PoF vs. Lava

I'm to the point that I'd almost rather go to the dentist. I mean, I already know what he looks like (cute, with puppy-dog eyes), his earning potential, and whether or not he can carry a conversation. Oh, and the fact that he's probably a sadist, but at least he has channeled it into a well-paid career.

Online dating is at least as big a pain in the ass as getting dressed up and going to the bar. Possibly even more so. I don't know about you, but I don't go to the bar every day. Twice a day. Problem is, if I don't check the notes regularly, they pile up, and I have to spend three hours replying. Ugh. And, I'm on two sites right now.

I'm waiting for the day I go on a 'first date' with someone from PoF who I've already been on a first date with off Lava. Don't worry, you'll be the first to know...

So, comparative mertis of Lava vs. PoF.

PoF: free. every time you message someone, you've saved 50 cents toward your next cup of coffee.
Lava: at least you know they can afford to pay for coffee.

Lava: thousands of idiots.
PoF: hundreds of thousands of cheap idiots.

Lava: it costs to send a message, so most people at least take a few minutes to compose an introduction.
PoF: typical first note: "hi. wanna chat?"

Pof: you can set your mail settings so that anyone looking for 'intimate encounters' is automatically barred from messaging you.
Lava: at least you can laugh at all the money they wasted when they send you the third message that says 'hey, wanna fuck?'


It's a real toss up as to which is a bigger waste of time. The PoF guys can't be asked to write an actual note, and it doesn't cost them anything to say 'hi', so they'll go 'fishing' without having bothered to read your profile and see if you have anything in common. As soon as I figure out how, I'm gonna bar anyone my father's age from contacting me. Even if they do want to be "just friends"...

Lava is just as bad, in its own way. There's no way to filter the 'hey, wanna fuck' crowd until after they've contacted you. On the other hand, the more serious ones who send a message really do seem to put a bit more effort into the introduction.

Both appear to suffer the same lack of quality men. Guys who are 50 pounds overweight, but list their body type as 'average'. Guys with a two-line introduction who haven't even bothered to list their hobbies. Ppl who cnt or dont spel. In fact, I've seen plenty of the same men on both sites. I suppose I shouldn't say anything, I'm on both. But still...

Ancient History #3 - Sunshine on your Face

M. and I had discussed anal sex on several occasions. He wanted to try, just to see what it was like. My reply was that, in general, I thought it should feel good, since a gentle finger up my ass at the right moment was enough to send me over the edge. But, when I had actually tried anal sex, it had HURT LIKE HELL. I told him we could try, but I was pretty dubious about the whole idea. He never pushed it, though.

We went out for a nice Vietnamese dinner one Friday night, then came home, watched a movie in bed, and got it on. It was one of those not-quickie-but-not-all-night sessions, the sort of sex you have when you know someone really well, and can both get off pretty quickly, then get on to the snuggling-and-reviewing-your-week part.

After, we laid in bed, spooning, and discussing our respective weeks. I don't know what we were talking about, but something got his attention, and I realised he was poking me again. I rocked my hips a little, pushing back against him. We were just kind of messing around, but his cock was rubbing against my ass, and it felt good.

Wouldn't you know it, but he just slid in, no pain or anything. It felt great, and I told him not to stop. He didn't.

Well, I have to admit, Vietnamese gives me gas. A few minutes after we finished, I got that urgent feeling, like "uh-oh".

I ran to the toilet, sat down, and farted. Sort of. I mean, farts are just gas, right? This one was...drippy. Disgusting, really. He could hear it from the bedroom, and was laughing his ass off.

The next morning, M was up first. He noticed that the coffee pot hadn't been turned off from the night before. He blamed me.

I told him there was no way it was my fault.

I told him I was perfect, and would never forget to turn off the coffee pot.

I told him I had a halo and farted sunshine.

He looked at me and burst out laughing. "Is THAT what you call it?" he giggled. "Sure gives a whole new meaning to 'sunshine on your face'..."

Sweetie

I got this at work this morn:


"For some reason your email last night didn't seem to sit really well with me, don't know why, but something about it seemed, well, strange I guess. Dont know why.

So the only place I could figure to find any info about how things were going was the place I promised not to read... so in the vein of wanting to make sure everything was all right i read it this morning. Man you sound a bit, well, tumultuous...

Maybe a call one of these evenings?"


Mr UK is such a sweetie.

The phone rang not ten minutes after I got home.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a little down...probably this cold, or maybe the crash from having such a good time over there with you.."

The truth is, this week I have been feeling a little...unloved. Unwanted. Unattractive. Unhappy.

