Never More Than Once.

Jumping hurdles over textbooks and I found you,

Ask twice, do you come here often?

Smiled like two halves of a dictionary crashing open

Not often enough you said.  And I bit my tongue

Waited for you to swallow a mouthful.

Ask me three times have a drink with me?

Have a cup of coffee with me?

Marry me?  Before accepting that the saying is wrong

And it’s the fourth time that was really the charm.

Ask seven times if we can do it, survive the odds?

Something lucky about the number seven you said

And so I never asked again.  In front of the mirror,

Ask five times does this look right? 

A shirt, a recipe, a smile, evidence of a kiss,

 two people together in love promising

Forever.

Ask twice if we can pay the bills.

Ask three times if you mean it.

Ask four times one hundred what do you want out of this life

With me by your side?

Ask for forgiveness ten times more than I ever expected

I could hurt you.  Ask ten times less for an apology.

Wait for your broken heart to heal from all the inconsistencies

I could never back up fast enough, trip and fall

Stumble, spider legs and crawl

Over my own clumsy feet, if only I’d stop trying to race

Just this once, or maybe two more times than that.

Ask eight times if you hate me and nine times for

A picture of the horizon, as you see fit to paint it.

Ask three times if the risk is worth the reward

Ask four times how you see it all panning out

Ask five times for a kiss when you deserve it least

But never more than once.  Do you love me?

Never more than once.  Say you love me?

Never ask for it more than once.  Can you love me?

He Sucks, She Sucks, We All Suck Vancouver

Is this a response?  A rebuttal?  Or just some thoughts that happened before, during, and after the presence of these two articles showed up in my life?  Consider reading the other articles first, though with all of us together you might need a day or two...as together we practically form a novel.  Good luck.  It'll be worth it.  I hope.

Do Vancouver Men Suck by Katherine Ashenburg

Do Vancouver Women Suck, A Reader's Response by Jorge Amigo

Dear Vancouver,

I hear it all the time.  I experience it myself.  Dating in Vancouver sucks.  And according to this article, we might just be able to get away with blaming the men.  And to be honest, I completely agree, men in Vancouver absolutely suck.  But then again so do the women.  See that's the thing about being dicks.  Just because you're one doesn't mean I'm not one too.  And the same goes for the gender issue brought up in this article.  Just because men here suck at dating, and possibly life, doesn't mean women don't too.  And while I know I've just thrown a truckload of double negatives your way, I want to make something perfectly clear.  I agree with the article.  I disagree with the article.  I think it said some things worth saying.  I think it missed the mark completely.  So ya know.  Crystal clear right?

The problem with dating in Vancouver is actually pretty simple.  Well, at least knowing what the problem is, is simple, everything else like how it got this way and how to change it...well those are up for grabs.  But here it is, this is what I know about dating in Vancouver:

1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies
2.  Vancouver Women are Bitches
3.  Everybody is still fucking
4.  We've become the "American School System of Dating"

Just so we're clear.  I don't have all the answers.  But I do know that dudes here are pansies.  Full stop.  And I know it's politically incorrect.  And I know reverse-gender oppression and all that.  But the truth is, if I wanted to date someone more feminine than me, I'd pick a chick...they're much prettier and smell nicer.  I want a man.  I want a man who can grow a full beard.  I want a man who's balls are too big to wear skinny jeans.  I want a dude who knows how to make a decision, was smart enough to do something with his life, has a plan and takes some action.  Truth is I want more than this, but this will suffice for the moment.


1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies.
Men in Vancouver are shy.  And quiet.  The only time I ever see any aggression is in the most negative of ways, bar fights, street fights, etc.  Ironically the exact things that are working against getting them laid, which is what all that fighting is about isn't it...sexual frustration?  And while you can try to claim that men are like this in every city I assure you, it's simply not true.  And I'm not a ten, so you can't blame it on that either.  I can go anywhere in the States, and boys are talking to me.  Spain and they're hollering down the street.  When I was in Paris, I had a Chef (in his full Chef get-up) leave his restaurant and come across the street into the launder-mat I was using and chat me up...and he didn't even have any laundry!  The list goes on.  But in Vancouver, it's few and far between.  And most of the time I'm not even certain they're chatting me up.

