Quickie

 

What’s the opposite of friend-zoned? I’m forever a fuck buddy. I can’t even remember the last time someone asked me on a date. If I were to be asked on a date, it would probably go something like this.

My current man-mission is someone who I’ve hooked up with but-get ready for it-haven’t actually had sex with yet. AND he asked me to stay the night at his place. That’s a big step forward in my book. He’s also the first American I’ve hooked up with in more than six months. When this progresses into something worth writing about, you’ll be the first to know.

 

Violet

Tunisian Michael Buble?

A biography of him says “the Tunisian singer Saber el Rubai has a very nice voice. He is very elegant, sensitive and honest with himself and with his audience.” Just in case you didn’t pick up on that.

These are what my nights with my Tunisian pseudo-boyfriend are like. Haaaa. He actually does sing me this song in the car, but not as good. And we’re always much drunker than those people. Last night we almost got kicked out of a club for reasons I’m still not clear on. Mine is also a lot less sensitive looking, he has a shaved head and very nice muscles.

Italian and Arabic are my two favorite languages (and hey, they’re neighbors!) so I listen to this song a lot. The Moroccan restaurant we frequent has excellent live music too.

Amore Italiano Part 2: Eskimo Sisters

If you haven’t read Part 1, check that out first.

A few months after my first Italian…err, boyfriend?…has returned to Italy I find myself at the same popular (ladies drink free til midnight, woo) club. It’s January 1st. I spent my new year’s eve alone with a bottle of Martini and Rossi so I’m ready to kick things up a notch. I did skype with Italiano no. 1 (Italy is 6 hours ahead of me) for a while, long enough for him to tell me how much he missed me, but otherwise it was a little sad and lonely. I was determined to have a good time at Popular Night Club. This club has a lot of the same people and the dj isn’t that great and the free drinks mostly juice. Sometimes to amuse myself I set goals: tonight I’ll make out with three guys, tonight I’ll bring one guy home, tonight just have a girls night, ect. It’s a stupid way to justify doing stupid things. Or a stupid way to show off my honed man-trapping skills. Anyway, I took a trip to the bathroom and came back to join my friends at the bar, not focused on my game. My friend is in town and has volunteered to be my wing-woman. Pfsh, like I need it, but she’s great. I step up to the bar and this tall, beautiful man spots me. My friend is about to pull the good ol’ How I Met Your Mother line “haaaaaaaaaave you m-” but by that point he had already introduced himself and identified himself as Italian. A lot of male names sound like female names when you say them with Italian accents-his is one of those. When I put his number in my phone I hesitated when putting his name in, but he caught on and said ‘I think it’s a girl’s name here.’

There’s something about the Italian language that when Italians speak it it makes their mouths look all sexy. The Italian language when spoken by Italians is also sexy. Italian lips are good for more than talking, in case you didn’t know. So the night progressed from small talk (he lives near Venice, he’s here until October, teach me how to say ‘happy new year’ in Italian) to dance floor fornication. I’m sure those around us were not too pleased with our passionate makeout session and hands down each other’s pants. Everyone needs one of those almost regrettable, retrospectively slightly embarrassing public hookups every now and then.

Like most of my hookups, I end up taking them back to my place. I happened to be having a party that night, so I brought him back to show him off to my other friends. I showed him American drinking games, which he loved. During more stressful moments of beer pong he resorted to Italian exclamations, mostly ‘MAMMA MIA!’ Italians actually say that, isn’t that awesome? Or maybe it’s a Northern Italy thing. I’m experienced enough now to spot slight differences between regions of Italy.

The drunkenness of everyone in my apartment was a comfortable wasted. Which is why no one noticed (or cared if they did notice) when Italiano no. 2 whipped his dick out in my kitchen. I was not content to just look at it, so we made a dramatic exit to my bedroom (meaning everyone got the hint and left) for a 4 hour fuck fest. I honestly can’t remember all the details, but it was wonderful. There was a little bit of everything…cuddling, penetration, foreplay, Italian sexy talk. It was a wonderful night. He had to work early and I don’t let my guests over stay their welcome so I dropped him back home and we made plans for a date later that week.

