Datehazard’s Blog

On dating, singleness and adjusting to being 30ish.

Possibilities March 16, 2009

I spent the night at the Analyst’s apartment on Saturday. He lives all the way out in Brooklyn; it took almost two hours on the weekend trains to get to him. That was not fun.

I like his neighbourhood, though. It’s a quiet, family-oriented one, and it’s close to the sea. It was lovely to stand at a pier near his apartment, watch the waves and feel the strong cold breeze from the ocean. That alone made up for the 2 hour epic journey to get there.

I really like him. He makes me laugh. I make him laugh, too. I’m constantly making fun of him — which is an easy thing to do. He’s quite naive in some ways; he assumes that I don’t know very much (like when I deliberately horribly mangled the pronunciation of “rendezvous” to be “Ren-des-vohs”), and I play along, drawing out the “Please educate me” experience to its absurd extreme, until he notices that I’m smiling, or he has a “wait, this can’t possibly be true” skepticism. And then I start laughing, and he laughs too.

I suppose it isn’t the kindest way to joke with someone; I’d always be a little guarded around someone who I knew was going to make fun of me, or find an opportunity to joke at my expense. I have told him on a few occasions that he should tell me if he ever gets tired of me being silly in this way, and he laughs and says, “no, it’s fine.” I have a feeling he means it. I spoke with my friend Kind Ninja and she remarked that he probably appreciates being around intelligent people who can challenge him.

After we walked around the neighbourhood, ate at a local restaurant and had a drink at his neighbourhood bar, we went back to his apartment. His apartment is cluttered and messy, with books in various spots, and the strange sight of two shedding feather pillows on his living room floor. He explained that he left them there from when friends would come over and he needed extra seating. It seemed an odd explanation, but I didn’t pry.

I would go into some of the details of our intimacy, but a sense of privacy and tenderness prevents me from disclosing too much. I will say that he enjoys playing as much as I do, and doesn’t shy away from a challenge. He seems to understand as well as I, how provocation quickens the pulse, and heightens desire. He pinned my arms behind my back at one point when I was getting the better of him in a tickling match, and I found myself suddenly not struggling and not laughing. Instead, my body reached for his, and we kissed with hungry mouths.

He has a lovely, long body, smooth, soft skin, and hair in all the warm places: over his heart, his groin, a soft covering over his firm rounded bottom. I’ve never been a fan of hairless men. And frankly, I think shaving is overrated, and waxing as something that should be reserved for practices of torture.

The night ended in a tangle of limbs and blankets. We slipped from exhaustion into a broken sleep. I kept waking up to get water, go to the bathroom, or to simply lie, disoriented, checking the time and gazing crookedly at his poorly hung blue curtains. I would wonder where I was, recall, listen to his surprisingly rapid breaths, and drift off into a fitful slumber.

The night before, we had talked about the sea, and the waves. I told him about the time I lived in a little house by the sea, how the fierce wind would scare me when I first moved there, and how I would hear pine cones drop on my roof at night. And how these initial anxieties eventually became sources of wordless joy, reminding me simultaneously of both qualities of my frail existence.

I don’t think I’d ever felt more alive. And I had almost forgotten the experience. As the years went by and I moved away, it had become buried under all of the pragmatic toughness and hardness one needs to deal with the hustle and bustle of big city living. That little house by the sea seemed almost to exist in another lifetime. It was good to be reminded of it.

He’d listened with shining eyes and a faint smile of understanding while I talked; he also loves the sea. He told me about growing up amongst olive trees and harvesting ripe olives by hand. He talked about the back-breaking labour involved, but I could see his nostalgia in his eyes. He seemed far away, existing for a moment in the bright sun, the aroma of ripening olives rising around him.

Something about this man makes me both so incredibly happy, and so grounded at the same time. I am able to breathe deeply and slowly in his presence, and my worries evaporate.

 

Some amusement about The Charmer February 28, 2009

Filed under: breakups,Dating,Desire — datehazard @ 2:41 pm
Tags: , , , ,

No, there hasn’t been anything new to report. He never did get in touch with me, either to acknowledge that we are looking for different things; to try to win me back; or to shout at me in anger and accuse me of whatever first entered his mind.

