine tall 5 ' 7 ", my weight 120 pounds. I cheerful, with good sense of humor. For me it is really necessary soul mate and the reliable friend!
I hope that you will answer me and I ask you to write to me. I would like to send you some pictures myself and I shall be pleased to answer you if you write to me.
I shall wait and hope, that you will not ignore my letter. Thanks!
Yours faithfully,
Larisa
PS I would like to ask you that you wrote to me on email, as I have no a lot of time to be on the Internet."
What do you think, guys, should I take my profile down for this harmonious body?
-- The Camel Rider
Friday, March 30, 2007
To date or not to date: a simple point guide to choosing your mate
I have never been a big fan of dating, on or off-line. On-line dating is particularly stressful. It’s that initial pressure of trying to decide whether you want to date this person or that person (and when you have to decide between the guy whose only posted pictures of himself where his ex-girlfriend has been cropped out or the guy who still lives with his mother, it’s kind of a toss-up). It’s going out on a ‘blind’ date, and realizing that you are in for a few hours of pure boredom or worse, disaster…
This blog was started in part because of dates like that. Soon after I signed up for my two-month trial of internet dating, I quickly realized that most of the guys on there are either ugly or boring (or both), and that the gems are far and few between. I read through profile after profile (with tag names like “2hot2trot” or “BelieveTheHypeSF75” or "DontchaWishYourBFwuzHOTlikeME”)… they all started the same way “Hmmm…where to start…I’m an easy going guy…” Most of them said the same thing about “loving fine dining, family, and the outdoors.” Some of them even went so far as to say they were “a good blend of east and west coast, now in love with SF,” blah blah blah…
I’d initially signed up for this on-line service to entertain myself after my back surgery, but after about a week, the thought of gouging both my eyes out and then referring myself to an ophthalmologist for another surgery seemed more appealing than looking at another one of those profiles. Or maybe I’d just become a nun…well, a Jewish nun (do they even exist?)…ok, maybe an open-minded nun (you know, the kind who still date and have sex)…
Half-distracted by the thought of having sex in a nun’s habit, I did one last run-through of a few more profiles before calling it a night on-line. That’s when I stumbled upon Mr. Points… a pretty good looking fella, with no skanky photo cropping and the following hook for an opening line:
“This dating thing is really simple if you break it down.”
WOW! I thought to myself, what has this guy figured out about dating that I hadn’t? Maybe I could learn something from him! I trembled with anticipation as I opened the rest of his profile...
"I firmly believe it's possible to objectively quantify who's "right" for me. This may save us alot of time and awkward banter in a small coffee shop staring at a stale scone discussing where we grew up. So, start with 0 pts, if you are... Objectively good looking, add 15 pts. Subjectively good looking based on your personality, add 6 pts. Of the belief that you are good looking based only on your parents' comments, subtract 10 pts. Objectively funny, add 15 pts.”
OK, + 30 points later, I was not only doing great on his little clever test, but I was laughing so hard that I thought I was going to pop my surgical wound open. So I braced myself and continued reading...
"Mention in your profile that you are as comfortable in heels as in running shoes (or some variant of that), subtract 5 pts. Holding a bachelor's degree, add 6 pts. Holding a master's degree, add 10 pts. Are a doctor, add 18 pts. Are an attorney, subtract 5 pts. Able to go to a party where you know nobody and have more fun than if you did, add 4 points. Participate in athletics, add 9 points. Of the belief that sushi transcends the realm of food, add 3 pts. Able to find the humor in (or make humorous) the pedestrian situations, add 10 points.”
OOOH, + 80 points for me already. I was SO on my way to having a sushi dinner with this guy...
"Prone to complaining about most situations, subtract 15 pts.”
Oops, I guess do complain a bit. But not a ton. Just a little. Well, maybe a medium amount. So I made an administrative decision and subtracted 7.5 points…
”A person who has ever cheated on a boyfriend/fiancee, subtract 20 pts per individual. A person who has been cheated on and taken him back, subtract 5 pts for the first incident, subtract 20 pts for the second incident, and subtract 50 pts for each additional incident. A person who fills up her gas tank more often than shaves her legs, subtract 5 pts. If you have smoked *even once* in the past 5 years, take the cube root of your score. If you don't know what a cube root is or cannot estimate it to 1 decimal place, subtract another 15 pts. If you prefer the red states to the blue, subtract 3 points. If you think this refers to the Civil War, subtract 15 pts.”
Well, maybe I kissed a boy while dating somebody when I was 20 and smoked a few cigarettes about 2 years ago, but that doesn’t really count, does it?
”If you scored a 68, I will marry you tonight (or tomorrow night if you’re reading this on a Friday. And if you’re not sure why that is, go ahead and subtract another 10 points). 60-67: let’s go ahead and cancel our on-line memberships and make plans. 50-59: let’s write a few emails and see. Less than 49: it’s probably not meant to be with me. It’s not you, it’s me…”
YES, my score was 72.5 and the only reason I didn’t go to buy myself a wedding dress was because my surgical wound was on the verge of bursting open and I didn’t want to risk having another surgery. That’s the first time in my life I scored 106% on a test. I gave myself an A+ (of course) and emailed Mr. Points immediately. My dislike of dating suddenly seemed insignificant in comparison to the prospect of having good sushi while laughing my ass (or should I say, my surgical wound) off. Plus, I was an “A” student already and I hadn’t even started the "semester"…
After a few dates and a lot of side splitting (not wound splitting) laughs, Mr. Points did not seem to be that into me. I guess he wasn’t as enchanted with me and my performance on his little test as I was. Turns out I was too ‘high maintenance’ for him, a criteria he failed to include but if he had, it might have sounded like this:
“Once we meet, I’ll be the judge of your maintenance index. If you are low maintenance index, add 15 points. If you are medium maintenance index, subtract 10 points. If you are high maintenance index, subtract enough points so that your total number is less than 49… If you don’t know your maintenance index or what ‘index’ is, your self-awareness needs some improvement. Write back after you’ve had a few years of therapy.”
So, on our last ‘date’ he mumbled something to the extent of wanting to be friends and then politely put in me in a taxi.
I suppose what it all comes down to is that what he really wanted to say at the conclusion of our last date was: “It’s not me, its YOU!”
Wait, I thought I was supposed to be the one to say that?!! But oh well… at least I got a few points left. They do roll over, right??
-- Innigma
(Special thanks to Mr. Points who graciously agreed to let me use his on-line profile for the contents of this story. He, of course, immediately suggested that such a gesture was worth + 20 points. Who is being high maintenance now?! )
This blog was started in part because of dates like that. Soon after I signed up for my two-month trial of internet dating, I quickly realized that most of the guys on there are either ugly or boring (or both), and that the gems are far and few between. I read through profile after profile (with tag names like “2hot2trot” or “BelieveTheHypeSF75” or "DontchaWishYourBFwuzHOTlikeME”)… they all started the same way “Hmmm…where to start…I’m an easy going guy…” Most of them said the same thing about “loving fine dining, family, and the outdoors.” Some of them even went so far as to say they were “a good blend of east and west coast, now in love with SF,” blah blah blah…
I’d initially signed up for this on-line service to entertain myself after my back surgery, but after about a week, the thought of gouging both my eyes out and then referring myself to an ophthalmologist for another surgery seemed more appealing than looking at another one of those profiles. Or maybe I’d just become a nun…well, a Jewish nun (do they even exist?)…ok, maybe an open-minded nun (you know, the kind who still date and have sex)…
Half-distracted by the thought of having sex in a nun’s habit, I did one last run-through of a few more profiles before calling it a night on-line. That’s when I stumbled upon Mr. Points… a pretty good looking fella, with no skanky photo cropping and the following hook for an opening line:
“This dating thing is really simple if you break it down.”
