Bumble Rumble

I spoke to my therapist about my anxiety in talking to men on dating apps, and she said, “Well, if you don’t want to, you don’t want to, and that’s perfectly fine. But all the other things you said might be holding you back, you don’t seem sure you don’t want to. And the only way you’re going to be sure is if you try.”

So I wrote to FIVE entire Bumble guys, including Hot Chef, and of course everyone except Hot Chef wrote me back. *grumble* FINE.

But also, and this is the important part — they wrote me back, and then, after 24 hours of still feeling like I might throw up every time I tried to respond, I DID respond.

Full disclosure: It REALLY helps when it’s early and all you have to do to “respond” is copy/paste what you did over the weekend. But I DID it, is the point. So hopefully I’ll have an answer, an orgasm, or at least some quality first-date stories, soon.

Date data

I wasn’t sure if I had a “date” this weekend, since the meek-ass bullshit email I sent him only said “hang out” and he hasn’t used definitive words in our texts, so hey, maybe for him we’re just hanging out as friends.

But he just said I’m pretty, so…

Heeeeeeeee…

I have a date. 😊

Cameron Frye is my spirit animal

You know what’s probably a bad sign leading up to a first date?

When your friend asks to hang out Saturday and you say, “Dammit. I have a date. But I think I’d have more fun hate-watching Fear and eating takeout with you.”

In the words of Cameron Frye, “OK, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go…I’ll go. SHIT!”

Hell no, elbow…

OK, this post is long, but a guy I was kissing after a first date took a timeout to mention the dry skin on my elbows, so I think it merits further analysis…

We’re at the end of a decent first date. We’re kissing. It’s not great, but not bad. I like kissing. I like being against a man, even it wasn’t quite the physical fit I enjoy. (Ever just FIT with someone? Isn’t that the best? It’s like two really dirty puzzle pieces.)

I’m wearing a tank top, so he’s been touching my neck and shoulders. His hands go under my shirt (because I put them there), and graze the curve between my ribs and hips. He’d mentioned that’s one of his favorite parts of a woman, and it happens to be one of my favorite/best physical features.

Then he runs his hands down my bare arms and says, “Your skin is so soft… Well, except your elbows.”

*blink*…Sorry, what?

I pull away from him, gesture up and down at my body, carefully outfitted in form-fitting jeans, low-cut tank top with subtle but effective cleavage, lacy bra peeking out if I shifted the right way (which I did…often), and I say, “Really? Allllll this, and you’re gonna heckle my ELBOWS?!”

He’s not a moron, so he quickly says he was joking, and we get back to kissing after a few minutes of me being Cool-Girl-pseudo-outraged and teasing. But it stuck in my brain.

I mean, he’s not wrong. I could stand to loofah. But…

A. Who the fuck thinks of ELBOWS in ANY situation, particularly THIS one? Is this yet another part of my body I’m supposed to angst over and tend to? Should I add this to the list that already includes more extensive maintenance than my fucking car?

B. That’s your choice on a first date? A woman is giving your hands free reign all over her body while she makes little noises near your ear so you feel all manly and virile, and you pause to say that out loud? So if we’re ever naked together, are you going to point out that I don’t wax? That I have cellulite? That I basically have no ass?

Related: Is every inch of YOU gonna be all Beyoncé “Flawless?”

C. Oh, sorry, I must’ve left “dry elbow skin” off my OkCupid profile. Much like YOU left out that you’re 5’6″ only if I don’t understand how rulers work — I’m 5′, and when I raised to tiptoe out of habit to kiss you, I noticed I didn’t need to. Do you exaggerate size often…?

D. If you have enough blood in your brain to notice and form comments about imperfections while your hands and mouth are roaming a woman’s neck, shoulders, and waist — all of which, by the way, are naturally soft and smooth like a baby’s ass — we have bigger issues.

Too bad, too, because up until that point, you had plenty of moisture where it mattered.

I didn’t realize in the moment how much it bugged me, but…no. I mentioned today, briefly and nicely among other topics in my response to his most recent email, that I may have taken it too seriously, so I’ll see what he says.

The beauty of this is, I really don’t care if some dude I’ve met once thinks I’m crazy, especially since we seemed kind of “Eh…you’ll do for now” about each other.

And I know I’m overreacting, but consider The Elbow Heckle in the grand scheme — FIRST date, you not only have a negative thought about my body, you tell me? Am I going to have to bring my A++ game EVERY time I see you or you’ll point out my “flaws?” (Yes, I did just extrapolate a likely innocuous comment into a portent of future emotional abuse… What, like you’ve never?)

I’m not Perfect Girl, sir. I DO have dry skin. I use lotion on my hands and legs, but apparently skip my elbows, and my feet. I also have a pudgy belly, enough thigh fat to make another pair of thighs, and if you spank my ass during sex, you’ll see reverb. My forehead is showing signs of early-onset Worf syndrome. I have pale, weak eyebrows if don’t fill them in with pencil, and you’ll know it’s time for me to go back to the hair salon when you see glints of gray growing in.