It’s been almost a week since I’d sent that e-mail. He’s not going to call.

I’d like to say it’s not a big deal, but it is. Getting over what happened is much harder when the object of your affection disappears.

But today, while at lunch, I had an insight into his type’s possible way of thinking, and the way we were so obviously poorly matched from the get-go.

I decided to treat myself and went to lunch at a Dominican restaurant. While I was enjoying my delicious stewed pork with eggplant, a couple came in.

The man had salt-and-pepper hair, a trimmed short goatee, and was talking unceasingly on his cell phone. His wife/date had straight black hair that reached down to her perky round butt. She immediately chatted with the waitress, arranging for a table, getting them seated, asking for menus, making small talk and smiling, her head tilted to one side in a classic “I’m interested in you” gesture. All the while, she darted glances at her man, checking periodically to see where he was in his conversation, and taking pains to avoid interrupting or disturbing him in any way.

They sat down, her man wrapping up his conversation. She looked at her menu, occasionally glancing up to smile in encouragement at her partner.

I was at the next table, the proverbial fly on the wall. I pretended to be engrossed in my dulce de leche and cafe con leche, while I surreptitiously watched them both out of the corner of my eye.

He says goodbye, hangs up; she juts her chin out at him, her hair flowing forward to form thin cascading sheets in front of her shoulders. She raises her eyebrows in inquiry.

“Oh that was Ted. He wants me to get him some tires,” he says.

“Some tires!” She laughs.

“Yeah, I guess he thinks I can get them for him from my friend Nick.”

(Small tinkling laughs). “That’s funny! We should introduce him to Julia. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

He smiles at her, appreciating her joke, her laugh, her relaxed demeanour, good naturedness. She’s so adoring and so amenable. So understanding.

They order their dishes, she making light conversation while he juggles multiple thoughts in his head. She asks questions about whether he’s eaten some of the more unusual choices on the menu, in her broad Queens accent. She shares light-hearted tidbits with him, entertaining him with nothing too tiring, nothing too engaging.

Their food arrives, and she flips her hair around to one shoulder, tilting her head now to the right. Black strands slide and tumble in succession; one wave after another of silken hair fall, pointing like so many luxurious arrows into her lap.

She holds the fork in her right hand. Her wrist is bent at a right angle; index, thumb and forefinger form a bird-like shape around the shaft of the fork. She pierces her lettuce with her fork held absolutely perpendicular to her plate. It meets its target at 90 degrees each time.

She leans forward each time to eat; her mobile jaw is apparent when she opens wide to place another forkful in her open mouth. As she leans forward, her elbow rests on the table, so she is forced to crane her neck forward, flip her hair back yet again, and to lift her chin. She peers down at her food through hooded eyes.

And when her partner speaks to her, she looks at him too down the bridge of her nose, assuming an air of haughty arrogance. Her fork is poised to stab, dangled once again in a bird-like gesture while she stops chewing so she can hear her man talk.

The juxtaposition of her cold, arrogant stare, with her ever present quick smile and light-heartedness makes her all the more endearing, and seemingly strong.

Both know this is an act, but both are comfortable in their respective gender roles. I would not imagine a situation occurring where this woman would choose to pay for her partner’s meal; nor would he ever allow for her to insist on it. Both would be equally mortified and insulted by the possibility. This is just not done between a man and a woman who are intimate.

Somewhere along the way while I was watching the two of them, I became aware of how strange me and The Charmer would have been as a couple. Here is this curly-haired, sleep-deprived, intelligent, unyielding woman who has often been accused of being intense, driven and inflexible, and here is the same kind of man: always on his cell phone, always hustling, making deals, who just wants something intelligible and not particularly difficult.

Amazing that we were even attracted to each other enough to think something might work in the first place. And this is why people are best suited in complementary pairs, not in a bond where both parties are just as competitive and ambitious as the other.

 

Walking away from The Charmer February 23, 2009

So, I wrote an e-mail to The Charmer this morning, saying that I was walking away.