And that's out in public.  People claim the internet is so different and online dating is so easy and guys will say anything.  This is true.  To some extent.  While I won't get into the idiocy that are the messages of Vancouver men (that's...uh...basically the rest of this blog)...I will say that this lack-of-assertiveness translates onto the net as well.  While here in Vancouver I get anywhere between 0-5 messages a day, and at least 80% of those are bullshit like hot tiiiiiiiiiiits and messages from donkey virgins, this isn't the case in every city.  And how do I know??  Because I'm a woman who appreciates a little ScienceAndDating and who doesn't love a good experiment.

So, one day I changed my dating profile, just for the day, to say Boston (since, after all I am considering grad school there, might as well see what's up with the dating).  And within that one single day I had over 50 messages, at least 75% of which were eloquent and interesting.  Now it's not perfect science, perhaps Vancouver is small and we have to factor in that I was a "new" profile in Boston and not in Van but still, that's a pretty huge increase.  We simply can't ignore it.

So to sum up.  Vancouver men are more feminine than men in other cities and I have no idea why.  Vancouver men are shy and less likely to approach a woman, in public or online, and I have a partial idea why.  And that's how we get to point number two.  Vancouver women are bitches.


2. Vancouver Women are Bitches.
Now ladies, before you start freaking out on me...I love you.  To me??  Oh well, to me you're fucking lovely, amazing, sweethearts, princesses, best ever, love ya...but to guys...well...um...it can get a little rough.  You see the thing is, the whole dating in Vancouver situation is a bit of a snowball.  Because here we are moaning about how guys don't approach us or talk to us, but when they do, we suddenly become the Simon Cowells of dating...critical bitches, yo.  He's gay.  He's too feminine.  Ugh, hipster.  He's weird.  He's creepy.  He's too short.  and the list goes on.  And while I also, don't really want to date a short feminine hipster who's a little bit weird or creepy and may or may not be gay...it might be a good idea if I don't treat him like shit because

a. he's human
b. he might be a fucking genius (which aside from the gay possibility, could really negate all that other stuff for me) (see #4 coming up) and
c. who knows if he ends up being the most amazing person you've ever known and the whole hipster thing is just a phase.
d.  or maybe turns out you love hipsters
e.  or maybe or maybe or maybe...have a fucking imagination...and imagine the possibilities

Plus, in the interest of sisterhood, shouldn't we all be particularly kind and pleasant to any fellow interested in talking to us, if only to help propagate a species of males who regularly approach chicks in Van?  THINK OF YOUR SISTERS!!


That being said, I take you back to the point above where I mentioned that half the time a boy is chatting me up, it's so timid and feeble I assume he just wants us to be besties.  And I'm almost certain during the conversation he hasn't once considered all the dirty things I might be able to do with my mouth (Sidenote:  To be clear he should never SAY any of the dirty things he thinking till at least some of them have been put into action, I mean Social Protocol, yo, but still...he should be thinking them...if he wants me, I mean).

That being said, girls in Vancouver are fickle bitches.  I can't tell you how many times girls complain about how dudes dress.  But here's the thing ladies...you can't ask for a man in a suit and be disappointed when he's metrosexual.  And you can't ask for a dude that puts effort into his outfit and then be disappointed when he shows up in skinny jeans and $200 high tops...which you can be damn sure he put some thought into.  So the next time you want to complain about how a guy dresses, just remember that you're actually asking him to tuck his little purse of man coins (cajones, nuts, love lockets, berries, wedding tackle, etc.) just a little bit further away from you and hey if you're cool with that then cool.  It's not my business.  But don't come crying to me while I love a man with a full beard and a baseball cap (and pants large enough to let his man marbles breathe) ready to talk science and fuck me senseless...uh...er...something like that.  Basically ladies...stop asking for a Pretty Prince when you want a King.  Because you can't have both.  And the next time some dude says what's up...give him a shot.  I'm not saying you need to sell your soul or makeout with him in public.    But give the dude a go.  You never know when it turns out he has a PhD. in something other than his pants (though that's fun too).

3.  Everyone is Still Fucking.
Vancouver is a city you can get laid in.  No doubt.  100%.  No question.  Maybe it's because we're liberal.  Maybe it's because the clubs here suck and what else are you going to do but grind up on someone else.  Maybe it's because we're all just so fucking happy to be so close to the mountains, the ocean, and amazing sushi that we're willing to throw caution (and our panties) to the wind and get down.  And to be clear...this is a judgement free zone...get down with your bad self.  But here's the one drawback I've seen so far.