The day of our date came and went with no word from him. I text him, in basic English to make sure my point got across, and he responds with apologies about how he doesn’t have time for a relationship. Last time I checked dinner isn’t a binding contract, so I told him I really just wanted sex so he says ‘ok i text you soon bacioooo’ (bacio meaning kisses, google translate tells me). But unfortunately I didn’t hear from him after that. Lucky for me, I’m a creep, so it’s not hard for me to track him down. One day I had training down the street from his place of employment so I just happened to stop by for some wine after work. I wasn’t sure if he would remember me but honestly I couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like either. But I walked in and his tall, dark, handsome self was standing in the corner. It was obvious he recognized me, but spent my entire meal skirting around me and making eye contact without actually talking to me. He finally came over (thank god I had a whole carafe of wine in me, all the Italians buzzing around is just too much for me) and we had an intense conversation. “You like pizza?” he asks. If you thought he worked anywhere other than a pizzeria, you are just plain sad. He updates me about his life, says he’ll be out of town for a week but will call me when he gets back. He doesn’t. I am sad.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. I’m at Popular Night Club previously mentioned, denying unworthy men my telephone number, and make my way to the dance floor. It’s hard to miss someone as tall and handsome as Italiano no. 2, so I happen to walk right past him. When he sees me he leaves his bimbo dance partner and gives me a big hug. As best I can with the awful music blasting, I tell him I went to Italy and he wants to hear about it. He’s going to be a bartender at a new Italian restaurant opening soon. He’ll call me tomorrow, he says. All this is happening while bimbo is pissed and keeps trying to pull him back; I win and he keeps talking to me. He actually does message me the next day. He types in all caps, which is awesome.           not. But it’s ok because he sends me messages like ‘TI PIACE IL MIO SESSO??’ Yes, yes I do. He’s busy opening the new restaurant, but wants to see me next week. It’s now next week, fingers crossed I get to fuck him sober soon.

Now that you have all the background information on Italiano no. 2, I can get to the eskimo sisters part. In the period between him saying he’ll call me and me running into him I told my co-workers they had to get with an Italian. A few weeks later my wonderful and beautiful friend tells me of her success. He has the same Italian-but-in-America-sounds-feminine name, but it’s popular enough, right? She says his dick is not impressive, sexy time didn’t last more than half an hour, and he gave her cheap wine. Doesn’t sound like the same person.

 

 

BUT IT IS!

 

The next night we’re talking about it again. Does he have a tattoo on his collar bone? I ask……yes, she says. Does his family own a winery near Venice?…..yes. It’s the same dude! Which is actually just plain awesome. I’m happy to share the joys of Italians with others and find it fascinating that we had such different experiences. It’s possible his dick really isn’t that impressive, but drunk me thought it was great. (I also have a low tolerance for big dicks). I’ll report back after I’ve slept with him again, which will hopefully be sooner than later. My thoughts on eskimo brothers has always been ehhh. My mental image is of two bros intentionally scamming some poor college freshman and then high fiving after. Is my situation equally as deplorable? Are eskimo siblings a positive or negative thing? Does the fact that he’s Italian alter the circumstances?

I like to think that my sexual liberation means it’s not a disgusting sex party trick. It’s not like any of us planned this, it was a product of natural attraction mixed with a little alcohol.

 

 

Also in the part between when Italiano no. 2 didn’t call and I saw him, I went to Italy! So that’s to come, stand by.
Violet

Amore Italiano Part 1: America

We’ve already been over my lust for men of the world, but I have a particular fondness for the Italians. By fondness I mean their dicks are magnets. (It works both ways, I seem to naturally draw them in as well). I should skip a blog and just write a book…my stories of Italian lovers are long and far from over.