It came out of my realisation last night that we are just looking for two different things. He wants someone who can be as morally free as him, and who can let him indulge in whatever sexual pecadilloes he chooses, and it was making me sad. I cried as I fell asleep last night, in the realisation that I couldn’t be with this man in the way I’d like. It was a mixture of exhaustion, self-pity, self-loathing and acceptance.

I told him that, strange as it may sound, he was one of the few people in my life I’ve ever met who I was immediately and strongly attracted to; the kind of person who I just cannot get enough of. It’s been many years since I’ve felt this way; in fact, other than when I was a teenager, I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.

If nothing else, that sense that my heart has awakened, and reminded me of how strongly it can feel, is an amazing thing. I’ve spent the last year in a haze, unfocussed and numb. I never thought I could feel this strongly again.

And now it’s over.

And life goes on.

 

Hilarious February 21, 2009

Filed under: breakups,Comedy,Exes — datehazard @ 1:10 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

How to break up with your girlfriend in 64 easy steps.

Could apply to both sides of the equation!

Enjoy.

 

The Goodbye February 19, 2009

Filed under: breakups,Dating,Desire,Drama — datehazard @ 2:09 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

How do you say goodbye to someone who seemed like they were going to be much, much more than a fling?

You don’t.

You wish them well.

And that’s just what I had to do with The Charmer. He hadn’t returned my phone call or my text message, and so I finally sent him an e-mail. I explained that I didn’t know why he was having this response, but that I’d hoped it wasn’t because I’d annoyed him in some way. And that I hoped he would have a good trip and managed to have some downtime.

I also wrote that I didn’t want to date him when he returned; that I thought it would be better if he wanted to get to know me, and to know me on my own terms, because I have a lot more information on him than he does on me. He really doesn’t know me at all. Which explained his hesitation and surprise at my behaviour on a few occasions, including in bed. I think my availability surprised him. His anxious questions about whether I was dating anyone else seemed from a place of formless fear: the kind of fear that isn’t based on anything except itself.

So I left the door open.

But I don’t think he’ll be coming back.

This one’s in the “fling” category, folks. Much to my disappointment.

[Edit: He texted me back after I’d e-mailed saying that he’d been crazy busy, but that everything was ok and he’d call me after he arrived at his holiday destination tomorrow. It doesn’t really change anything, though. I didn’t text back and I’m happy to move on with my life. We’ll see what happens when he gets back.]

 

The date with the Charmer February 18, 2009

Filed under: Dating,Desire,seduction,Singleness — datehazard @ 10:51 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

So, my “first date” happened with The Charmer last night.

The reasons why first date are in inverted commas are because the date consisted of me spending the night at his house. Hardly conventional. And something I’ve never done before. It started off innocently enough: we ordered pizza, ate in his swanky apartment on his polished granite countertop in his steel-and-birch kitchen, we joked around, me in my jeans and t-shirt, him in his sweats and ball cap. Drank some wine, had a cocktail, cuddled and watched t.v…. and you can fill in the rest.

It was OK. Not great, but OK.

Why not great? Because the guy seriously is neurotic. He self-confessed when I first met him, and I understood more of his neurosis when in his space. He is a clean freak, and is constantly adjusting, cleaning, organizing, Putting Things In Their Place. I washed a cup I’d used with soap and water and placed it to dry in the sink. He noticed it drying, upside-down, and washed it again, with soap and water, then put it in his dishwasher. Any time he used the kitchen or I did, he’d tidy up afterward, wiping down surfaces, rearranging items, making things just right. He’d wipe down the kitchen sink with a paper towel so there would be no water spots any time we used it.

It started to make me really nervous. I wasn’t sure what was allowable and what wasn’t. At one point I wasn’t sure whether it was OK for me to place my ice-filled cocktail glass on my coaster on the granite counter-top, and asked for permission. The Charmer responded with an “Of course! Mi casa es su casa” kind of “casual” response.