WOW! I thought to myself, what has this guy figured out about dating that I hadn’t? Maybe I could learn something from him! I trembled with anticipation as I opened the rest of his profile...
"I firmly believe it's possible to objectively quantify who's "right" for me. This may save us alot of time and awkward banter in a small coffee shop staring at a stale scone discussing where we grew up. So, start with 0 pts, if you are... Objectively good looking, add 15 pts. Subjectively good looking based on your personality, add 6 pts. Of the belief that you are good looking based only on your parents' comments, subtract 10 pts. Objectively funny, add 15 pts.”
OK, + 30 points later, I was not only doing great on his little clever test, but I was laughing so hard that I thought I was going to pop my surgical wound open. So I braced myself and continued reading...
"Mention in your profile that you are as comfortable in heels as in running shoes (or some variant of that), subtract 5 pts. Holding a bachelor's degree, add 6 pts. Holding a master's degree, add 10 pts. Are a doctor, add 18 pts. Are an attorney, subtract 5 pts. Able to go to a party where you know nobody and have more fun than if you did, add 4 points. Participate in athletics, add 9 points. Of the belief that sushi transcends the realm of food, add 3 pts. Able to find the humor in (or make humorous) the pedestrian situations, add 10 points.”
OOOH, + 80 points for me already. I was SO on my way to having a sushi dinner with this guy...
"Prone to complaining about most situations, subtract 15 pts.”
Oops, I guess do complain a bit. But not a ton. Just a little. Well, maybe a medium amount. So I made an administrative decision and subtracted 7.5 points…
”A person who has ever cheated on a boyfriend/fiancee, subtract 20 pts per individual. A person who has been cheated on and taken him back, subtract 5 pts for the first incident, subtract 20 pts for the second incident, and subtract 50 pts for each additional incident. A person who fills up her gas tank more often than shaves her legs, subtract 5 pts. If you have smoked *even once* in the past 5 years, take the cube root of your score. If you don't know what a cube root is or cannot estimate it to 1 decimal place, subtract another 15 pts. If you prefer the red states to the blue, subtract 3 points. If you think this refers to the Civil War, subtract 15 pts.”
Well, maybe I kissed a boy while dating somebody when I was 20 and smoked a few cigarettes about 2 years ago, but that doesn’t really count, does it?
”If you scored a 68, I will marry you tonight (or tomorrow night if you’re reading this on a Friday. And if you’re not sure why that is, go ahead and subtract another 10 points). 60-67: let’s go ahead and cancel our on-line memberships and make plans. 50-59: let’s write a few emails and see. Less than 49: it’s probably not meant to be with me. It’s not you, it’s me…”
YES, my score was 72.5 and the only reason I didn’t go to buy myself a wedding dress was because my surgical wound was on the verge of bursting open and I didn’t want to risk having another surgery. That’s the first time in my life I scored 106% on a test. I gave myself an A+ (of course) and emailed Mr. Points immediately. My dislike of dating suddenly seemed insignificant in comparison to the prospect of having good sushi while laughing my ass (or should I say, my surgical wound) off. Plus, I was an “A” student already and I hadn’t even started the "semester"…
After a few dates and a lot of side splitting (not wound splitting) laughs, Mr. Points did not seem to be that into me. I guess he wasn’t as enchanted with me and my performance on his little test as I was. Turns out I was too ‘high maintenance’ for him, a criteria he failed to include but if he had, it might have sounded like this:
“Once we meet, I’ll be the judge of your maintenance index. If you are low maintenance index, add 15 points. If you are medium maintenance index, subtract 10 points. If you are high maintenance index, subtract enough points so that your total number is less than 49… If you don’t know your maintenance index or what ‘index’ is, your self-awareness needs some improvement. Write back after you’ve had a few years of therapy.”
So, on our last ‘date’ he mumbled something to the extent of wanting to be friends and then politely put in me in a taxi.
I suppose what it all comes down to is that what he really wanted to say at the conclusion of our last date was: “It’s not me, its YOU!”
Wait, I thought I was supposed to be the one to say that?!! But oh well… at least I got a few points left. They do roll over, right??
-- Innigma
(Special thanks to Mr. Points who graciously agreed to let me use his on-line profile for the contents of this story. He, of course, immediately suggested that such a gesture was worth + 20 points. Who is being high maintenance now?! )
Friday, March 9, 2007
Brown Man VS Catwoman
It should be known that LCG resorted to blackmail (with pictures of my foot long penis) to elicit my contribution to this dating blog. She hits below the belt, that one. (Or in my case, way below the belt.)
That being said, here is one of the many dating chronicles from this brown man…
I grew up with five sisters. So, needless to say, I had girls figured out by the time high school was through. Though, sadly, that didn’t mean I got mad action. At least not in high school. By the time I hit college though, I quickly recognized the advantages I had over my fellow man in the dating department. With a great sense of humor and a thorough understanding of the female psyche, I had no problem hooking up. In no time at all, I had more than enough sexual experiences to make up for the ones I didn’t have in high school. What I didn’t learn from my pubescent years is that sex makes some girls psycho, particularly the crazy sexy freaky ones, and especially if you’re good at it. Since I was a late bloomer, I didn’t learn until a bit later in the game this simple equation: Downright freaky = psycho. Now, I don’t know if there is a dormant “I’m going to slash your tires and throw a brick through your car window” stalker gene in the chromosomes of some women. But if there is, it’s somehow sexually triggered. I know that much, thanks to Tara.
I met Tara in an acting class. A little pale, but absolutely gorgeous. She had these big, heaving…crystal blue eyes that were very captivating and she was so full of energy. Sexual energy. I remember that she loved cats and she always had a curious Eau D’feline smell about her. Since she was extremely hot, I figured it was something I was willing to ignore my olfactory red flag. After a few days we’d had our first date and I had given her a ride home. Before the car even came to a complete stop, we were going at in the driveway.
As we were making out, I noticed that she was a little more forceful and assertive than most girls as she began nibbling at my lips and biting my neck. At first I thought it was a little weird, but I started to really get into it. In a flash she pounced on me and had her hands under my shirt and was unbuckling my belt. The kissing and petting got heavier and we desperately needed a change of venue. Still lip-locked and undressing we crashed inside the house as she guided me towards her bedroom. From the few glances I stole down the dark hallway to her room, the house seemed like any normal place of residence, only with the cat smell a little more poignant than before. (I was really too busy unhooking her bra and stepping out of my jeans to notice much else.) Before I knew it she threw me on the bed and sprang on top of me kissing me harder and tracing her nails down the ridges of my six-pack. I could take no more. In one swift motion, I had switched positions and was on top of her. Her hands were now on my back and her scratches became deeper and more serious as she moaned. I felt like a damn scratching post, but I was still too enthralled to care. When her clawing hands reached my sides I winced at the initial onset of sharp pain. She flashed a mischievous grin upon my reaction and seemed to become even more excited.
Things were going relatively well, until she started writhing around and purring. Yep. She started purring. To make matters worse, we’d apparently left the door open and were performing for an entire feline audience. Okay, now this is fucking weird. For some reason I couldn’t stop what I was doing, it just didn’t feel right. But the fact of the matter was that I was getting jacked up by wolverine, my back was really starting to burn, and six pairs of eyes were watching my every move. Now I like an occasional back scratching at the peak of arousal just as much as the next guy, but there is no earthly reason to leave a man’s back looking like he’d just been slave whipped. I could have sworn I was bleeding and more cats kept making their way into the room. A younger cat slyly leapt on the corner of the bed and stared right into my eyes while another laid right next to Tara and started to lick himself. She didn’t even flinch. That’s enough! Cat porn is where I totally draw the line.
