Hot garbage fire

I went out on what I thought was the worst date humanly possible.

Toothless shows up, was perfectly respectful until he started mocking East Indian culture in an assortment of ways I don’t care to rehash. Let me start by saying I talk a lot. This date, I said, maybe, twelve sentences over the course of two and a half hours. There was an exhibit at the observatory that I’d been wanting to go to so I suggested we go to that.

Impulsivity strikes again.

He talked the entire time. No pause for breath, no slide into asking me about myself, he would not shut up. While managing to insult Indian culture he went on and on about this Indian practice he was mastering to re-harness his energy by only eating fruit to increase his water intake. Of course he was also a master sniper, master at several different forms of martial arts, could fix any and all farm equipment, trucks. Blah, blah, blah. 

I didn’t bring a ruler. This is not a dick measuring competition. The worst part, when we were at the exhibit, he interrupted the university educated volunteers and tried to state he knew more about space than they did.

I could have slapped him he was being so arrogant. I actually COUNTED the minutes until he dropped me off home. I do not ghost people, but I didn’t have the energy to explain to him why the date did not go well.

I gave up for almost two weeks or so, stuck my head in the sand and focused on roller derby. It was a bank holiday in Canada so Saturday afternoon boredom kicked in, found a date for Sunday night after talking to this guy most of Saturday.

Cutting right to the point: The most racist piece of shit I’ve ever met. That’s the long and short of it. We opted to go for a walk so I was stuck with him. Fifteen minutes in he starts sprouting this shit about how hard whites have it, how the term Caucasian is racist and how, ‘his black friends let him use the ‘n’ word’. I let him continue for about 10 minutes before I calmly told him that on a fundamental level he was wrong and what he was saying was racist. What he had discussed between his friends was what it was, but he cannot be so presumptuous to assume that he can ‘take back’ a word rooted in intolerance and oppression. He wanted to debate it, I said no, he was wrong. We ended up yelling at each other and he wanted to just walk away but we were stuck walking together, in silence…for another twenty five minutes because it was dark and I didn’t know where the hell my car was.

I ended up breaking down and crying in my car out of frustration and anger. He denoted my intelligence because I refused to educate him on Why White People Can’t Use the N-Word. Just Google it. If you have black friends, who will still speak to you after having the standpoint that you’re entitled to use it, ask them about their negative experiences with white people using this word. It’s not a friendly term of endearment for white people to use for the black friends. And if you’re unsure, DON’T FUCKING USE IT AT ALL.

Don’t get me wrong, I have had conversations about race with individuals who seemed open-minded to discussing discourse and representation, but racism is kind of like hot garbage fire, sometimes you have to be close enough to smell it.

Types

So, I met the bread-crumber, who I’ve decided to affectionately refer to as ‘Toast’. (because we met, so it’s done…it makes sense to me)

Toast was mentioning how he had categorized women on social dating sites into three different categories. Hearing the opposing side of things is fascinating to me, especially experiences I’ll never encounter (ie: dating while male.)

I forgot the word he used to describe women in the ‘bottom’ category, but they were essentially women who were using sex as therapy because they were depressed/mentally ill or had, ‘daddy issues’. They would find men that would talk to them, validate their experiences, possible instances of abuse, but they either didn’t know how to seek treatment or didn’t want to. They were stuck in this cycle, they would attract men that only wanted to use them for sex.

The second category was the group of women recently divorced in their late thirties-mid-forties who had married young and never quite partied in their youth. Their recent freedom essentially gave them the ‘No Fucks to Give’ stance on life. On wards with the binge drinking, drugs and casual sex.

Last but not least was the third, I joked, “The horseback riding, yoga going nurses aka, the 10’s?” Stated, only because I’ve seen more male profiles that state, ‘Why is everyone on this site a nurse?’  This actually wasn’t all about looks as I assumed it was, Toast said it was more ‘girls who had their life together’. A statement I find interesting because at this point I seriously think everyone is just faking it. Everyone. Everyone is just coasting by because no one knows how to ask for what they want to make them happy.

Either way, those were his categories, subjective, I know. He’s also attractive, so I think his experience can be impacted by that…kind of like how my boobs work.

While I have mixed feelings about generalization…I think I’ll make a ‘Types’ as well.

Just the whole loaf…

Something interesting happened over the weekend. The cat came back.  Yes, breadcrumbing connoisseur messaged me.

Not even for anything sexual, it’s weird, we have each other on facebook, it’s almost like this weird friendship at this point because I do genuinely care about him…we just so happened to have never met. He dived a bit too far down into drugs at one point and I had worried something happened to him.

I had a few drinks by this point but managed to tell him about a few exciting things that had happened to me since our last conversation. He, however, had checked himself into rehab for three months and made a total turn around of his life.

Again, he said he wanted to meet up, and I told him I understood that I wasn’t really his type and I was okay to just continue talking. (Aka: I really honestly do think we’re better friends than anything.)

I’ve been focusing so much energy towards my health and skating I really don’t have the energy to divulge into anything more, but it definitely made for an interesting weekend.

Sweet disposition

It’s not that I’m stuck about how to write about our time together. I know exactly what I want to say, I just don’t want to.

It’s like I keep trying to ram a sock in my mouth to keep the words from spilling out because secretly, as I think we all kind of are sometimes, I’m a huge, filthy, disgusting, appeasing sap.