Why would men want to bother to step their game up?  Why would it even occur to them to be smarter, more interesting, kiss better, or any of the other things we want from them??  THEY'RE STILL GETTING LAID!!!!  And while I'm currently doing my best to limit this phenomenon (which is quite the sacrifice for someone who rallies around the term SLUTmazing)...I can't do it alone ladies.  I'm just one woman!

4.  Vancouver is the American School System of Dating.
People typically think of Hollywood as a town of beauty-obsessed starlets and airheads, so perhaps I shouldn't feel so shocked that Vancouver, the Hollywood of the North, has become full of the same.  I almost don't know how to describe it.  I was to yell at this city, like a frustrated parent screams at their 21 year old who just keeps fucking up...over and over again and all you can do is explode with YOU BETTER GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT KIDDO!!!  Because that's really where the problem lies.  The bigger, more important problem.  It lies in a set of fucked up priorities.  In a city where the dating complaints sound a bit like something George Bush might say.  We have become the American Education System of Dating.

The first article described three young women:

        "they're attractive, smartly put together, and fit. They hike the Chief, do the Grouse Grind, ski, bike the seawall, and kayak"

And then that's it.  That's the end of the description.  I mean, seriously?!  Take a moment.  And let's think about what's missing from this list of what I can only assume is supposed to be a description of what makes these women dateable, desirable, worthy, etc. in our fair city.  So, let's see...they're attractive and fit.  So that's good.  And they're smart...oh no wait...they're smartly put together...ok...so I guess that's cool, they have some fashion sense.  And...then we're back to descriptions of their athletic pursuits.  Super.  And to be honest, this is Vancouver.  A city where being fit and fashionable are your best assets.  I weep for humanity.

But seriously?!  Would you date these girls?  I mean hot bodies and financials aside, what do these chicks have to offer?  And while you could make the argument that for the sake of brevity, details about personality were left out...but in an article that runs for five pages (no judgement, people in glass houses, I'm just saying)...that argument kind of falls flat.

And so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the article focuses greatly on appearances.  Which are valid mind you, attraction is attraction.  Pretending it's irrelevant isn't helping anyone.  But if the women of Vancouver were really able to give that hypothetical Genie lamp a rub...is a dude who dresses up for his lady really what we'd ask for???

How about a man who can hold a conversation, who understands the ebb and flow of asking questions and offering things that can be responded to, who has SOMETHING TO SAY!  How about we aim for the stars and ask for intelligent men who have thoughts about science or math, or the history of art, or how a font curves in a way that makes his heart pound, or can tell a joke that is actually funny and not in that stupid I just said something super dumb but I'm going to attempt to cover it up by calling it a joke way that just makes you want to tear your hair out.  What happened to wanting real things that matter??  Who cares if he is wearing a sharp blazer if the man can't manage to follow an argument from thesis to proof to proof to proof to conclusion.  When did we get so fucking tedious!!

And ladies, you're not excused either.  Because there are really only three complaints I ever hear from guys.  Stupid, Crazy, Snobs (the nicer way to say Bitches).  And while crazy I have some thoughts on (that's another article entirely)...they're often right about the other two.

So this is to everybody (me included, improvement is always possible and required).  Step your game up.  Read a book.  Be more than anyone ever expected you could be.  Say something.  Do something.  Change the world.  Be interesting.  Make a point.  Make a mark.  Hold your head high and be proud of what you're doing with your life.

And for fuck sakes...ladies...be nicer to the next guy that chats you up...(but if he's a loser don't sleep with him...it's as bad as faking orgasms and you need to start thinking of your fellow woman).  And guys...man the fuck up...put some of that natural testosterone to good use and chat a lady up.  And be clear about it.  Because the only thing worse than being rejected??  Is being rejected by a girl who probably would've liked you if only she'd known that weren't trying to be her new bestie.

Finally, while I applaud @AmigoJor for getting out there and doing his thing.  I have to toss out a few words of advice for the boys.

1.  Don't talk to chicks on the bus if it's anytime before noon.  She's busy.  She's trying to get to work on time.  She can't be bothered with you because her boss wants the blah blah on his desk by noon plus she's not really a morning person and dammit can't I just enjoy this latte in peace.  Plus daytime isn't sexy, yo.  Save that shit for afternoon to evening.

