Don't Mince Words

Dating overlap

When I was growing up, dangerous behavior was having unprotected sex.  Now it’s going on an Internet date without seeing a picture first.  I’m bored and living dangerously in Santa Barbara.

I subscribe to the girl’s-gotta-drink rule, so meeting for a coffee is the easiest date out there.  Barney was too late to buy my $3 herbal tea, but we did enjoy 70 minutes of good conversation with overlapping interests.  We walked to our cars, kissed on the cheeks, hugged out, booked another date soon, and waved goodbye.

By the time I got home, a coworker texted to see how ugly he was.  I told her it was a good time and he looked like Alan Arkin with cool glasses.  ”Is his name Barney?” she asked.

Welcome to Santa Barbara dating overlap which I expect happens to the two dozen straight single people 40+ that live here.  What is funnier is my friend has been divorced for 60 days and just started dating again.  But I guess we shouldn’t feel bad, a 32 year-old male coworker told me he now dates in Los Angeles for the same reasons.

Time to put the Honda in for a tune-up and go back to what I know:  the wide variety of fruits, nuts, and flakes that is the City of Angels.

There is your garden-variety texting.  Then we have drexting:  driving and texting (or is that drunk texting?).  Now I’d like to add whexting, whacking off and texting, to the urban mobile lexicon.

310-xxx-xxxx:  I know u dont remember me and you dont have to txt me back i just wanted apologize. i always had a lot of fun with you.

This number wasn’t in my contacts.  When I date someone, I wait six months then delete just to avoid calls and stalking.

Me:  Who is this?

310-xxx-xxxx:  Dude you didn’t have to txt me back. I was watching porn and saw a girl with red hair and it made me think of you.  You made an impression on me.

Me:  Wow. That’s some impression. Best of luck self-pleasuring. Text me again in another four years.

Just when I think I’m out of material, they re-appear.  I wonder if he had his keypad on voice command.

I know I’ve threatened to stop dating.  Instead, I added to my arsenal of vibrators.  And I know the definition of crazy, yet I still repeat the same behavior.  Now I’m seriously considering my friends’ advice:  it has to be dating in California.

It’s been another banner month of dating in Santa Barbara as I continue to receive “be my friend” text messages from The Schnauzer.  This time around, I had a momentary twinge of hope when a 51 year-old mechanical engineer wanted to meet me for happy hour.  Several hours before, he backed out because he had to work late.  No biggie, so did I.  But he did stay in touch via text message and let me know he was bisexual.  Right.  With nothing to lose, I got more clarification.  He’s not the shut-your-eyes-and-pretend-the-blowjob-is-from-a woman kind of bi.  He likes getting his ass pumped from time to time.  If that wasn’t enough, he casually mentioned that he liked to dress in drag.  He sent me pictures and, yes, he’s prettier than me and has better legs.  It would be kind of cool to have a boyfriend I could share lipstick and Spanx with, but at the end of the day, I like my cock straight with no deviation.

Saturday I was stood up by a different 51 year-old who confirmed the date four hours prior.  No call, no text, no email, no show. The good news is I got two great glasses of wine in and became the tasting room’s Foursquare major.

I didn’t have to leave Los Angeles to encounter these kind of behaviors.  My short-term solution may be to get a bike.  That’s the only bi I’m going to let between my legs…until I pass a cute guy on the bike path and think, “I wonder if he’s straight?”

When I was signing my lease, the assistant, a lifetime native of Santa Barbara, warned me, “Whatever you do, just be nice to everyone.  Even ex-boyfriends.  This town is small.”  I realize this falls under The Golden Rule crap my parents taught me.

I haven’t seen The Schnauzer since the infamous hot tub/back shaving incident.  My Golden Rule is Out of Sight/Out of Mind because I just wasn’t that into him.  Hairy back aside (have you seen my thighs? I know about embracing heritage), when he admitted he had a porn addiction and thought beer was a waste of money, I knew he wasn’t the guy for me.  When he said he was conflicted because he wanted to marry a girl with little-to-no sexual history, I knew I wasn’t the girl for him.  Nice getting to know you, but we aren’t right for each other.

Next.

Imagine my surprise when I received a text message from The Schnauzer Friday, “Hi Marna, I saw you walking with your date yesterday.  Its OK I understand. I was hoping we could still be friends I thought you were interesting.”

I’m not sure where this communication is coming from since it’s been more than a month since his clipping.  I realize this is a small town, and I will be polite if I ever seen him squeezing the melons in Trader Joe’s, but I really don’t need another friend.

My friends have great communication skills.  And they don’t mince words.

Zipping a dress.  Helping with a necklace clasp.  Reaching the top shelf.  As a single woman, these are some of the things I need help with around the house.  This was a banner week for special requests from men.

A let’s-just-be-friends male invited me to dinner.  While we are highly compatible, I assume men with women friends are going for the slow conversion.  I remain hyperaware and keep the pussy on lockdown.  I drank a bottle of wine while he cooked.  Great meal.  Good conversation.  When I was preparing to leave with my thoughtful leftovers, he asked me for a hand job in a come-on-please very sober voice.  I took my chicken and assumed his arms were long enough to reach his own cock.

Three days later, I’m in a jacuzzi with another guy.  When we got back to his place to change, he called me into his bathroom.  “Could you do me a favor and shave my back?” he asked.  Finally, something a man can’t reach.  When I finished and looked at the pile of fur, I had a sense of accomplishment I hadn’t felt since…. clipping my schnauzer.

These experiences mirror my personality – a mix of crazy red head and den mother.  From hand jobs to back jobs, my life can never be called dull.