So, I’ve been dating more of late. Averaging one date a week these days, and it’s all right. Nobody has yet made me pitter-patter, but we’re getting better on the averages here.
My big sexual misadventure of a couple of weeks was the classic case of pulling the trigger way too soon (in more ways than one) largely because I stupidly gave in when instinct said “Stick to the script, girlie. Use the door.” Ultimately the blame lies with me because I’m the person who probably had better perspective that night, but hormones said “Get thee LAID.” Not what I had in mind, but.
Now, though, that’s not the problem. I’m not “going there” for the hell of it. Getting laid is nice, but I’m not doing it if anyone’s getting hurt, or if it’s just flat-out dishonest. And I just don’t feel taking advantage of situations for my hormones, either. It needs to be genuine, and the right thing for right then. As it turns out, I seem to be doing all the rejecting these days, which is new, which is good, but the guilt sort of sucks sometimes.
Like, Monday I had a date. To be brutally honest, I was disappointed to see he has a bigger weight problem than I thought, and that’s a big problem for me at this point in my life.
Here’s where I have to clarify: Hard bodies don’t interest me. Never have. Some are hot but in that “I’d fuck you but I’d never, ever trust you” kind of way. Is that bigoted toward excessively pretty people? Sure, but it’s going on the averages I’ve come to see in my own life. There are always exceptions, of course.
But like I told my date tonight, it’s about health and strength. I’m not strong enough to be around someone who loves food, and all the wrong kinds. I can’t. I’ve lost 50 pounds, gone from a 22 to a 16, and I can’t go back. Won’t. Dad almost died of diabetes. I was heading toward a future of heart disease and diabetes and premature death. I had the “This isn’t good” chat with the doc. I was filled with self-loathing and felt like I was out of the loop with life. I’m so much better than that now. I like this girl. I like her a lot.
And why wouldn’t I? I have changed everything.
So I had the decency to say I’d keep an open mind and if I saw him trending toward health and fitness, I’d develop an interest… most likely.* Which is true. He’s certainly of the “type” I gravitate toward. Very much so. But not at the price of putting myself around a life of excess, not anymore.
Bodywise, that “type” however tends to be guys just carrying a literal few extra pounds. Maybe 30, 40, 50 pounds overweight, depending on height and frame, just of the mildly “doughy” and comfy but nothing more than that. Kind of maybe at a max to the extent that I myself am presently overweight.
Cushion for the pushin’ and a little extra to soften the blow? Works for me.
But you got to know, I’m not keen on bones gnashing into me during sex. I dig madly the slap-slap-slap sound of flesh hitting flesh in the act. Thin-people sex doesn’t sound as fun. They need a little more slappin’. I really love skin, but more importantly, flesh. I’m all about the meat of it. Good firm meat, of course. Like firmness. Excessively jiggling meat, not so good.
But when I say “doughy”, I’m talking more in a Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, not Jack Black. Geeky and softish but in proportion. What can I say? I’m that type, and I like that type. Says a lot about the light I see myself in, if anything, I guess.
Now, me, personally, I ain’t aiming to be slim and trim. Not in my goals at all, whatever you think of this weightloss quest. I see my ass being perfect at about a size 10-ish. Face it, in life and on this blog, my personality’s larger than life. “Slim” doesn’t compute when one throws it up against “Steff”. I mean, really? Foodie-sensualist-scooter-riding-feminist-geeky-sex-fiend girl? Thin? No.
I like myself a little on the soft side. Just not as much as I was. š That problem’s solved anyhow. Like I wrote yesterday, waxing about the new loveliness of my thighs. Smooth, firm. Lovely! I like this. Shaving is so much more fun. Yet, my ass is amply grabbable. S’all right.
If my proportion stays as good as it is, but I just slim up a little more, then I’ll have what I think is the perfect body. Fuck the media, fuck size two, fuck DDs, fuck it all. I’m cool with a B-cup 10. The ever-perfect 10.
But I’d feel like shit if I just slammed the door of possibility on this guy, who has a lot to offer, but lives a different lifestyle than me right now. I’ve been that person. A little faith would have done me some good.
And it’s like that bumper sticker. “I may be fat, but you’re ugly, and I can diet.” Exactly. He’s cute.
Good people are good people, whatever their size. But they say your social situation dictates your fitness. Hang with overweight folk? You’ll be overweight. Why? They eat fat food, don’t exercise. Hang with thin people? You’ll lose weight. Why? Because they tend to eat better, exercise. Nature, nurture?
It ain’t science, it’s just environment. And given how much a glutton I am when the lovin’s good, given my foodie-sensualist bent, I need to be a very careful girl these days. Let’s nibble wee bits of wonderful cheese and lots of fruit, maybe a crumb of excellent dark chocolate, but nix the pizza. Choice is a wonderful thing.
And that’s the way that low-fat cookie crumbles. As did my date. With whom I’ve vowed to stay in touch with, and get to know, either way, with an open mind. Since he aims to “prove it”. Because good people are good people.
*Steff note: I should add he says he’s up to my challenge and says I should stick around. I said sure. We’ll see.
Tag Archives: Dating
From Super-Crowded Weekend to… Nothing? Score!
I was supposed to have a date this evening, but that’s been derailed by a trainwreck called life. Dude got pitched a curveball, and now has to go deal with the fallout. And I’m cool with that. I’ve opted out, since all I thought I was signing up for was some fun and companionship, not a drama.
I’m keeping that possibility open (of fun and companionship) because we all have this shit rain down on us sometimes and everyone comes with baggage. That’s just reality. Some people are worth it though. But. But. But. That’s a pretty select few, so I’m keeping all my options open, and I’m quite fine with saying “No, too much, buh-bye” if only because adversity + new relationships are like alcohol and cars. You could, but it’s pretty fucking stupid, you know? Better to say, “Hey, you’re cool. Sort your shit out and gimme a call when you’re up for something, we’ll see if it’s a fit”.
