Your shoes, babe.

So I'm out with Gwen and Wes, our most fabulous of fabulous gay friends, and Wes whispers to me that there's some adorable dish eyeing me from across the bar.  I casually look up over the rim of my dirty dirty martini and see that indeed, there is a lovely specimen of man giving me a shy smile.  I'm sizing him up immediately (as I'm sure he's doing to me) and have yet to find anything deterring me from the approach.

Well groomed hair, nice button up shirt, perfect teeth, either whiskey or scotch on the rocks and--are those--dimples?!  I'm a lost cause at this point.

I grab my clutch and drain my 'tini and head in the direction of the bathroom to powder my nose (with the pretense of going in for the kill on my way back), and then I see them.

Below his well-pressed slacks (crease and all), his feet rest beneath his stool encased in dirty, beat up cross-trainers.

Ugh.  There goes my hard on.  I get into the bathroom to fix my makeup and tell myself that all is not lost.  He could be on his way to or from the gym.  He could have been walking to work or on his way to pick up his shoes from the cobbler (do people still go to those?!) and I'm making excuses for him before I even met him.  You may think it's judgmental, but quick judgments are an evolutionary tool that we've developed to avoid wasting our time with those less than worthy.  But I've talked myself into giving him a chance by now because of those fucking dimples, and am determined to figure out those ghastly shoes along the way.

When I leave the bathroom, he's paying his bill.  He turns to me and gives me a little wave, and walks out the door.  I get back to my seat between Gwen and Wes, and the bartender comes over to hand me a business card.

"The guy left this for you," he says.  Underneath his name, it reads Life Coach.


"Is this a joke?"  I ask the bartender.  I can't tell if it's flattering that he gave me his number or a dig that I need some kind of life coaching help.  Therapy, yes, probably, but life coaching?  Gwen and Wes are dying of laughter.  The bartender shrugs.  I toss the business card in the trash.

Wes pays for my next dirty dirty martini and takes my hands.  "You don't need a life coach," he says.  "You need to get poked.  And not by some "life coach" in bad shoes."

A Letter for a Fuckbag

Dear Sir Whom I Am No Longer Fucking,

Remember how I ended things so coolly--smiled icily at you when I came by to pick up my stuff from your condo and said that I bore you no ill will?

Well, I fucking lied and you are a dirty, rotten scumbag.  Here's what I was gritting my teeth to avoid saying to you, you worthless dumbass.

When we started dating, I was all for keeping things mellow.  Look, bitch, I am the fucking Queen of Gray Area relationships.  We don't have to define this yet, just yet.  Let's just enjoy this, whatever it is.  Let's kiss some more and I'll show you what an excellent bedfellow I can be.

But, no.  You had to know where it was going and what I wanted.  You said you were a relationship person and that was what you sought.  I said that was fine.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I'd know when I had it.

And then, you romanced me.  You said things that I didn't believe at first.  Then, you said I should believe them.  I told my mother--she said not to believe those things you said, so I did.  I finally gave in when I knew I shouldn't have, and oh... I loved it.  I didn't love you, per se, but I loved those things you said.  Until for no reason at all, you... just... stopped.

"I'm capricious," you said to me.  "I'm just not sure to what extent I want to be involved in a relationship with you."

Well, let me make this very easy for you:  you will not be involved with me AT ALL.  For all of your transparent behavior, you've hidden one of two things from me:  one, you are lying to me to avoid hurting me, or two, you are unsure about me.  I do not prize dishonesty or uncertainty in my friends, let alone my lovers.

So then when you ended up in a relationship so soon after I stopped having any discourse with you, well, fuck you.  To even things out, here are some things that I hid from you while we were dating:  I never stopped talking to my ex.  Sometimes I thought of him when we were having sex.  No, I've never had that problem with a guy before, so it was obviously your problem.  Your oddly-shaped ribcage actually turned me off.  I faked it.  You have terrible taste in music.  Yes, I am a blogger and I *will* write about you and everything you did wrong, even in the bedroom.  That is my fucking MO, bitch.  Even if you are intelligent and have a good job, the fact that you have a fucking marijuana nursery makes me want to smash your face into a brick wall.  Grow the fuck up, hippie.  Your dick was too small and your spunk tasted awful and you couldn't find a clit with a headlamp and two air traffic controllers.  You need to go back to school and learn when to use "your" and "you're" and you can stop being pretentious any fucking day now.  Honestly, sweetheart, you're lucky I didn't pour liquid nitrogen in your lap and shatter your balls with a baseball bat.

But, I'm above that, and I'm above you, so go settle down with your mediocre ball and chain and stay off the market, so that it's easier for the rest of us above average single jewels to find that special thing for which we all search.  You just did not meet expectations and I'm actually pretty irritated that I let you put your dick in me.  Like, way irritated, actually.

So here we are.  You can go on, blissfully unaware that given the chance, I would run you over with my car and think that everything is fine.  I did smile at you when things ended, after all.  And I was cool about it... to your face.  I said I understood and wasn't interested in being friends.  You don't have it in you to be a good friend and frankly, you weren't thrilling enough for me to keep around.

Cheers, motherfucker.

--Smashy

Remembering Pieces of Dates

So, because I have terrible luck, my conquest didn't end up working out last week.  He is determined to be a wimpy, sexting tease, and I am determined to not care about this bizarre situation anymore.

Randomly today, I found one of my early college crushes on Facebook.  I asked him out once, and we ended up sitting on a cliff by the ocean for our "date" - we played a game where we sang bits of songs to each other and had to guess the band.  Later, he broke down in tears while telling me how he was heterosexually raped by a girl.  "Is that possible?  Can that actually happen?"  I had asked him.  He called me insensitive, but made out with me fifteen minutes later.  I don't remember how our date ended, exactly.  I vaguely recall it was when I still had morals (so like, way early in college) and I told him I wasn't going to have sex with him unless we dated.  Obviously, we didn't date, and I don't remember much else about him.

It's possible that I drank much of my memories away, or that he was generally one of those forgettable crushes.

These days, he's married now (like everyone else) and I remembered that I crushed on him because he looked like one of the guys in The Strokes.  College me was shallow, but loathe to admit it.

God, I miss those days.

It doesn't count as a date, so why is it already awkward?

A boy that I have been trying to seduce for the better part of a year is coming over later to "hang out" because we have been talking about hooking up for some time.  There is a lot more to this story, but at this point in time, it does not matter so much, suffice it to say that he is the most confusing man I have ever met.

He sexts me incessantly, which would be fine except for the fact that he said we would need to hang out a few times before having sex.  That would be fine, too, if it wasn't for the fact that I am moving out of the city and I have made it clear that we are not anywhere near the dating arena.  This will be physical, and we are running out of time to enjoy that part of this.

Oh, hot confusing man, why are you so perplexing?  Are you trying to appear chivalrous?  Will this rule go out the window when we are messing around and I want to go further?  We shall see.

I really need to stop having sober, no-strings flings and attempt to find someone worth dating.  I will, too.  After this one.  (Maybe.)