My Most Frustrating Date Ever.

Let’s be fair: not all dates need the golden fleece of fornication to qualify them as worthy pursuits. I’d be rather disappointed in myself if my sole motivation to spend time in a stranger’s company was to be drenched to the scrotum in their heady funk. But we cannot be fair unless we are also honest: we relish those exceptional occasions where personality can be damned, and the unadulterated determination of unbridled romping guides your libido steadfastly. Such dates are prime Odyssian territory, but if you’re not careful can leave you insatiable and shipwrecked, when your sole aim is being Calypso’s captive. I recall the folly of my pursuits from the solitary abandonment of the sex-barren island of Friendshipopolis, and offer the simple advice: FUCK etiquette.

I am ever in praise of forward girls, and she was just that. She was a petite paragon of far eastern beauty: stunning Javanese physiognomy, with a smooth sheet of café crème skin adorning a well-pronounced clavicle. A trained barista, she wowed me with the sophistication of her palate, reprimanded me for my espresso indiscretions. This was the subtlest of poisons, which she used to devastating effect: she proceeded to make me the sexiest cup of coffee I had ever drunk, all silk and texture and heady aroma; the coffee was her in concentrated liquid allegory, and within the ecstasy of the first mouthful I resolved to have her. Both direct and exotic: a double-whammy of a honey trap if you ever saw one, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m no Eric Bana (go to 5:26), so I can’t really blame myself. Just as she had designed it, my proposition was forthcoming and simple, and she chose the venue.

The restaurant (it was a restaurant but I call it a trap) itself carried an eroticism about it: a transformed disused power plant, its detritus refashioned into industrial chic with strategically placed tealights in disused pipes and cavities. Pink neon lighting beamed from the high whitewash pillars and cast a seedy aura on everything and everyone. Were the preachings of Nick Cave not droning from the wasp-eyed corners of the room, I would have concluded (quite excitedly) that she had taken me to an exclusive art-house sex club and dinner was just a front; that she was not only keen, but had no intention of dining on anything but my cock. Unfortunately this was not the case; instead she opted for the bovine kind that’s best medium rare, and glided her fingers over the voluptuous bowl of her wine glass whilst teasing me with coy glances. It wasn’t until dessert that she exposed those beautiful shoulders of hers and let chocolate torte smear her lips. Having been admirably contained to this point, my lust tore itself from its restraint: I set my hand under the table and overturned it violently, sending burgundy and torte flying towards the wall, leaving an unobstructed path to this foul temptress.

At least, that is how I imagined events unravelling; and this is where I went regrettably wrong. Being brought up in England I have a debilitating gravitation towards decorum, where action of an extravagant nature is deemed to have no purchase. Instead, I did the boringly decent thing of opting for coffee in a more intimate location; all this meant was sipping espresso whilst staring at her breasts, thinking about the dark chocolate of her areolae and awakening those buds, wet with the dew of my lascivious tongue.

The fact that, over the following weeks, she would reveal both a complete obliviousness to the libido-torturing hold she held me in and her fanny-munching leanings (an ‘experiment’, if that harlot is to be trusted), is I suppose rather comedic: it’s Sappho, not Plato, having their fun. As much as I’d love to curse her name with instant coffee breath, I admit she did nothing wrong and is perfectly lovely – but she literally had no idea what she was doing to me, and we would have both been better off knowing. After all, what good is another untouchable Facebook plus one? Ending the night with her palm impressed across my stinging face (not to mention a hefty bill for damages), or knuckle-deep inside her whilst tattooing our shoulders with dental impressions (with a justifiable bill for damages): either way, it would have been infinitely more memorable than the crushingly cordial end to the evening. A hug, a hop on a tube, then a flaking poster promising I could find romantic harmony online. She couldn’t have planned that any crueler (yes, yes, I know she wasn’t).

Odysseus had it easy: if a nymph is going to keep you to herself for seven years in the middle of nowhere there’s going to be some serious repercussions of a copulative persuasion. Unfortunately, true mythological nymphs don’t exist. Instead, we just have to deal with a perpetually frustrating game of reading the signs, which we find impossible to learn from and more often than not leave us in the wrong place. So next time you’re feeling that irrational desire, roll up those manners in your moist underpants and toss them to the wind.

