So recently, over a bucket of Bud Lights (they were out of Corona, but really once the bottles hit the bucket, they all taste like Coors) and a pair of Michter’s rockses, I asked a friend of mine a question that’s been lurking around in my brain (and the formant pages of my seedling memoir) lately. It’s a tough one to ask because it really makes you look like a prick to even ask the question these days. And honestly I don’t think there were ever days in the past when the question was framed in quite this way. In the past, the question I asked went like this: Continue reading Is this my stop?
I’ve recently noticed that embedded video doesn’t show up in the email version of this blog. So, the solution is for you to click on over the the actual site. Done. Ok. Yes. Here’s a track to play while reading this post:
Today’s theme? Managing the painfulness of our (romantic) relationships. I’m talking here about the attempt to lessen the pain our partner feels while managing our own experience. I think this is something that we all think about mostly as happening at the end of a relationship, Continue reading You gotta break some eggs
Ok. So. I have a couple of topics that are kicking around in my head-bucket right now, but the thing is, they kinda hit a nerve in my life if I dig too deep into them and I get all whiny and annoying, so I’m struggling currently with a way to discuss them without degrading into melancholic mental masturbation (the triple M, believe it).
First is sex-associated guilt. Continue reading Pride of the Protestants
A couple nights ago I went on a date (ish) with a girl who writes a relationship blog. That makes two girls with relationship blogs I’ve had dates with (that I know of). Both are fairly disaster-oriented. Both are blonde (!). Both blogs have gotten quite a (relatively) large amount of attention (more than mine, of course). And both dates got interrupted at a key point, ruining everything forever.
I’ve read their blogs. I’m not sure if I should link to them… wait, who am I kidding? The first girl was a lovely, very sexy early side of mid-twenties with family ties to Manhattan and a nice cynical wit. Her blog is called datemeintheface, which she shares with a friend. They open it up to reader submissions and encourage people (like me, during our date) to send in dating horror stories which they’ll publish/post if they’re sufficiently good. Let’s call her Face. Face was my first back-in-the-saddle moment (discounting summer fling girl, please) after special lady friend left me for points north. I say back in the saddle and you think we fucked. Nope. Not her. That honor goes to… oh man am I a slut… it goes to a married girl who wanted to even the score on her cheating husband. But that’s another story for another post. Face was the first girl that I got up the balls to approach at a bar and ask for her number. A seriously big deal for me as that’s definitely NOT my typical MO. (like that link? good).
Over the course of my life, the vast majority of my hookups, romances, one night stands, long term stable rewarding relationships that should have ended in marriage and kids, dancefloor make-out sessions and bathroom blowjobs have been initiated by the girl. I used to call my “style” the zen hookup. Yeah I know that’s ridiculously cheesey, but we’re talking about freshman-sophomore college years. Which is also before the intensely disgusting advent of the intensely disgusting line of books and seminars on how to trick girls into fucking you. But it’s not totally wrong. I basically just wait until the girl I’m interested in gets tired of waiting for me to make a move and does it herself. Less work and anguish for me, and I’m not proud of that. It also has meant that I end up dating a certain personality type, which isn’t actually all that bad as I’m discovering. But at the time I was like, “HIE, get over there and get that girl with the incredible body’s number! The only way to get a girl who isn’t a little batshit is to get one that waits for the fella to make the move!”
So that happened. I must say I was about as smooth as month-old sour milk. But I got her number, we had a date, we made out in a “speakeasy” and were asked to stop. ASKED TO STOP. Which was the bucket of ice water on that little fling. I saw her again randomly at a boutique hotel bar, but she ran when I called out to her. Probably because I mispronounced her name. I am terrible with names. I live the guilt to this day.
The second girl, let’s call her Reese because she looks like the Witherspoon, writes a blog called Moths to a Flame. She’s the flame, guys are moths (to be fair, she calls herself a bugzapper). I think the metaphor is meant to imply a destructive end caused by some flaw in her own personality, as in she burns the moths (dudes) when they get too close and ruins future chances of happiness. But really it just sounds egotistical. Which I personally am fine with. It’s good to be honest about shit like that. This girl is hot. Like total package can I take you home to the family hot. Tall, did I mention blonde, slim, smart as a whip, funny and cultured. (aside: these are the only two blonde girls I have ever dated, they both have relationship blogs for telling horror stories, etc, etc, yadda yadda you get it. weird)
But of course as with every girl I’m attracted to, there’s a pretty sketch dark side. Not all that surprising, but… I’ll tell the story
tomorrow later. Pretty interesting. I hope she doesn’t mind. Fuck that, if I don’t rate a page on her blog, I’ll make my own here and be proud of it. Heh.