My bananas week.

If I’ve done this before, it was long ago enough I’ve forgotten.

This week I set out to meet (and maybe have sex with) as many men as possible, within the constraints of work and my need for sleep. I needed to remind myself that there are men out there who are interesting to me. And I decided to not do it half-way.

Sunday 

Jake told me Saturday he was no longer able to meet for our planned evening of conversation and sex, so I was keen to fill the spot.

I had a first date with the blue-eyed and hot-bodied plumber who misjudged the local traffic, showed up late, and then was too cold in his shorts and t-shirt to give me enough of a kiss goodbye. We talked a lot about dating and even sex – he seemed pretty cool. Continue reading

The dirty poet.

The man who referred to himself as a poet peppered his texts with “you’re such a little sweetheart” and sunflower emojis. When we met at a downtown bar for an after-work drink, my first thought was he might be bisexual. He had that way about him.

He’s in his mid-fifties and after ending his 25-year marriage, he got a tattoo, a nipple ring, and earrings in both ears. He’s in the film industry in an artistic role.

When I departed that first date, he stayed seated on the barstool, we hugged and he gave me what I would call a quick peck on the lips. Later, he professed via text how excited that kiss got him. He said he felt a spark.

Huh?  Continue reading

Freaking men out by my boldness, one interaction at a time.

“You scare me a little bit with how direct you are, Ann,” the 54 year old creative type texted last night. “Remember, I write poetry.” Sigh. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I disliked most poetry: it’s not my thing. After our brief after-dinner drink last week, he’s been communicative and sweet. He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me and felt like a teenager. But he’s too saccharine at times – he said I was a “little sweetheart”, two words I would ever use to describe myself.

We will see how the second date goes, when we get to it.

::

One of the contractors and I were supposed to meet last night. For a rough around the edges guy, he’d been remarkably responsive and kind. 

We aren’t soul mates, but over a shared platter of nachos we talked about astrological signs and his pet snakes (!) and I stared at his muscular hands and forearms.

We aren’t soul mates, but I’d fuck him.

We had plans for a second date drink in my neighbourhood. My plan was to have a couple of drinks then take him back to my place. We’d confirmed just a couple of hours before, but when I sent him the exact address he didn’t reply.

Texting with two girlfriends, the consensus was he was an insensitive jerk who had stood me up. It didn’t feel right, but it was odd.

A couple of hours later he texted “Ann I’m so so sorry… I fell asleep on my couch.” We spoke on the phone. 

He was sincere.

I was horny. 

It was 10 pm. I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. I asked him what he thought about still coming over. I told him it was definitely now booty call territory.

“Ummm, yeah, that’s cool… is that what you want?” He asked, clearly not used to such transparency. 

“Too transparent?” I asked.

“No, not at all. If you want me to come over, I’m all good. I will follow your lead.”

“Well, I need the stress release. Come on over.”

He was nervous as fuck. A ball of jittery energy. But he got over it enough to prove he had mad oral skills, a functioning average penis, and really, really, strong arms.

Men who work with their hands.

I was fed up with the bullshit of recent events. It got so bad, my personal trainer, hearing a new disaster or story every week, asked me if I played the lottery because my luck was so bad with men it had to be good elsewhere.

So one recent night, bolstered with a bit of liquid courage, I said “fuck this shit”. If I really wanted someone in my life, I needed to seriously get back in the game. I had opened my Bumble profile a few weeks prior and it was lackluster so far – quite literally, nothing to write about.

I already had open profiles on Coffee Meets Bagel and the League, both which took about 5 minutes of effort each day to say whether I liked the one or two men they served up, and yielded absolutely nothing.  Continue reading

Train delay due to flirtation at track level.

Shortly after my split, I got a tattoo to remind me to live a life of no regrets. It’s highly visible and I’ve used it at times to help make that “oh just go for it” decision. My decisions are all mine now; I don’t want to look back years from now and think “if only…”, especially when it comes to a pickup.

You know those moments where you see someone who sends electric shocks through your body, yet you let them pass by without a word spoken? I remember every time it happened to me, and decided I’d do my best to never let it happen again. I don’t want to have “missed connections” anymore. Continue reading

Completely fine with foiled plans.

Note: I hadn’t finished this post when the can’t do this” text came in from Bruce. So it’s a little out of order…

::

On Monday night, I was certain I was going to have a busy week of casual lovers. I’d been with Todd on Sunday night. I had plans with Jake for Tuesday and tentative plans with Clark for Thursday. It felt rather hedonistic.

Sunday night with Todd was exactly what I needed. I was out-of-town for work, arriving in the late evening by plane, and he drove two hours just to see me. We ended up barely talking. Over discussions about American football at the hotel lobby bar, he connected with a colleague of mine. When I met Todd at the bar, I couldn’t exactly ignore my colleague, so we ended up talking more than Todd and I. Continue reading

Sorry Ann, I need to get my shit together.

Bruce’s eventual response to my text suggesting he stay overnight to avoid having to drive back and forth tonight:

Ann

I don’t know how to say this … so I’m just gonna say it 

I can’t see anyone right now 

I’m too stressed 

I need to get my life together before I add people to it.

I am depressed … anxious… don’t feel like being around anyone right now. 

Sorry Ann

I need to get my shit together

Sigh. Continue reading

Filling my time.

The first line I wrote for this post was “I’m much better than I used to be at not wasting my time with men.”

I stared at it. Erased it twice.

As much as its true that I don’t waste my time with bullshit online anymore – if I know a man doesn’t want what I want, I don’t bother – I could argue I wasted a lot of time with Tony. Continue reading

Thinking about Bruce.

Previous Post

It’s become clear Bruce isn’t ready for the practical realities of dating. He thought he was. He’d taken almost two years before he took the online dating plunge: he said he wasn’t ready before that. I believe him. At his core, I think he’s a good man.

He’s not a Jack, telling women he pursues what they want to hear. He’s no Tony, emotionally incapable of truly leaving his marriage.

He’s Bruce.

Continue reading

Bruce needs to get his shit together.

I’ve been home from my trip for almost three weeks. In that time, I’ve seen Bruce for a grand total of one hour, on a day I rearranged my schedule to work from home in the morning so he could stop by my place between job sites. It wasn’t quality time; he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him so was sick to his stomach. We had sex which lasted eight minutes.

That’s it.

One hour in three weeks. A grand total of three in-person meetings in the two months since I met him. One after-work drink, one dinner, and a morning quickie.  Continue reading