Life’s that double-edged sword: too short not to take the chance, but too long to do it at the wrong time, right? Continue reading
A Rant, Because I'm Bitter
I decided to take a swing through Craig’s List personals for the hell of it, though I don’t really want a relationship, maybe just a nice friend with benefits more than anything at this point. No time for head games or confusion, no heart available for breaking. You know how it is.
And what do I see? “If you’re a your-pic-gets-mine, go away — I hate shallow people.”
Put a cork in it, whiney.
Jesus Christ. “Shallow.” SHALLOW? Fuck that. Anyone who thinks physicality and the need of pictures is shallow is someone who’s just five minutes away from the playground, all right? What are you, some little kid who’s tired of being picked last for soccer or something?
Me, I’m not looking for the next Johnny Depp or Tom Cruise. Not in a long shot. I don’t want some muscle-bound adonis able to leap fenceposts in a single move, nor do I want chiselled features and a rock-hard ab. What I do want is someone with that little je-ne-sais-quoi appeal that maybe only exists for my benefit. Maybe no one else in the world finds ’em sexy, but if I do, that’s enough for me.
Me, I gotta have eyes I can fall into and lips that make me wanna kiss ’em. I gotta have a face I can stare at and talk to for hours. Without those, what’s the point?
It ain’t shallow to acknowledge that there is, to an extent, an importance when it comes to physical features. I’d be a hypocrite if I said I don’t expect him to need to find me attractive, and I’d be a fool if I thought all men would indeed find me attractive. More than half probably wouldn’t. I’m overweight, gots ze cushion for the pushin’, subscribe to the bonus-lover plan, have tits that could be larger, a gap between my teeth, and a crooked eyebrow. Me, I think it works in its own kooky way. The guys who like me, they like me. Then I have the personality and the sexual vivaciousness, and it all combines rather decently.
But it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I’m not going to get all broken-hearted ‘cos a guy doesn’t find me to his liking. Odds are pretty good that’s a mutual finding. It ain’t shallow.
It’s chemistry.
Grow the fuck up and get your idealism out of your ass, is what I have to say, all right? Silly kids, brain cells aren’t optional. Opt in or get out. Simple.
Now, because I do not have a friend with benefits to take my frustrations out on, I’m going to straddle a bike seat and give it a good, hard riding instead. I feel some punk music comin’ on.
RANT(ish): Fuck that Couch!
My couch is gone. My piece of shit, black vinyl couch is gone. In its place is a new, black-and-blue cloth (presumably piece of shit but thus far unproven as such) couch that I was given as a warranty replacement.
Also gone is its history.
All those nights spent cuddling with cute guys, the dirty s-e-x, the nakedness, the hinge-testing activities, the massages, the naked nibbling of foods and sipping of wine, the fumbling for protection hidden in the coffee table, the whispered jokes, restrained moans, gasping ā all of it, gone.
My slate, and my couch, are clean.
Iām entering into this, āFuck you, Iām single?ā phase now.
Iām too fucking cool to be single. Iām good in bed. Iām cute. Iām a fucking fab cook. Iām doting. Iām expressive. Iām clear in what I say. I listen well. I empathize. I intellectualize. And I know how to laugh.
Single? Fucking hell, men!
Iāve been through the denial and the sadness, and now Iām into anger. Not at him, not really, but maybe a bit. Itās really, though, just āit all.ā At myself, in particular. I shoulda fucking walked sooner. Now, here I am, the middle of summer, and no one fun to play with. The beginning of the relationship, great. The last 8-10 weeks, I was already practically checked out emotionally as I was certain it would end. I knew what was coming, I understood the mindfuck of healing, but he didnāt. Yet I was stupid enough to stick around, hoping, like an idiot, things would change. I knew better then, and I know far better now. But it is what it is. And now, here I am.
Single. Again.
Iām the original ālove yourself, love singleness!ā cheerleader, but, fuck, man, getting together with someoneās pretty cool too, and I was right to be optimistic. So, yes, thrown for a loop, collecting myself, and doing a bit of a mess of it, but Iāll get my shit together. I always do.
What really pisses me off, though, about singleness, is society.
It screams at you SO fucking loud. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep.
Itās a mindless fucking droning that is echoed by film, tv, ads, and music. Everywhere you look, itās about āthe one you loveā and āforever.ā Without someone, you might as well be nothing.
Me, I like dining out. Have you ever gone to a decent restaurant and eaten alone? I have. It sort of feels like the time I was in a wheelchair back when I had a leg injury and had to get around an amusement park for the day. Half the people eye you with respect and empathy, and the others eye you with some kind of sympathy and pity.
āOh, she must have been stood up. No one eats alone.ā
Yeah? No one, huh? Fuck you and your lame-ass stats keeping, buddy. I eat alone, and I like it. Catch up on my reading, you know? These days, I just do it in the kinds of places that ālonelyā people are acceptable in ā diners, coffee shops, the like. Thatās a money thing, not because Iām letting the bastards get me down. But, these days, I donāt really enjoy fine dining without company. I can cook that well at home, and get great satisfaction in it, so if Iām spending the dime, I want some flesh on my arm and an ass by my side, you know?
Iām liking the new couch. Iām glad I no longer think of any of the guys Iāve been with on that couch. Iām glad the memories are, in a way, purged. Iām really fucking happy about that.
Along with the couch, Iāve also rolled up my area rugs and put them in the storeroom for the season. I figure thereās greatly reduced probabilities of rolling around in pursuit of carpet burn as I have dirty, naughty sex on the floor, so why deal with vacuuming and mustiness in the middle of a heatwave. Hardwood floors rock.
Yeah, fuck all this. I, too, dislike being single in a society that thinks Iām wrong to be this way. Being single takes time to adjust to, it takes much love of oneself, and a love for independence and spontanaeity. Going through hard times is not conducive to any of those things. As my life settles down, my love of being solo will return, if I donāt find me some masculine specimen before that.