I take you back to November, at a popular night club where I tend to meet lots of hook ups. I’d been eyeing these guys for a while. One because they were attractive and two because they weren’t dancing, just standing and watching. I finally made my way through the hump-happy horde of men to dance on these dudes. I just kinda got in the middle and they looked at each other to see who was getting the go-ahead. The shortest of the three steps forward (worked great for me, I’m on the short side) and asks where I’m from (a very powerful question around here). Me being me, I recognized an accent, which he confirmed by pointing to the Italian flag on his jacket. “Italia,” he says, like I don’t already know. He’s kind of an awkward dancer so we skip that part and go straight to setting up a date. Then leaves. The next few days I get a barrage of texts about wanting to be in my bedroom and how he really needs to fuck me. While I’m usually all for it, I met this guy for all of fifteen minutes and can’t really remember what he looks like. Fortunately it’s very easy to facebook stalk the shit out of everyone in my very large company, so I could confirm that he’s good-looking and my drunk self wasn’t just attracted to his beautiful accent. I did take me about a week to convince him to take me out for a drink first, and that proved successful enough to end in a trip to my apartment. I pulled the whole “I don’t fuck on the first date” excuse, not sure why though. Despite trying to tone it down, I did end up swallowing, which I really can’t stand. I don’t mind blow jobs, especially if he’s already gone down on me, but I always verify with my partner that his cum does not go in my mouth. I’m not a cum dumpster (I just wanted an excuse to say that. Cum dumpster. My favorite euphemism for slut, or whatever). His English isn’t super great, but he understands. And then bam, shoots his load right in. I half swallowed, half gagged and spit the rest in my sink. He didn’t seem to notice he had done anything wrong. If he hadn’t performed magic with his tongue minutes before I would have been pissed. Eh, he’s Italian (that’s my new excuse for all sorts of odd behaviors).

We saw each other off and on for a few weeks. He was really good at canceling last-minute due to a variety of excuses, so sometimes I pulled the same card. The third time he came over he whispers in my ear “you’re mine now.” Oh? He puts his arm around me and explains that he wants me, so I’m his now. I ask what happens if I see other guys. He tightens his grip around my neck, pretending to choke me and nonchalantly and jokingly (maybe?) says “well I’ll just kill you both.” He doesn’t strike me as the violent type, but he does have the Italian passion. Eh, he’s Italian, he won’t actually kill me. (spoiler: I’m still very much alive).

The next night I go with my friends to this Italian-restaurant-turned-night club and of course he’ll be there, he’s Italian. I invite him over to pregame and he says sure, but of course doesn’t show up. I eventually run into him at the ‘club’ and he gets me a drink, but is not acting like we’re in the magical relationship he conceived the night before. Very drunk me starts being clingy so he leaves. Later I see him chatting with another girl at the bar. Sneaky double standards. Somehow I end up in a full-fledged makeout sesh with this other guy who has been into me for a while. Obviously with the intention of my Italian seeing this and causing a scene. No such luck. I end up bringing makeout guy home and then I get these texts from my fake Italian boyfriend about how he’s locked out of his apartment (I find this very difficult to believe) and him and his roommate have nowhere to go so can they come over. Sure, I’m a good person, I have stuff for them to sleep on. But no, he wants a threesome. Or that’s what I took from the conversation. Who offers up themselves and another male friend? (I know the answer to this because it keeps happening to me. A lot of men do, that’s who). So I pretend to fall asleep and stop responding.

I see him once after that and then we sort of lose touch. Except I keep facebook tabs on him so I know what he’s up to. I would like to see him before he goes home to Italy, but it doesn’t work out. Well, it was good while it lasted. Then the next week I get a call from him to ask if he can stay with me. Guess he didn’t go back. He was just hanging out in Mexico and then was in town for a few days before going to New York. I did kind of miss him, so I let him stay with me. It felt like having a puppy that I forgot to put in its crate before I left…I would leave him alone in my room while I ran errands or went to work or whatever (unbeknownst to my roommate) and was always prepared to walk in on him doing something totally strange. I don’t think he stole any of my dirty panties; mostly he just slept. Over lunch one day I’m asking him about Italy. You would love it, he tells me. Come visit me sometime, I’ll show you everything. Sure, sure. I always make these half-hearted promises to visit all my international friends.

BUT THEN HE ACTUALLY BROUGHT ME TO ITALY.

That’s a whole other set of sketch conditions and didn’t happen for a few months later. The in between time consisted of fucking another Italian and old Italian sending me raunchy messages and apologies for being a weirdo.

The lesson here is that you should find yourself an Italian. Not Italian-American. Not anyone from the Northeastern US, but straight up Italiano.