There is absolutely no reason for it. I should be kicked in the ass, hard, for feeling this way after Mr UK flew me to London for Valentines. And showed me such a good time while I was there. After so many friends and family have been calling or coming over, fussing over me with this cold. Like I said, no reason for it at all.

But there it is. Feelings aren't logical.


"Well, what are you doing St Patrick's day?"

"Umm...riding you like a clydesdale, I hope?"

"Let me check my bank balance..."


I wish.

Damn the past

Well, today's POF date, K., was...meh.

He was polite enough, funny enough, and the conversation flowed pretty well, for a couple of strangers. He was decent looking. I don't have anything specifically bad to say about him. I'd probably go out with him again. No real urge to make an effort to make that happen, though.

I think I have been spoiled by the men in my past. Three, in particular.

Mr. Wonderful is ancient, ancient history. We were together for 6 years, and lived together for 5. We've been broken up longer than we were together, but I am still searching for someone who will treat me as well as he did. He was absolutely devoted, but in a way that left me space to grow. He never failed to make me laugh, and brought me flowers for no reason. He bragged to his friends about how smart I was, and still sends my mother birthday cards, all these years later.

Mr UK is really only salient because he just spent a week spoiling me rotten, and reminding me how nice it is to be around a gentleman. Someone with a little culture. And have intellectual discussions. And no-holds-barred honesty.

M is haunting me right now. When I got in from the date with K, all I wanted was to be in M's arms. In fact, I phoned him, intending to invite him down to Ruralville for a 'visit', but he was busy, and I never got the words out. I'll probably be grateful for that in a week or so, but...Dammit.

I don't want to be pissing around with this dating crap. I want to skip the akwardness of meeting someone and getting to know them. I want to go directly to the part where you can just be in the same room, doing whatever, but not having to talk. The part where you know each other so well, you can predict what he'll do or say. The part where he makes your coffee with the right amount of cream and sugar, without having to ask. I want the comfort and trust and unspoken support.

Unfortunately, that takes years.

I'm not very patient.

What a waste...

...of two and a half perfectly good hours of my life that I'll never get back.

POF guy D. was a looker. He hadn't actually posted his picture online, so it was a pleasant suprise to see him when he walked in. Tall, dark, and stocky, with nice green eyes and full lips. My kinda guy. He had a really sexy, gravelly voice, too. I hadn't really been expecting sexy. That upped the expectations considerably.

We had spent an hour on instant messaging the night before, and it had been a great conversation. D. has a couple of degrees, and we were having a great intellectual debate. That's why I invited him for coffee in the first place. The faster I can get things out of cyber-sapce and into real life, the happier I am, as long as I think I can hold a decent conversation with the guy.

Unfortunately, IM sort of forces you to take turns speaking in a way that live conversation does not. D. spent almost the entire time talking. He asked about four questions, all of which were designed to give him a lead-in to his next topic. It was more of a soliloquy than a chat. Good thing he was nice to look at.

He might have been worth sleeping with, looking like that, but he was so self-centered and pompous that I can't imagine him being an attentive lover. Damn waste of a good-looking man.

On the bright side, D. paid the tab, so although it cost me time, it didn't cost me any money...I'd have been pretty bitter if I'd also had to pay...next time, I'll make sure to talk to them on the phone, first...

Actually, I HAVE talked to the next one on the phone already. It must be the "fresh meat" factor - I signed up for a POF account the day before yesterday, and I'm already e-mailing with five guys. Three of them are probably not going anywhere, just due to a lack of common interests.

POF guy K. managed to hold up his end of an hour-long phone conversation, but also managed to ask me a few things about myself, as well as keeping me in stitches for a fair chunk of the conversation. We're meeting for coffee tomorrow...wish me luck!

update

Well, i got on the online dating site, and I had mail...POF guy D., who is totally new. We got chatting, and he actually sounded interesting, so now I have a coffee date for tomorrow afternoon...gawd, I can just imagine the impression I'll make with my puffy eyes and hacking cough...oh, well...

Moth to a flame...

This cold is killing me. Quite literally, I'm afraid. I've been coughing till I throw up the last three days. I can't even focus my eyes to read, let alone post, which sucks, as I am totally bored with being sick.

Of course, as I haven't had the energy to drag my butt off the couch, I haven't been doing much on the dating front. In fact, I've been thinking about getting some adult diapers so that I don't have to bother dragging my sorry butt to the toilet, but that'd mean going all the way to the store. As you might guess, my overall motivation for anything much beyond breathing is pretty minimal.

I did call M last night, though.

