I've been stood up for the first time in my young, uneventful life. I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, my ego is looking down a gaping hole of doom, with the “Well, OF COURSE he stood you up! You're ugly!” birds of prey, and the “Oh god, I'm never going to get laid again unless I accept the attentions of desperate men who think I'm a whore...” jackals circling and looking ravenous.
On the other hand, I'm feeling pretty lackadaisical about it all. I didn't allow my self to stay at home and eat chedderwurst and watch The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, like I really wanted to (rowr! Billy Piper...). I got sexed out and caught the bus downtown and let myself look at any man who walked past instead of ignoring them the way I normally do. This pulled my ego out of the land of evil jackals for a little while. I need to realize that the reason I'm not going to get laid anytime soon is because I'm really fucking picky, and not attracted to the average Joe who stares at my boobs as I walk past. Just not.
This begs the question of why I was so incredibly attracted to a man who was capable of standing me up. This is not good. We had chemistry, or so I thought. The sex was so so. And by so so, I mean I got myself off, he got himself off, and the middle time was filled with half “Oh god, that's fucking hot!!!” and half “Huh. I wonder why he's not hard. I wonder if he notices I'm not so wet anymore...”
Which is pretty normal for first time sex amongst people who've been friends before they ever fucked. Right?? Right. A man who allows himself to get so distracted that he forgets the potential for sex with a hot lady that night isn't really the type of guy I want to be with. I don't want someone for whom sex eclipses all other considerations, but it had better mean an awful lot to them. Like air, or water. Sex is a necessity, not a luxury.
The first time I met him, I should have realized this was going to happen. We met at a coffee shop, after not having seen each other in years. I initiated contact, I pushed for a specific time, I said we should meet for coffee at our old stomping ground. In my head, this isn't me being pushy, it's just me making sure things get done. If I don't do it, it's not going to get done, right? Right. But, in reality, it's me making sure what I want to happen happens, but not in a natural , easy environment. It's forced, because I'm forcing it. So, anyhoo... we meet up at the Fresh Pot. And it's fun. I'm sitting there, looking sexy and smart with the Basque History of the World sitting in front of my pot of tea, ensuring he knows I like obscure, smart history. And tea.
He gets there and stands in line for coffee, talking to me as he does so. It's comfortable and feels very familiar. This is how we used to interact. Cool. He gets his coffee and sits down with me, immediately commenting on my book and noticing how smart it makes me. Good, mission accomplished. We start chatting, and it's wonderful. Quick and easy, intelligent and stimulating. I love it. Chat chat chat. Then, he starts to get a little forced. I notice him staring at my chest a time or two. All right, that's ok. I want him to want me, right? Right. The conversation starts to get a little forced, but not too bad. It's not “Oh god, I need to text my friend Carl to call me and tell me there's an emergency at work” bad, yet. But it's starting to devolve a little bit. It seems as though we've hit that smart people ledge. The ledge you reach when two very smart people have finished impressing upon each other just how really smart they are, and have to enter the land of substance in order to backup their amazing claims. It's a good plateau. It separates the men from the boys, metaphorically speaking. I'm determined that we will progress beyond this ledge.
And then, Carl shows up. Now, I had told Carl that we were going to be at the old meeting spot, and that he should show up if he really wanted to. But it was a cursory consideration, not meant to be taken seriously. It was just one of those sentences that lets the person you're talking to know that you're thinking about them, but it's never meant to be taken as an actual social invitation. Normal people know this. Carl is not normal people. Carl showed up, happy to see us and completely unaware of the tense vibes emanating from me of “GO THE FUCK AWAY, ASSHOLE!!!!!”. So, he sits down, folds his hands, and proceeds to cock block. Carl is an expert cock blocker. He's got lots of practice. I've seen him do it many a time, and yet the masterful way he handles blocking the wild cock still takes my breath away.
In this particular case, he cock blocked by taking all the intellectual discussion onto himself. He sat there and talked to this guy for a good twenty minutes, while I got annoyed. And then, being the masterful asshole he is, he STOPPED TALKING. Completely. Just sat there and stared at us as I tried to get the conversation going again. Little bastard. Things didn't last long after that. I had to get to work, so I stood up and said I had to go catch my bus. Fortunately (for him), Alan got up and followed me outside. We stood outside by the bus stop for awhile, chatting nicely, and before the bus got there we said we'd get together again soon.
I then made my second mistake with this guy. I got impatient. Being impatient is the bane of my existence. It's kind of like being pushy, but with an extra edge of dumb. I do stupid things all the time based on nothing more than an unwillingness to just fucking wait and see what happens. I have to make it happen, in my time. Bad Sarah. Anyways, I got impatient. A day later I was out with friends at Balkan Night, and I texted him saying he should come out. It was too soon, and I should have let him make the next contact. But, he did show up, and it was a lot of fun. We sat in a crowded bar, surrounded by people, and flirted outrageously. Fun, fun, fun. He wore cute jeans that were ripped at the knees, a heavy plaid shirt, and a knit hat that made him look like someone named Ahab. Mmhmmm. Tasty. I've got a thing for the lumberjack/seaman look, apparently.