2.  Beaches?  Park?  Sure...those are awesome for July and August...but uh...this is Vancouver.

3.  Yaletown.  I can either buy into the stereotypes...in which case she's got the nervous jittery look because her body is still trying to recover from all the coke she did last night not because she's anti-social.  If we want to go the PC route...don't assume...if you boys want us ladies to see you in your skinny jeans and not think gay! you're going to have to knock the Snobby girls are from... shit off.  It goes both ways.

4.  Coffee Shops...home run.  What can I say...he's right (though I see it in a slightly less cynical way).  And I almost kind of hope that one day I might run into this fella in a coffee-shop...and he'll say something kind and interesting and we'll have banter.  He'll ask for my number and I'll give it.  And perhaps he never calls.  And perhaps I don't really want him to.  But we'll both go home and start a snowball effect.  We'll tell our friends about the time we met a person who was kind and funny and sort of maybe amazing (or at least not creepy and weird/ bitchy and distant) and how he acted like a man and I was a perfect lady.  And it will encourage our friends to do the same.  And they'll tell their friends and so on and so forth.  All because one day a couple different people wrote articles and then some other people put it into action.  Or ya know.  Something like that.

But one final word of advice...gentlemen...don't ever say something like this "Ahh, lovely sunrise with those heavy clouds in the distance, eh?" (from article)...because while you think she responds with "yahh" out of disinterest, there's another much more likely reason.  There is no good response to this.  Or at least not one that someone who's just be taken aback by someone new talking to her on a bus can come up with in a timely manner.  This is a question for an art gallery or a third date.  When your chatting a new chick up on the bus, on the street, at a pub, you have to make sure she can respond without feeling like an idiot.  This is not the time to quiz her knowledge of 18th century philosophy.  Just relax.  And ask her something normal.  Like how is your night going?  


So good luck out there my lovelies.  Because don't mistake my harsh no-bullshit approach for anything other than a love for this city and her people.  I love Vancouver.  And I wouldn't say it if I didn't care.  I just want you to knock off this teenager-apathetic-I-don't-need-to-be-amazing-nonsense and get started.  It's never too late.  Nothing is permanent.  The world is waiting with baited breath.  Now go out and date like I know you can.


Yours Truly,

Something She Dated
aka That girl at Starbucks two seats over
aka Your favorite chat up chick
aka Miss Social Protocol 2012
aka Your dating fairy godmother
aka Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One "Something" at a Time

Chokehold

When the lovely Skye over at the amazing MetAnotherFrog came to me and asked if I’d be interested in writing on breath play my immediate response was yes. And not just a regular yes. But a yes with enthusiasm and gusto. A ‘Hell Yes!’ if you will. And I know what you’re thinking. Is SSD an erotic asphyxiation aficionado? Well, not quite kids.

My enthusiasm stems less from a knowledgeable, expertise, (what’s the opposite of vanilla) standpoint than it does from a recent awesome experience. A recent awesome experience that taught me about how and why I like those man hands around my neck.  But I should tell you now. I’m only barely out of vanilla territory. Actually I’m still possibly in vanilla territory but maybe with some sprinkles or something.

Breath is very important. It keeps you alive, that much is obvious. Take a breath. A breath of fresh air. I can’t catch my breath. Under your breath. Your breath is on fire. I just want to breathe him in. A gasp. A sigh. Hot and heavy. Slow and steady. Breathing is everywhere. It’s generally how I indicate to a fella that I’m having a good time if ya know what I mean. So it seems to follow then that as a woman who likes to give up control in the bedroom…I might want to let someone else take control of one of my most important bodily functions.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a friend. And you could say we were partners in crime. Our “crimes” generally consisted of boys and shenanigans. So clearly story swaps and technique talks were a regular occurrence. During one of our many booty banter sessions. She told me the following.

“Yeah ya know…like…I just whip off the pillowcase and throw it around my neck…and he just kind of holds it…like reigns…while he hits it from the back.”

I thought this to be very interesting. And not one to shy away from something new.  I gave it a shot. Honestly, it didn’t do that much for me. At the time I didn’t really get it.  Later I’d start to understand that everybody needs something different and while the decrease in oxygen may have been enough for her. I required more. I require a story. A fantasy. A reason for the lack of flowing breath into my lungs. A reason for the tension around my neck.

Now before you start picturing me in one of those Law and Order scenes (I may watch too much TV) with extreme asphyxia gone awry. I assure you. I’m still far more of a novice at the sport and my participation is way less dangerous. See for me. It’s more mentally kinky. Than physically. Which, anyone who reads my blog and knows my keen appreciation for science and logic, will know is just about right. Spot on really. Because for me. It’s the why more than the how that’s important.