I don't know if it's a mistake to stay in contact, but I can't seem to stop myself. Going to London set off a small existential crisis for me...I realised how dissatisfied I am with my current career and locale. Mr UK brought it up a couple times while I was there, and I hate to admit it, but he's right: I'm unhappy here. I was not happy living in London, either, but London had some huge advantages. For instance, here in Ruralville, 'culture' consists of the Classic Car Show in June and Rodeo Week in August. 'Painting' is what you do to the barn. Big conversational topics include trucks, fishing, and guns. "The Gallery" is where you go for target practice. Yeah, London was way cooler, that way...

As a feminist who fixes her own car and loves reading, Arab culture, and Dali, I am something of a freak here.

I spoken to Mom and a couple of girlfriends about this. Mom tends to go the 'whatever makes you happy, dear' route, which is not helpful when I'm looking for advice. My girlfriends are great, but sometimes live vicariously through me, which means they tend to advise me to do what would make them happy.

M. understands this stuff. He's one of the few who do. He knows when to shut up and listen, too, and just let me work things out for myself in conversation. And he knows me well enough to give a pertinent, considered opinion when I do get around to asking for it.

The conversation went suprisingly well. Relationship stuff didn't come up. We were talking about 'personal' stuff, but not personal stuff pertaining to "us". He listened, made all the appropriate noises during the appropriate conversational pauses, and generally acted like he cared. Without trying to talk me into bed. I actually felt better by the time I hung up the phone.

Unfortunately, if I were to move, my first choice of cities would be the one he lives in. Which adds sooo much potential for complication. I mean, we have a hard enough time staying away from each other when we live 200km apart. Imagine if we lived in the same neighbourhood?

Anyhow, it's all academic until I put in the transfer papers, and I'm going to consider this one for awhile before making any drastic moves.

Damn him for understanding me so well, though...

Size DOES Matter.

Sorry, guys. I hate to say it, but it's true.

Size matters.

Average is good. Really good. Perfect, in fact.

I mean, I can 'hit bottom' with my index finger, if I stretch a little. Now granted, I've got big hands, but not seven (or nine or twelve) inches of index finger. Honest. True, pussies are built to stretch, but, like fat ladies and pink spandex, there are limits, or ought to be. Anything as big around as my wrist DOES NOT belong in my hoo-haw. Period. Exclamation mark. All that's going to do is hurt. If it looks like it belongs to a beast of burden, it just ain't happenin.

On the other hand, my index finger can do things that your little guy just cant. MY three inches know exactly where my g-spot is, and things like articulated joints and fine motor control allow me to do what's necessary. Unfortunately, your little guy just doesn't have that sort of talent, and needs to make it up with size. To a point (see above). If I get more sensation out of a tampon applicator, we've got a problem. Motion in the Ocean, my left foot...if you're speed-fucking me with a q-tip, it's still going to feel like a q-tip. Friction alone does not a good time make. Sorry, but it's true.

Now you know. Not polite, but very, very true.

Ancient Histroy #2: Donkey Dong

Well, I was doing my daily reading, and came across two posts that probably only relate to each other in MY head:

http://briliantdonkey.blogspot.com/2007/02/blind-man-walks-into-restaurant.html

and

http://swimminginthedatingpool.blogspot.com/2007/02/boat-sizes-and-ocean-motions.html

It reminded me of this guy I knew...

It all started when my girlfriend, Wiley, invited me down to The City for the weekend. I agreed, but only if we went out and got crazy. That was Wiley's cue to invite her pal Fruity.

Fruity is a fag. I mean this in the nicest possible way, but Fruity is...well...a fruit. A Fairy. Light in the loafers. Queer as a three-dollar bill. He likes pink and frilly things. He plays it up, too...the more homophobic you act, the campier he gets, which makes a night out on the town with him endlessly amusing for sick bastards like me.

We went to a club. Not a regular club. The sort of place where I REALLY stand out, but only by virtue of being the ONLY one in the place not wearing rubber, chains, or a feather boa. Because my hair colour can't be described in terms of kool-aid flavours. Because I haven't got a single facial piercing or visible tattoo. THAT kinda club. In fact, I think you need a membership to attend, though Fruity probably took care of that well in advance.

Going out with a gay guy and a straight girl is...amusing. Fruity and I quickly established that we have the same taste in men. After a few drinks, we took to sending Wiley to talk to the hotties, to establish which team they batted for (like I said, it was THAT kind of club). Fruity and I agreed that if the hottie was bi, we'd flip a coin to see who would get him. Heads for me, and Tails for Fruity, of course.