I donāt want a relationship, I donāt think, right now, but I wouldnāt mind a little play time, if you know what Iām saying. So, Iām hatching a plan and continuing what I started a couple weeks ago in regards to getting back out into the world.
Lifeās fucked right up, but it ought to settle on down soon. And then, I’ll be back.
Depress-o-meter: I’m, what, a 6 today? Got through the night with no dope, no drinking, not too much attitude. (Not like I’ve been drinking much, or that I ever do, but I have certainly been smoking dope. Waaaay too much!) That first night of “good behaviour” usually is sleepless, but I got six hours. The worst is over. That’s good. Now to keep keepin’ on.
Also gone is its history.
All those nights spent cuddling with cute guys, the dirty s-e-x, the nakedness, the hinge-testing activities, the massages, the naked nibbling of foods and sipping of wine, the fumbling for protection hidden in the coffee table, the whispered jokes, restrained moans, gasping ā all of it, gone.
My slate, and my couch, are clean.
Iām entering into this, āFuck you, Iām single?ā phase now.
Iām too fucking cool to be single. Iām good in bed. Iām cute. Iām a fucking fab cook. Iām doting. Iām expressive. Iām clear in what I say. I listen well. I empathize. I intellectualize. And I know how to laugh.
Single? Fucking hell, men!
Iāve been through the denial and the sadness, and now Iām into anger. Not at him, not really, but maybe a bit. Itās really, though, just āit all.ā At myself, in particular. I shoulda fucking walked sooner. Now, here I am, the middle of summer, and no one fun to play with. The beginning of the relationship, great. The last 8-10 weeks, I was already practically checked out emotionally as I was certain it would end. I knew what was coming, I understood the mindfuck of healing, but he didnāt. Yet I was stupid enough to stick around, hoping, like an idiot, things would change. I knew better then, and I know far better now. But it is what it is. And now, here I am.
Single. Again.
Iām the original ālove yourself, love singleness!ā cheerleader, but, fuck, man, getting together with someoneās pretty cool too, and I was right to be optimistic. So, yes, thrown for a loop, collecting myself, and doing a bit of a mess of it, but Iāll get my shit together. I always do.
What really pisses me off, though, about singleness, is society.
It screams at you SO fucking loud. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep. Youāre only as good as the company you keep.
Itās a mindless fucking droning that is echoed by film, tv, ads, and music. Everywhere you look, itās about āthe one you loveā and āforever.ā Without someone, you might as well be nothing.
Me, I like dining out. Have you ever gone to a decent restaurant and eaten alone? I have. It sort of feels like the time I was in a wheelchair back when I had a leg injury and had to get around an amusement park for the day. Half the people eye you with respect and empathy, and the others eye you with some kind of sympathy and pity.
āOh, she must have been stood up. No one eats alone.ā
Yeah? No one, huh? Fuck you and your lame-ass stats keeping, buddy. I eat alone, and I like it. Catch up on my reading, you know? These days, I just do it in the kinds of places that ālonelyā people are acceptable in ā diners, coffee shops, the like. Thatās a money thing, not because Iām letting the bastards get me down. But, these days, I donāt really enjoy fine dining without company. I can cook that well at home, and get great satisfaction in it, so if Iām spending the dime, I want some flesh on my arm and an ass by my side, you know?
Iām liking the new couch. Iām glad I no longer think of any of the guys Iāve been with on that couch. Iām glad the memories are, in a way, purged. Iām really fucking happy about that.
Along with the couch, Iāve also rolled up my area rugs and put them in the storeroom for the season. I figure thereās greatly reduced probabilities of rolling around in pursuit of carpet burn as I have dirty, naughty sex on the floor, so why deal with vacuuming and mustiness in the middle of a heatwave. Hardwood floors rock.
Yeah, fuck all this. I, too, dislike being single in a society that thinks Iām wrong to be this way. Being single takes time to adjust to, it takes much love of oneself, and a love for independence and spontanaeity. Going through hard times is not conducive to any of those things. As my life settles down, my love of being solo will return, if I donāt find me some masculine specimen before that.
I donāt want a relationship, I donāt think, right now, but I wouldnāt mind a little play time, if you know what Iām saying. So, Iām hatching a plan and continuing what I started a couple weeks ago in regards to getting back out into the world.
Lifeās fucked right up, but it ought to settle on down soon. And then, I’ll be back.
Depress-o-meter: I’m, what, a 6 today? Got through the night with no dope, no drinking, not too much attitude. (Not like I’ve been drinking much, or that I ever do, but I have certainly been smoking dope. Waaaay too much!) That first night of “good behaviour” usually is sleepless, but I got six hours. The worst is over. That’s good. Now to keep keepin’ on.
Super Steff Pseudo-Single on a Friday Night
And what do I choose to do with it? Sleep. It would seem Girl has pathological bed tendencies. Someone get a shrink.
No, no. I had a migraine-ish thing. On the list of 817 things you donāt really know about me is the fact that I am the Human Barometer. Yes, a weather front shift looms, and so does a giant barometric flip of the switch in my head, and sometimes Iām felled by these mondo-mofos of a headache.
The Guy is being demonstrated the Evil Mind-controlling Superpowers of that arch-villain, The Office. While heās out there battling Evil, Iāve been taking a break from my Autocrat of the World role. I ālaid downā at nine and just rolled out of bed at 11:32. What am I, 12? I havenāt been to bed that early in quite a while.
Stop the presses, people. We may be on the verge of a mini Dating Dilemma. You see, there is now a great disparity in Me-Time ratios. Me, Iām drowning in Me-Time. Iām all lazy in my Joe Boxers and my hooded sweatshirt, curling my red-painted toes in the chilly spring night air, yawning, and debating between the merits of Bath versus Shower.
The Guy? Trapped in death-defying battle with his dreaded arch-nemesis, The Office, as he slays Deadlines and mocks the Greatly Abhored Accounting Department on the dreaded conundrum of Mandatory Overtime.