Now I’m not really going to get into the why (me personally) of the why (the fantasy) that this gets some of us ladies off (and a warning for all you gentlemen out there, because the line is so fragile and not all women even want you anywhere near it, you better ask your lady what she wants before you get your hands all around her neck). But I will just say this. For me. The story line. Is only a fantasy. It’s only fun and hot as long as it remains a fantasy. If you tried to dominate me in everyday life per say, I’d likely tell you to fuck off or simply kick you in the nuts. But in the bedroom. When I’m ready for you to put your hands on me. I want to be dominated. I want to be manhandled. I want to be tossed about. I want to be viewed as so hot that you simply cannot control yourself and must take it all from me. And most importantly (as is the topic of this post). I want it rough. I want your big strong hands around my neck. And I certainly don’t want to have to ask you to do it (that kind of ruins it). I want you controlling my breath (in fantasy). I want you in control completely.

So I say one more time. Before you choke her….talk it out. Because it’s all fun and games until it’s not fun and games. And while Cindy wants a Chokehold, Melanie-Lee may just want to Make-Love. So you better find that shit out first. And even once you’re there. I suggest you take it a little slow and steady at first. Because nothing turns kink into konk (aka FAIL) faster than a bad experience.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

He Is Minty Fresh.

He is minty fresh.  He is dollar bills.  He is midnight truck stop diner hot chocolate.  He is miserable drivel.  He is a Tic Tac in your pocket.

Wake up sweating, laptop heat pulsing like waves of summer on Vegas cement.  Put your cheek down on the pavement to see if it’s exactly as you remembered.  It is.  Buzz and whirr of fans, open your lazy eyes.  “Are you done, miss?”  Sway from drinking.  That stopped years ago.  Eyes up.  Look around.  Maybe he’s the one swaying.

He is lemon scented logic.  He is momentary madness.  He is the last sip of coffee.  He is aggressive, strong, dark and broody.  He is built like a tank.  He punches you in the face.  He is someone you could never love. 

“Miss,” he asks again, this time head tilted down to you, “are you done?”  His blue eyes would be piercing if not for their heavy brown color.  Brown like reasons to order another.  Brown like shiny, young and new.  Smirk.  Smile.  It grows.  Beaming.  Big teeth.  Bright teeth.  Hollywood teeth.  “Maybe...” you blush, “...I’ll just take another.”  Part question.  Part demand.  He’s just a kid.  You’re only partly jealous.  You’re only partly responsible.

He is a librarian.  He is a label maker.  He is the moment between thunder and lightning.  He is the sound and the fury and the book you threw away.  He is a vacuum.  He is a constant disappointment.  He is a magician.  He is a figment of your imagination.  He is the color persimmon.  He is the taste of dandelion.  He is your magic wand. 

Your jeans are too tight.  Your hair is too curly.  Your makeup is too powdery.  Your scepticism is broken.  And you’ve got bigger problems.  Strike keys like picket lines and you write your entire life story in puns.  Breathe in the smell of bug spray and regret.  You are one endless camping trip and one forever late night hookup.  You are an apology.  Raise your hand and signal him, two fingers together sway back and forth, close, barely touching.  “Maybe a piece of...” you say, trailing off.  Think of your jeans, think of your stomach, think of your thighs.  Say apple, say apple, say apple. 

He is a pony.  He is the words of a thousand boys.  He is soft lips.  He is the way you kiss.  He is an advent calendar.  He is an opportunity, squandered, on purpose, and with good reason.  He is Vaseline on toast.  He is diamond earrings.  He is a less than charming bracelet.  He is a warning label.  He is too many carbohydrates and not enough adhesive.  He is an empty dispensary.

“Nevermind” you sigh.  Ask for skim instead of cream.  Ask for air instead of food.  Ask for sex.  Ask for sex.  Ask for sex.  “What are you writing?” he asks coming towards you.  He is a tightrope walker.  He is a circus clown.  He wants to shoot you out of a canon.  “Nothing special,” you answer.  Your left hand twitches and knocks the cup over.  Thick sticky liquid, spilling; an accidental river sweeping throughout the keys.  And then you blink and it never happened.  Look up.  Look at his face.  Smile.  Say “thank-you” and he sets the cup down. 