I had one of the best, most romantic weekends with him. Spontaneous, fun, romantic. All I ever want. Simple. The problem is now he’s gone and I’m working on compartmentalizing away those feelings and trying to brush them under the rug.

To show how cool and casual am I about this whole encounter.

Cool and casual. That’s me…right.

The thing is, I’ve done this kind of thing before, we all have, but somehow it was different. He was different. Or do I just keep telling myself that because he was able to keep up with me? Because I either go full tilt or not at all?

I keep preparing myself to be disappointed by people, for them to show their true colours and I’ll get disgusted and shut them away. That part is easy because I know what I want and what I don’t want. I’m not picky, I just refuse to settle anymore.

There’s definitely more layers to him than he leads on, but not knowing doesn’t bother or concern me, and I’m not really sure why. He showed more than enough flaws that would typically turn my head, but then again…so did I.

So, here’s the problem, aside from the distance, aside from the mercurial attitude that changes faster than the tide—he is an expert at this. At turning his feelings on and off and he’s so good at it, he’s so good at doing it so quickly he doesn’t even see it as a problem. He sees it as genuine because for him, in that moment, it is and that works for him.

It doesn’t work for people like me. Stupid, blindly loyal people like me who stay in abusive relationships because they’re stubborn and committed. Because I was convinced it was my fault and I had to fix it. Loyal to a fault and even after you burn me I’ll keep icing the wound and trying to find ways to dimmer the flames until I finally cut you out of my life forever and never want to even mutter your name. That kind of loyalty is dangerous and stupid.

He did exactly what I was afraid he would do, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.

I know if I ever show him this post he’ll hate it, he’ll scoff, get angry and accuse me of lumping him together with other guys. Maybe even being too dramatic. Probably being too dramatic.

He told me from the start, I just didn’t listen carefully.

He’s very good at getting what he wants.

 

In my sink…really?

There’s a few things that happened a few months ago that I hadn’t had time to post about about.

Mostly just dates, less kinky stuff for now.

I went out on a really great date a few months back, we went for a walk, went for dinner. Ended the night with shisha and invited them back to mine for a drink. As soon as we got back to my house they were complaining about having the shakes, being really warm. I got him some water and he excused himself to the bathroom…for twenty minutes. Came back out and said he should probably head home, he was really embarrassed but didn’t feel well. Maybe half hour later I was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth and when I turned the tap on in the bathroom…the sink was backed up with vomit…He threw up in my sink. 

The next day I woke up to a string of texts from him apologizing for being ill, I responded that it was an involuntary bodily reaction but…why my sink? He denied it, offered to help snake the drain, but I lost interest.

A week after that, was talking to someone on tinder for a few days, they asked me to go to dinner and I agreed. Just as I had left the house, we exchanged numbers so he could text me when he was outside my building. As soon as I got him number, put it into Facebook…he has three children and a wife. I immediately called my roommate and debated what to do and as I pushed the door into the parking garage, I ran right into him…

So, we went out.

It was alright. Skirted around his separation and his half dozen children. He wanted to come over and drinks some beers, luckily my roommate came home and I told him I had to turn in. I’m no longer sleeping with anyone I find boring. It’s my new thing.

Little less talk.

I’m extroverted, I write a blog about sex. I have my moments of shyness too. I like to tell people that I write and people find the topic interesting, but I’m always torn about whether or not to tell men that I’m on dates with/dating that I have a blog because the first question is always,

“What are you going to say about me?”
“What’s my pseudonym going to be?” 

I don’t normally like to write about dates or certain situations because I like it to pan out naturally, which I guess is me kind of just sitting on my hands waiting for it to be over. Does that mean I’m setting myself up for failure? Or just remembering important details to write about later while not actually enjoying it while it’s happening?

Or I’m just overthinking it.

Again.

Can’t say I’m surprised…

I found out I have an STI.

I find slightly ironic, because I started sleeping with someone on the regular that has genital herpes. I really wasn’t concerned about getting herpes because I’m pretty well versed on STI’s…and then I find out I have chlamydia.

I’m 80% sure I know who it was.

I slipped a few weeks ago and slept with The Russian. He called me out of the blue and I had deleted his number because I don’t see the point of keeping numbers of individuals I no longer talk to…I now keep my contacts so Health Services can contact them.

“Hey…how’s it going.”
“Good…uh…I’m sorry, who is this?”

He has a Russian name, but tells people his English name, so he told me his English name and I totally blanked. He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out…

We don’t hang out…we’re not friends.”
“Oh, well, uh, you should come over and get drunk.”
“I have plans, I’m off to the pub with some friends.”

A week later I drunk messaged him when my friends tapped out early from the bar. He dropped me off the next morning, as I exited he told me I should call him again. My response, “Yeah, that was weird.”

It sounded much less bitchy in my head.

I ended up running into him yesterday at the bar. I turned tail and avoided him but he came up to me on the dance floor and slurred how hot I looked, how he was trying to be respectful but I was too tempting.

I decided in that drunken state to ask him why he never went down on me. He looked a little surprised and replied, “But…you said you liked dick.”
“I do…but I can’t always get off that way. You never actually touch my vagina. What the hell man?”
“Oh…well, I’m actually really good at it…” *insert drunken ramblings*

did not go home with him that night, nor did I mention I think he’s the one that gave me chlamydia. He can deal with that phone call today from Health Services.