International Love

Pitbull doesn't have shit on me

I’ve spent the last few months embracing the multiculturalism of my city and traveling the world. I feel very fortunate that when I ask guys where they’re from the answer isn’t often America. At this classy club a few months ago this guy pulls me aside. I don’t respond well to arm grabs, but I can see that he’s clearly not American so I let it slide. I ask where he’s from and he gives me this sly look and says “Texas,” with an Arabic accent. I’m not sure if he meant it as a joke or if he was trying to convince me he was American. Anyway, he’s from Tunisia. Who the hell is from Tunisia? He was quite the gentleman and hunted down my purse after I left it at the bar it was stolen. And the night didn’t end in sex, it ended with hash browns and water, which is a pretty decent alternative.

A few days later we meet after work for a drink. I’ve set myself up for ruin because I picked a bar that is only a few blocks from my apartment. So that night does end in sex. He’s 10 years older than me, shaved head, muscular so I had in mind something a little better than what I got. Mediocre at best but the really pitiful part is he thinks he’s fantastic. I use present tense because it hasn’t gotten much better. The first orgasm he gave me was a few weeks ago when I gave him detailed instructions on how to get the job done.

My recent thing is that I’m trying to develop relationships outside the bedroom. I did ok with this one. I work nights so it’s hard to schedule dinner dates, which is why I frequently end up with booty calls. But he was happy to meet me for dinner after work, which ended in sex. He never spends the night, which is how I roll. But occasionally droplets of odd information would fall into conversation. “Let’s go to the beach tomorrow,” he says, “oh wait, I have my son tomorrow, we can go another day.” A child? Yes, a two-year old, but he hasn’t been in the states for that long. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to give me any more information so I don’t pry.

One of my many man talents is compartmentalization so I had no problem ignoring the strange parts like how/why/when he got to America, his job, his child. The parts that mattered to me were that he made me happy and always paid for me. His philosophy is that a man isn’t complete without a woman. That a woman is a work of art, able to stand on her own, but a man needs to have a woman to give him purpose. If an American dude had said that to me I would have laughed in his face but it felt genuine and comfortably romantic coming from him. Which may be strange considering the Muslims aren’t on the tippy top of women’s rights. So it felt kind of nice knowing that to some small degree I was giving his life purpose. That being said, I understood we weren’t in an exclusive relationship. I went on a ten-day vacation recently, where he knew I would be sleeping with other foreign men, and he was right there waiting for me when I got back. When I asked him to drive me to the airport he said “baby, I’d do anything for you.” (I also got texts that said things like “i’m horning, can i come over 2nite,” This was only excusable because I think Arabic is a beautiful language).

The point I’m getting at here is that I got very mixed signals about the nature of/future of our relationship. I was in no hurry to make things ‘official’ or more serious. I picked the parts of him I wanted off a buffet line, I didn’t want to stuff my face with all the parts of his life I wasn’t ready for. I’ll pass on the baby mamma drama. What does it say about our relationship when I know his itunes password but not his last name? The last conversation we had about ‘us’ was that as long we were happy we wouldn’t push things in any direction, but last week I wake up to this text about how I’m cool to hang out with, but he thinks I’m looking for a relationship and he’s not. Awesome. Don’t bother talking to me about it, assumptions are always a great indicator of the truth. I asked him to take me on a cruise the week before, maybe he was like shit, I need to get rid of her before I have to declare bankruptcy.

What’s my move? It’s not like he was breaking up with me since we were never together. I don’t want to be together so this really shouldn’t bother me. I need someone to take me out for hookah and give my boobs Arabic names. I got really used to having him yell in Arabic to his Moroccan friends and then have all these great things appear at our table, which I of course never had to pay for. Every other night I get a booty call from him. For some reason he keeps adding ‘lol’ to all of them, like it’s some sort of apology?  Who knows what goes through the minds of men.

Stay tuned for my adventures in Italia,
Violet

coitus and the half-sex wonder

Clitoris is an odd sounding word. Go on, say it out loud in all the pronunciations possible and tell me it’s not true. Coitus is a pretty cool word and is much higher on the list than other euphemisms for sex like “making love” (my least favorite). Coitus interruptus is even cooler.