He is a super hero.  He is the tooth fairy.  He is a pathogen.  He will break you.  He is multitude.  He is myriad.  He is things that rhyme with lasagna.  He is “I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name”.  He is the reason to never leave your house.  He is paper mache pie.  He is last night’s leftovers.

“I’m an actor” he says and the number 22 leaps out from his chest, animated, like a cartoon heart.  Awooooga!   “Well..uh,” he admits as he pulls out a chair to join you, “...an actor and a pastry chef”.  He is a child.  He is an infant.  He is an embryo.  He has no idea what a fool you are.  Did you ask him to sit down?  He tastes like salt water taffy.  You guess.  You try to do the math in your head.  30 – 22 = He is a mistake.  He is a regret you consider having.

He is a ticking clock.  He is a tuna casserole.  He is the Christmas present you’re going to take back.  He is behind the glass; a sign that says don’t touch.  He is the price of admission.  He is locker room sweat.  He is a holy roller.  He is a ball gown.  He is the sex in the backseat of a car when you should’ve been walking down the stairs of your debutante ball.

He is smocked.  Brushes his hands across the front, over his thighs and stares at you eagerly.  He is a Labrador.  He is a puppy.  He is an Adonis.  He is a cake in a box.  He is a trip to Costco.  He is the water bill.  He will not make up for the past.  He will make for good keyboard stroking.  He will make for a fantastic story.  He is an anomaly.  He is a statistical love equation.  He is the words Go Home written in black ink across your palm.

He is gone.  He is left.  He is right.  He is a 12 gauge.  He is a tree top.   He is a thank you card, written but never sent.  He is a cockroach.  He is a tablespoon of baking soda.  He should’ve scrubbed you clean.  He is a list on the fridge.  He is an audio clip of laughter.  He is your blindside.  He is a bruise.  He is a bag of frozen peas.  He is the flavour purple.  He is wrong.

Shut it down.  Fold it up.  “I can’t save you,” you say, knees touching legs together, “I’m just the olives in the glass.”  His eyes crinkle.  He winks.  “I know,” he laughs softly.  “I see you,” head nodding slowly.  He smells presidential.  He smells like authority.  You smile at the illusion.  You’re in the movies.  You are a silent picture.  You are a black and white.  You are Charlie Chaplin.  You are what happens when nobody is watching.  You are over exaggerated and underappreciated.  You are Grandma’s stories.  You are Sarah Bernhardt.  You are a county fair.

He is the lights too bright.  He is a mouth breather.  He is the pages stuck together.  He is a spoiler.  He is already chewed gum.  He is a dripping faucet.  He is water-boarding with a bag of sugar, granulated, in your cavities and sitting where your teeth might grind.  He is moving day.  He momentarily moves Him to the back burner.

“Hey,” he says.  You hear it.  Soft and low.  Turn to where he stands, flicks the lights off.  Cash register box laying open.  Stand silent, watch him over your right shoulder.  You are the moment before it happens.  You are the turning point.  You are the decision making process.  You are a box of iced cupcakes.  You are sex in a weekend bra. 

Outside.  Snow everywhere.  Icing sugar floats past gets caught in your hair.  You are a Christmas special.  You are an empty snowglobe.  You are jinglebells.  Say it’s snowing, it’s snowing, it’s snowing.  Or it’s not.  Every time you blink is different.  It hits your cheek, cold, wet.  You are Russia’s last chance.  You are Snow-bunny Sundays.  You are a ski-in lodge.  Close your eyes.  Make it stay like this.  You are his frozen moment.  You are his TV dinner.  You are his bedroom sheets.  You are his mother’s neon secret.  You are his father’s envy.  You are baby soft skin.  You are raspberry deodorant.  You are teenage sweat.  You are 11:34.  You are only wearing one shoe.

He is the cold brick against your back.  He is the eclipsing hand behind your head.  He is a push against your hips.  His is the give and the pant and the pull and the desire.  He is all the best moves.  He is an entry in your 6^th grade Lisa Simpson diary.  He is the wrong question.  He is a quick fix.  He is gauze dressing.  He is a Band-Aid.  He is spilled dog food on the kitchen floor.  He is “I’ll get to it later”.  He is this very moment.

And you were right.  He is Salt water taffy.  He is Peach flavour.  He is swallowed whole.

I'm a Man Eater, Not a Pray Mantis

Preface:  This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys...er...I mean days of summer.  Is it July yet?