Without a word, I dismounted, hurriedly gathered my clothes, and ran out of the room trying not to make eye contact with any animals for fear of being ambushed. I paused in the living room long enough to put my jeans on, and noticed a few more cats lying around disinterested in my presence (I must not have been the first). I felt like I was in a freakish Stephen King movie or something. As I bolted out of the kitchen and past the garage I spotted 8 or 9 litter boxes and countless bags of cat food. That explains the Eau D’feline! I practically dove in my car head first and peeled out like I was being chased by a lion. I had to lean forward, hunching over the steering wheel the whole way home to keep the chair from exacerbating my fresh wounds.
The next day I dropped my drama class. And that’s how my acting career came to a back lacerating end.
- Brown Man
That being said, here is one of the many dating chronicles from this brown man…
I grew up with five sisters. So, needless to say, I had girls figured out by the time high school was through. Though, sadly, that didn’t mean I got mad action. At least not in high school. By the time I hit college though, I quickly recognized the advantages I had over my fellow man in the dating department. With a great sense of humor and a thorough understanding of the female psyche, I had no problem hooking up. In no time at all, I had more than enough sexual experiences to make up for the ones I didn’t have in high school. What I didn’t learn from my pubescent years is that sex makes some girls psycho, particularly the crazy sexy freaky ones, and especially if you’re good at it. Since I was a late bloomer, I didn’t learn until a bit later in the game this simple equation: Downright freaky = psycho. Now, I don’t know if there is a dormant “I’m going to slash your tires and throw a brick through your car window” stalker gene in the chromosomes of some women. But if there is, it’s somehow sexually triggered. I know that much, thanks to Tara.
I met Tara in an acting class. A little pale, but absolutely gorgeous. She had these big, heaving…crystal blue eyes that were very captivating and she was so full of energy. Sexual energy. I remember that she loved cats and she always had a curious Eau D’feline smell about her. Since she was extremely hot, I figured it was something I was willing to ignore my olfactory red flag. After a few days we’d had our first date and I had given her a ride home. Before the car even came to a complete stop, we were going at in the driveway.
As we were making out, I noticed that she was a little more forceful and assertive than most girls as she began nibbling at my lips and biting my neck. At first I thought it was a little weird, but I started to really get into it. In a flash she pounced on me and had her hands under my shirt and was unbuckling my belt. The kissing and petting got heavier and we desperately needed a change of venue. Still lip-locked and undressing we crashed inside the house as she guided me towards her bedroom. From the few glances I stole down the dark hallway to her room, the house seemed like any normal place of residence, only with the cat smell a little more poignant than before. (I was really too busy unhooking her bra and stepping out of my jeans to notice much else.) Before I knew it she threw me on the bed and sprang on top of me kissing me harder and tracing her nails down the ridges of my six-pack. I could take no more. In one swift motion, I had switched positions and was on top of her. Her hands were now on my back and her scratches became deeper and more serious as she moaned. I felt like a damn scratching post, but I was still too enthralled to care. When her clawing hands reached my sides I winced at the initial onset of sharp pain. She flashed a mischievous grin upon my reaction and seemed to become even more excited.
Things were going relatively well, until she started writhing around and purring. Yep. She started purring. To make matters worse, we’d apparently left the door open and were performing for an entire feline audience. Okay, now this is fucking weird. For some reason I couldn’t stop what I was doing, it just didn’t feel right. But the fact of the matter was that I was getting jacked up by wolverine, my back was really starting to burn, and six pairs of eyes were watching my every move. Now I like an occasional back scratching at the peak of arousal just as much as the next guy, but there is no earthly reason to leave a man’s back looking like he’d just been slave whipped. I could have sworn I was bleeding and more cats kept making their way into the room. A younger cat slyly leapt on the corner of the bed and stared right into my eyes while another laid right next to Tara and started to lick himself. She didn’t even flinch. That’s enough! Cat porn is where I totally draw the line.
Without a word, I dismounted, hurriedly gathered my clothes, and ran out of the room trying not to make eye contact with any animals for fear of being ambushed. I paused in the living room long enough to put my jeans on, and noticed a few more cats lying around disinterested in my presence (I must not have been the first). I felt like I was in a freakish Stephen King movie or something. As I bolted out of the kitchen and past the garage I spotted 8 or 9 litter boxes and countless bags of cat food. That explains the Eau D’feline! I practically dove in my car head first and peeled out like I was being chased by a lion. I had to lean forward, hunching over the steering wheel the whole way home to keep the chair from exacerbating my fresh wounds.
The next day I dropped my drama class. And that’s how my acting career came to a back lacerating end.
- Brown Man
Monday, March 5, 2007
With all due respect to your Daddy....
I had been flirting online with this attractive looking woman, The Fisherwoman, for a week when I asked her to have a drink with me in midtown Manhattan. We had agreed to meet at 6:30 pm. An hour before the meeting time, she called me and asked me to meet instead at her upper east side place since she had been working at home all day. I was a bit startled, since one usually doesn't receive this invite before ever meeting, but agreed. Perhaps I'd get lucky on the first date?
Her place was up in the 70's somewhere at 3rd Ave and it was swanky. But as soon as I entered her apartment, I knew something was terribly off. Shit was strewn everywhere. Papers, animal cages that hadn't been cleaned, clothes… I'd never seen a woman's place look so unruly. Immediately my guard was up. The Fisherwoman greeted me with a kiss on the side of the cheek and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I told her I didn't. A minute later, she asked me again. Again I told her I was fine. Two minutes later, she asked me again. "No, really, I'm good", I told her.
I sat down while she made a cocktail and was checking out one of her many books on her dining room table when she suddenly spurted out, "ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!" Oh shit, I thought to myself. What have I gotten myself into?!
She sat down and started telling me about her business, which is running the most exclusive Jewish matchmaking service in the city, for which she charges several, sometimes tens of thousands of dollars for. Hmm, I think to myself, and she's single. I wonder why…
As I mused in that thought she divulged that she sometimes records her dates since she's writing a book on the topic.
“Oh really? Are you taping us right now?”
She said that she wasn't and only tapes dates if she gets permission. "Would you like to hear some material?" she asked. "Sure" I replied.
She whipped out a little tape recorder and pressed play. While I listened to what must have amounted to the most contrived date of all time anywhere she suddenly blurted out, "Do you know what really turns me on?”
"No"...I replied, very curious to see where this was going.
"Dressing up" she said. "Let me show you".
So I waited at the table for a few minutes while The Fisherwoman changed. I couldn't believe it…she came out in a full on sexy French maid outfit and sat on my lap. Hey, I was finally starting to have a good time. She may have been crazy, but this was going to be a good ride! Next came the cop out fit, and she wanted to handcuff me. I refused playfully yet politely. Then came the cheerleader... Aw yeah, this WAS getting good!
While she performed a few cheerleader maneuvers for me, she again blurted out, "Do you know what also turns me on?” On my heels, I couldn't guess.
"Porn,.." as she dashed for the DVD player and stuck one in. "Come here, I think you're cute!”
There comes a point, on any date in which porn is used as a seduction tool, where every guy relinquishes brain power to his second head, and I’d been playing pretty hard to get up until that point. So, it was at this point that I obliged her and sat down on the couch next to her. We began to make out and things were getting pretty heated when, as was her style, she stopped suddenly.
She looked at me earnestly and, in a very serious tone said, "I really want to get married and have children.”
My second head's chokehold on my normal brain was immediately broken. I looked at the clock and said, "Hey it's getting late, I really need to get going.”
I made a beeline to the door. Only to hear her scream…
"My daddy's really wealthy, HE'LL BUY YOU THE RING! YOU'LL SEE YOU'LL BE HAPPY!”
…just before the door slammed.