I like coitus interruptus* because I don’t particularly like excess fluids that are hazardous to my health (cause babies) up my sex hole. I’ve also had plenty of guys who like to finish manually or on some body part of mine. That doesn’t bother me and can sometimes be sexy, so have at it. Having a guy yell “I’M…GONNA…CUM” isn’t always the biggest turn on, but hey, at least they’re aware of it and can perform coitus interruptus in a timely fashion.

But my favorite story is not one of coitus interruptus, but more falccidius interruptus. Let’s start story time with a visualization-this dude is probably the hottest guy I’ve ever hooked up with. If Chris Pine with a stronger chin made sweet love to a less hot, just as tall but broader Armie Hammer, out would pop this dude. Oh, he’s in the military too so thumbs up for that. So this guy Charmie (chris + armie, see what I did there?) was the same brand of engineer as some good friends of mine so they brought him over for beer pong one night. So naturally, I get right on that and before you know it, his hand is down my pants in the midst of everyone. I don’t remember if fingering me while making beer pong shots was helpful or not. There was a very large amount of alcohol consumed by everyone that night so fortunately my friends don’t really remember that part either, or have repressed such a horrid memory. After that I accidentally followed him into the bathroom while he was peeing, real sexy on my end.

The next time I had to pee, shortly after pee encounter 1, Charmie followed me in. The events that followed led to a fantastic night. Or more of an awkward night with a really hot guy. Typical makeout sesh, then used those bulging muscles to slam me into the wall. I use slam in a sexy way, not like a body slam that cracked the wall, mind you. We should have quit while we were ahead and walked out with our dignity still in tact. But no-we pressed on. So then the clothes start coming off and we’re naked on the tile floor of a college guy’s bathroom. We skip the foreplay and go straight for penetration. We’d just finished something out of a classy soft-core porn so he’s obviously hard and then I remember the reason I sought out the bathroom in the first place-to change my tampon.

We’re already in the bathroom, there’s no point in discretion so I come right out and am all like “hey, I’ve got to take my tampon out” to which he responded pretty well considering most guys shudder just thinking about menses. So he starts to put the condom on as I pee and fish out my tampon…oh what a sight that must have been. It takes his drunk ass longer than me so I’m just hanging out on the floor. And then-sex! Glorious, steamy, deep sex…for about 30 seconds. Despite numerous attempts to get it back up, Charmie’s dick just isn’t playing ball. After all the buildup, our night quickly jumps off a cliff. So we clean up, compose ourselves and head back to the party. Only it’s been hours, everyone but my friends has gone home, and they heard a large portion of what went on. Charmie said quick good bye’s and hauled ass out of there, leaving me to the incessant teasing of my dear friends.

We were no strangers to college hook-ups, but this one will always warm my heart. A chiseled Roman warrior, periods, limp dicks, bathroom already covered in slimy male juices…ahh, college, you were good to me. He came around a few times after that, we were friendly, and remain distant facebook friends to this day. When people ask me how many guys I’ve slept with, I’m never sure what to count this as. If sex is just penetration then yes, we had it. But there should be a time limit, like at least a minute, or enough to get some pleasure from it, right? If that’s the case, it doesn’t count. Charmie, you will forever be my half-sex wonder.

 

 

*I don’t like most other things that involve interruptus. Bowel movementus interruptus-can’t we all shit in peace! Conversationus interruptus-c’mon, active listening skills, people. Nap timeus interruptus-not even fair.

Porn PSA

These are things that you should watch. If you’ve seen them, watch them again.

Nothing like a John Stamos smolder to get you in the mood.

On being an escort and the sex drives of old men

Recently I’ve been called a prostitute, which is very much not true. I’ve been called an escort too and that’s closer, but I’m not getting paid enough to be called that. What I am is a sugar baby, though I’m not as good at is as I anticipated I would be and have been very naive about it all. My lack of success shouldn’t even warrant me using the term sugar baby.

Usually I’m all for gender equality and going dutch on dates or whatever. Having doors opened for me used to make me feel inferior (now I appreciate anything that supports my laziness). As the transition from college to real life loomed darkly over my head, I realized I needed cash flow. Seeing as how I picked a career which will never give me a paycheck I needed an alternative system of cash flow. Going all Walter White didn’t fit my interests or expertise. I took a survey of my assets and found that the easiest way for me to make money was with my 32 DD’s, a pair of heels, and an open mind.

