Tag Archives: Bachelor pad

Dates 31.3-31.5: The Sweet Spot

From the beginning, it was pretty clear that Date 31 and I had it bad for each other in terms of sex. Starting with Date 31.3, however, I realized it was more than that, which was a problem. Basically, Date 31 wants to have kids, while I don’t. He also wants someone ten years younger than him, but I’m two years older than he is. Add to these two dealbreakers the fact that I’ll never be as perfect as his dead 29-year-old former fiancee and that I have both an ex-husband and three kids from my prior marriage, while Date 31 wants a girl with a clean slate, and you can imagine how my being so taken with him is more of a liability than an asset.

ANYWAY, Date 31.3 was the first time I went over to Date 31’s place. Granted, his best friend from Long Island was about to arrive from the airport, so I’m sure Date 31 had worked hard to clean up, but here were the first things I noticed: (1) a shoe rack by the front door, meaning he cares about keeping his place tidy; (2) real (as opposed to particle-board) furniture, showing me he either appreciates living amongst comfort and beauty or his dead fiancee had great taste and he still has the same stuff; and (3) a mix of tasteful (again, dead GF’s picks?) and comics-oriented kitschy artwork (most likely his), showing me that he truly does have a golly-gee sense of humor that’s surprisingly squeaky clean, despite his mad sadistic streak and penchant for dirty talk in the bedroom.

The other thing I couldn’t help noticing was that his apartment was directly above the complex’s pool. It was an unseasonably warm afternoon (Santa Ana condition, making it in the 80s in January), and Date 31 lives in the same suburb as I do (which is known for its schools), so it sounded like there were about forty kids in the pool, all screaming and splashing and generally having a great time. I complimented Date 31 on his place as he showed me around, noting how nice the floor plan was and such. He thanked me, then said (in total seriousness), “Yeah, the other thing I love about this place is how quiet it is.”

I started laughing. “Really?” I asked.

“It’s like there’s never anyone around,” he said. “Always so quiet.”

I pointed toward the balcony overlooking the pool. “You don’t hear that?”

A chorus of shouting pre-pubescent voices wafted upward: “Marco!” “Polo!” “Mom! Jaden’s splashing me!” Etc.

He shrugged.

“Seems like there might be a lot of kids in this complex,” I said.

Date 31 laughed, conceding I had a point. “That’s funny,” he said. “I never really noticed.”

I could tell he was being honest–he truly hadn’t noticed. Basically, I chalked up his acceptance of kid noise to the fact that he wanted kids of his own so badly, which made me doubly nervous. Because what if I got super attached to him? What if he talked me into giving a shot, having one for the road. Even though I’ve had a hysterectomy, I have eggs. Lots of couples in their forties are using surrogates these days, so it wasn’t like it was beyond the realm of possibility–but it wasn’t a future I envisioned for myself when I left my ex-husband.

Before we headed to the bedroom, the last stop on my tour of his place was the kitchen, where there were five piles of goodies laid out on the counter, with a nice variety of all the junk-food groups represented: salty, sweet, gooey, greasy, and crunchy.

“I bought snacks for the game for each of my buddies,” he explained.

I know it may sound silly, but I was almost moved to tears. Because, what a sweet guy!!! From his thank-you texts, I had suspected he was a considerate man, but now I had proof.

[Side note: Have I mentioned The Five Love Languages, by Gary Chapman? If not, it’s a book that describes how each of us has a way we most often express love and enjoy having love expressed back to us. The five “languages” are Physical Touch, Gift Giving, Quality Time, Acts of Service, and Words of Affirmation. All these are great, but the one that really gets my heart racing is Acts of Service. Like, want to *really* impress me? Wash my car, or fix the little piece that fell off the valance to the living-room blinds. Load the dishwasher, or bring in the trash cans (without being asked!). Diamonds, flowers, and massages are awesome, but it’s these little day-to-day efforts that truly make me feel loved and cared for.]

All that said, I knew I had found an amazing guy. Was he perfect? No. Over the course of Dates 31.3, 31.4, and 31.5, I learned that he enjoys country music–the pop kind–because “it’s just so happy.” Also, the TV in Date 31’s bedroom is taller than I am (and I’m 5’6″). Yeah, I’m sure it’s cool to watch movies on, but he likes to leave it going (with the volume silenced) while we’re having sex. Not to rain on anyone’s parade, but the flashing lights from having a TV on are kind of distracting. Also, isn’t that kind of a waste of electricity? If the sex hadn’t been so consistently stellar, I’d suspect him of watching TV while we were going at it, but he wasn’t, so I was left wondering, Why???