Tomorrow, I will be well-rested, and he will be bone-tired, having worked nearly 18 hours or more in a row. Thus, the Great Relationship Inequity shall begin.
[Please, someone, break through the Space-Time Continuum and break my shift-key, will you?]
He is likely to be short-tempered, low-energy, and unwilling to do much. And understandably so. I am like to feel sorry for him, then feel sorry for me being all Boyfriend-Deprived. And understandably so. But it canāt stop there.
This is life. My job as an adult, for this 72-hour period, is to realize heās having a hard time of it, and Iām, well, lying around in my Joe Boxers and my sweatshirt, having eaten a good bowl of butter chicken . This means, no matter how I slice it, my weekendās a let-down. But guess what? Guyās weekend really went from zero-to-blows in about 60 seconds, long, long ago.
The additional fall-out is that sex may or may not be on the books for a few days. And understandably so. Does it mean Iām happy about it? What do you think, Junior Einstein? Oh, thatās right ā thatās a big āNo!ā But Iām an adult, and Iāll deal just fine. I canāt even fathom having to work 17 hours in a row using actual brainpower like the Guy is now. To expect him to function at all like a human in the next couple of days is a tall order, despite whatever superpowers might reside in his pants.
Tonight, I understand. Tomorrow, when my body remembers itās female and thus emotionally needy by nature, I might feel a sniffly sad thing or two that Iām not going to have the weekend I deep-down-inside want. Whatever. Grown-up powers, activate! (Okay, if youāre one of my collegiate readers and you missed the Justice League of America and the Wonder Twins, well, thatās your problem. You missed the minimum age requirement for riding, but we chose to overlook it. Feel grateful!)
Relationships are full of disparities, and the hard part is being perceptive enough and adult enough to realize when the scales have tipped drastically in one direction versus another. The other challenge is remembering that, while this āweekendā feels like forever when I canāt be with a lover I crave, in the long run, itās a couple frigginā days in the life of my relationship, so I need to keep perspective on just how troubling I feel my times really are.
Itās hard to pull your head out of your inner childās ass sometimes in order to remember just how much there is a big world that rotates around your itty-bitty little existence. If you donāt manage the cranial extraction though, youāre fucked. Itās really that simple. A āwoe is meā attitude only gets you so far.
No woe-is-me here. Iāve just been handed the opportunity to get my place dealt with, get out on my own a bit, and live my own life, hence pseudo-single. The Guyās stuck being whipped by the Man, and those lashes are gonna sting for a few days. This is how the vicious circle spins, and my secret superhero Activator powers are just kicking in. (Insert powerful whooshing SFX here.)
Wonder Twin powers, ACTIVATE! In the shape of… grown-up!
The Relationship Ride
When I was a little girl, I liked the āniceā rides at amusement parks. The Tilt-a-Whirl was a favourite. Thereād be those moments when youād spin wildly and youād verge on nausea, and then itād slow on down, and youād settle back into an easy pace. It was unpredictable, but never dangerous, and never scary. The perfect combination, I always thought.
When I was eight, I went to Ontario to visit family, and my Evil Vixen cousin decided I needed to try a scarier experience. I was just tall enough to ride, and this was one of those big wheel-type thingies where everyone walks in, gets strapped against the wall, and the thing spins madly at wild speeds, first on a horizontal plane, but then it starts angling and elevating, until you hit absolute vertical ā with every rotation, you go from facing skyward to staring at the ground from a height of a hundred feet or more. For an eight-year-old Steff, it was hellishly frightening. Throw in the blasting music and the screams and taunts of others, and there I was, out of control.
I was screaming, crying, and absolutely horrified. Tears poured down my face and I couldnāt stop wailing. They had to stop the ride and let me off. I was heaving and sobbing and needed my mommy, who was thousands of kilometers away.
To this day, there are times when I wish I could do the same with life. Stop the ride, man, let me off. Give me a blankie and a quiet night with reruns, Iām done like dinner.
The beginning of relationships, for me, are one of the most terrifying things I can experience. Iād like to jump in head-first, absolute abandon, and know itās okay, itās all right, I can do it. But I canāt. I start to, I throw my pennies in the wishing well and pray itās all going to be all right, but then the evil What If? Monster starts whispering in my head.
What if Iām wrong? What if he comes to his senses? What if thereās some external factor I canāt control? What if Iām missing out on something better? What if the timingās wrong?
And I fucking hate the What If? Monster. I hate the ambivalence and apprehension that finds me when the only thing I should be finding is trust. Iām in that rare situation with a guy whoās opening all the trust doors first, so the fearās a little less than it might normally be, but it’s still there, and I really, fucking hate that it is. I wish it wasn’t. This time, I really wish it wasn’t.
But itās strange and weird because he has this, this massive decoder ring of mine. Not only do I have this blog, with more than 200 postings, but I have my other blog, with more than 500. I donāt know if Iām your standard blogger, because I try to really peel back my layers. Not for you, not for him, not for anyone but for myself.
Unfortunately, though, he gets to peel back my layers on his own time, by himself, without me seeing his reaction, and Iām left wondering, āWhatās he really thinking?ā Fortunately, heās good enough at expressing himself that he often clues me in without my needing to ask. Still, Iām over-analytical, timid, worried, and scared. Thatās just me, and it works better when Iām flying solo, because then I can sit around and ask all these grand questions that my readers can relate to. Now, though, Iām not flying solo, so I go and I air these fears, and heās gonna know. Maybe a good thing, maybe not.
In my life, fear is the great component that I can never, ever shake. All this self-examination and illumination is generally done in the attempt to get past the fear of hurt and pain that has greatly coloured my life over these years. Iāve had, unquestionably, a hard life. Iāve been hurt six ways to Sunday in every arena of my life, no matter what walls Iāve put up or taken down. Iāve had adversity piled upon adversity, and the hardest thing Iāve ever had to learn is a) to love myself in the face of it all, and b) to allow others to love me.
