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.
- Step 1: Vibe with a guy at a party/bar/online and make plans for a date.
- Step 2: Go on said date and either (a) have an ick time and end things there or (b) have a great time and set up a date two, three, etc.
- Step 3: As dating continues, get to know and like said person. Usually start sleeping with them circa date four.
- Step 4: Have an awkward or unsettling talk/phone call/email exchange with said person that makes one or both of us question our potential as partners.
- Step 5: We decide not to see each other anymore.
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 »
It’s a week later, and things are going well with the Architect. Like, really well. Tuesday, we went to a gallery followed by an evening of drinks and epic conversation at my favorite dive bar. Heck, I even loved the songs he picked on the jukebox. Last night, we went for Thai food and ended up back at my place, rolling around on my bed naked, until 3 a.m. I just got a text message from him asking if I’m free tomorrow. I’m learning so much about him, and I’m liking all I’m finding out. So far there’s been nothing to send me running in the opposite direction—no incurable STD or ex-girlfriends with histories of assault.
And this all has me … freaking the f**k out. Keep reading »
I stood outside a Greenwich Village coffee shop at 6 p.m. on a Tuesday night, staring at the front door. I was meeting a very handsome architect inside, but for some reason, I wanted to bolt. Honestly, I had come close to picking up the phone and canceling our date earlier in the day. Three times to be precise. I just wasn’t excited about this guy. Keep reading »
A year and a half ago, I sat on my therapist’s black leather couch, talking to him about the last few guys I’d gone out with. I’d been on a cold streak—one where I’d meet a guy and be very taken with him, only to never hear from him after our second or third meeting. (Usually, the second. But you already know how I feel about that.) I was starting to ask myself the question that far too many single women ask themselves: Am I doing something wrong? Or worse: Is there something wrong with me? My therapist had a thick European accent, which I liked, since I felt like it gave extra weight to his words. “You present yourself as a strong, accomplished woman,” he said. “I wonder if men sometimes feel intimidated by you.” I practically rolled my eyes. Really, this was his advice? I started to fight him, explaining that I don’t think being accomplished is a problem, and if a guy sees it as such, that’s really his issue.
“I’m not saying don’t be successful,” he said. “I’m wondering if you could show them some of your vulnerability.” Ding ding ding. He was completely right. I didn’t have to pour my soul out to strange men, but I could easily share with them the part of me that wasn’t so sure about everything and that wondered whether I had made the right career decisions, etc. I left his office that day feeling like I had made a breakthrough. But now I think that one conversation may have ruined my dating life. Keep reading »
People always freak out about first dates. But as a 30-year-old woman who’s been dating on and off for, oh, the past decade, I’ve mastered the art of a first date. You meet and have a drink to loosen things up. You talk about what you do, what you’d like to be doing, and where you come from. If it’s not going well, you can tell within 10 minutes and get the heck out of there. If it is going well, the conversation juts out in complicated tangents. You find yourself laughing, and leaning in closer. You realize that the amount of information you have about someone is increasing exponentially each minute. There’s the thrill of when you accidentally touch each other. And then there’s the first kiss, where you find all sorts of lovely idiosyncrasies, like that the bad boy has the softest lips you’ve ever encountered. No, first dates are easy.
It’s second dates that I fear. Keep reading »