Fruity pointed out the bartender. He was CUTE. We sent Wiley on a scouting mission, and the reply came back in my favor, so I went up to order the next round, and strike up a conversation. As luck would have it, the Bartender was single, and willing to join me for a coffee after his shift.

For a hot bartender, he had suprisingly little ego. He was witty and fun, and also blind. I was pretty impressed - you gotta be SMART to be able to memorise the location of every liquor bottle in the rack, and talented to be able to mix a drink you can't see. He explained that he could see, a little...he could tell where my face was for instance, but couldn't tell what I looked like. I didn't fuss too much about the handicap...in fact, I took it as a bonus, as it meant that I didn't have to bother with makeup when we went out on dates. How convienent!

After a few dates, we went back to his place for 'a nightcap'.

After a few 'nightcaps', we wound up making out on the couch.

One thing led to another, and we found ourselves in the bedroom. Eventually, naked.

I swear to god, the floor shook when he unleashed that monster from his pants. It might have been from the impact of my jaw hitting the ground...that thing was HUGE. I've never seen anything THAT size on a creature smaller than a HORSE. I mean, it was as big as my ARM.

My pussy whimpered.

"You plan to put THAT where?"

"What do you mean?"

Turns out, Donkey Dong had NO IDEA that he could be making his living as a porn star...or a circus freak, for that matter. I guess it makes sense...I mean, he was blind. He'd never seen another man's penis in the gym showers. He'd never seen the envious glances that I'm certain he got in said showers. He was absolutely clueless.

I half-heartedly retrieved a condom from my handbag. The packet had a smaller diameter than his penis. Crinkling it thoughtfully, I told him I didn't think I could go through with having sex with him.

As he closed the door behind me, he said

"This is because of my disability, isn't it. You think I'm a freak."

Well, yeah...

But not in the way that he thought...

Fruity sure was jealous when I told him about it, though...apparently gay men looooveee a huge cock...

Ancient History #1 - What do you do with a boy?

Well, with this cold just getting more and more miserable, I don't imagine I'll have much to say about dating for a bit. I mean, if I'm too sick to go to work, I shouldn't be out there spreading the disease. Besides, I gave myself a week to mope over the London trip (turned out to be totally unnecessary), and have nothing lined up.

It had never occurred to me when I started this blog that total strangers would actually make a regular effort to see what I had to say. Suddenly, I feel compelled to write something...I'd hate to let the six of you down...

So, I thought I'd dust off the ancient history.



I was raised in a lesbian household. In my world, there was Mom and Mom #2, and Dad was a rather distant, shady character, as he lived in another city entirely, and had twice-a month weekend visitation, when he had time for it. I was five when my biological parents divorced, and seven when my moms moved in together.

Mom has lived consistently with women for the majority of the last 25 years, but does not consider herself a lesbian. She dated a man for about two months when I was a teenager, and I have to say her taste in women is MUCH BETTER than her taste in men. However, I suppose in her mind, two months in 25 years is enough to qualify her as 'not a lesbian'. Of course, she doesn't think she's bisexual, either. I usually quit asking nosy questions at that point, lest I get some evasive hippy answer like 'love makes the world go round' or 'everyone deserves to be loved'. Personally, I think Mom hasn't figured out that it's the New Millenium now, and nobody really cares if she's gay.

Mom #2, Mom's first long-term girlfriend, was as dyke-y as a dyke can possibly get. Her main hobby (after man-bashing) was woodworking. She ALWAYS showed up at the Take Back The Night marches (usually with my sister and I in tow, chanting slogans and pumping our little fists in the air). Mom #2 even had the army boots and the classic leather bull-dyke hat. She was butch with a capital 'B". And feminist with a capital 'F'. She probably would have scratched her crotch in public, if it weren't so reminicent of The Patriarchy. She thought that sex with men was sleeping with the enemy.

I was never confused about whether or not I liked boys. Ever. It was never in question. Mom probably realised that early on, but Mom #2 held out hope until about my third boyfriend, at which point she gave up and recognised that I really was (unfortunately) straight.

Being raised by lesbians in an all-female household really does not equip you for dating boys. I learned to dance in an environment where the taller person leads...and I was 5'8 by the age of 16. I STILL expect my partner to WANT to talk about his feelings, all the time. When two girls move in together, they immediately go shopping for curtains and matching throw-pillows. When a girl and a boy move in together, you're lucky if he agrees to restrict his dirty-sock pile to the bedroom floor intead of the whole house. Dating boys was just FULL of nasty suprises.