When it comes to sex, myths, just like pet peeves abound.  That’s why we decided to discuss some of the more common myths about sex in the latter half of April.

During that time we touched on everything from kink, race and penis size, the notion of being sexually liberated and the many myths that swirl around us sex bloggers. We even threw in a two-part guest post that featured lady boys and a midget. Fact.

Yes, all in all it was a very interesting two weeks. So, whether you’re seeing it all for the first time or you’re back for a bit of a refresher, we hope that you have as much fun reading the following posts  as we had writing ‘em.

Enjoy!

S

The Power of Perception

Where Are All The Asian Porn Stars?

You Can Handle How Many Inches?

Nights in Borocay Part 1

Nights in Borocay Part 2

So You’re a Sex Blogger…Sweeeeet

Guest Post: Demysifying Kink

G-Spot: Myth or Magic?

Did You Come? Yes. And No.

Guest Post: A Hook-Up Is Just a Hook-Up

Myth: I Am Sexually Liberated

My Most Memorable Good Date.

I’m not normal. My dating history isn’t normal either. In fact, I can safely say that since 1986 I have had only a handful of ‘normal’ dates (dinner & movie – that sort of thing).  None of these dates are worth remembering, so you won’t be hearing about any of that nonsense.

Over the years, and over countless boxes of wine with female friends I have come to understand that I have been the fortunate one (in my estimation) to have encountered a plethora of strange and delicious ‘dates’ that are worth remembering and sharing.

In the mid-to-late 80s ‘chat lines’ were all the rage. I was there. It was hot. Or hilarious. Depends. My friend, Jenn, was a regular on the ‘chat line’ circuit. She had a harem of guys who she spoke with regularly. She left me a lengthy message one afternoon…it filled up the all the tape of the mini-cassette in my answering machine. Thankfully, that’s a problem I no longer have for several reasons.

Anywhore…

Due to Jenn having a chronically full ‘dance card’ she usually had some leftover men, and she offered one such man to me.

‘He’s a bit weird,’ she said, ‘He’d be perfect for you.’

Ian called me that night. I was nineteen and I had my own bedroom phone line. It was a high-end heart-shaped phone with a picture of me in a bikini under the plastic cover where my Top Ten numbers were supposed to be.

Ian lived at home. He was 23. He described himself as the spitting image of Robin Zander, the front man for Cheap Trick.  Okay, so I wasn’t into blondes with pale skin, but he liked beer and darts and he was awkwardly confident.  The beer and darts thing really intrigued me. So, did the awkward confidence.

We talked on the phone every night for a few weeks. He wasn’t particularly ‘weird’ at all, but there was something about him. Maybe it was his deep voice and the way he carefully selected his words. Even though I knew he had blonde hair, his voice was definitely brunette.

I’d promised to meet him in person if he could come up with an interesting plan for our date. He called me back 15 minutes later. His plan? A Midnight Picnic. He’d bring a magnum of champagne and we’d pop the cork at the stroke of midnight in a nearby park.   A) I wouldn’t have to travel; B) He was bringing champagne. Not the usual drink for our demographic;  and C) A midnight picnic with a virtual stranger was incredibly risky. I was sold.  There were thrills AND savings. Score.

11:45 pm. Ian was on time. He was cute. He had a perfect swimmers body. Okay, I could overlook the blonde locks, just this one time. Sure, we were both a little nervous and awkward around each other initially, but it wasn’t anything a magnum of champagne couldn’t fix. Ian laid out the blanket by the mouth of the bike trail and like clockwork it was midnight! We popped the cork and drank furiously. The buzz came fast and dirty.

About 20 minutes into our date Ian said he had a surprise for me. He asked me to close my eyes and put out both of my hands, palms up.  I remember thinking, ‘Nice try serial killer. As if!’, but because I love a good thrill I closed my eyes and put my hands out anyway.

I soon felt something being placed into the palm of my hand, and then something of similar shape and size in the other hand. I could tell it wasn’t a body part or handcuffs. Phew, I was safe. He told me just another minute or so and he’d be ready for the big reveal. The anticipation was somewhere between Christmas morning and a full on throbbing clitoris.

“You can open your eyes now!” Ian finally said, his voice sounding distant. Muffled.

I opened my eyes and Ian was on all fours, bare ass in my absolute direction, face buried in the blanket. I had a ping-pong paddle in each hand.