When the music was done, we all stood around together trying to figure out what we wanted to do. Eventually, at my goading, everyone decided to head to a bar down the street that was open late. There were only five of us, and four of us were brand spanking new potential couples. The other two had JUST met that night and were thinking of sleeping together. This made things awkward for the fivth in our group, Ali, a fiesty, oppinionated older Iranian man. But we managed to have fun, be polite, and flirt even more outrageously, all at the same time. Alan and I sat at the bar alone for a bit, and finally acknowledged that we'd been attracted to each other for forever, and really, really wanted to fuck. Well, the wanting to fuck part wasn't really out in the open yet. But it was GLARINGLY obvious. And oh my, did I have fun. I love that feeling of gradual admission, the slow building knowledge that yes, you are flirting, and yes, they are attracted to you, and yes, you probably will end up in bed together at some point in the near future.
He gave me a ride home that night in his giant volvo stationwagon. We parked outside my house and sat in the dark for a bit, chatting about whatever, I don't really remember. I do remember getting impatient (AGAIN), and leaning in to kiss him first. I pulled back, he followed, and that was the beginning of a hot couple of minutes of serious making out. It was a lot of fun. Though I have to admit, dude was a terrible kisser. Just terrible. Too much teeth, too hard, to constant, too much spit, and not enough tongue. I took charge of the kiss, made it softer, and while I couldnt just fall into it, I still got really turned on. He pulled away and put his forehead against mine, breathing heavy and holding my face in his hands. We both looked back at the backseat speculatively at this point. I was seriously tempted. It was a big backseat, and that would have been fucking hot. But, I'd made a vow to myself that I would not have sex with someone again when alcohol was a factor, and I'd had too much to drink. So I said no to the backseat. But I did say that we needed to make a date for dinner and fucking (yes, those exact words) very soon. He agreed, we set a date, and I got out and went inside to take solace in my vibrator.
The dinner date was set for that Sunday night. I went shopping on Saturday, and bought a ridiculous amount of food. I swear it's genetic, this need to create GIANT, VAST, HUGE amounts of food anytime I'm near a stove. Thanks, Mom. At least it's good food, right? Right. Anyways, I bought a huge amount of food, planning on having at least 3 backup plans if he didn't like steak and potatoes. Steak and potatoes are an excellent first fucking sort of meal. Sexy, earthy, comforting, manly, animalistic...mmm... Sorry, where was I? Ah, yes. Steak and potatoes. And a salad of sorts. Perfect sex meal. Unless you eat too much potatoes. But I'm getting ahead of myself. He showed up with a couple bottles of beer and a bottle of wine. Smart man, having options. We opened the beer, I asked him if he wanted steak and potatoes, he gave me a look of "Uh, DUH", and I started cooking. I was actually extremely nervous. It had been so long since I'd done something like this. The last time I cooked dinner for a guy on a date, I was 22 and cooking chicken breast and asparagus for a guy who was 22 years my senior, at his house, and was pretty much in cardiac arrest the entire time from sheer nervous energy. And I most certainly wasn't going to fuck him after dinner. He'd been lucky to get a hug from me before that night. Hell, that was the night I got my very first real kiss, and he had to pull my chin up from where I'd buried it in my chest so I wouldn't have to look at him in order to get the chaste peck on the lips from me. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! So, I'm nervous, and when I'm nervous I chatter. I was talking a mile a minute, cutting up sweet potatoes for the pot, making a bit of a bosh of things in the kitchen. I'm standing at the island in my kitchen, and he gets up from the couch and slowly walks towards me, looking like he's got a plan. My heart speeds up, my palms start spouting sweat, and my I moisten my lips in hope. He comes over, takes the knife from my hand... and starts chopping potatoes. And so sets the theme of the evening. Me getting my hopes up, and him doing something completely different that, while sweet, is not bending me over the counter and fucking me crazy.
It literally took us 5 HOURS of talking to even start to cuddle on the couch. And another hour after that, with me literally lolling on his lap, with my head right next to his crotch, for him to start kissing me. And it was hot. But, looking back at it now, I realized it was hot because it was history being remade. I'd wanted this guy for so long that I couldn't imagine we wouldn't have amazing chemistry when we finally touched. So, I stubbornly got all hot and bothered, even though there was no real reason for me to get hot and bothered. Alan was very sweet, but we just didn't have sparks. His naked body didn't do anything for me other than to introduce me to the novelty of back hair. His lovemaking, while inventive and fun, was awkward and disjointed. And his penis was very, very odd. I'd only had sex with a couple of guys at this point, and honestly, all of them had kind of perfect cocks. Very pretty things. Alans was the first cock I'd seen that was a) uncircumcised b)not perfectly straight, and c)not that big. It was disconcertingly twisted to the left. And the fact that my hindbrain wasn't engaged enough for me to completely ignore these unimportant incidentals should have told me something. But it didn't. And thus ensued hours of uncomfortable, awkward sex. He stayed the night, and he FINALLY came about 2 hours before dawn. I fell into exhausted sleep, only to wake up a couple hours later because he had to go to work. I walked him to my door and hugged him goodbye. The look on his face was hysterical, in hindsight. Intensely uncomfortable, yet unwilling to acknowledge why. I should have known we would never see each other again, just from that look. And honestly, I really shouldn't be too sad about that fact. It's kind of depressing to have the realization forced on you that not every fantasy is going to be amazing when it finally comes true.
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