During sex, he wanted me to keep my underwear on, which I at first thought was kind of one of those, “I find this totally sexy because of its novelty” approaches, but then I started to realise that it’s a thing with him. This is how he likes it. It’s no surprise that his preferred position is one of the “four-legged variety,” so-to-speak: he prefers to be in control. At All Times.

None of this is terribly horrible, but it’s not really something that allows for someone to really relax, either. Being in his space seriously started to make me itchy after a while. While he took a shower, I did some yoga, repeating the sun salutation a few times, a few warrior 2 poses, and lots of slow breathing.

And I still like him. A lot. In fact, maybe even more so than before. I can’t explain it. It’s just one of those things.

I honestly don’t know whether to go on vacation with him this weekend (which he’d originally suggested); I want him to ask me, but I don’t know if he will. He’s going to call me this evening. I suspect that’s when he’ll let me know what he’s decided. I have a pretty good hunch he’s finding a way to let me down easy. Otherwise I’d imagine he’d have asked me already.

I didn’t bring it up at all. It was the elephant in the room all last night, and all this morning.

And now, to bury myself in work.

 

Possibly Probably making a mistake February 16, 2009

The Charmer called. We made plans to meet up tomorrow, at his swanky apartment profiled in a major international newspaper (he was also quoted in the same article). I have to give it to him, he is a smooth operator. This is how it went.

“Hey DH, how’s it going? How are you doing, sweetie?”

“I’m fine, TC, much better now that I’m hearing from you — I’d been waiting for your promised call this morning. How are you? How’s work going? I’m glad you managed to finally squeeze some time away.”

“Well, it’s really busy since the acquisition of the other company late last year. Then at the same time that deal was being negotiated, we decided to expand operations into another country. Then my Dad had a health problem, so I was at one point in the hospital, with my mom and dad arguing in the background while I was trying to talk to the lawyers to negotiate both deals. You can’t make this stuff up.” (laughs).

“Yikes. Is your Dad doing ok? What happened?”

“Oh he’s better now. He’d had a quadruple bypass and they found out that his arteries were really clogged, so he had a choice of having to do another quadruple bypass or having stents put in. So he opted for the stents, which is why he was in the hospital for some time.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s better.” Pause. “I’m wondering if I could talk to you about your text message about meeting up.”

“Yeah… (laughs). I figured you probably thought it was a weird message, and a strange way to have a first date. I can assure you that I don’t always arrange first dates like that, but because this week is so packed and I want to spend some time with you and figure out whether we can get along, I felt like I had to send a direct message like that. But I really don’t do stuff like that.” (Laughs).

“I figured it was something to that effect. I mean, I also checked the time of your text message, and figured from your subsequent one that you were probably a little drunk when you sent it, so you probably didn’t intend for it to have quite the bluntness that it did.”

“Yeah, well, no, it wasn’t just that I was drunk, it was because I wasn’t sure how to fit all of these things together. But yeah, I probably would have phrased it somewhere along the lines of, ‘you know, I don’t often do this, and I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but how do you feel about…'”

We both laughed. Ha ha ha.

“So, I figure we could meet up tomorrow, I’ll get my car service to pick you up and bring you here, and we can have a carpet picnic or whatever, maybe I’ll get a DVD and we can watch something.”

“Uh… Well, where do you live? I mean, I could easily take the train there. The trains run all night, right? How far away from the station are you?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll give you my address, I’ll just arrange for the car service. It’s really no problem at all.”

“And by the way, I don’t want to have you think I would stay overnight and you’d have to drive me in to town the next morning. Let’s leave that possibility open and see what happens.”

“Oh, no, really, you’ll see, I’m a perfect gentleman. I have an extra bedroom and everything, so if you want to stay there, that’s perfectly fine with me; if not, whatever — there’s no pressure at all. Seriously, I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

I hate to say it, but he’s smooth.

He continued, “But I would suggest you might want to pack an overnight bag; I mean, just in case you stay. It’s also more convenient so you can have your stuff with you if you need it.”

The guy is seriously amusing me.

What the hell. I’ll give it a go. There are lots of horrible worst-case scenarios, but I don’t think many of them will apply to this situation. And I am seriously entertained by this guy’s shenanigans!