Rude Boy

So there we are.

In the parking lot of The Jack Rose.

We met for drinks and spent about an hour chatting.

We walked to my car and he kissed me goodnight.

It wasn’t bad. Not fabulous, but it also didn’t suck.

I turned around to get in my car and that’s when it happened.

He punched me in my ass.

“What was that for?” I asked, a little freaked out.

“Smack dat ass,” he replied, telling me nothing except that he was a Rude Boy.

I barely know him.

He is not INVITED to smack my ass, let alone punch it.

I was offended.

I have a feeling he wanted to SLAP it but then felt awkward about it but didn’t manage to stop himself in time.

Hence, THE PUNCH.

I’m telling you this because ONCE AGAIN, I found myself in a situation where I am forced to remain composed when inside I’m raging.

You don’t touch me with WITHOUT my permission.

One drink, an hour of conversation, and one passably decent kiss DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO SMACK ME.

Just to cap things off, I went home and climbed in bed.

He sent me a text:

“Take off you pants right now”

It’s gonna be a cold day in hell before I take my pants off for you.

Ironically, he’s a policeman in the Air Force, so he should know all about crossing the boundary between acceptable behavior and sexual battery.

Rude Boy.

Three strikes, you’re out!

I dated a drummer very briefly in high school.

His name was Joe and I was so ENAMORED of him.

He had big biceps and drove an old truck.

And he was quite the Italian Stallion.

We had exactly ONE DATE in the real world.

He showed up 30 minutes late because he got lost.

He took me out – I don’t remember what we did – and then he brought me home.

And THAT is when it happened.

He kissed me goodnight through his car window.

When we were done kissing he said, “Goodnight Lisa. . . I mean Melissa. . . I mean Michelle.”

My heart sank like a rock.

Strike one, strike two, strike three, I’m out.

Now, I’ve had 30 odd years to ponder this moment.

At the time I remember being crushed that he couldn’t remember my name.

Not even on his second attempt.

But upon reflection I’ve decided that my kissing skills are SO SUPERIOR that I KISSED HIM SENSELESS and he couldn’t recall my name because his brain was all doped up on a HUGE dose of oxytocin, courtesy of me.

That a much more preferable explanation.

Still, he’s the only man to forget my name.

And I will remember him FOREVER because of it.

I went on a date

I was excited to get out of the house.

It feels like it’s been FOREVER since someone took me out.

Like The Swede in May.

I was so excited to get out of the house that I actually went through way more preparation and ritual than I normally do.

I took a bath.

I shaved my whole body – even my legs.

Just in case, you know, they got TOUCHED.

Then I put on perfume.

Of course I stopped just shy of putting on body lotion.

I put on fresh antiperspirant, just in case.

I redid all my makeup.

Then I COMPLETELY forgot lipstick!

Left the house without a tube to my name.

Doh!

I know you all think I’ve been living like a nun these past few months, but I broke the mold on this date.

I was witty, and funny, and very VERY flirty.

He stood no chance against my charm.

Which was good because he was quite charming himself and I found myself having a good time.

At the end, of the date, he pinned my back against my truck, stuck one knee between my thighs, grabbed a fistful of hair and kissed me.

And was it good, you’re wondering?

Well, I’ll tell you this. . .

. . .it did not suck.

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0 for 2

Oy, are my dating skills OFF.

This week I tried to schedule two dates.

Date #1 was with a sexy photographer.

Yes, I know.

Despite my wariness of photographers, I agreed to a date.

First, he got the date wrong.

Then he cancelled.

Ok fine.

Maybe this is the universe trying to tell me something:

Like DON’T DATE PHOTOGRAPHERS.

At least I wont have to worry about him pointing a camera at me while trying to talk me out of my clothes.

And THEN. . .

I set up a date with a welder.

I was hesitant (again) but he seemed awfully nice until SUDDENLY he wasn’t all that nice.

He asked me which one of my pictures was the most recent.

All my pics are recent (within a year).

So I told him: They were all taken within the last year. Does it matter?

And he replied: Just curious.

Then he tacked on a wee little commentary: Sheesh.

Just curious. Sheesh.

And that was it.

The straw that broke the camel’s back.

Here I am trying to make a connection with someone and he’s giving me attitude.

This does not bode well.

And so it was that 15 minutes after I scheduled a date with a welder, I cancelled the date.

Perhaps I was a little rough on him.

Maybe I should have been more understanding.

But I was on the fence with him as it was and he just pushed me over to the other side.

I mean come on!

What am I? A piece of meat that’s being inspected or a person with feelings and emotions who needs to be valued as a whole person and not just a picture taken within the last year.

Sheesh!

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Kissing

When I went out with The Swede, at the end of our date, I thought, “Well, there’s a guy who will never ask me out again.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Of course, I based this on the fact that he was initially very quiet around me. I mistook his silence for disinterest.

And, he didn’t kiss me.

Well that’s because the two of us have completely different theories about who to kiss.

He believes in kissing only the people he really wants to kiss after he gets to know them whereas I believe in kissing as many people as will let me kiss them trying to find the good ones.

I know.

It’s a strange phenomenon.

I can kiss just about anyone, so long as they don’t have bad teeth or bad breath.

And I believe heartily in doing it.

Because let’s face it, it wouldn’t hurt the world to have a lot more kissing (and hugging) in it.

When it comes to kissing, The Swede has got to be right at the top of my list of best kissers of all time.

It may have taken a year to kiss him (he lives in Sweden, folks), but once I started, I didn’t want to stop.