I had some idea of how straight sex was supposed to work - we were a Liberal, Progressive family, and had books about these sorts of things (but no TV). As a child, I had a illustrated book about bodily functions, which included a section about what a man and a woman do when they really, really love each other, and want to make a baby. Unfortunately, there wasn't much elaboration, and the Joy of Sex that was hidden in MY parents' bedroom was the one that was strictly girly action. Our Bodies Our Selves is not terribly educational about penises, either (though I must admit it is VERY educational about g-spots and clitorises, and I got REALLY good at masturbation...) My moms were pretty open about things like bodies and sexuality, but much of that simply didn't pertain to straight sex, just by virtue of their own preferences.

Mom did buy a big box of condoms when I had my first period, and put them in the basement bathroom. She told me that she didn't care if I used them, handed them out to my friends, or blew them up as balloons, and that she would never ask where they had gone, but would replace the box when it got empty. I got The Talk about the mechanics of preventing pregnancy and STD's, but no real details about actually having sex. To be honest, the first few boxes wound up being inflated and stuck to my friends' lockers as pranks...

Despite being raised in an all-girl home, I knew about penises, in an academic sort of way. They were the Instruments Of Oppression. Symbols of The Patriarchy. I had no idea that they were so...funny-looking. Really, you expect Instruments Of Oppression to be so much more...impressive. I probably ruined my first chance of a serious sexual adventure by snickering when I had my first glimpse of the Symbol Of The Patriarchy...something referred to in Capital Letters really has no right to be so pink and cute.

Most of my education about girl-boy action was based on hints I had gleaned from reading the Clan of the Cave Bear series and a few of Mom's romance novels. I still have a much-loved and carefully bookmarked copy of the Valley of the Horses. When I finally got around to Sleeping With The Enemy, however, I discovered that BOYS don't read those sorts of books, and have NO IDEA what to do with GIRLS, except for what THEY gleaned from reading their fathers' Penthouse Letters. Up until the age of 25 or so, most guys seem to think 'clitoris' is Latin for The Holy Grail, and don't seem to understand that it's ALSO a REAL BODY PART. You'd NEVER have that problem dating girls.

Thankfully, guys do get better at that sort of thing as they age, and I've never wavered about my preferences...bring on The Instruments Of Oppression, baby!

Airplanes and Hair Dye

Well, hell flight knocked a round out of me, as usual. The cold didn't help.

I'm happy to be home.

Tired to the point of hallucinating, but glad I went.

Mr. UK left me a sweet parting memory. I've been talking for ages about dying my hair, but I have always been too chicken. What if I don't like it? Well, I decided to go ahead and try. Mr. UK sat in the bathroom with me, reading out the instructions while I gobbed the gunk into my hair. Eventually, he decided I was missing too many spots, and got involved. There's something strangely intimate about having a guy wash your hair, or, in this case, work the dye in, then wash it out. It led to a great deal of less-mentionable activity, which is also good. I do double-takes when I see myself in the mirror...doesn't quite look like me, and it will probably remind me of him for quite awhile.

I went to London with 'cheap and dirty' in my head, and wound up with sweet and romantic. Mr. UK was wonderful. I am suprisingly unemotional about the whole thing, though. I am terrible at seperating sex and love, but for once, I just feel like a had a great week with a good friend, and really nothing more. No yearning to be with him, no wishing for the phone call. Just...content.

Ask me again in a week when I'm unbearably horny, though, and I might have a different opinion...

Thrush...

Go figure, the sore throat of a couple of days ago has morphed into a full-on head cold, complete with hacking cough. Oral sex is NOT FUN with a sore throat and chesty cough...granted, HE'LL take the choking as a compliment, but still...

They say sex boosts your immune system. I can't imagine what sort of shape I'd be in if I weren't currently getting it three times a day.

To top it all off, I got a yeast infection. I NEVER get yeast infections, ever. Or at least most of the time, or certainly never when I'm not getting laid. Figures.

In Britian, they don't call them yeast infections.

Now, I have traveled a lot, and have effectively managed to pantomime "I need Immodium NOW' in more countries than I care to remember. I've managed it without excessive embarassment, even. Amazing what you can accomplish when you have that kind of pressing motivation.

However, I have to admit I faltered when trying to explain THIS ONE to an 80-year-old lady at Boots drugstore, especially when we theoretically speak the same language.

For the record, I'm more competent in French than British; at least in French, I know how to order a coffee with milk. That and how to ask where the washroom is. That's the extent of my French, mind you, but both of those things in British have stymied me. "Loo" and "white coffee" were not part of my vocabulary until recently.