I’ve already mentioned once that I’m one lazy son-of-a-bitch, so how was I to put forth the effort into finding a bank account with a penis to satisfy my need for aged steak and sundresses? I’ll let you know when I have an answer for that. Showing up in tiny skirts in a hotel bar sounded more like a prostitute to me and even at night clubs in a real fancy part of a big city I couldn’t handle the glazed over looks of older men as the oggled my cleavage. So I fled to the safety of my computer. I never thought I would enter the world of internet dating, let alone ones that involve monetary transactions.

Here I am, 2 months in, with 400$ and a sour taste in my mouth.

There is very little follow through here. I’ve worked out plenty of arrangements and made endless plans to meet only to have them cancel, sometimes not until 20 minutes after they were supposed to pick me up. “I need to reevaluate the things in my life,” he text me after he let my phone call go to voicemail.  Translation: you felt guilty for wanting to screw someone who wasn’t your wife/really wanted to avoid the hell fire brought on by your wife when she finds out. After 3 similar instances, I won’t even consider married men anymore.

Let’s take a closer looksies into my last two dates. Let’s call my first guy Carl. He’s 45, black hair but not too much of it. Tall, successful, most amazing house I’ve ever been in. At our date at a wine bar he was over complimentary, which I can’t stand. Yes, I know I’m hot. My technique of flirting is back talk and degradation but I was backed into a corner where all I could do was smile and say thank you. He couldn’t believe I was ‘for real’ because the last girl he went out with from the site was actually a meth addict and called him after to ask for more money to cover gas because she’d already spent the date money scoring her drug of choice. Glad I could raise the bar. Too many samples of wine led me to say yes when he suggested strongly that we go back to his place conveniently located five minutes down the road. Eventually we ended up on the couch making out. I’ve never had a tongue spend so much time lingering awkwardly in my mouth. He talked about how we would have so much fun together and how my rent would be covered and I could live comfortably with no worries and how great I was…it never ended. I cut our make out session short, otherwise it would have ended in vomit, and drove-with too much wine in me-home.

I feel so great that night and the next day. This decent guy (I can refine his disgusting kissing skills) thinks I’m the best thing ever and wants to give me loads of cash. A big thanks to you, sort of-ex who doesn’t want to give me the time of day. So I text him to plan our next date and add that this will be a dinner date and that I want to wait to get to know him before we have a sexual relationship. I’ll sum up many dick messages he sends me to this: he just wants to fuck me, isn’t interested in me as a person at all, good luck with your life. Way to go, Carl, I see why you are still single now. I was appalled by the complete lack of respect he had for me.

Two weeks later, Alex drives upwards of two hours to meet me at a very fancy steak house. Recently divorced, has two kids under 10, thick French accent. Overall a very nice date. He didn’t say anything sexual and I put away those beer battered onion rings like nobody’s business. I said a quick goodbye with a short hug after politely declining an invitation for coffee. I get this bizarre follow up email about how something was obviously wrong to have a goodbye like that and sincerely wanted feedback about our awkward encounter. I wrote back about how I didn’t want to jump into to start a sexual relationship, blahblah escort blahblah past experiences. I got a whole novella of bullshit back that was both amusing and confusing. Basically he said he understands my dilemma but his many year dry spell has him seriously longing for sex.

I used to think I was into older men, that the salt and pepper look was distinguishing and their financial security was sexy. Good god was I delusional. I do like older men, but when I’m young enough to have a perfectly toned, tan without wrinkles, short refractory period, 25-33 year old male-why would I settle for less?

I understand that sex is the driving force behind these men. I used to think a sugar baby was different than an escort, but I have yet to prove this otherwise. I’m a shitty escort (because I’m not one). The expectation of sex on the first date I still find ridiculous, even if there is money involved. I feel no obligation to perform sexual acts after our first date; they aren’t explicitly paying for sex. The website and the men are obviously deceiving me here. I consider myself a woman of the world and am open-minded about sexual experiences, but somehow this one’s failed me. I thought there would be men just looking for companionship. Or could even pretend to for more than an hour. I never thought I’d call myself a prude, but I guess this is where I draw the line.