I want to clear something up.  Be a little more precise.  About Man-Eaters.  About who I am.   About chicks just like me.   Because there’s this notion.  That Man-Eaters.  Are Man Haters.  (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves.)  And it’s really just the opposite.  Grown Up Man-Eaters.  Are Man Lovers.  We love ‘em.  Can hardly contain ourselves.  Gotta have ‘em.





Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

Me:  Oh, okay fine. That’s about right

I’ll admit it.   I.   Am.   A.   Man.   Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific?  Sure enough.   Awesomtacious.  True Story.  But at the heart of my rep (pun intended) was my lack thereof. Tin Man. The nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was just a kid. I didn’t know any better.

But I never made anybody do anything.  Boys did things of their own volition.  For their Goddess, Man-Eater.  One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months).  One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night.  Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs.  Boys made offerings.  Boys left their chicks.  And at dawn I left my socks (and ran).  I hunted.  I prowled.  And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner.  I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious.  I didn’t care.  They seemed not to care.  But I don’t really know.  Because I never asked.  Because I definitely didn’t care.  Carve notch.  Move bead left.  Punch hole.  Add name and date.  *hunger pains* and prowl again.  I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now.  Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now.  They’re in the know.  Whether they listen or pay attention is on them.  But I tell them.  I say it.  I will be kind and gentle.  But you are a meal for the summer.  I plan to eat you.  It is no reflection on you as a person.  I’m sure you’re awesome.  And if you can handle it.  I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys.  Really.  Let me say that again.  I.  Heart.  Boys.  Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard.  Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now.  And I’ll tell you again if I have to.  You are the candy of my summer.  You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool.  You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster.  You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more.  You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you.  I want you.  I need you.  This summer.  I’m hungry.  And I’m going to eat you.  But I won’t be mean about it.  Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater.  I’m a Man Lover.  And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome.  I’ll make sure of it.  Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks.  Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory.  Ask my name.  Ask my number.  Show me your balls.  And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.  Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

Fuck Me Till I'm Thesaurus.

He tastes like a conversation.  Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches.  Ablaze.  That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries.  He stands trial before me.  He stands there.  Not here but there.  Where.  In a moment long before I forget him.  A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me.  My eyes roll back and I wonder how I've managed to last this long without his Dictionary  inside me.  

Roll my hand across the spine.  Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me.  Me.  Standing.  Here.  Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we've even begun till a hand something like his stops mine.  Bookmark this moment he says.  Take this hand.  Take his hand.  Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me.  Hush.  Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip.  Kisses hard and fast.  Wet and warm.  Tastes something like cinnamon.  Synonym.  Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance.  Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger.  Something bare.  Bear with me he says.  

Pause.  Paws.  Silence.  Take a breath.  There is a break.  Here.  This spot.  This tic.  This toc.  The very moment.  And we break apart.  Look each other in the eyes.  Long like Johns.  Buzzing like summer nights when there's trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones, the rate at which I fall in love.  He is.  Empathetic.  Pause.  Silence.  A moment.  And when it's ready.  When we've stewed. In the wanton wanting.  I hold what's akin to arms wrapped in armour.  Out to him.  stripped bare.  Next to naked.  Stand patient and waiting.  Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear.  He is my bear.  Fish for fun to feed him.  Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us.  Our love is a cyclone.  Cylindrical.  Circular.  Cyclical.  Our love is an Encyclopaedia.  Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours.  Spreads apart the folds of my blankets.  Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet.  Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold.  Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath.  Fresh and sweet.  Fun and simple.  Find and set free.  He is my hero.  My soldier.  My Professor.  Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle.  Partners.  Patterns.  Palpable.  Our love is palpable.  Our love is passion.  Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast.  Jam type love.  Breakfast nook type love.  Who wants to lick the spoon type love.

And he is my reference text.  Indexing the moments I can't decide.  He is my anchor.  Sailor's hands.  Rough and sea worthy of my every inch.  I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice.  Sounding vowels to find guidance.  Breaking rules to form poetry.  I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements.  Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I'm turning his similes into smiles.  He parades parables down my throat.  Panting.  Panting.  Panting.  Hold close in sweat and pheromones.  Fall prey to moments I can't control, for him.  Let him hold me for a second something like vulnerable.