- Johnny Pesce
Her place was up in the 70's somewhere at 3rd Ave and it was swanky. But as soon as I entered her apartment, I knew something was terribly off. Shit was strewn everywhere. Papers, animal cages that hadn't been cleaned, clothes… I'd never seen a woman's place look so unruly. Immediately my guard was up. The Fisherwoman greeted me with a kiss on the side of the cheek and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I told her I didn't. A minute later, she asked me again. Again I told her I was fine. Two minutes later, she asked me again. "No, really, I'm good", I told her.
I sat down while she made a cocktail and was checking out one of her many books on her dining room table when she suddenly spurted out, "ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!" Oh shit, I thought to myself. What have I gotten myself into?!
She sat down and started telling me about her business, which is running the most exclusive Jewish matchmaking service in the city, for which she charges several, sometimes tens of thousands of dollars for. Hmm, I think to myself, and she's single. I wonder why…
As I mused in that thought she divulged that she sometimes records her dates since she's writing a book on the topic.
“Oh really? Are you taping us right now?”
She said that she wasn't and only tapes dates if she gets permission. "Would you like to hear some material?" she asked. "Sure" I replied.
She whipped out a little tape recorder and pressed play. While I listened to what must have amounted to the most contrived date of all time anywhere she suddenly blurted out, "Do you know what really turns me on?”
"No"...I replied, very curious to see where this was going.
"Dressing up" she said. "Let me show you".
So I waited at the table for a few minutes while The Fisherwoman changed. I couldn't believe it…she came out in a full on sexy French maid outfit and sat on my lap. Hey, I was finally starting to have a good time. She may have been crazy, but this was going to be a good ride! Next came the cop out fit, and she wanted to handcuff me. I refused playfully yet politely. Then came the cheerleader... Aw yeah, this WAS getting good!
While she performed a few cheerleader maneuvers for me, she again blurted out, "Do you know what also turns me on?” On my heels, I couldn't guess.
"Porn,.." as she dashed for the DVD player and stuck one in. "Come here, I think you're cute!”
There comes a point, on any date in which porn is used as a seduction tool, where every guy relinquishes brain power to his second head, and I’d been playing pretty hard to get up until that point. So, it was at this point that I obliged her and sat down on the couch next to her. We began to make out and things were getting pretty heated when, as was her style, she stopped suddenly.
She looked at me earnestly and, in a very serious tone said, "I really want to get married and have children.”
My second head's chokehold on my normal brain was immediately broken. I looked at the clock and said, "Hey it's getting late, I really need to get going.”
I made a beeline to the door. Only to hear her scream…
"My daddy's really wealthy, HE'LL BUY YOU THE RING! YOU'LL SEE YOU'LL BE HAPPY!”
…just before the door slammed.
- Johnny Pesce
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Top 10 Reasons NOT to be a Match-Maker for your Friends...
10. Your intention (to simply get him and her some action while they continue their search for “the one”) backfires (and leads to a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship).
9. In its off-again phase, he and she both call you, repeatedly, and make it abundantly clear how profoundly wrong you were to have EVER thought that they would be compatible. In any way. Well, except for the sex way. In which they are pretty compatible indeed…
8. Ok. So it’s on-again. Again. All things are whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string and suddenly the hills are alive with the sound of music. And you? Your cell phone has suddenly ceased to ring. No phone calls from either him nor her…not even for a thank you. Thank you SO much for setting us up, he/she is so wonderful. Nope. None of that.
7. Oh no! Another bump in the road. The phone starts ringing again. They both expect you to fix things that are not working and stay out of the things that are. Sometimes all in the same day.
6. Uh oh. This is a particularly big bump. It’s getting a little ugly. And just when you think you might just politely duck out of the room and leave them to their own dysfunctional devices…you’re asked to stay. Stay! No, really...STAY!! And take sides. Clearly you’re on his side, he says. Um, no, you’re on her side, she says.
5. How ‘bout if you just stand right here in the middle, place your fingers snugly into your ears and sing loudly? When the dog bites...when the bee stings... Hmm…seems to be working. Wait. Did you just hear her accuse you of secretly having an agenda to steal her boyfriend? And to please stay away from said boyfriend? The boyfriend that YOU set her up with?? Oh, the lunacy!
4. Ok so…it’s officially off-again. Your phone rings off the hook. He really enjoys her, he says, but he just doesn’t want to do the whole marriage thing again. She’s got an agenda: get married, make babies, perhaps several, then maybe an apple strudel or two. Is that too much to ask? (Oh, and she’s really, really sorry about that silly little accusation in number 5 by the way). Apparently, yes, it IS too much to ask. He swears to you, by phone and online instant message, that he is simply NOT ready to commit to another marriage right now…
3. They’re engaged!?!?! [Cue the hills are alive with the sound of music.] [Again.]
2. It’s all warm woolen mittens and whiskers on kittens again. Save the date cards go out. Oh the joy! she thinks! Babies and apple strudel coming right up! Wait…what’s this right here? Hmmm…months worth of online instant messages stored in my fiance’s password unprotected email account between him and…and…and YOU! (Totally taken out of context and completely misconstrued, by the way.)
1. It’s officially off again. You stand to lose two great friends…both of whom are currently in therapy for what occurred in 2 – 10. You scuttle off thinking you might need a little therapy yourself…
-Innigma & La Cubana Gringa
9. In its off-again phase, he and she both call you, repeatedly, and make it abundantly clear how profoundly wrong you were to have EVER thought that they would be compatible. In any way. Well, except for the sex way. In which they are pretty compatible indeed…
8. Ok. So it’s on-again. Again. All things are whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string and suddenly the hills are alive with the sound of music. And you? Your cell phone has suddenly ceased to ring. No phone calls from either him nor her…not even for a thank you. Thank you SO much for setting us up, he/she is so wonderful. Nope. None of that.
7. Oh no! Another bump in the road. The phone starts ringing again. They both expect you to fix things that are not working and stay out of the things that are. Sometimes all in the same day.
6. Uh oh. This is a particularly big bump. It’s getting a little ugly. And just when you think you might just politely duck out of the room and leave them to their own dysfunctional devices…you’re asked to stay. Stay! No, really...STAY!! And take sides. Clearly you’re on his side, he says. Um, no, you’re on her side, she says.
5. How ‘bout if you just stand right here in the middle, place your fingers snugly into your ears and sing loudly? When the dog bites...when the bee stings... Hmm…seems to be working. Wait. Did you just hear her accuse you of secretly having an agenda to steal her boyfriend? And to please stay away from said boyfriend? The boyfriend that YOU set her up with?? Oh, the lunacy!
4. Ok so…it’s officially off-again. Your phone rings off the hook. He really enjoys her, he says, but he just doesn’t want to do the whole marriage thing again. She’s got an agenda: get married, make babies, perhaps several, then maybe an apple strudel or two. Is that too much to ask? (Oh, and she’s really, really sorry about that silly little accusation in number 5 by the way). Apparently, yes, it IS too much to ask. He swears to you, by phone and online instant message, that he is simply NOT ready to commit to another marriage right now…
3. They’re engaged!?!?! [Cue the hills are alive with the sound of music.] [Again.]
2. It’s all warm woolen mittens and whiskers on kittens again. Save the date cards go out. Oh the joy! she thinks! Babies and apple strudel coming right up! Wait…what’s this right here? Hmmm…months worth of online instant messages stored in my fiance’s password unprotected email account between him and…and…and YOU! (Totally taken out of context and completely misconstrued, by the way.)
1. It’s officially off again. You stand to lose two great friends…both of whom are currently in therapy for what occurred in 2 – 10. You scuttle off thinking you might need a little therapy yourself…
-Innigma & La Cubana Gringa
Friday, February 23, 2007
Only slightly more entertaining than an evening in Palo Alto...
Seeing as I’ve been happily dating The Brit for over 2 years now, I seldom get a taste of what dating is like these days. And thank sweet jesus for that, as I recently went out with one of my girlfriends, who is also a fellow surgical resident, and discovered just how bad it can be. And by "bad", I mean "funny."