The Boots lady was deaf, for starters, and clearly couldn't understand my accent anyway. They don't use the same terminology here as back home. She took me to the cough syrup aisle, clearly making an educated guess and not understanding a damn thing I was trying to say to her. I was afraid that I was going to have to resort to making funny faces and vigorously scratching my crotch. I wound up trying to explain, at the top of my lungs, that I had a common infection 'DOWN THERE', and knew for a fact that there is an over-the-counter remedy. If only I had been bright enough to start throwing out brand names, like 'Canesten'...

After several frustrating minutes (and attracting a small but very amused crowd), she finally caught on.

"Oh," She said with a kindly granny smile, "Why didn't you just SAY you had thrush?"

AAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!

The Truth...

...is not on my blog.

It's more the truth as I see it, edited for anonymity and entertainment value.


Mr. UK and I had a lovely Kurdish dinner last night, and an interesting conversation about things you should never ask your lover/date/mate.

There are a long list of questions to which I will always reply "Are you SURE you want to know the answer to that?"

If they think they do, I will always tell the truth, but most men don't want to know the truth. They're fishing for a specific answer, and it's one they rarely get.

"How many men have you been with?"
"Am I the best lover you've ever had?"
"Do you love me more than ---?"

"Are you SURE you want to know?"


Mr. UK is bright enough not to ask me questions he doesn't REALLY want to know the answer to. He knows damn well I'll tell the truth. He can't believe the number of men who torture themselves with it.

On the other hand, he continues (with my permission) to read my blog.

"You hated it the other morning? But we've had morning sex before...you seemed to enjoy it...didn't you?"

"Nooo...yes...Damn. I just don't like morning sex in general. Morning sex with YOU is fun. Yes, I enjoy it. It just prompted a thought, and I wrote that thought down. Nothing personal, really. Honest. In fact, we can go back to bed right now, and I'll PROVE how much I like morning sex with you..."

I've had to explain very carefully that my thoughts are not the literal truth. That not everything I've written is congruent with time/date/place/person I'm with/things I've said or done before.

That Beavis wasn't really that big a prick to me. I just felt at the time that he'd been quite a jerk.

That I actually like dates in bookstores, but AT THE SAME TIME feel they're cheesy and overdone.

That I reserve the right, as a complex human being, to contradict myself whenever circumstances warrant.

I love Mr UK. In the end, he completely understood. And I told him he can keep on reading...as long as he thinks he can handle 'the truth'...

...and yeah, in case you're wondering, we really DID break the bathtub...

Oops.

Mr UK got a text message last night. We were in a pub at the time. He very nearly blew his beer right out his nose. Giggling, he handed his phone to me.

It was a message from his flatmate. It read:

"Christ! Bath tub not made for sex! So glad you found that out and not me! I think we'll get crummy builder to fix it, eh? I will call them tomorrow if you haven't already..."

Oops.

But, really, what do they expect us to do with a 2-man corner tub? I don't know if the Brits are too 'propah' to do it in the tub, but in Canada, I guarantee that the builder would take one look at that puppy and think "yup, someone's just gonna have to fuck in that" and frame it in with 4x4's. Hell, depending on the builder, they'd probably test it for themselves.

I took one look at it and knew. Mr UK didn't have to be told twice. Hell, the flatmate's been dreaming about it for ages, apparently, and as soon as she gets her Aussie boyfriend over the pond, she intends to test the repairs. It's obvious what that tub is meant for. It even has a butt-shaped indent in the corner.

And now, a 2-inch gap between the tub and the wall...

Oops.

i hate morning sex.

I really, really do. Mornings are not my friend, and the last thing I want is someone's heaving bulk squashing me when I haven't had my morning coffee yet. I don't want to breathe my dragon breath on him. I don't want him breathing his dragon breath on me. I don't feel sexy when my eyes are glued shut. Especially if we were out carousing last night, and I'm still feeling a little seasick.

And for crying out loud, don't get offended when I don't get off.

I really think there's a fundamental difference between boys and girls on this one. Guys wake up ready to go. For them, it's roll over and poke, poke, poke.

For me, chances are you just interrupted a really cool dream about flying, and I wake up annoyed. I am not ready to go. Foreplay is necessary. Foreplay is the last thing on the mind of a guy who just woke up with a woody.

If we must, don't crawl on top of me, and don't expect me to want to do the reverse cowgirl. Puleeze. I just woke up, and my back hurts. Something suitably gentle, like spooning, you might get away with.

Although the coffee in bed afterward is a nice touch...coffee in bed beforehand would be a much nicer touch...

Aah, well, I shouldn't complain...at least I'm getting sex...