He’s not friggin’ serious, is he?

He waggled his butt at me and whispered ‘Spank me!’

Oh God, he’s totally 100% spanky seriousness. Who was I to crush his dreams? I obliged.  It was a first for me and I didn’t know if I was doing it right. He wasn’t a very good coach so I just did what came ‘naturally’. He moaned and waggled, waggled and moaned and I paddled. He stroked his cock while I paddled.     

My paddling him while he was on all fours created a sort of rocking motion and with the champagne sloshing around in his gut, Ian promptly puked all over the picnic blanket.  Our date had come to a natural end.  We cleaned up, packed up and went our separate ways.

Ian tried unsuccessfully to date me after that. I stopped returning his calls.

Dinner and movie?  Forgetaboutit.

My Most Memorable Bad Date.

I haven’t really ‘dated’ much. I’ve had a lot of relationships and I’ve slept around. It was fuck or play house, not really much in between. I’ve read countless articles in magazines about what makes a perfect date, but like the elusive woodland nymph, I don’t think I’ve ever really believed it existed.

One common thread in the magazine articles is to always be on your ‘best behaviour’. Be polite, don’t be intrusive, don’t interrupt, don’t talk about your exes, have table manners, don’t swear, don’t mention politics or sex, be courteous, dress nicely, don’t be aggressive, combative, opinionated, hard-headed, sexually motivated, etc. Essentially what it all means is…

DON’T BE YOURSELF.

How is that even remotely helpful when you’re trying to have fun? Don’t bother pondering. The answer is simple. You can’t.

Dates, especially first ones, are not fun. They are job interviews, and how often do you have fun at a job interview?  Uh huh, that’d be NEVER. My philosophy up to this point has always been that if nothing else, a date should be memorable, so you have memories that last a lifetime whether you get the ‘job’ or not. In my 25 years of fucking and relating, I’ve sought out the weird, the odd, the unusual, the strange and the different – anything that would make a date unforgettable. Today I’m going to tell you about a date with a man I’ll never forget…

–

It was 1997 and I’d been chatting online since 1995 (yes I know, I was a pioneer). I met a guy in a chat room. He emailed me a picture. He was hot. He was half Native and half Latino. Dark skin, tattoos and he was leaning up against a wall of graffiti. His name was Gabriel. (How hot is that?! I know!!)

Gabriel/Rod's other girl, Ann.

We exchanged a few emails and then we were ready for our ‘date’. I wanted to head downtown to a club or go see a band. But, Gabriel had other ideas. His plan for the date was to go back to his place, drink wine by candlelight and entertain ourselves with a little Ann of Green Gables (yes, you read that correctly). I was willing to be flexible. I figured after the wine and some good conversation tattoo-boy would forget all about Ann and her Gables anyway.

Our date, turned out to be a night of great discovery. I found out that Gabriel wasn’t his real name, well at least not the one he’d been given at birth. It was Rod. But, he was a ‘spritual’ guy so he’d legally changed his name while searching for himself in…in the Gables, I guess. And as for the wine by candlelight, his electricity had been turned off the week before (nice touch, eh?), so it was more pragmatic than romantic. And as for Ann? Well, Gab, the spiritual guy formerly known as Rod, was committed to the two of us immersing ourselves in her maritime paradise.

Now I know what you’re all thinking: How could we watch Ann of Green Gables with no electricity? Oh, did you assume we were going to watch Ann on TV? People, Gabriel-or-Rod was far too cool for that. He had bigger plans for the two of us. He had a well worn copy of the book and he said he wanted us to…

READ IT. ALOUD. TOGETHER. BY CANDLELIGHT.

Just sit back and absorb that for a moment.

.

(I know some of you are still absorbing, but I gotta get on with the story. Really I do.)

Upon hearing this I said,

‘Gabriel, I just love a good reading. How about you take the reins on this one tonight?’

He happily agreed and I started drinking. I eventually downed the entire bottle. I had to. It was the only way to save myself from Ann. Ann of Green Gables. Ann. Of. Green. Gables!!!

As my wine buzz kicked in I reclined on the floor and closed my eyes to listen to the sound of his voice. It was then I noticed how off he sounded.

C’mon Gabby Rod, there’s obviously a ball of phlegm the size of a baseball lodged in your throat. Cough it up man.