Dr. Downtown and I went to a local bar to catch up over a couple of drinks. We’d been there for about an hour when she got up from the tiny couch we’d elbowed everyone else off of to go use the bathroom. Little did I know how vulnerable I’d be without a wingwoman to shield me from the advances of the barely post-pubescent...
Before Dr. Downtown’s seat could even cool off, a young thing, just barely legal I later found out, promptly sat down beside me. And proceeded to ignore me while he made a deliberate show of the fact that he was perfectly happy to just peruse the cocktail menu, thank you very much. He swung it around, examining the back and front several times, with all the dramatic skill of a high school thespian in his starring role. Then he leaned back in what I still considered very much to be Dr. Downtown’s seat, and almost succeeded in looking surprised to find me sitting there beside him.
“Oh, hey,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything good on this thing?” He pointed to the drink menu.
“You mean you’re actually planning to order one of those?” I asked, quite sincerely. He’d picked up the girlie menu of fruity cocktails, among which were the raspberry mojito and pomegranate martini that Dr. Downtown and I had ordered. Dainty drinks I didn’t think any man intending to hit on a woman would actually order in front of said woman.
“Well, I don’t know about all this other stuff, but the gimlet looks like my style,” he smirked.
I nodded, about to tell him that my drinking buddy was due back any moment and that he should probably move when he said…
“Yeah, so I’m here with ‘my boys.’ We live in Palo Alto, do you know where that is?”
This time I did the smirking. First of all, because I hadn’t had a conversation in which anyone had seriously referred to their posse as ‘my boys’ since I was in high school. And second of all, because he was clearly making an unsubtle attempt to be subtle about the fact that he was in some way affiliated with this reputable academic institution, which is the only reason anyone his age would ever live in Palo Alto. He misread my smirk for an invitation to tell me more.
“Yeah, so, you know what it’s like then. It’s like fuckin’ suburbia. It sucks. So you know what I mean when I say that, since we don’t come up to SanFran too often, when we do, we gotta make it count.”
Oh?? And how, exactly, was this kid, who probably doesn’t even shave yet, planning on ‘making it count?’
Just as I was about to find out, Dr. Downtown came back. She examined the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt tucked into the pants that were occupying her seat and then looked over at me. At which point I pointed out to him that he should probably move. He gave her the seat back and repositioned himself on the armrest of our sofa. Just as he was about to squirt yet another smarmy remark out from betwixt his lips, one of his ‘boys’ came over to join him. Some whispers were exchanged.
“Hey, I’ll be right back. I owe ‘my boys’ a round.” And he was off.
I filled Dr. Downtown in on his efforts to make this SF trip count. By the time he came back, with a gimlet in his hands, she was up to speed. And since he apparently wasn’t going away any time soon, we figured we might as well make it count.
“So, I take it you’re in undergrad in Palo Alto?” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying the name of his highly esteemed school.
“No, I’m in law school. First year.” He tried to say it as if the sheer vocalization of it didn’t give him a stiffy, but it did. You could tell. He was quite pleased with himself.
Dr. Downtown and I exchanged glances at the shameless attempt to impress us. As women who seldom tell strangers what we actually do, for reasons I’ve already disclosed, this was entertaining. And cute. And destined for failure. But he kept going, and without prompting I might add.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool and all, being a lawyer. But it’s not like lives will rest in my hands or anything. It’s not like I’m holding a heart in my hands…”
Considering I’d quite literally been out on a procurement call with the transplant team earlier that day, and I had, in no uncertain terms, actually held a heart during the operation, it almost seemed like we had to tell him what we did for a living. If for no other reason than to shut him up and move him out of the way so we could flag down our cocktail waitress for another drink.
Dr. Downtown looked sideways at me for the go ahead, which I gave her. “Yeah, we know about the whole ‘lives in our hands’ type of job,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Why, what do you two do?”
“We’re surgeons,” she said.
His head jerked back in surprise. He almost spilled his gimlet. The one he’d put so much effort into effortlessly choosing from the menu. “Nuh uhhh!! You two are surgeons???”
Nodding, I almost felt bad about how easy it was to knock him down a few notches, not to mention nearly off the side of the couch.
“Like Grey’s Anatomy types??” he said, still baffled.
Oh, jeez, here we go again. Yeah…exactly like on Grey’s Anatomy.
-La Cubana Gringa
Dr. Downtown and I went to a local bar to catch up over a couple of drinks. We’d been there for about an hour when she got up from the tiny couch we’d elbowed everyone else off of to go use the bathroom. Little did I know how vulnerable I’d be without a wingwoman to shield me from the advances of the barely post-pubescent...
Before Dr. Downtown’s seat could even cool off, a young thing, just barely legal I later found out, promptly sat down beside me. And proceeded to ignore me while he made a deliberate show of the fact that he was perfectly happy to just peruse the cocktail menu, thank you very much. He swung it around, examining the back and front several times, with all the dramatic skill of a high school thespian in his starring role. Then he leaned back in what I still considered very much to be Dr. Downtown’s seat, and almost succeeded in looking surprised to find me sitting there beside him.
“Oh, hey,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything good on this thing?” He pointed to the drink menu.
“You mean you’re actually planning to order one of those?” I asked, quite sincerely. He’d picked up the girlie menu of fruity cocktails, among which were the raspberry mojito and pomegranate martini that Dr. Downtown and I had ordered. Dainty drinks I didn’t think any man intending to hit on a woman would actually order in front of said woman.
“Well, I don’t know about all this other stuff, but the gimlet looks like my style,” he smirked.
I nodded, about to tell him that my drinking buddy was due back any moment and that he should probably move when he said…
“Yeah, so I’m here with ‘my boys.’ We live in Palo Alto, do you know where that is?”
This time I did the smirking. First of all, because I hadn’t had a conversation in which anyone had seriously referred to their posse as ‘my boys’ since I was in high school. And second of all, because he was clearly making an unsubtle attempt to be subtle about the fact that he was in some way affiliated with this reputable academic institution, which is the only reason anyone his age would ever live in Palo Alto. He misread my smirk for an invitation to tell me more.
“Yeah, so, you know what it’s like then. It’s like fuckin’ suburbia. It sucks. So you know what I mean when I say that, since we don’t come up to SanFran too often, when we do, we gotta make it count.”
Oh?? And how, exactly, was this kid, who probably doesn’t even shave yet, planning on ‘making it count?’
Just as I was about to find out, Dr. Downtown came back. She examined the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt tucked into the pants that were occupying her seat and then looked over at me. At which point I pointed out to him that he should probably move. He gave her the seat back and repositioned himself on the armrest of our sofa. Just as he was about to squirt yet another smarmy remark out from betwixt his lips, one of his ‘boys’ came over to join him. Some whispers were exchanged.
“Hey, I’ll be right back. I owe ‘my boys’ a round.” And he was off.
I filled Dr. Downtown in on his efforts to make this SF trip count. By the time he came back, with a gimlet in his hands, she was up to speed. And since he apparently wasn’t going away any time soon, we figured we might as well make it count.
“So, I take it you’re in undergrad in Palo Alto?” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying the name of his highly esteemed school.
“No, I’m in law school. First year.” He tried to say it as if the sheer vocalization of it didn’t give him a stiffy, but it did. You could tell. He was quite pleased with himself.
Dr. Downtown and I exchanged glances at the shameless attempt to impress us. As women who seldom tell strangers what we actually do, for reasons I’ve already disclosed, this was entertaining. And cute. And destined for failure. But he kept going, and without prompting I might add.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool and all, being a lawyer. But it’s not like lives will rest in my hands or anything. It’s not like I’m holding a heart in my hands…”
Considering I’d quite literally been out on a procurement call with the transplant team earlier that day, and I had, in no uncertain terms, actually held a heart during the operation, it almost seemed like we had to tell him what we did for a living. If for no other reason than to shut him up and move him out of the way so we could flag down our cocktail waitress for another drink.
