Earlier today, an email appeared in my inbox from OKCupid, my online dating site of choice. “New message from BananaMan5,” it read. The name was highly suspect, but I decided to check out the email anyway, just in case Mr. Banana turned out to be the hilarious, dashing, uber-creative man of my dreams. The email was short, just one line with a whole lot of exclamation points:
“I love poom poom!!!!!!!”
“What are you up to tomorrow night?” The Juggler asked me last Tuesday morning. We were on the train to work, as had become our routine over the past two weeks. He held the pole with one hand, his other wrapped around my back, playing with the ends of my hair.
“It’s my cousin’s birthday party. Ugh,” I said, imagining how much I would rather be staying up into the wee hours of the night going from foreplay to sex, foreplay to sex, as had also become our routine, than twiddling my thumbs at a party with my family. I searched my head for the next evening I didn’t have plans. “But I’m free Friday,” I said.
“Cool,” he said, giving me a lingering kiss that totally turned me on again, before sliding out of the subway doors. “I’ll talk to you before then.”
Only he didn’t. Keep reading »
Here’s something I wouldn’t have guessed about The Juggler in the disastrous first 15 minutes of meeting: he’s kind of kinky. Our first date turned into a second which turned into a third. On our fourth date last night, we decided to see a movie. Midway through, I felt his fingers move up my thigh, higher and higher, under my skirt, until they were pushing my underwear to the side and rubbing my clitoris. Ten minutes later we were out of the theater and back at his house, neither of us caring in the slightest how the movie ended. Keep reading »
They say that, within five minutes of meeting a guy, a woman decides whether she wants to have sex with him. But it only took me 30 seconds to know that there was no way I was screwing The Juggler.
After chatting for a few days online, I agreed to meet him at a bar in Manhattan. When I arrived, I instantly spotted him sitting on a bar stool. There was no denying that he was cute. But as is often the case with online dating, he was a little shorter and a touch older-looking than advertised.
But that wasn’t the issue. Keep reading »
Not to get all touchy-feely on you guys, but I am a person who wants to improve myself. I spent months not dating so that I could figure out what I’m looking for in a relationship and analyze my dating patterns. I’ve been a little startled to realize that, when I click with someone, things go amazingly for a few weeks. And then at the month mark, almost uniformly, they lose interest. I’ve thought about what I might be doing to lead to this, but just can’t put my fingers on the magic bullet. At this point, I feel like I need some outside feedback.
So when Tall Guy, the last guy this happened with, IMed me and asked how I felt about being friends, I saw it as an opportunity. “Of course, I’d like to be your friend,” I typed back. “But I do need to hear a bit more from you about what felt off with us. Would you be willing to share?” Keep reading »
“What do you do for a living?” I asked the hot guy who’d just bought me a vodka and soda. He had turquoise eyes and a freshly shaved head that I wanted to run my hands over. His bicep muscles bulged where he’d rolled up his plaid shirt. All in all, he was one of the 10 best-looking guys I’d ever talked to in person.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he responded.
“OK, what do you really do?” I shot back.
“I’m a magician.”
I stared at him with a look that (I hope!) said both I-want-to-make-out-with-you and cut-the-crap. “What do you really do?” I asked.
“I’m a sanitation worker,” he said.
Buzz. Killed. Keep reading »
You know when someone touches you for the first time? Not an incidental arm graze, but a meaningful, purposeful touch that says, “Hello, it is on.” I was standing beside Tall Guy in Central Park, watching a softball game when he casually reached a tattooed arm around me and hooked his hand around the narrowest part of my waist, my favorite body part. Every nerve ending in my body jumped to attention. I think I let out an audible gasp. He pulled me closer to him and I instinctively laced my arm around his back. The non-verbal, “Oh yeah. I’m feeling it, too.”
This was the first physical contact I’d had with a guy in months. And it felt amazing. Keep reading »
You haven’t heard from me in a while. Apologies for the radio silence. Here is why I haven’t felt compelled to write lately: For the past three months I have been stuck in the same pattern.
And thus, I am left with a G-Chat bar full of guys who, for a short period of time, I talked to constantly—but who I wouldn’t dare to message now or probably ever again. Their names in my phone just seem like a cruel reminder of how hard it is to find someone you could actually have a relationship with.
And so I have decided that I, Dater X, cannot date anymore. Keep reading »
I sat on the couch straddling him, our chests pressed together and my hands pulling softly on his hair as we kissed. For the past half an hour, we’d been slowly unpeeling our many layers of clothing and we were down to just my pair of lacy underwear and his boxer briefs. We’d had a lovely third date—I adored that he called me “Ringlets,” just like Sawyer dubbed Kate “Freckles” on “Lost.” As the conversation veered into sexual territory a few times, it became more than obvious that, tonight, we were ready to seal the deal.
“Shall we take this into the other room,” he said, pointing towards his bedroom. We stood up and he grabbed my hand, leading me down the hall. I sat down on the side of his bed, and he stood before me. Good lord, he was hot. I began to take off his Calvin Kleins.
“Can I go down on you?” I asked, looking up at him. As soon as I said it, the question struck me as strange. Had I ever asked this before? Was this a question with more than one answer? After all, on our list of “27 Things Men Never Say,” the phrase “I’m not really into blow jobs” came in at number eight.
“No,” he said. Keep reading »
Fine, I’ll admit it. I had many a daydream about how I was going to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s. I was looking forward to a staycation and getting to spend lots of time with the Architect. We’d been dating for a month and a half and I imagined us heading out in the snow to museums, cuddling up on the couch to watch TV shows, going to parties as a couple, and having sleepovers where, for once, we could actually sleep in. So my stomach got that just-belly-flopped-off-the-high-dive feeling when he called on Christmas Eve and said, “Can we talk?”
Noooooooooo! Keep reading »
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