He must’ve been reading in his phlegm-tinged, monotone voice for just over 30 minutes when my wine buzz started getting angry with me. I realized I had to get out of there. I needed to end this nightmare. I got my butt up off the floor and demanded he take me home. He agreed. But before we could leave Gabriel, aka Rod, had to put ALL the candles out. He made a production of reaching for a candle snuffer on the mantle. Then he slowly made his way around the room putting out each one.

A fucking candle snuffer? This can’t be happening?

There must have been 40 f’in candles (at least) and he was working slowly, snuffing each candle out with a whole lot of Emo-ness. Yes, my stomach turned and in that instant I knew that I hated everything about that man. Once GabrielRod got me safely back to my place, and I finally got him to drive away (only after promising to got out with him again later that week) I knew it would be the last time I laid eyes on him.

–

Moral of my story: It’s a cruel world out there. Listen to the magazines. There is absolutely no room for ‘being yourself’, especially if: you can’t pay your electricity bill, you own a candle snuffer, and your idea of a good date is reading Ann of Green Gables – aloud.

My Best Date Ever?

Oh, yea so he shows up EARLY on his white horse and waits patiently for me in my living room while I finish curling my hair. I hear his shiny, silver armor clink and clank on my hardwoods. I am almost certain he is nosing around in the books I have shelved in the repurposed china cabinet that my best friend Devon gave me. Will he be shocked to see the sex education books? Upon seeing all of my middle school and high school yearbooks on those shelves will he smirk? Never mind, my hair is nearly perfect. One quick swipe of lip gloss and I sashay into the living room, “Are you ready?” I say, as if I’ve been waiting on him the whole time.

He opens the door off my kitchen, ignoring the dishes in the sink (he underSTANDS how very busy I am) and I exit like a lady in front of him. As we approach his horse, he scurries ahead of me to steady the lovely beast and then helps me up into the saddle.

Tonight will be the best date of my life.

Right? Eh, not so much. I can’t say with sincerity that ALL of my dates have been bad. Truthfully, only a handful of them have been so terrible as to sear themselves permanently in my memory, reappearing in nightmares or during cocktail parties to make people laugh. But really, when I stopped to try to think of my best date ever, I was totally empty headed.

There was this one date last year with a guy named Michaelangelo. Seriously, his actual name was Michaelangelo and he insisted I call him that – not Mike, not Michael. I remember when I first met him that the first thought to pop into my head was, “Michaelangelo? Does he expect me to be able to spit out a five-syllable name when I have an orgasm?”

We had a lovely dinner. He wore a vest. He was quite the foodie, having worked as a chef for a number of years and we ate and ate and ate – wonderful things. After dinner, he ordered some ice wine and Crème Brule and it was delicious. My uncultured-ass realized later that he dropped a cool $140 on our dinner that night – on a first date.

He was interesting and quite interested in me which (seeing as I was totally rebounding from the most unavailable man I’ve ever dated) resulted in my being very interested in him as well. We got drunk – super drunk – and took a walk after our date through the backstreets of the city until we found a proper place to stand in the street and make out. It was so romantic – like something out of a movie. I recall dropping my purse when he kissed me. I was so overcome by it all. And when we regained our composure and I successfully untangled my hair from the fence that I was pressed against, he picked up my purse and carried it for me as we continued our stroll.

We ended up dating for a spell and it was fine and lovely and all of that, but ultimately I just wasn’t that into him.

So I look back at that night and think, “Ok… So was THAT the best date ever?” Granted, it was a really great date but nothing really ever came of the whole situation. Are great dates something we measure by what happens on the actual date or by what happens after the date?

Truth be told, he drove one of those fake SUVs and it was disgusting – his chain smoking and dashboard ashtray swirled smoke and ashes into the car as we rode with our windows down. I learned the only reason he wore vests was because he was self-conscious about his stomach and the vest, he felt, hid it well. I even grew tired of his kisses after a while – too much tongue.

I can’t tell you about the greatest date I’ve ever had because I have yet to have had it. I suspect that my greatest date will be something innocuous, rather boring, maybe even cliché. But it’ll be with the man that I spend the rest of my life with, so when I tell the story to our grandchildren or to people in line at the drug store, it’ll be good.

Really good.

My Worst Date Ever.