And Iām nowhere near ready on the front of B. Iām having a hard, hard time getting past this fear and apprehension that comes with the beginning of a new relationship, but specifically, this one. Thereās the reality that this relationship has begun with more abandon and less restraint than any Iāve ever had. Itās freaking the shit out of me, honestly. That was hard enough at the beginning, but then my bone-breaker had the misfortune of badly breaking his leg and needing surgery for the insertion of a metal plate and several screws. I feel so horribly for him, and because Iāve already come to care a good deal for the man, I really want to be there to be of assistance and comfort for him.
So I have. And today, oh, my GOD. Iāve woken up with The Fear. I hate The Fear. On the one hand, Iām screaming āStop the ride, lemme off!ā On the other, Iām thinking I like this feeling. I love how I feel when Iām around him, but when Iām notā¦ all the niggling doubts squirm to the surface of my psyche and the Questioning begins anew, and quite needlessly, I suspect, given the time weāve shared and the openness we seem to already have.
During one of our first nights together, we were lying on the bed, comparing notes about what we thought the other would be like versus what they had turned out to really be. He commented that he thought Iād be āmore cerebralā¦ no, more pensive.ā I told him that I am, but that moods like pensiveness have no place in front of another person. (Itās rude, methinks.) Iām very, very pensive – always, really – but moreso when Iām alone. I do get very quiet, though, in those makeout sessions, lying there, occasionally holding each otherās gaze, and in those moments, itās true, Iām not really thinking about anything in particular. But the wheelās turning, and soon, the thoughts strike. Like now, the next morning.
And my question today is, am I my own worst enemy? Is my fear my great undoing? It probably is. But at least I confront it, I give it a voice, and maybe thatās the first step in moving past it. I know I feel this way, and Iāve tried to explain to The Guy that, for now, my actions need to speak much louder than my words, ācos baby, I aināt got the words. Not yet. I try. But I canāt do.
Iām a good woman, a good lover, and a great friend. I know it, and I try to be each of those, but deep down inside, Iām also a scared little girl that wants the safety of the Tilt-a-Whirl. Too bad Iāve met the height requirement for the big fucking roller-coaster, and it’s the only ride operating.
Our Tale of Many Coincidences
Since The Guy gave me his consent to share this tale with ya, here goes.
Have you ever seen When Harry Met Sally? Remember the cute vignettes that pepper the film? Old couples talking about the coincidences that brought them together?
Well, The Guy and I have our own Tale of Many Coincidences, and itās why both of us are probably running into this thing a little less guarded than we might otherwise be doing with someone else. And hey, itās spring. If thereās any time of the year to govern yourself with a sense of abandon, this is that.
Four years ago, we were living across the pond from each other. He was on Vancouver Island, and I lived here on the Lower Mainland, in the big old city of Vancouver. Between us was a two-hour, expensive ferry ride and about two hoursā of driving time.
We encountered each other on Lavalife. I spotted him, thought āHey, heās cute, seems like my typeā and āsmiled,ā or something, and emails ensued. I remember being bitter that I had failed to notice he was on the Island, and if I had, I probably never would have contacted him, since long-distance relationships are not something I believe in. I always deliberately avoided the Island guys, so it was very likely a mistake in the first place. (But a happy mistake, as it turns out.)
Well, despite the geographical differences, we volleyed back and forth, about three emails each, but then he stopped the volley. Maybe he just forgot to get back to me, who knows, but I thought it was A Clue, and simply didnāt contact him again.
As so often happens in that crazy world of e-dating, we simply fell away and never did get in touch again.
The emails were great (though odd in the serendipitous coincidental kind of way) and if weād lived locally, thereās no doubt in our minds that we would have hooked up. We had a strange long, long list of commonalities that we shared, and it seemed a little too odd to ignore at the time, but darn the geography anyhow.
Fast forward four years, and itās Tuesday, March 7th. The Kid has just told me the night before that the evening we shared āwas no funā because I was ātoo aggressive.ā I wouldnāt say Iām always āthatā aggressive, but I sure as shit know what I want. (The Guy will attest to this, since it amuses him. āYou, here, come.ā) I was pretty annoyed by the Kidās stupid & naĆÆve comment, which resulted in this rant, and it also resulted in me deciding to write a very, very clear personal ad for Craigās List, with the heading, āWriter chick, 32, seeks muse and partner in crime.ā
The Guy, in what was probably another Weak Moment At Work was bored and just surfing Craigās List for kicks. He had described himself as āsingle and not looking,ā but when he saw my heading, couldnāt resist at least taking a boo. He read the ad, and as I usually tend to be amusing on my rants days, he had a chuckle, thought, āThis chick is kooky,ā and decided to check out my blog ā which I had listed in the ad.
It didnāt take long, apparently, for him to notice my handle, which has always been the same on Lavalife ā Scribe Called Steff. He did the math, recognized the writing style, and decided to take the plunge.
It turns out heās been living in the city for a year now, and in the four years that have passed, weāve begun to share even more in common. Weāve held the same jobs, love the same things, have the same beliefs, enjoy the same culture, weāre both foodies, weāve both come through a lot of hardships with greater understandings of who we are, both our mothers are kaput, weāre both in the same place in our lives right now, yada, yada, yada. Itās enough sap to make syrup with, honestly. But Iām not complaining.
Well, I was thrilled to hear from him, since I donāt believe in ācoincidences.ā When these strange happenings come down, I investigate. So, naturally, I told him right off that I was interested in meeting him before I would meet anyone else. (Be blunt, it pays.)
Our first date wasnāt much to speak of, since I was pretty sick at the time and we only met for lunch, a bit of a walk, and he took me home, where I rapidly deflated into Land of Sickie-Plus-Nth. The next date entailed him making me dinner, and my selecting Fight Club as the date-flick du jour, which had him grinning madly. We had the first kissānāgrope session, which led to some pretty wicked fooling around, but we decided it was worth not putting sex on the menu just yet.
