The second part of the second date with Gregory

Part One

We arrived at my place, got inside, I took off my coat, and Gregory was on me instantly. Gone were the perfect kisses I liked. They were replaced by full tongue-down-my-throat action. I don’t know I can call them kisses, I don’t know what the hell they are. I usually end up not knowing exactly what to do.

Those kisses are gross, guys. I feel skewered and unable to react. There’s a difference between a momentary thrust of a tongue down a throat… but keep it there? A whole lot of NOPE.

He didn’t want wine, he only wanted me. We stood in the same place for a while – his hands all over me, his tongue down my throat – until we agreed to go upstairs. Once again, we didn’t spend any time on my couch.

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second date

The second date with Gregory.

My original plan was to leave work early and have a nap before I showered and got ready. I was recovering from a bad cold and thought it would help. It was supposed to be a relaxing late afternoon.

Work had other ideas. I managed to get home early, but was still sitting in my kitchen on my laptop at 5:45 pm. I’m managing a huge issue on a deal and it’s taking up almost all of my time.

Suddenly I realized I had only 45 minutes before I was supposed to leave to meet Gregory. Yikes!

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communication

Trying to see Gregory again.

After I’d heard from him that night, Gregory and I texted back and forth a bit. He was hosting clients for most of the day, including dinner. He said it was exhausting. He was complimentary about my talents when I shared a work-related issue. I told him I was off to bed (I was getting a cold and knew I needed to sleep) and asked him if the next night still worked to get together. He said it did.

The next day arrived. I didn’t text him at all during the day – and at 6:30 he texted saying he hoped I’d had a good day. I replied a half an hour later when I saw his text, and then asked if 9:15 pm would work for him to come over.

No response. Continue reading

John starts on a high note, then descends…

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A reminder, you can always check out my “men in the mix” page to get the latest on the men I’m writing about. It’s all spoilers, all the time!

John drove me home, we parked his car and I invited him into my house. In my kitchen, as I poured him a drink, he went for it. Arms around me, mouth on the back of my neck, pushing me up against my kitchen counter.

I discovered this man in his late 50s had the libido of a 20-year-old. We got pretty heated on my main floor and I decided what the hell, I’d take him upstairs.  Continue reading

The plumber checks my pipes.

We had a solid pre clearance date. It didn’t end in a kiss because while we were inside talking over a drink, the temperature dropped several degrees and in his shorts, he was far too cold outside to stand on the street and make out.

It was probably just as well, because given how great our kissing chemistry proved to be, we may have made a spectacle of ourselves on that busy street.

He gets up ridiculously early every morning for a 6 am start time. I’m learning this is the downside of dating tradesmen. He asks me how my day is going, he’s been up for hours, and I’m still waking up.  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

When kissing leads to a cancelled date

I had a sore throat on my first date with Bruce. I didn’t think much of it, or better said, I wasn’t going to think about what it could mean. I was still in denial. The day after I woke up feeling terrible and worked from home. I’m a big believer in not coming into the office with a contagion.

We kissed each other goodbye on the Wednesday. I was sick through Monday, when I saw him for our second date. He’d been away and I hadn’t mentioned not feeling well. I didn’t want to sound sickly to a guy I’d just started dating. It’s a sore point – my ex always gave me a hard time for staying home when I didn’t feel well. Continue reading

Trying to relax with Bruce.

Thankfully, it wasn’t over after sex with Bruce on the second date. We exchanged a few texts as he drove home – an almost hour-long drive – and he called me “sweetie” when he texted goodnight. But I still had dating anxiety.

The next morning I sent a good morning text and we had a brief exchange. Mid-morning he checked in to say he hoped I was having a good day. We had another exchange at the end of the day. All consistent with the days prior.

That night I was at a sporting event with a close friend. A man who reminds me a bit of Bruce, actually, and Bruce and I bantered off and on throughout the game. I asked whether he was used to a woman squirting since he seemed pretty chill about it. Continue reading