I had already had five dates with this dude. He was a web designer and lived in a great, arty neighborhood here in Atlanta. He was a couple of years older than me and one of those wonderful artistic hipster-types that actually HAD a good job.

Our first five dates were pretty great. He was a perfect gentleman, insisted on paying for everything, and there was never a moment during any of those dates were I was uncomfortable or irritated. After our second date – which was amazing – he didn’t kiss me goodnight. I was a little thrown off by this, but just assumed he was a gentleman. I kept hanging on, waiting for him to make a move and so by the time he asked me out for our sixth date, I was thinking, “It’s do or die time, homie.”

We agreed to meet at this Malaysian restaurant and then go on to a Korean bakery for dessert. I arrived abnormally early, and didn’t see his car, so I decided to take the time to make some last-minute primps to my face and hair. I was rubbing my lips together when I saw his car pull into the lot and, Ace Ventura style, barrel through the parking lot and slide into a space, narrowly missing the other cars around him.

I couldn’t help but chuckle and threw my phone in my purse and got out of my car to meet him. As I approached his car, I saw his door fly open and I nearly stopped in my tracks. He swung his feet out of his car and he was wearing the most AWFUL shoes. I am not a fashionista, by any stretch, but these were the kind of shoes you cut grass in… Or washed your car in… They were NOT the kind of shoes that you wore past your property lines. What used to be all-white walking shoes, the likes of something a blue-haired lady would wear, were now grey and sort of yellowish-green at the toes. The strings were also grey and missing their plastic caps and hang loosely, touching the ground and flopping about.

Ok. Don’t panic, I told myself. Maybe he’s had a shoe emergency or something. He had always dressed fashionably and even had cute hats. This was an out of character shoe emergency. I was certain.

We exchanged pleasantries, a short but warm embrace and then entered the restaurant. We were seated quickly and he ordered this giant bowl of noodle soup for dinner.

Now, noodle soup is messy. You’re expected to lean down, grab a pile of noodles with your chopsticks, shove them in your mouth and slurp them up. This is perfectly acceptable dining behavior. What is NOT acceptable is twirling the noodles onto your fork, then the lifting your hand waaay up above your head to break your noodles free from the tangles in the bowl. If you do this, you will no doubt be splashing noodle juice all over the table, and more importantly, your date.

So there I was with little orange spatters of noodle juice all over my glass, the table, and my shirt – one splotch directly nipple-center, watching this man slurp up the drips of noodle juice that landed on the back of his fork-free hand.

And the conversation on this date? Oh, just your run of the mill judgmental accusations of poor parenting. Apparently, as an artistic mother of a four year old, I should have been ashamed of myself for stifling my son’s creativity by forcing him to use coloring books rather than encouraging him to draw. Oh, yes… He went there.

So, the check comes and he ignores it, but honestly, I ignored it, too. I’m plenty-happy to pay for myself on a date, but he had set a precedent on all of our previous dates so I didn’t bring any cash. We walk to the counter to pay and on the way, he says, “Can we go dutch? I’m approaching broke-city.” Our ticket was only $16. I offered to pay for dessert at the bakery and with an irritated sigh, he obliged.

At the bakery, he ordered the largest, most expensive item on the menu and then didn’t finish it, made racist and sexist statements about Asian women, told me weird stories about a woman he used to date — complete with sexual romps, and finished off by saying (this is a direct quote),

“I have a hard time looking you directly in the eyes because when I look at your eyes I see your makeup and then I get distracted by the thin layer of mucus on your eyeballs.”

.

PAUSE.

.

Mucus? On my EYEBALLS?!

.

It was painful. And it was only made worse by the fact that he was sitting in the booth across from me with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out over the bench and THOSE SHOES dangling and bouncing in my peripheral vision.

Finally, the date was over. As we left the café, there was a row of international periodicals and he stopped himself mid-sentence to go collect one from each box. All in all, I’d say he had a stack of about 20 newspapers in his arms. I inquired what his plans were for all of these papers and he said, “Oh, I don’t know.”

I recall just cocking my head, shoving my hands in my coat pockets and pivoting on my heels towards my car.

My Worst Date Ever.

Anyone who has stopped by my blog probably thinks that I’m some sort of bad date expert. In fact, going on bad dates has become my full-time job. I’ve been stalked. I’ve had to flee in heels. I’ve been tongue-raped. I’ve been insulted. My mother has been insulted.