The next date was this past Wednesday, with my preparing us breakfast for dinner (hey, donāt knock it ā easy and tasty, and anything with bacon rocks) and yet another inappropriate date flick, the pimping classic, Night Shift. Again, we made like a couple of teenagers in heat, leading us to make a little mental list of all the things you can do for fun while keeping your clothes on.
So, yeah, we havenāt had the big Fireworks session just yet, but the Sparks are A-Plenty and Good Fun has been had by all. Itās one of those things that has too much promise to screw it up by sleeping together on dates one, two, or three. Besides, Iāve been sick and it sort of kills my libido a little. Weāre both on the same page, though, and I canāt stay sick forever. Still, itās a great thing so far.
The coincidences, though, and the commonalities we share makes this thing feel really, really comfortable, really, really early in the game. Itās a little odd and surreal, but really fun and worthwhile. Weāre both really well-adjusted, and both of us being writers, the communicationās stronger than Iāve had it be at any time in the past long, long time.
Itās nice, it feels good, and hey, itās spring. The timingās awesome.
I think it goes without saying, though, that when life rises up and places a bunch of coincidences at your feet, that youād be a fool not to further investigate matters. Iām glad I have. Iām curious where it leads, but Iām quite enjoying the trip thus far.
The Waiting Game: The Better Way to Play
If youāve never seen it, thereās a brilliantly inventive, noire-ish hospital dramedy found on Sunday nights on ABC.Ā Greyās Anatomyinspired me to order cable again, and last night I saw it for the first time this season.
Coincidentally, earlier in the day, I had been writing about the difference between suspense and anticipation when it comes to romance relationships. When I watched the show, guess what the sub-plot was? Hmm?
One of the last lines of Sundayās episode came after the protagonist, Meredith Grey, finally finds out where she stands in the battlefield of love with Dr. McDreamy, as heās known, who’s portrayed by Patrick Dempsey. In a voiceover, she comments,Ā āWhoever said āWhat you donāt know canāt hurt youā was a complete and utter moron, because for many of us, not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.ā
Recent events have reminded me that Iām one of those people. Oh, I try to play it cool, but not knowing where I stand, whether itās movie plans with a friend or my place in the Cosmos, fills me with dread and apprehension. Itās unavoidable. Give me āsuspenseā and youāll make a mess of me.
I said in my last posting that things were āconfusing.ā Thatās just because I didnāt know when I was next hooking up with the nifty new guy I know. Face it. Weāre all adults, and our lives get complicated. Some of our lives are more complicated than others can understand. Sometimes thatās by choice, sometimes destiny just takes a hand. It is what it is.
However, yesterday we cemented some plans for next week. This was what got me thinking about suspense versus anticipation. You see, I hung the phone up, furrowed my brow and thought, āAnother week?ā And then I realized, āPfft, itās only a week.ā I grinned and went off and made my breakfast and had a terrific day.
I had been thinking that my uncertainty had been because I was insecure or uneasy with myself, and this was why I was so damned frustrated at all the unknowingness. Then I realized that it really was something altogether different.
I was in the room, too. I know we had some pretty wicked good times. I know what I offer. I know the expressions I saw on his face, and vice versa. I know it was pretty damned awesome. That logic, though, goes right the fuck out the window when I’ve got nothing empirical to back it up.
Figures, baby. Numbers, dates, times, whatever. Lay it on me. If I know we’ve got plans, I’m cool. Seems to me that guys are often hesitant to make plans because they want to have control of some kind. Now, I don’t get that sense from this guy, so that’s groovy, but it’s often been the case in the past. “If I can hold that card, I hold ’em all,” seems to be the line of thought sometimes. (This goes for members of both sexes, unfortunately.)
With an intelligent, strong, independent chick like me, that’s not going to be the case, though. You want to hold that card, then I hope you’re playing Solitaire, because that game just ain’t one I aim to play. I don’t have the patience or the strength. I really just don’t. Headgames are for people who don’t have control over their lives and who want to exert it over others to compensate. That ain’t me, man.
Fortunately, I don’t think I have to worry about that in my present scenario. And now I get to have those little fun thoughts in the back of my mind as to all the things I want to do with my playmate in a few days. Which brings us to another fabulous point in regards to the anticipation versus suspense argument.
If you’re sitting around in suspense, you just never knowĀ when, where,orĀ ifĀ the games are gonna get back on track. In that case, it can be pretty hard to fill in the possible blanks, so to speak. WhenĀ you do know that the games are on schedule for the future, then you get to turn your imagination on. You can scheme, you can plot, you can devise.
If you have a creative lover, one that likes to keep things interesting, then the best gift you can give yourself is to give them the gift of anticipation.
But we’re all so self-involved these days that it’s easy to forget what anticipation can do for us.
Really, it’s incredible how much damage we do to our relationships by not doing the simple things. Just committing to a date later in the week or making a quick email or a call to say “hey, you were in my thoughts. I can’t talk, but wanted to hear your voice,” can make all the different in cutting the tensions that eat away at our passion.
We all know modern life’s demands. We know we’re all spread pretty thin. Too often, we overfocus on ourselves. We frequently fail to think about lives from our partners’ point of views. We fail to understand the true stresses and challenges they face, despite the fact that we’ve got front-row seats. We’d like to think it’s all sunshine and roses because we’re in their lives now, but that’s pretty egomaniacal.
Like Grandma Death says inĀ Donnie Darko, “In the end, every living creature dies alone.” We all have our lives, with their myriad complexities, to get through on our own. Most of us choose to share parts of those lives with our loved ones, but when the lights go out at night, we’re right back inside our self-contained universes.
Every now and then, we have to remember that our lives are filled with enough suspense. From the day we’re born to that day we die alone, suspense is all we get. What does your future hold? Do you really know?