No matter, though–I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough of Date 31, and he seemed to be pretty taken with me, as well. We texted each other on a daily basis, constantly on the lookout for opportunities to steal a few moments from our respective busy schedules to spend together. Our first five dates spanned eleven days, if that gives you an idea of how caught up in each other we were.

And the sex? Good Lord!!! Date 31 loved to do all the nasty things I fantasize about but am too shy to voice. He used his belt, I used my mouth, and the things he said to me? Makes me blush just to think about it! So incredible, I found myself thinking, Yeah, I’d have another kid (and enjoy raising him/her) if it meant making this guy happy!

Which was right about when I realized, Oh, shit. Right after I almost blurted the words I love you.

In a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, I didn’t tell Date 31 about my near slip-up in person, but I did admit to it via text a couple days later. The result? We didn’t see each other again for a week and a half. Could have been longer, but I’ll get to that in a later post. At any rate, the damage was done: I was supposed to be playing it casually, but I liked Date 31 too much to lie to him about the nature of my feelings. For better or worse, I knew I had to tell him the truth–even if it wound up costing me.



Date 3.1: Guys with Game, Part II

So I have a confession: I’m kind of a nerd (as if you hadn’t already guessed!). Being the geek girl I am, though, I have this sort of, well, “policy,” for lack of a better way to put it. The deal is, if I’m going to get serious with a guy, he has to be smarter than me. Now, does this mean I haven’t dated guys to whom I knew from the outset I was intellectually superior? No. Definitely not. I just realize things are never going to go anywhere with those particular individuals. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself in the meantime, especially if I can learn something from someone (e.g., about their travels, culture, profession, quirks, and sure–their sexual proclivities, if we end up going there).

Anyway, with all that in mind, I knew right away that Date 3 was a terminal case. What I could ascertain from his online profile was quickly confirmed when he insisted on calling me to make small talk before we embarked upon a real-life date. Conversation-wise, I have to say, it was somewhat of a struggle to stay awake.

So why, exactly, did I agree to go out with this guy, if my standards are so cerebrally driven and lofty? Glad you asked! Did I mention that Date 3 was a scorching-hot South American dude who turned out to be from a wealthy, half-Spanish/half-Italian family? Um, yeah. As in, yum!!! As in, the second he hit me up by email, I knew I had to tap that.

Don’t let anyone convince you that all women ever want is security and cuddling. Because sometimes, a good pounding in the bedroom fits the bill oh-so-much better. And if a swarthy-looking South American from an aristocratic family is available to do the job? So much the better!

So, yeah–I met him for drinks at a wine bar near his place. He didn’t live too far away from me, meaning the location turned out to be pretty convenient. Not heeding my own advice about skipping meals and going straight to drinks, however, once again, I got my lightweight self good and schnockered, so he drove me back to his condo with the promise of returning me to my car later in the evening.

Still suspicious that Date 2 might have been married, it was a relief to be taken home to Date 3’s nice little one-bedroom/one-bath bachelor pad. Interesting, too, since I got to see what type of decor he favored, as well as ascertain his financial acumen, based on his choices in furniture and electronics.

Not bad, I thought, wondering how much he paid for his place, trying (without success, I might add) to remember the address, so I could look it up online later. And he wasn’t a slob, I noticed. After being with someone for twenty-three years who couldn’t see fit to put his laundry in the hamper, let alone use a coaster (even if ignoring said usage caused irreparable damage to antiques that came to us from *his* family), the fact that this guy was meticulous enough to still be wearing his retainers (saw them on the bathroom sink–ha!) was more than a little refreshing.

And then there was that gorgeous face. That soft, wavy hair. That amazing surf-and-cardio-chiseled body. Needless to say, my tour of his place ended in the bedroom. And he didn’t disappoint.

Not sure how many condoms he went through, but we eventually had to stop after a couple hours when he got too hungry to keep going. Now, Date 3 was a skilled lover, to be sure, but here’s what I didn’t like about him: he took me anally without permission. Because he knew what he was doing, it didn’t hurt me, but I was still like, Hey! Not cool!!! Especially since I told him not to go there when he first tried.

Anyway, even if he hadn’t been such a sweetheart when I got all maudlin during our post-sex pillow talk, as we discussed our respective families and I lamented how much I missed my mother-in-law (to the point of my being in tears, because I miss her terribly–she was a better mother to me than my own parents), the anal invasion was a deal-breaker. No way would I ever agree to seeing this guy again, since I obviously couldn’t trust him.

Not that he’s called or anything.

But you know what? Despite knowing he was headed to South America the following week, I didn’t tell him about the raging sore throat I had at the time, either, which ultimately wound up requiring antibiotics.

Hope it didn’t mess up his trip too badly.