So… clearly, I have a flawed selection process.

However, I would argue that, however flawed my current selection process is, at least I have some sort of filtration process now. Not like back in the day, when, out of sheer desperation, I instituted an “Open Door Policy” (ODP). (This was inspired, of course by Britain’s open door policy in China.  Because I am a nerd.)

My ODP was the following:

I would go out with anyone — yes, that’s right… ANYONE — as long as he asked me out nicely.

In other words, if he said, “Hey, so you wanna make out now?”, I could refuse him without violating my ODP. (For the record, yes, that did happen.) However, if he asked me out to dinner, for example, no matter how repulsive or psychotic I found him, the ODP required me to accept his invitation.

This ODP is to blame for the worst first date of my short and insignificant life.

His name was Bobby.

I was not attracted to him. I didn’t even like him as a human being. He was pretentious. He was a tool-douche. In fact, I found him downright creepy. When he smiled, I cringed.

But I was a stubborn idiot, and I forced myself to follow my ODP — just as a matter of principle.

And the whole experience was so traumatic that, for my own protection, my brain blocked off almost all memory of the date. But what I can tell you is this: In addition to being creepy and repulsive, Bobby was also mind-numbingly uninteresting.

Literally.

I think his constant drone numbed my mind to the point that all intelligent thought ceased.

All I remember is that Bobby wouldn’t shut up. And since I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and since my mind was numb to the world, I had nothing else to do but eat.

And eat.

AND EAT.

He had taken me to an all-you-can-eat Mongolian BBQ place, so there was no limit to how many helpings I could have.

Besides, in the off-chance that Bobby didn’t end up picking up the check, I was going to get my money’s worth of food out of this godawful date, dammit.

The rest of the date is hazy, but at some point, I did come to my senses and attempt to end it. I think that I made up an excuse about an emergency choir rehearsal.

I know.

Lamest, most unbelievable excuse EVER.

In my defense, I must remind you that Bobby’s drivel had numbed my brain long before this point.

Not caring whether he bought my excuse, I bolted out of the restaurant. And did he pick up the tab?  I have no idea.

I don’t know how I got home, but I definitely remember spending the next 24 hours with my face in the toilet.

Now, if anyone ever were to ask me whether a date has ever made me vomit, I can answer affirmatively.

And it wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

The worst is that Mongolian BBQ is ruined forever for me. I still can’t stomach the thought of it.  (In fact, shortly after this disastrous date, I went vegan. I’m only just now starting to eat meat again.)

Sure, my last failed relationship has left me emotionally scarred, terrified of commitment and unable to flirt, but years after my one date with Bobby, I still have to suppress a gag reflex when I think about Mongolian BBQ. I can heal the emotional wounds of a break-up, but I don’t expect that I can ever cure my visceral reaction to Mongolian BBQ.

Damn you, Bobby.

My Best Date…Never?

It’s incredible how it’s so easy for me to recall all the bad dates that I’ve had.  But I am hard-pressed to describe a good date.

I don’t remember why these dates were so great.  We probably didn’t do anything special.  We were probably just sitting around, twiddling our thumbs.  All I know is that the following thoughts usually cross my mind at some point during a good date:

1)  Wow, I really like this guy.

2)  I smile when I look at him.

3)  I’m laughing, and holy crap, I’m not faking it!

4)  I’m a little nervous, so there’s a little verbal diarrhea on my part, but that’s okay, because he doesn’t seem to mind.  He’s still looking at me as if I’m the bee’s knees.

5)  Holy cookiepants, he’s looking at me!  This is awesome!

6)  Wow, five hours have passed?  How did that happen?

I don’t have a story of the best date of my life.  I have no recollection of good date plotlines except for those stream-of-consciousness snippets above.  But as I promised to deliver a great date story for this post, I will recount my friend’s best first date experience…

–

It all started when they made out at a party and exchanged numbers before she had to leave.

He later texted her: “It was great meeting you the other night.  Too bad you had to leave early.  Do you want to hang out this week?  Climb a tree?  Grab ice cream?”

She was pretty sure that “Too bad you had to leave early” actually  translated into “I can’t believe we didn’t have sex.”

But she nonetheless replied that she wanted to both climb trees and eat ice cream, and that she was generally intrigued by his suggestions.