Dr. Downtown looked sideways at me for the go ahead, which I gave her. “Yeah, we know about the whole ‘lives in our hands’ type of job,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Why, what do you two do?”
“We’re surgeons,” she said.
His head jerked back in surprise. He almost spilled his gimlet. The one he’d put so much effort into effortlessly choosing from the menu. “Nuh uhhh!! You two are surgeons???”
Nodding, I almost felt bad about how easy it was to knock him down a few notches, not to mention nearly off the side of the couch.
“Like Grey’s Anatomy types??” he said, still baffled.
Oh, jeez, here we go again. Yeah…exactly like on Grey’s Anatomy.
-La Cubana Gringa
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sometimes mothers don't know best...
I am not a big fan of set-ups or blind dates. I rarely and reluctantly agree to be set up by my friends… and even more seldom so by my parents. One thing I’ve learned, despite their suffocating love, is that my parents have no idea who is right for me. At this point, given my age, I think they probably think that anybody who is still breathing and is able to open his eyes to look at me (through his cataracts) and blink once for “yes” is a great match for me… and I am not even close to retirement. Nor do I look it. In fact, a few years ago, a girl at Great America, whose job it was to accurately guess people’s age, guessed I was 10 years younger than my stated age. I got to pick the biggest stuffed animal there and she might have been fired for it, but that’s another story.
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Things men should never tell a woman
Long before I married, I was out on a date with a young lady who possessed the innocence of one of those cloistered Catholic school girls (Yeah, right!). She was short of stature with an angelic face and equally ample caboose. We had been seeing each other for quite some time, but up to that point we had shared no carnal knowledge. As a matter of fact, she had never been engaged in any kind of sexual activity beyond the normal coital stimulation which women often perform upon themselves as they venture into self-discovery. The only time that an attempt was made happened to be on a snowy Christmas night when my parents were out of the house. She became quite excited as we thrusts our pelvic bones together and I was just about to give her the seasonal Yule Tide log when my mother walked in. This is just a brief history of our relationship which has absolutely nothing to do with what I am about to tell you; I just thought it might amuse my readers.
Anyway, one evening as we were manducating our victuals at a local eatery, my sweet and bashful convent girl asked me if I thought she looked fat. Initially I said that she was just right; a vision of loveliness. If she had accepted that response, I dare say that our relationship would have flowered into more mature and long-lasting adventures. However, she continued her furious interrogation, insisting that she was fat and that I should not be afraid of giving her my unbiased opinion of her figure.
“Well”, I said “you probably could stand to lose a few pounds.” From that moment and all the way to her front door, she obliged me to subject myself to a tirade of the most horrible insults and expletives known to man.
So, I said all that to say this, guys. Never, under any circumstances or duress should you ever voice your opinion concerning a woman’s weight or how she looks in a dress. If you do, you will be seeing a side of your woman that you thought never existed; not to mention the possibility of physical assault. I’ve seen both, and it’s not a pretty sight.
- Daddio
Friday, February 16, 2007
Steady sexual income
When Ms. ATM and I first met, in the middle of our very first conversation, completely out of the blue, she started laughing hysterically. When I asked her what was so funny, she barely pulled herself together and holding back another attack of laughter said, "Do you always look so serious?”
I suppose I was a bit too serious throughout our brief relationship, mainly because I was afraid she liked me a little too much. It's never a good thing when a girl likes you too much when all you're trying to do is just have some fun. In fact that was precisely the reason I broke it off - my exact words were, "We probably shouldn't see each other - you like me too much.”
It was my turn to laugh when she informed me that she really didn't care for me all that much and was just after "…some steady sexual income..." After I somehow managed to wipe off the dumbfounded look off my face, I thought about asking if she would still be willing to accept a direct deposit, but I didn't have the heart.
- Mr. DirectDeposit
I suppose I was a bit too serious throughout our brief relationship, mainly because I was afraid she liked me a little too much. It's never a good thing when a girl likes you too much when all you're trying to do is just have some fun. In fact that was precisely the reason I broke it off - my exact words were, "We probably shouldn't see each other - you like me too much.”
It was my turn to laugh when she informed me that she really didn't care for me all that much and was just after "…some steady sexual income..." After I somehow managed to wipe off the dumbfounded look off my face, I thought about asking if she would still be willing to accept a direct deposit, but I didn't have the heart.
- Mr. DirectDeposit
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Unsavory tale
I met this man, whom I shall call Mr. Mushroom Head (for reasons I have no intention of divulging), at a dinner party. He wasn't particularly attractive, in fact he was a bit too rotund for my liking, and he was not at all tall; but he made up for his (literal) short-comings by being witty, slightly sarcastic and very at ease with himself. I had so much fun that evening, laughing until I was doubled over in pain, talking about anything and everything. There was something wonderfully different about him, and come to think of it he was actually quite sexy… So when he asked for my number at the end of the night, I gave it to him.
He called a few days later and we went out for dinner, and again I felt totally relaxed with him. He was slightly more suggestive, we flirted and it felt good. And there was definitely something very sexy about this short, slightly podgy man. He didn't try to be cool, but nor did he seem to feel at all insecure. It was rather attractive combination. Now, I'm normally not particularly moralistic about the "doing it" bit, I didn't grow up in a country where one has to abide by the strict rules and regulations on what is supposed to happen and not happen at various stages in the dating process. If you get on, if you fancy each other, then why not?
But for some reason Mr. Mushroom Head and I went out several times and merely kissed, and although the kissing did get quite hot at times (it is very sexy kissing a man who is slightly shorter than you), it simply didn't go any further.
Until that fateful night when he invited me to his house for dinner. I knew he loved food (and not just from his generously sized self), so I was really looking forward to the evening. And yes, I admit it wasn't just the food I was anticipating…
The food was delicious, the wine was vintage, his house was beautiful, I was beautiful. It was all going perfectly, and whilst he disappeared to use the bathroom I shamelessly entertained thoughts of living here in this house overlooking the sea, and…
My daydreaming was interrupted by his voice calling me from, well it sounded like the bathroom. He wanted to show me something. I got up and went into the hallway. The lights were turned down and I could see the shadows of flickering candles on the walls. I was surprised. Had he drawn a bath for me? But we had just eaten. I entered the bathroom (which was gorgeous by the way) and there he was, lying stark naked in an empty bathtub, and while doing things better left unmentioned in this respectable publication, he looked up at me and said in a dreadful little boy's voice: "Pee on me, please pee on me, I have been a very naughty boy".
By Waspgoddess
He called a few days later and we went out for dinner, and again I felt totally relaxed with him. He was slightly more suggestive, we flirted and it felt good. And there was definitely something very sexy about this short, slightly podgy man. He didn't try to be cool, but nor did he seem to feel at all insecure. It was rather attractive combination. Now, I'm normally not particularly moralistic about the "doing it" bit, I didn't grow up in a country where one has to abide by the strict rules and regulations on what is supposed to happen and not happen at various stages in the dating process. If you get on, if you fancy each other, then why not?
But for some reason Mr. Mushroom Head and I went out several times and merely kissed, and although the kissing did get quite hot at times (it is very sexy kissing a man who is slightly shorter than you), it simply didn't go any further.