Spoiled Rotten

Day three:

I got sick. Damn contagious kids - the friends who are watching my dog have two little girls, and one of them was snotty and coughing when I went over to drop off the mutt. And wanted to hug and kiss Auntie (me) goodbye before the plane ride. Ugh.

Woke up with a clogged head and a sore throat. Mr UK fed me vitamins and tucked me in to go back to sleep. I finally got up sometime after noon, and hung out in his living room, fire on and wrapped in an afghan, playing on the computer. He sent random texts and email notes from work, checking that I was okay, comfortable, and knew where everything was.

Eventually, when I was feeling like a human being again, he invited me to join him and a friend for a drink. We had a couple pints in a pub, then headed out for Vietnamese.

Mr UK is nothing if not a gentleman. I'd forgotten about that. Standing on the bus, he had a hand across my lower back, in that way that just quietly says 'I am here'. He holds doors and your jacket. And that holding hands thing is sweet. Won't let me pay for a damn thing, either.

Today, he took the morning off work to just hang out, as I have plans for the evening that don't include him. He's not jealous or demanding, but is quietly maximising our time together. He made coffee, and we sat and just chatted for hours. He is fussing about me knowing how to get around by myself on the tube.

I am soooo spoiled...

I wish...

I hadn't quite forgotten how comfortable it can be to just hang out with a guy. But I didn't quite remember how much I really do enjoy it.

We went out for Indian last night. We looked over the menu, discussed what we liked best, then he ordered. For both of us.

We had an intense discussion, bordering on arguement, about religion, feminism, and politics, over our mango lhassi's and chicken korma. I love that verbal sparring with someone who is as smart as I am. We'll never convince each other, but it's fun to try.

We walked home in the London rain, and he reached out to hold my hand.

I fell asleep with my head on his chest, and woke with his arm still around me.

Too bad I have to go home in a week...

London Day One

The plane ride was pure hell.

I hadn't had any sleep...I only started packing at midnight. I had to be up early to drop off the dog. My flight was delayed. My period came mid-flight. Thank god I always keep an emergency tampon.

Mr. UK was waiting at the gate, gave a big hug and kiss, and I really don't remember the hour tube ride to his place.

I remember the couple hours after that...very nice...but his bedroom looked like a CSI crime scene...

Just Friends?

I have a lot of guy friends. Almost every job I've ever had has been in 'non-traditional', male-domiated type field. To be honest, I never really got the hang of relating to most women...I'm a little too blunt, and haven't got any time at all for coyness or head games. I have a few amazing girlfriends, but, for the most part, I prefer to hang out with 'the guys'.

This is not usually a problem.

I have a few guy friends who I wonder about, though.

G. and I started hanging out because I drove a beater car. It broke down about twice a month. G. is a backyard mechanic, and someone suggested I take my car to him. I did, but the whole time he was fixing stuff, I was hanging over his shoulder asking questions. Eventually, I asked him to teach me to do it myself. He didn't really believe me...in this bible-belt small town, women just don't DO that sort of thing. It took me awhile to convince him that I REALLY wouldn't DIE if I broke a fingernail. I think I finally won him over when I did, in fact break a fingernail, right down to the meat. Instead of dying, I cursed. A lot. Loudly. Creatively. And apparently better than most truckers.

G. and I spent a lot of time fixing that stupid car, and got to be great pals. His wife invited me over for Sunday dinners. I paid his son to do my yardwork. His daughter hung out at my place when she hit puberty and just couldn't STAND her parents. I've spent a ton of time with that family.

G. has decided that my current beater is not safe to take 150 km on cold, snowy highways to the airport when I fly to London tomorrow. He decided he will give me a ride. He won't even entertain the notion of me driving myself. In fact, he didn't even ask me if I wanted a ride - he called me up this afternoon and told me I'd better be packed and ready by ten o'clock.

G. moved awhile back, 100 km in the OTHER direction from the City.

I hadn't really noticed it, but looking back, G. has sneakily started taking care of me. Little things, but stuff that adds up to something little more than 'just pals'. Nothing improper, but enough to make me wonder.

I feel like I'm taking advantage of him, but I don't ask for this stuff.

I don't feel like there's even anything I can say to him about this. He hasn't done anything wrong, just that he's a bit too nice. I value his friendship more than I can say, and love his family to bits. I am certain he'd be hurt if I asked him not to help me out anymore.

If he ever tells me he loves me, though, I'll be forced to kick his ass...

nudity and paper bags...

I have come to the conclusion that anonymous relatioinship blogging is like running down Main Street naked, with a paper bag over your head. Really, you're sharing some pretty intimate information, with the feeling of utter invincibility of not having your real name attached to it.

