You seemed so happy!

“You seemed so happy!”

“Well, I WAS happy.”

“So why aren’t you dating him anymore?”


I’m having this conversation with my 10-year old niece.  She’s asking me about my Ex.  How do you explain to a child that just because one person is blissfully happy doesn’t mean the other is feeling the same – or even if both people are happy, it still doesn’t mean there’s a happy ending to the story?  How do you break it to them that life’s not a fairy tale?

I have a new guy in my world right now.  We’ve been dating about two months now.  I like him, but sadly, I don’t LIKE him.   Always respectful,  I would never lead him on or toy with him, but I’m also aware of this relationship’s limitations.


Decision Time



Dating Translation

We could go see a movie:  innocuous night spent hand-holding in a darkened theater with a post movie make-out session.
You could come over and watch a movie: let’s roll around, sweaty and naked, in my bed!

I’m seeing him again on Wednesday.  He gave me these choices.  It’s been a very long time since I’ve “come over to watch a movie” – a very, very long time.  I really need to come over and watch a movie – in fact,  I need to watch a dozen or so movies.  I think that’s why I haven’t been sleeping well.  If I mess this up, I may not get a chance to come over and watch a movie again for a while, but yet I hesitate.

I agreed to go see a movie – not to come over, yet.  My body says “YES! Right now!” but my mind wants to wait.  I’m concerned that I’m postponing for unrealistic reasons, waiting for a certain someone to come around –  who never will.

p.s. when TG asked me what I did this weekend, I told him the truth – I went on a date.  Suppressing what looked like surprise, he didn’t ask questions. It probably hurt me more than it did him, but he looked like I had just punched him in the gut.

Everything Bagels vs. White Bread

An everything bagel from Morningside Heights' Absolute Bagels.(niznoz/Flickr)

An everything bagel from Morningside Heights’ Absolute Bagels.(niznoz/Flickr)

As a follow up to my last post, I want to talk about attraction.  I’ve read a number of books – in fact, I just read one recently – that instruct women to “give the boring guy a chance”.  If these experts are to be believed, it seems that men are divided into two very broad categories:

Type 1: Boring/Nice/Husbands/Marrying Types – White Bread

Type 2: Interesting/Creative/Sexy/Bastards (?) – Everything Bagels

According to these authors, if you want a healthy, trusting, loving relationship, you have to convince yourself to love a Type 1 and give them a chance to show you their nascent Type 2 qualities.   I’m an everything bagel woman.  I will never be content with a white bread man.  Just as a gay man can’t “learn” to be straight, I’m never going to “learn” to love a Type 1.  Sure, I can suppress my genuine desires; tamp down what I really want for the comfort and security of Mr. Boring, but will that actually make me happy?   Using this weekend as a microcosm, Friday was Type 1 and Sunday was Type 2.

These books just assume that Type 2 guys are “bad boys”.  I don’t like bad boys – I don’t seek out bad boys; I’m wise enough to know they are bad news.  Bad boys and fascinating, imaginative, arty men are different beasts.   Since when does Roget list “asshole” as a synonym for creative and interesting?  Why can’t a Type 2 also be a loving, caring and nice guy?  Who says they have to be bastards?   Can’t there be a Type 3:

Type 3:  Interesting/Creative/Sexy/Loving and Nice

Why don’t these relationship self-help books tell us to seek the whole enchilada? Why does it have to be dull/nice or exciting/jerks?  There’s got to be Type 3’s in the world, right?

What I want – right now. Friday at 3:09

I want to go to my yoga class tonight. I want to practice until I’m hot and sweaty and my arms are weak. I want to call him on my way home, tell him to meet me. I want to peel off my damp yoga clothes and show him how much I’ve missed him, how flexible class has made me. I want to see his strength. I want to be left trembling on the bed.

The Way He Tastes

We drive to his favorite dive – full of barflies, blue collars and tattooed chicks in tank tops. We order a couple of drinks; our jeaned thighs lightly brush against each other then rest, knees touching. He brushes his arm against the back of my hand, gently rests his hand for just a moment on my thigh as he speaks, as if not deliberately. I stroke the inside of his arm and rest my hand in his, fingers entwined. Wine has made me bold – enough of this game.

He kisses me. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t hesitate. He leans towards me, his lips on mine, his tongue inside my mouth. I like the way he tastes.

He’s not afraid to kiss me in this public place. His hand caresses my lower back, my sides. He kisses me with passion. His stubble leaves my chin raw. I’m uncomfortable with his intensity, this lack of modesty among these strangers.

We walk out to my car. I’m up against the parking lot wall, kissing him, being kissed. We move to the side of my car. I feel him, hard and warm, pressed against my pelvis. His chest is firm beneath my hands. Too fast, this is going too fast. What he feels is lust. I tell him I want to know his brain before I learn his body. He doesn’t want to comply.

He wants to see me tomorrow. I’m making him wait until the weekend. A daytime date – an attempt to slow us down. He wants my body. I want something more.

Oh, but I do like the way he tastes.