When it comes to love and sex, isn’t it time we got a little something we don’t get enough of? The thrill of anticipation and eagerness?
For me, it makes me hotter. It makes me confident, secure, and inspires me to want to make the wait all that much more worthwhile. One of my readers said that a secure man is a horny man. This is true. But a secure lover is a better lover, regardless of gender.
And it’s so easy to build that added security in. Anticipation is more than just looking forwards to future events. It’s theĀ knowing that there’s something to look forwards to. Think about it.
The Guide to Turning Them Off
Weāve all been there. Someone approaches us at a party, their eyes go all neon āF-u-c-kĀ Ā m-e, Ā p-l-e-a-s-e.ā They hang onto us. They flirt. They harass. Most importantly, they annoy. Oh, fuck, do they annoy.
And sometimes it seems that no matter how you try, they just donāt get the fucking hint.
Maybe you need to actively cause them to be disinterested in you. Here are some tried and true methods:
- Whenever they try to make you laugh, snort. Loudly.
- Every time he says something about his life, say, āOh, my ex-boyfriend did that, too. Funny.ā Sigh, shake your head, and insert negative factoid, ie: āI still have the restraining order.ā
- The all-time āaā-list: Spill your drink on them, and donāt offer to help clean it up. (Give yourself 5 points if youāve spilled your drink on someone you actually liked, and still managed to seduce them for that first time that very same night. Fun, huh?)
- Roll your eyes. Often. Dramatically. And if you need more, scoff quietly and shake your head after you roll your eyes. Snicker if necessary.
- Men, you can just simply stare at her breasts. Paste a little grin on and just look at the twins, and every time she asks you a question, stay with the twins and just nod or shake your head, still grinning. Warning: This approach could incur the wrath of the slap.
- Girls, you can just look at his crotch, gush, and say, āAww. It looks so cute. Reminds me of my brother.ā
- Lean into them, sniff, and say, āWhatās that smell?ā Just like grade school? Yep! And just as fun!
- Mention casually that, āMy therapist wants to increase our sessions, and maybe my meds, too.ā Now twitch.
- Cock your head to the side and ask, āHave you been saved yet?ā (My favourite answer: āNo, just discounted.ā)
- Query them, āDo I smell funny to you? Iāve been having a persistent personal odour issue, and Iām hoping I may have finally found a remedy.ā
- āDid you know that your aura has three sub-categories?ā
- And thereās always my favourite, the classic āFuck you. Now go away.ā
_______________
Itās a shame that more people donāt have fun actively causing the opposite sex to be disinterested. Itās really quite enjoyable. Plus, you save them the hassle of being interested in you. Lifeās easier for all, and you get the fun therapy that comes from being a blatant dick/twat for a limited time.
What more can you really ask for?
e-Dating: a Rant
I have recently gotten back into the world of e-dating. This is my third attempt. Iām not a clubber. Iām kind of a shy chick until I have an āin,ā and despite getting increasingly flirtatious in real life, it seems that every fucking man I meet is attached, married, or gay. So Iām going where the odds are better.
e-dating began for me in the spring of 2004, and I thought it was a great new tool. No, actually, it’s mostly where you find the tools. Still, there are a few diamonds in the dark, dark mine.
The first date I had was with Paul, who had an inability to relax. Over the course of a 90-minute meal, Paul drank five beers and had the worst body language you could imagine: He sat there with his leg shaking violently under the table for the entire meal.
āItās just him,ā I thought. āThings will improve.ā
The next date was with this cute Asian guy, and we decided to go watch a hockey game in a pub and have a couple drinks. Well, the pub I recommended wound up taking some 45 minutes to deliver a plate of nachos to us, and dude literally held me personally responsible and couldnāt shake the annoyance regarding bad service. His mood was the shits, so I naturally let him pay, and I fucked off.
Since then, Iāve probably had about three dozen dates. Maybe three have really went well, but the connection ultimately wasnāt mutual. The rest have flat-out tanked.
I have another one scheduled for Saturday, and Iām really looking forwards to it. Something sounds different about this guy, but Iām having a hard time sending my skepticism away.
Let me say this as plainly as I can: There are a LOT of losers out there. Iām pretty sure thatās not exclusive to the menās side of this deal. From what Iāve heard, there are a lot of pathetic women in the picture, too.
Where did common sense go? Does anyone have a brain anymore? Is etiquette really as elusive as it seems to be? Does anyone understand how to attract the opposite sex in print? And finally, can people please learn to fucking spell and punctuate their dating profiles?
I had tried the ādatingā and ārelationshipsā sections on Lavalife, one of the prime dating systems in cyberland, and finally decided to say āfuck that,ā and have moved on to the very pointed āintimatesā section.
Intimates is where folks go when sex is an important factor in relationships. If youāre into āalternativeā lifestyles, itās also a great place to find those interested in the same things.
That said, thereās some scary shit out there, and Iāve slowly learned how to tell the freaks from the pack. Sadly, the freaks dominate the pack.
When I first posted my profile in the āintimatesā section, I had more than a hundred local men respond in the first two days. Why? Well, for starters, I know how to write something sexy. I was honest and blunt. I said I was overweight, though Iād lost quite a bit of what Iād used to weigh already, but I was very, very confident in my abilities.
I touched on my interests, explained things I thought were romantic, and alluded to the music and movies I enjoy, plus the other activities I liked. Most specifically, though, I said what qualities I wanted in a man, and what I didnāt want.
To this day, Iām continually baffled by the stupidity of other peopleās profiles, and their approaches towards the dating field.
A few cases in point:
āPeachmuncherā said, āI love to munch peaches.ā Let me clue you guys in. Sure, there are men who donāt like oral. (I have yet to encounter one in my sex life, though.) But the fact is, the majority of men seem to love giving oral. You think itās a selling point? No, itās a cliche. Have some creativity and use anything else for a line than that. For godās sake, have some DEPTH. Oral aināt going to last all night, every night, and you better be bringing something else to the arena.