But, sooner or later, someone is going to recognise that mole on your right butt-cheek.

Mr. UK found out about my blog. From me, of course...I'm no good at all at keeping my own secrets. Tonight, he badgered me into giving him the web address...my only hope now is that he was so hammered at the time that he may not remember. And forgot to bookmark it...

It's not like I have a whole bunch to hide. Really. And it's not like I've ever said anything BAD about him. But it's a wierd feeling to know that he can now read my utterly uncencored thoughts on him...and other men...I don't know if I'm really comfortable about that. Strange. I'm much more comfortable with the idea of utterly random strangers reading all of this...

On the bright side, after badgering me into giving him the URL, he went on to mention that "next time", he will book the tickets with a much shorter lead-time...apparently three weeks of anticipation is simply too much for the poor man...now THAT's a compliment!

Get Real

Well, I've been suckered into yet another online test...

And here I thought I was so sweet and romantic...okay, maybe not, but practicality has to count for something, right?

Your Candy Heart Says "Get Real"

You're a bit of a cynic when it comes to love. You don't lose your head, and hardly anyone penetrates your heart. Your ideal Valentine's Day date: is all about the person you're seeing (with no mentions of v-day!) Your flirting style: honest and even slightly sarcastic What turns you off: romantic expectations and "greeting card" holidays Why you're hot: you don't just play hard to get - you are hard to get

What Does Your Candy Heart Say?

Too Much Honesty?

Poor Mr. UK.


My sister called awhile back, for a chat. I reminded her that I was going to London, and asked her for her shopping list - she lived there for years, and often comments on all the things she just can't find in Canada.

Sis asked me how I could afford the trip, as I had been complaining about being broke for quite awhile. I told her that Mr. UK was paying. Sis laughed - she got us together in the first place, the first time I went overseas to visit her.

"Why won't he buy ME a ticket to London?" She quipped.

"Probably because you won't suck his cock" I replied.

...silence...

"Good Point. Can you get me some tattoo cream from the place down by Holborn Station? He'll know the place I'm talking about"

Really, it wasn't THAT interesting a conversation.

I asked Mr. UK about the shop that Sis was referring to. He said he knew it, then asked if Sis knew I was coming to visit HIM. I told him of course she did.

"Does she know I'm flying you over?" He asked.

"Yup"

"What does she think of that?"

"She wants to know why you won't fly HER over," I replied.

"What did you tell her?"

"That it's probably because she won't suck your cock."

...silence...

...gawk...snrrrrff...cough, CHOKE, sniff...

I could actually hear the coffee spray out his nose from 7,000 miles. Best comic timing I've ever managed.

"You told her WHAT?!?"

"You heard me."

"You DIDN'T...Seriously, say you didn't..."

...poor Mr. UK...

Princess

Mr. UK called me at work today to discuss musicals. As in, which musical I would like to attend while I am there. He also reminded me to bring sturdy shoes, in case we went out to Stonehenge. Mr UK = Mr. Perfect, or at least for this week (and probably the next couple of weeks, too!).

I mean really, can you think of a better week than musicals, Stonehenge, and daily coffee in bed? Oh, yeah...forgot the mind-blowing sex...

This is shaping up to be the best Valentine's EVER.



On a related note, a fellow blogette recently made a post which has prompted an interesting conversation about 'numbers', and what constitutes a 'slut'.
http://notanotherrelationshipblog.blogspot.com/2007/01/who-is-really-getting-laid.html

It really hit a nerve for some.
http://swimminginthedatingpool.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-know-i-am-but-what-are-you.html

Now, personally, I'm not too concerned. Really, my friends aren't the judgemental sort, and the worst comments I ever get about my sex life are the 'I wish I could have done that' type. Strangers' opinions don't mean a whole lot to me. I make my choices, generally even think them out in advance, and, you know, I can live with that. I am pretty happy with myself all around, sexuality-wise, but also career-wise, relationship-wise, education-wise, and every other -wise I can come up with.

It did get me thinking, however, what impression the total strangers reading my blog would get of what type of girl I am. It is easy to paste a label on someone when you only know an itty, bitty proportion of what they think, do, and are. In fact, deciding some one is a 'slut' because you know she had a one-night stand, or that she's not a virgin, or whatever...well, that's making a judgement based on an awfully narrow view of what makes up a person, isn't it?

And there is NO WAY you can convince me that there is ANYTHING wrong with my Sugar Daddy Valentine's Date...I mean, how can something so sweet and fun possibly be wrong?

Maybe they're just jealous, SWF...