If you’re expecting perfection in any aspect, you’re not getting it from me. Go hit on Gisele. No, really. I BEG you to let me know how that goes.

There Will Be Alcohol.

I have dates. Two dates, with two different guys. Dates I probably won’t end up canceling when I find out the guy has an STD or wants to take out his fake teeth before he goes down on me.

As I told Therapist and my friends, I understand this is a good thing. Aside from just testing my capability for interaction on a date, the last person I kissed was during The Year of Poor Life Choices (2013), so it’s been FAR too long. Therapist tells me if I end up kissing one of these dudes, that may be good, because maybe I’ll no longer be giving Bad-Life-Choice Guy mental significance as “the last person I kissed.”

But Jesus Christ… DATES…Plural…

You can die of anxiety, right? ‘Cause I’m going to. Just so you know. Kissing won’t be an issue if I have a heart attack. Hopefully the kissing will come first.

If I die, it’s been a pleasure writing silliness for you all.

Slut Shame and the Blame Game

I had scheduled a date. I was going to meet an OkCupid person. We were going to go to a Philly taproom I’ve wanted to go to for years but never had time/company. They have fried PB&J, and I KNOW y’all don’t think I’m above eating the HELL out of that on a first date.

Yeah… I can’t. I started thinking about our conversations, the number of red flags I’d been letting pass because they were “just little things” that made me go “Hmm…” But when considered together, they make me really uncomfortable. I have a bad vibe I didn’t get from the initial OkC messaging, but have had for the past few days of texting. I told friends about less than half of those “little things,” and they told me to cancel, and cancel NOW.

But something in my brain felt guilty, like I should meet him because I said I would, because I said we’d at least be friends, because I flirted, because I took the flirting further than I should have, because I am a sexually frustrated attention whore, and because what did I expect would happen when I behaved that way?

Sound advice from a friend: “Don’t help them think only with their dicks until you’ve at least seen their face.”

On occasion it seems a self-proclaimed male “feminist” bloviating that, “Women should be able to express their sexuality without fear of being judged!” translates to, “I’m going to make demands on your time and behavior, and treat you like you owe me something, even when you’re sick, or busy, or clearly don’t want to.” I guess I’m only free to express it when the whoring works in your favor?

But I am legitimately concerned, all bad Spidey Sense, and fuck that. I’m not gonna get axe murdered just so everyone at my funeral can remember me as NICE. (My friends wouldn’t — they’d be like, “GAWD, how was she such an accommodating asshole when her asshole never actually accommodated anyone?!” My mom would probably be proud I died polite, though… [Ahem. Too dark?])

Anyway. I should’ve known when I found myself telling him we had to go out Monday because I was “busy” on Thursday — busy watching Scandal, but busy nonetheless.

It’s possible I have more feelings than one normal person should, like maybe I evolved wrong, or missed a meeting. Because I shouldn’t be blaming myself for being “slutty” here. (“Well, yeah, I feel like he’s overstepping my boundaries, but how would he know I even HAD boundaries?”) And if I’m actually worried about my safety (not a TON, but…a little), I REALLY shouldn’t feel bad about either just saying “no” or blocking his number.

I probably won’t end up naked, though.

I’m certainly not the first to observe this, but going to a job interview is like going on a first date.

Like, “This, right here? The smooth, curled hair and the makeup and the dress and the tights? Yeah, I will NEVER look like this when shit gets real.”

I should be able to interview in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, with wet-from-the-shower hair tossed up in a half-ass ponytail, wearing sunscreen and Chapstick as makeup. That is how I will look if I work for/date you.*

It’s like Chris Rock said: “You can’t get nobody looking like you look, acting like you act, sounding like you sound. When you meet somebody for the first time, you’re not meeting THEM — you’re meeting their representative!”

Why You Should Always Have Sex on a First Date

Why You Should Always Have Sex on a First Date

I don’t agree with all of this, but I do think you should do whatever feels right for you. And I’m a big believer in the Louis C.K. bit where he says you should be able to see the penis right away to make sure you can work with it. Like test driving a car… Teste driving!

Nerd Girls Aren’t Easy, or Doc-Cock-Block

Perhaps a good first-date policy would be to see your intended’s Netflix queue BEFORE you say, “I’ll watch anything you want, except documentaries — ugh.”
You hear that? That was my legs clamping shut, and there they shall remain. Kudos, sir — now we’re actually going to WATCH the movie. You might as well have said, “I’ll do anything you want, except learn.”

It’s not like I’m watching documentaries daily, but the only movie genre I’ve sworn off so sweepingly that I *wouldn’t* watch it next to someone I was trying to get with is a few categories of porn.

I suppose I’m glad we got that out of the way up front. But tread lightly, douchebro. Tread lightly.