Until that fateful night when he invited me to his house for dinner. I knew he loved food (and not just from his generously sized self), so I was really looking forward to the evening. And yes, I admit it wasn't just the food I was anticipating…
The food was delicious, the wine was vintage, his house was beautiful, I was beautiful. It was all going perfectly, and whilst he disappeared to use the bathroom I shamelessly entertained thoughts of living here in this house overlooking the sea, and…
My daydreaming was interrupted by his voice calling me from, well it sounded like the bathroom. He wanted to show me something. I got up and went into the hallway. The lights were turned down and I could see the shadows of flickering candles on the walls. I was surprised. Had he drawn a bath for me? But we had just eaten. I entered the bathroom (which was gorgeous by the way) and there he was, lying stark naked in an empty bathtub, and while doing things better left unmentioned in this respectable publication, he looked up at me and said in a dreadful little boy's voice: "Pee on me, please pee on me, I have been a very naughty boy".
By Waspgoddess
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I am, afterall, only 61.75 inches tall...
Before The Brit rode in on his armored Mini Cooper and rescued me from The Battlefield that is dating, I’d dated several “characters.” This, much to the dismay of my mother who would twist her face in a pretzel of incredulous disapproval upon mention of the subject, particularly when I would, quite tastelessly, compare the ritual of dating to an afternoon of shopping for shoes: One has to try on several pair sometimes before finding the right fit. Gasp!! You see, when she married my father at the tender, unripened age of 16, he was the only boy she’d ever been on a date with. And a chaperoned date, at that. So, one might understand how this whole Dating Thing was beyond her comprehension. And, as such, why she would frequently remind me that farmers rarely bought the cow when they could get the milk for free.
Thank God I was a sharp kid and didn’t take her literally. Otherwise, I might have ended up estranged and confused. On a dairy farm.
No. I stayed away from those perverted farmers and went straight for the perverted doctors. Within weeks of starting my residency, I’d spotted him. Dr. Ferrari. He was good looking. Smart. (I mean, presumably, right? He went to med school, after all, so he couldn’t be completely devoid of grey matter.) ( Presumably.) And upon our first few encounters in the ICU, he seemed to have just the right touch of confidence. You know the kind…that which teeters on the cusp of arrogance, juuuuuust enough to be mysteriously sexy without actually being arrogant.
It was a quick beginning. But after I’d tried the shoes on a few times, I came to the brisk conclusion that I’d leave them at the store after all. Not that they weren’t GREAT shoes. They were. The fantastically naughty and spontaneous kind. However, I realized that that there was no teetering on the cusp for this guy. No, Dr. Ferrari had long ago fallen off the teeter totter, down the slippery slope of his silver spoon, over the gargantuan cliff next to his privileged house on a hill, and into a cavernous pool of smug self-righteousness and trite entitlement. Conversations with him revolved around him. His collection of Versace ties. His boundless affection for the LA lifestyle he someday hoped to live, you know, in between all the clubbing he’d do. His reputation for being a player…the seventy-some women who he’d already conquered. His platinum colored convertible Porsche 911, which, I was frequently reminded, was simply a stepping-stone to the car he was truly meant to drive. A Ferrari. Of course.
It got boring. (The conversation, not the shoes.) I thought after about a week it would fizzle out. He’d move on to some other cow and I’d move along to the next shoe store. But he kept calling. Started getting all sentimental. And serious! At first I found it humorous. Much in the same way I’d find it humorous if my mother decided to pursue her previously stifled passion for the kazoo as an orchestra instrument. Which she hasn’t by the way (we’d never stifle such a dream) but really, it would elicit the same hampered laugh and the same “you’re not serious are you?” But alas, Dr. Ferrari was serious. And quite persistent. So, gingerly and with my udders on guard, I humored him and continued to date him.
It was during this time that I came to learn that beneath what I had initially thought was a shallow pool, was, in fact, another even shallower pool. Honestly. The clubbing was fun at first, but after a couple months of juggling it with an 80-hour work week, it got old. As did the Ferrari talk, which was tediously perseverative. Especially when I found out that he wasn’t even paying for his current ride, his physician parents were. In fact, his parents were paying for everything. His house with a view. His medical education. His Versace ties. All of it. Having come from a family that had never owned a home, one that lived paycheck to paycheck, and having put myself in tremendous debt to educate myself, it was safe to say that we came from two different walks of life. Furthermore, he was admittedly getting ancy with the whole Monogamy Thing. Dr. Ferrari was successfully ruining his conquistador reputation by hanging out with the same chic. And one that wasn’t a Hollywood blonde, at that. This was ok, though, as I’d concluded that I’d enjoyed the shoes for long enough.
Our break-up discussion was uncomplicated, as they tend to be when a cow attempts to talk to a used pair of shoes in a shallow pool. I gave him a brief soliloquy about how I thought we simply came from polar opposite backgrounds and would never understand each other. I poured on, too long in retrospect, about how, since he’d never really struggled for anything in his life, he’d never truly get me. That I needed someone who could relate. Someone more sensitive. And that he could stand to be a little bit more thoughtful to other people and their feelings.
When I was done, I shifted my gaze from my fidgeting hands to his face. He stared back at me, blankly. Lips pursed. I waved my hand in front of his vacant eyes, no doubt interrupting the mental scrolling he was doing through the list of clubs he might hit up later that night. He snapped out of his silent social planning and looked at me with eyes that said, “Right. You done then?”
Not quite. One last thing. So as not to be accused of not allowing him to give me an equal amount of criticism, I asked him if there was anything he thought I needed to work on. Any weaknesses he might see in me that I might improve for my next relationship.
A great number of vacuous moments went by. He sat back on his leather couch (parents paid for that too), let out a big cumbersome sigh, bit the inside of his cheek and allowed his eyes to drift up and to the left…thinking thinking thinking.
“Well?” I said.
He looked back at me, slowly and reluctantly. And then he uttered the words that have since gone down in history as the most ridiculous and most quoted phrase of any ex of mine: “Well…I have often thought you were quite short.”
[Exited stage right, laughing out loud.]
-La Cubana Gringa
Thank God I was a sharp kid and didn’t take her literally. Otherwise, I might have ended up estranged and confused. On a dairy farm.
No. I stayed away from those perverted farmers and went straight for the perverted doctors. Within weeks of starting my residency, I’d spotted him. Dr. Ferrari. He was good looking. Smart. (I mean, presumably, right? He went to med school, after all, so he couldn’t be completely devoid of grey matter.) ( Presumably.) And upon our first few encounters in the ICU, he seemed to have just the right touch of confidence. You know the kind…that which teeters on the cusp of arrogance, juuuuuust enough to be mysteriously sexy without actually being arrogant.
It was a quick beginning. But after I’d tried the shoes on a few times, I came to the brisk conclusion that I’d leave them at the store after all. Not that they weren’t GREAT shoes. They were. The fantastically naughty and spontaneous kind. However, I realized that that there was no teetering on the cusp for this guy. No, Dr. Ferrari had long ago fallen off the teeter totter, down the slippery slope of his silver spoon, over the gargantuan cliff next to his privileged house on a hill, and into a cavernous pool of smug self-righteousness and trite entitlement. Conversations with him revolved around him. His collection of Versace ties. His boundless affection for the LA lifestyle he someday hoped to live, you know, in between all the clubbing he’d do. His reputation for being a player…the seventy-some women who he’d already conquered. His platinum colored convertible Porsche 911, which, I was frequently reminded, was simply a stepping-stone to the car he was truly meant to drive. A Ferrari. Of course.
It got boring. (The conversation, not the shoes.) I thought after about a week it would fizzle out. He’d move on to some other cow and I’d move along to the next shoe store. But he kept calling. Started getting all sentimental. And serious! At first I found it humorous. Much in the same way I’d find it humorous if my mother decided to pursue her previously stifled passion for the kazoo as an orchestra instrument. Which she hasn’t by the way (we’d never stifle such a dream) but really, it would elicit the same hampered laugh and the same “you’re not serious are you?” But alas, Dr. Ferrari was serious. And quite persistent. So, gingerly and with my udders on guard, I humored him and continued to date him.