So he biked 45 minutes from Brooklyn to her house on the Upper East Side, and they went out to buy ice cream and plastic spoons.  Since it was summer, they went for a long walk around her neighborhood and in Central Park, where they settled down on a grassy knoll.

They were hitting it off and having a great time.  He started playing with her hair, one thing led to another, and they started making out.  But that was it, just kissing.

She didn’t want to go farther than that, so she suggested that they start climbing trees.  He was surprised that she was actually serious about that, but he complied.

They found a tree suitable for climbing, and he jumped up into it while she remained on the ground and stared at him.  There was simply no way that she could climb it.

So he reached down and, with one arm, pulled her into the tree.

Very.  Very.  Sexy.

She was terrified about being off the ground, so he just ended up holding her, kissing her, and talking to her.  Then he helped her out of the tree, and they made out some more on the grass before he eventually walked her home.

The date lasted from 9pm until 1am.  It was the best one she’d ever had.  No drinks, no distractions.  Just two people eating ice cream in a park and climbing trees.

My Worst Date(?) Ever.

Alright. So everyone knows me as “that ass fetishist guy” from LustMongers. And I wear my predilections like a badge. But there’s also a sensitive side to me. And that’s what we’re talking about today.

There’s always that one great “oh, what could have been” moment we have in our lives. Now I’m not talking about the time you decided not to move to Seattle or the job you just couldn’t take or the time Grandpa Ellis gave you two tickets to the game and you scalped ‘em for a night at the naked bar. I’m talking about the chances for outlandish fucking that were never acted upon for reasons that you can’t seem to explain  - even today.

Mine came in college, junior year. My roommate was a dusty Deadhead type who attracted lots of cute girls (coughsellingweedcough). One of them who we’ll call Alice because that’s her name, was a frequent “customer” of his, and she was taken to stopping by, sealing the deal, then flopping down on our couch to prattle on about her ex-boyfriend or her crazy roomie or the Psych professor who wanted to nail her. She was a New Yawk Jewish girl with frizzy blonde hair and a big round ass and every time she came in the room, I got a mad, Coors-fueled hard-on. Even when my roommate wasn’t there, she’d come and hang for hours and we’d talk and flirt shamelessly but I never made any sort of move.

Then one night, she showed up at our place around eight looking for my roomie, but he wasn’t there. So she asked me if I wanted to grab something to eat. And I did. So we did. And as we sat in one of the greasiest pizza joints on the east coast, chomping pie and making small talk, I was already mapping out my plan for getting into her trousers.

But then, we got back to my place and before I could get her inside and full of booze, she hit the road. Said she was meeting someone later. So I shrugged it off and, somewhat dejected, walked back inside, resigning myself to a night of porn and tuggery.

Around midnight, she came back, complaining that her roommate had a gentleman caller over and she needed a place to crash. I let her in, but explained that she couldn’t have the couch because Crazy Mike was there and she couldn’t have the other couch because Crazy Kate was there and they had just smoked and drank up a storm with my roommate and they were all passed out and I wasn’t about to wake ‘em. Ever the gentleman, and being too tired to give a shit, I offered her my bed. She accepted, then invited me to join her, saying she didn’t want to see me have to sleep on the floor.

To this day I'm still wondering of Alice's ass would've looked this good.

So I climb in with her and we’re laying there and I can smell the goddam beer on her breath every time she exhales and it’s driving me fucking insane with lust and my roommate is asleep and his pals are zonked and Alice turns and nuzzles that big round ass up to my throbbing johnson and all I can think about is how many ways I’ve been dreaming of violating her and I can feel the waves of torment and heat and sweat riding over me until…

Nothing.

I just kinda put my arms around her and pulled her close and… that was it.

We eventually fell asleep and woke up in the morning and smiled and went about our separate paths.

Weird and inexplicable, to be sure. Maybe my li’l Irish pecker didn’t intrigue her. Maybe we were both too weirded out, what with snoring bodies all over the apartment. I still don’t know what kept me from at least attempting to stick my tongue down her throat, but I do know this: not a day goes by that I don’t wonder just how nice of a lay she coulda been if I’d made a move.

Worst date ever? Shit, I’m not sure you could technically call it a date, but from a disappointment standpoint, it looms large in my memories as a big time regret. And I’ve got no one to blame but myself.