It's not me, it's another girl....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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