The Illiterate. I cannot tell you how many men seem to hit on me who have none of the qualities I list as being ones Iām seeking in my profile. Read the fucking profile. Consider it a checklist. If you donāt meet the criteria, then move the hell on. When I say āNo older menā and Iām 31, if youāre more than 40, move the hell on. This goes for the morons who are my FATHERāS age and hitting on me — in their 50s and beyond.
One brainiac retorted to my āNot interested in older menā response to his advances with āBut a hard cock is ageless.ā I simply responded, āYeah, with a little fucking blue pill, right?ā and then I blocked him.
If sheās not interested in age (or vice versa) then take your reality check and walk, bub.
The Stupid. The line of the night of late was a guy who didnāt even say hello, just messaged me with āIām looking to get fucked tonight.ā His name was ā22inches14internalā. I lost all my tact and responded with, āyouāre a piece of WORK, pal. One word for ya: Hoover.ā
Which brings us to names. Choosing really stupid names like āHungLikeHorsieā and āSheCumsFirstā and āThick1forUā are probably not going to net you any significant catches. But if skanky hoes do it for ya, then have at it.
The Sad and Disenchanted. Sure, some people might be interested in distance, but when someone says āNot interested in distanceā and that they like āto have sex often,ā the odds are pretty good that your being located more than 50 miles away is going to take you out of the running, let alone the twits who are 2400 miles away yet still think they have a chance.
The Grammatically Challenged. When a chick says sheās intelligent, and you claim youāre looking for a āsmart, sexyā woman, but you fail to use any grammar or spelling or punctuation in your ad or in your communications with her, then youāve got to expect little or no response from the calibre of chick (or guy) youāre seeking.
After all, how hard is it to understand that the profile you put in the e-dating world is your handshake, your business card, your first impression? It is. Itās EVERYTHING, people. Spend a little time on it! Write something that evokes you. Then spell-check it. Check the grammar. And when itās nice and good, then you can post it.
The Non-Photogenic. Taking a photo where youāre in your stained t-shirt with holes in it, sitting in front of your computer with bad hair and a tired expression on your face will do nothing towards getting you laid! Taking a photo of yourself in the mirror where the flash pops and the viewer gets to see nothing of you will also do nothing towards getting you laid. A big panoramic shot of you standing in front of Matterhorn Mountain? Also not gonna do it. Youāre talking about a 2ā wide or smaller photo on the net, in a panoramic, youāre a flickinā blip on the screen.
Make it a frickinā head shot, people, or at the very least, your upper body and head. Is that so hard? Put on a nice shirt. Do your makeup or shave or whatever the hell it is that gets you looking your best, and then take a photo. It doesnāt have to be the level of Vogueās photography, but you could put some effort into it. You can ad an awesome full-body shot in your additional photos.
If you’re in an intimates section like I am, use your brains. A photo of JUST you cock or tits or ass is not going to do the trick. Having a nice cock is easy enough, and so too is having the face of a horse. I won’t be choosing my mate because he has a nice rigid cock and nothing else. Think about it. Jesus Christ. You have no idea how often I’ve seen shots of just a guy’s ass.
The Computer-Phobic. Youāre using electronic dating for your social life but you get pissed off at having to chat in MSN or something? Get past it! Thatās the new culture. Sure, you can talk on the phone, too, but donāt insult someone because they favour MSN or something. I tend to stick to online chatting for a bit so I can gauge intelligence in print.
And finally, a word about etiquette. So far, Iāve experienced a lot of guys who make plans and blow them the fuck off. For every date I make, half are kept. Fortunately, theyāre often guys Iām only half-interested in, so it ultimately doesnāt matter. It worked out great the night I accidentally set my hair on fire and smelled like burnt dog, though. Having him blow me off was just perfect that night, especially since admitting that I set my hair on fire wouldāve been a major crushing blow to my ego. I guess I need to tell you about that now. Hmm. Later.
But normally, guys seem to think it doesnāt warrant a simple courtesy email or call. āSorry, I lost my interest. Things have changed. Canāt make it.ā
Itās respect, people, and EVERYONE deserves it. The e-dating world is full of enough bullshit, but you deliberately adding to it is completely uncool. You can block the person after youāve shown them basic respect, if you donāt want to deal with their bullshit after the fact. But at least give them that much.
Now, the pluses of e-dating? For a chick like me, I really get to test the waters intellectually. The funny thing has been that most guys say theyāre looking for a smart chick. Iām a disarming chick — Iām funny, Iām easy-going, but when I turn on the smarts, you best look out.
So the fine print tends to have been thus far, āAs long as sheās not smarter than me.ā
E-dating has allowed me to cut through that crap and establish my intellect. I scare off more men than I attract, and thatās just fine with me. Iāve had a couple decent dates, and theyāve been fun.
Unfortunately, most havenāt been. One guy was guilty of false advertising when he stuck a sock down his pants to make himself seem larger, and when we finally got to fooling around, his cock was miniscule. My hand was wider than his “hard” cock was long.
Why the games? The chickās gonna find out, guys. Ditto for girls with padded bras. What in the HELL are you thinking? Be yourself. Someoneās gonna dig it. There are “teeny queens” out there, and guys who don’t like big boobs. Putting on an act is just moronic.
Fact is, most of dating is rife with failure. Most dates turn out ludicrous. Most marriages fail, for Godās sake.
But the fun is in the hunt. Get over the bad happenings and move the hell on, but don’t add to the negativity by being a cunt in the hunt. Have a little decency.
POST-SCRIPT: A commenter is freaking out about their first upcoming e-date. I say go! Do it! E-dating’s great positive is that it’s like a conveyor belt of dating. Everyone knows it’s supposed to be a short hookup. Meet for coffee and a walk. If they blow, so do you — right on outta there. š I won’t stop e-dating, I just won’t hesitate to tell a guy to take a hike, either.