You ever get so lost in a kiss that time passing by seems to disappear?

You ever lose track of your body and only feel sensation in your lips?

You ever feel the need to change your panties after a kiss?

That’s what kissing The Swede is like.

So color me happy he asked me out again and got around to kissing me.

We should have started kissing each other a lot sooner.

Who knew I’d need to go to Sweden to get kissed?!

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Stood Up

Did I ever tell you about the time I got stood up by a Tinder date?

It was my first time EVER getting stood up.

Sadly, it would not be the last time.

The thing was, I was kind of excited about this date and so I popped in at home, brushed my teeth, fluffed my hair, and actually misted myself with spray glitter.

Yes, I know, how very millennial of me, no?

And very playa unfriendly.

But I wasn’t on the playa, I was in Los Gatos.

We were scheduled to meet at at Oak & Rye, a nice pizza place that serves my favorite beer – Panty Peeler by Midnight Sun.

As I’m WALKING INTO THE RESTAURANT, I happen to glance at my phone and I have a message from my date.

Well, that’s a nice how-do-you-do?

I was peeved by the whole experience.

AND HE SPELLED MY NAME WRONG!

Mentally, I wrote him off.

Flake.

I was sorely tempted to reply:

NO RAINCHECK NEEDED!

But that’s just my inner bitch freaking out.

I actually sent no reply.

Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Fresh F*cking Michelle

MichelleRecently, I went on a date.

Not a bad date. As far as dates go, this one was pretty good.

He was filled with compliments.

He told me I was beautiful.

I just smiled and said “thank you.”

He paused.

“I want to let that sink in,” he replied.

Okaaaaayyy.

Sometimes, I get very self-conscious when people compliment me.

This was one of those moments.

Yes I’m beautiful but I’m no Cindy Crawford or Elle MacPherson.

I’m just little old me.

And it goes to show that maybe I’ve been a little bit worn down when it comes to dating that instead of being impressed by his compliment and touched by his sincerity, I felt like I was being buttered up.  I was instantly suspicious.

So I paused and let that realization sink in.

The idea that I am damaged somehow and hard to connect with.

The idea that I might be the “bad” part of a date.

So I made sure for the rest of the date to be my authentic self, dorkiness and awkwardness and all.

Damaged goods, my ass!

I’ll be damned if I’m going to let dating make me jaded.

I’m going to be fresh every fucking time.

Fresh fucking Michelle.

Come and get it!

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Sometime life f*cks with you

michelleI HAVE to write this post.

You see, a few years ago, I went on a date with Lou – an attorney from the Bay Area.

It was. . .

THE.

WORST.

DATE.

EVER.

You can read all about it here, in excruciating detail.

So.

I log in to Facebook last night and whose picture should appear under the heading “People you May Know” but Lou. . .

. . . posing with his bride, his daughter, and their white poodle.

Oh

My

God!

Someone ACTUALLY married him.

Someone young and beautiful ACTUALLY married him, I should say.

Now, I may have freaked out a little bit.

I may have momentarily felt like a loser because after all, if Lou can get someone to marry him, then what the hell is wrong with me?

Perhaps it was the two gin and tonics talking, but I reached out to a few friends and said, “WTF?!”

And see what good friends I have, they told me to get some rest, sleep off the gin, and things would look better in the morning.

And lo and behold, they do!

Thank you Arjang and Tejas – you were right!

So I’ve decided to adopt a more positive tone about this whole experience and say:

It just goes to show you – there’s someone out there for everyone.

Even Lou.

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Don’t hold your breath

So I went out with this guy.

And he seemed nice enough, even though he asked me if I’d ever been to a swingers’ party in the first 20 minutes of our date.

He kissed me goodnight and asked if we could go out again.

And I said, “Sure, sounds good.”

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

“Go wine tasting,” I suggested.

“Great idea!” he said.

The only problem is that all the wineries I know about are off highways that have mud slides, fallen trees, and road closures – I pointed out.

We could wine taste at my house. . . he suggested.

NO!

I mean, NO. THANK. YOU.

I’m 43 years old.

I know what it means when a man invites you to his house.

He’s looking for some nookie.

And it’s not that I object to that, I just object to that when there’s no effort to get to know me.

At least make a pretense of looking for a “friend” with benefits.

Otherwise it starts to smell like No Strings Attached and I’m not looking for that.

Maybe I’m confused (I probably am) but it seems like the timetable to get in my pants has been sped up to nuclear speeds.

And I can’t help but feel like the men who are successful are the ones who text me during the day just to see how things are going, even when we don’t have a “playdate” planned rather than the ones who go at me at warp speed.

So what’s happening with this guy?

He’s taking me to a wine bar.

Because who knows, maybe he likes me AND wants in my pants too.

But I’m not holding my breath.

I went on a date

michelleI went on a date.

It was my first date of 2017.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve had a date.

I went out with him because he was a clever boy.

He sent me a message.  I went to his profile and looked at his pictures.  Hmmmm.  No.  Not my type, I decided.

But then. . .

He sent me a message:

“My profile:
You came.
You saw.
You left?
Now marketing is all over me about first impressions. . . ”

And so on.

Well, you get the picture.  He was clever.

And in my book, clever is valuable and should be rewarded.

So I agreed to go on a date.

And how did it go?

Well, apart from him bringing up swingers clubs in the first 20 minutes of our date, I’d say NOT BAD.

He even gave me a kiss goodnight which was NOT BAD.

There was a bit of a TONGUE DUMP at the end there, but overall he was a nice kisser.

First impressions?

Clever counts.