I guess I have an issue with the nature of these relationship as it is. I’m justifying it by saying that I want to experience a variety, which is valid, but the gender dynamic here is pretty interesting in a way that I’m not sure I want to be a part of permanently. Why do men even want to have sugar babies? I think it’s 98% a power and control thing (I left the extra 2% out because no one will ever understand the minds of men)…which includes sex. Being the provider makes them feel important and having someone half their age is satisfying because we’re hot, impressionable, and they feel like they can control us (which in many cases may be true). In some of the postings men want arm candy they can take to social events, provided they pick out her outfits and appropriate topics of discussion. So while I’m ok stepping down for now and shamelessly collecting money, this is not what I want out of my life. I don’t care if it means I’ll be in an apartment where my neighbors can hear me play bad music and the carpet has gross stains, long term I want someone who is my equal. I also like to be in control and would have to find some pretty dumb millionaire if this was going to work.

“Well, at least you tried it,” my friend said the other day. Tried it? Ha, I’m still trying. While it’s hurt my ego more than I anticipated, I’m holding out for the ‘right guy’ to come along…someone who will respect me and I wouldn’t mind sleeping with while my rent is taken care of. Perhaps I ask for too much, that my standards are too high. So it’s back to the grind of trying to find other places to meet men than work and bars.

 

unpleasantly unsurprised: the bad date saga

It shouldn’t surprise me that I’m currently parodying my own love and dating life like some sort of demented, pre-Manolo Carrie Bradshaw—after all, not much time has passed since I went on an hour-long date with a glassblower, during which I was too hungover to finish my too-strong gin and tonics.

But okay, let me explain.

Yes, I went on a date with a glassblower. Or is he studying to be a glass blower? I’m not really sure. He was a half an inch shorter than me in heels, though. That’s a definite.

All you need to know is this glassblower moonlights as a bar back. Or more importantly, a bar back at a bar that serves really good gin and tonics.

You can probably figure out where this is going.

So I guess I kind of sort of flirted with him, and finally my best friend (now ex-best friend solely because of this event) wrote my name and phone number down on a napkin. I saw it, became temporarily insane and did not immediately snatch it off the bar, and instead headed out into the street.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “what a classy way to meet a guy! I’m sure he’ll wait three days and call her to ask her out for ice cream and a walk on the beach with his well-behaved German shepherd.”

Well, you’re wrong. He texted me an hour and a half later, after my drunk best friend passed out on the couch, and asked me out for a drink. Again- temporarily insane- I said yes. But I did grab my mace and tucked it into my clutch. Better safe than sorry.

So he picks me up, we get one drink, on the way home we talk about his hopes and dreams in the glassblowing industry, and he drops me off down the street from my friend’s apartment. I get out of the car as hurriedly as possible. And he didn’t try to kiss me or even do one of those hand on the back things, so I figured I was home free. That is, completely free from potential future attempts to contact me. Unless in the future I planned to stop by his glassblowing shop to purchase a vase or something. But whatever.

I was wrong.

I’m doin’ good for humanity,  mindin’ my own beeswax, when I receive a text from “Bar,” which was my clever code name for him to remind myself that I met him at a bar. Or maybe that he works at a bar. I’m not really sure.

Here is how the conversation transpired:

Bar: Hey there, how’s it going?

Me: Hi, pretty good.

Bar: How’s NH treatn ya?

Me: Just fine. I’ve been really busy.

Bar: Awwwwww that’s a shame. Ya ive been wicked bsy.

(Minutes pass.)

Bar: So will I ever see you again?

Me: Um, I don’t know. I might be kicking around (town name) at some point but I’m not really sure.

Bar: And if I just happen to be up in NH can I give you a call to meet up?

Me: I’m really busy.

Bar: I’m sure you could find time for a good looking guy like myself especially if I have a few gin and tonics waitn for ya.

(End of conversation.)

Okay, I know it’s fun to take stabs at Mr. Glassblower, but what do these events say about me? Am I really the kind of girl who attracts men pursuing careers in outdated trades? Am I really the kind of girl who attracts men who refer to themselves as good-looking in a text message?

Am I really the kind of girl who has her phone number written on napkins? Should I start writing my phone number on bathroom stalls prefaced with “For a good time call?”

Maybe I am that kind of girl. Or maybe it’s all just normal.

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