It was during this time that I came to learn that beneath what I had initially thought was a shallow pool, was, in fact, another even shallower pool. Honestly. The clubbing was fun at first, but after a couple months of juggling it with an 80-hour work week, it got old. As did the Ferrari talk, which was tediously perseverative. Especially when I found out that he wasn’t even paying for his current ride, his physician parents were. In fact, his parents were paying for everything. His house with a view. His medical education. His Versace ties. All of it. Having come from a family that had never owned a home, one that lived paycheck to paycheck, and having put myself in tremendous debt to educate myself, it was safe to say that we came from two different walks of life. Furthermore, he was admittedly getting ancy with the whole Monogamy Thing. Dr. Ferrari was successfully ruining his conquistador reputation by hanging out with the same chic. And one that wasn’t a Hollywood blonde, at that. This was ok, though, as I’d concluded that I’d enjoyed the shoes for long enough.
Our break-up discussion was uncomplicated, as they tend to be when a cow attempts to talk to a used pair of shoes in a shallow pool. I gave him a brief soliloquy about how I thought we simply came from polar opposite backgrounds and would never understand each other. I poured on, too long in retrospect, about how, since he’d never really struggled for anything in his life, he’d never truly get me. That I needed someone who could relate. Someone more sensitive. And that he could stand to be a little bit more thoughtful to other people and their feelings.
When I was done, I shifted my gaze from my fidgeting hands to his face. He stared back at me, blankly. Lips pursed. I waved my hand in front of his vacant eyes, no doubt interrupting the mental scrolling he was doing through the list of clubs he might hit up later that night. He snapped out of his silent social planning and looked at me with eyes that said, “Right. You done then?”
Not quite. One last thing. So as not to be accused of not allowing him to give me an equal amount of criticism, I asked him if there was anything he thought I needed to work on. Any weaknesses he might see in me that I might improve for my next relationship.
A great number of vacuous moments went by. He sat back on his leather couch (parents paid for that too), let out a big cumbersome sigh, bit the inside of his cheek and allowed his eyes to drift up and to the left…thinking thinking thinking.
“Well?” I said.
He looked back at me, slowly and reluctantly. And then he uttered the words that have since gone down in history as the most ridiculous and most quoted phrase of any ex of mine: “Well…I have often thought you were quite short.”
[Exited stage right, laughing out loud.]
-La Cubana Gringa
Still can't figure out if I need it or just really want it...
Dating seemed a rather simple matter when I was younger. All of my first dates (A) naturally evolved into relationships (B), which were seldom long-lived but still made it seem as though dating was fun and simple (C). It was an uncomplicated equation: A+B=C. Repeat, until C = The Right One.
At the age of 21, I still hadn’t found my “C.” Quite the opposite, I was newly single, yet again, and busily gluing the pieces of my broken hear back together. Back to the drawing board to start a new equation all over again. So, when a friend of mine wanted to play matchmaker, I went along with it. And this is how I arrived in time and place on a first date with Mr. Sexessity. He was tall, good looking, and charming. I thought, how bad could it be?
Little did I know I was about to encounter an entirely different equation…or at least one in which the variables had entirely different meanings: A = What the fuck?? And B = Yeah, if you could go ahead and NEVER CALL ME EVER AGAIN, that’d be great!
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, he took me to a bar in North Beach. A few red flags went up right away. Let’s just say Mama didn’t raise me in a barn: I was a proper lady (at the time) and I’d previously only dated gentlemen. Mr. Sexessity was clearly NOT. I went to the restroom (NOT to powder my nose) and when I came out, he was already seated at a table, sipping a drink he’d gone ahead and ordered for himself. He didn’t pull out my chair. Or take my coat. (Mind you, I was way more sophisticated then than I am now…all that properness has disintegrated into a puddle of lowered expectations.) I was appalled but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was quick to start the conversation with a few basic questions. They seemed pretty innocent. Only, after about five minutes, I noticed a pattern: each question started with the phrase “So, I’ve asked many girls this question, and I’m wondering what your answer is…” These questions ranged from what town I was born in to what my preferred mode of transportation around Europe was (train or air?). I found myself wishing I’d taken the time to print out my resume, as that would have given me a sufficient lead-time of peace and quiet to concentrate on getting drunk. The interrogation lasted an hour. Given that this was my first date in a while, I went along with it, particularly since I was unsure about whether or not this rapid-fire question session was just the way dating was done now. I felt like I was being quizzed for potential hire as the “next girl” who he was going to date. Then, the final question came: “So, I’ve asked many girls this…Is sex a necessity or a pleasure for you? Many girls say it’s a pleasure for them, but for me, it’s a necessity.” My jaw dropped and before I had the time to formulate a response, he invited me to accompany him to the nearest sex shop.
Wait! Had I passed?? Hang on…was that a good thing or something to be feared? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the lucky many who then had the pleasure of experiencing the necessity that was sex.
I got home, my mind reeling with the shock of just how much dating had changed since I’d last been on the scene. Minutes later, I received a phone call from none other than Mr. Sexessity himself asking if he could see me again. I told him I’d be busy for at least a year. That, if he still remembers my number, he should not call back then, cause chances are, I’d most likely be busy as well.
Will A+B ever = C??
- Innigma
At the age of 21, I still hadn’t found my “C.” Quite the opposite, I was newly single, yet again, and busily gluing the pieces of my broken hear back together. Back to the drawing board to start a new equation all over again. So, when a friend of mine wanted to play matchmaker, I went along with it. And this is how I arrived in time and place on a first date with Mr. Sexessity. He was tall, good looking, and charming. I thought, how bad could it be?
Little did I know I was about to encounter an entirely different equation…or at least one in which the variables had entirely different meanings: A = What the fuck?? And B = Yeah, if you could go ahead and NEVER CALL ME EVER AGAIN, that’d be great!
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, he took me to a bar in North Beach. A few red flags went up right away. Let’s just say Mama didn’t raise me in a barn: I was a proper lady (at the time) and I’d previously only dated gentlemen. Mr. Sexessity was clearly NOT. I went to the restroom (NOT to powder my nose) and when I came out, he was already seated at a table, sipping a drink he’d gone ahead and ordered for himself. He didn’t pull out my chair. Or take my coat. (Mind you, I was way more sophisticated then than I am now…all that properness has disintegrated into a puddle of lowered expectations.) I was appalled but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was quick to start the conversation with a few basic questions. They seemed pretty innocent. Only, after about five minutes, I noticed a pattern: each question started with the phrase “So, I’ve asked many girls this question, and I’m wondering what your answer is…” These questions ranged from what town I was born in to what my preferred mode of transportation around Europe was (train or air?). I found myself wishing I’d taken the time to print out my resume, as that would have given me a sufficient lead-time of peace and quiet to concentrate on getting drunk. The interrogation lasted an hour. Given that this was my first date in a while, I went along with it, particularly since I was unsure about whether or not this rapid-fire question session was just the way dating was done now. I felt like I was being quizzed for potential hire as the “next girl” who he was going to date. Then, the final question came: “So, I’ve asked many girls this…Is sex a necessity or a pleasure for you? Many girls say it’s a pleasure for them, but for me, it’s a necessity.” My jaw dropped and before I had the time to formulate a response, he invited me to accompany him to the nearest sex shop.
Wait! Had I passed?? Hang on…was that a good thing or something to be feared? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the lucky many who then had the pleasure of experiencing the necessity that was sex.
I got home, my mind reeling with the shock of just how much dating had changed since I’d last been on the scene. Minutes later, I received a phone call from none other than Mr. Sexessity himself asking if he could see me again. I told him I’d be busy for at least a year. That, if he still remembers my number, he should not call back then, cause chances are, I’d most likely be busy as well.
Will A+B ever = C??
- Innigma
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