Want to be his diatribe, want to write his soliloquy.  Hold words like babies until they stop crying.  A life of possibility.  Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it.  3am feedings from fountains of feelings.  Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity.  Syllable.  Sellable.  Seeable.  See me able.  To breathe.  Just this once.  Bearable.  Bear with me he says.  Take this moment and bear it.  Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way.  And that's when it happens.  Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth.  Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.   

Euphony he says.  What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules.  You funny he says and kisses my cheek we were always here you know.  Long before the first taste.  And we fall asleep.  Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the broken beauty of each other.  Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context.  I kiss him once more.  And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

I'm Not Clingy, I'm Just Smarter Than You

*Disclaimer.  There are clingy chicks in the world. There are clingy boys in the world.  This is about the rest of us.   Who get a bad rep.

I’m a planner.  Some people think that’s a flaw.  I think it’s brilliant.  And FYI: Planning and spontaneity are not mutually exclusive.  My passport is always up to date.  At a moment’s notice I’m ready for a summer road trip.  Camping?  Sure!  House-party in Kelowna tonight?  Fuck yeah…I’ll get gas, you get snacks and we can be there in five hours!  I’m basically up for anything at anytime.  Party at the moon tower and I’m rounding up money for kegs (for you guys of course, I’ll drink diet coke) and Mathew McConaughey.  But essentially I’m looking for fun fun fun all the time time time.

Now while I may spend the majority of my days egotistically thinking I’m super awesome and RARE, I would hedge my bets that there are lots of lovely ladies out there just like me.  Ladies who have careers.  Ladies who have friends.  Ladies who have goals, dreams and priorities.  Frankly, Ladies who have shit to do.  And yet.  Ladies who have time to date.  Like I have time to date.  Ladies like me, who are available.  And not because we’re clingy.  Or desperate.  Or insecure.  Weak or sad.  Losers or duds.

We’re just simply not retarded.  Allow me to elaborate.

The biggest complaint I hear from men (trying to date me, trying to date others, floundering about) is that they’re busy.  They’re tired.  They’ve just got so much going on *stifles eye roll*   But here’s the thing of the thing.  There are a lot of hours in the day.  There are a lot of days in a week and weeks in a month.  Our lives are fucking filled with time.  So why can’t these men find any of it.

They’re retarded?  They’re confused?  Something in their DNA?  Momma didn’t teach ‘em right?  They’re really just big babies?  They can’t see a big picture?  I honestly couldn’t tell you.  It baffles me to no end.

Logic tells me that fun…uh...ya know...is fun.  Experience tells me that fun is…awesome.  And since you can never have too much awesome in your life, logic tells me that I would want to squeeze every drop I can of it into my life.  I mean honestly.

Therefore, I like to make plans in advance.  Why?  Because then I can fit more in.  I don’t wait till the weekend to make weekend plans.  Why?  Because when three people call Saturday afternoon to kick it Saturday night…I have to pick one.  Only one plan gets made.  I only get 1/3 of the fun.  However, if those same three people call by Wednesday, it’s likely that I can make plans with one on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and possibly one even Sunday afternoon.  Three out of three.  That’s one whole cup of fun. Fucking Awesome.  Now sometimes shit doesn’t work out and schedules collide and other times there simply aren’t plans to be made.  And that leaves all that lovely room for spontaneity.

And I know that often guy’s want to leave their options open.  They don’t want to commit to a plan, a girl, an idea for the weekend.  And that’s fine.  Go ahead and wrap yourself up in your issues.  It could very well work out awesomely for you.  I’m not saying I have all the answers.  I’m just offering an alternative perspective.  A reason she doesn’t answer your weekend texts.  A reason she cuts ties after three weeks without connecting for a date.  So like I said, I don’t know all the answers.  Not by a long shot.  But I do know about smart chicks.  And I know about awesomeness, lol.  And I know about planning.  And I know about having the most fun possible.  So with all that said, I leave you with this:

Boys, I beg you.  Next time you meet a girl who only wants to make advance plans with you.  Or calls you on Tuesday to make plans for the weekend.  Try to remember.  While it is possible she’s clingy or high maintenance.  It’s just as likely that she’s awesome…and quite simply smarter than you.  So do a cross-word or brush your teeth with the other hand and get that brain power up.  Step it up a notch, get your shit together and get the most out of your life.  Or don’t.  I mean do what you want.  But don’t be shocked when you call on Saturday and she’s busy.  And the best thing that might have ever come into your life is booked solid.

Just Sayin’.

Class dismissed.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com