Oh, The Things A Single Girl Get's Up To

Last nights date went swimmingly well.
I was surprised and delighted.
He took me to a very nice steak house, the
kind of place frequented by groups of men.
It was very masculine and I just loved it.
Lots of leather banquettes and chairs with arms
that you can really sink back into.
Our conversation was easy and lively.

Somehow, the conversation steered itself toward strip clubs.
I confessed that I had been once with a male friend and had
"lap dance remorse", meaning that, I'd chickened out on the lap
dance and had sort of, maybe, regretted it.
Devilish grin from him.
So after our dinner we went to a strip club.
It was very busy and I was surprised that there were several women there
with men, not just me.
He asked if I wanted a lap dance and I said "hmmm, maybe...I don't know".
So we spent time checking out the strippers and I tried to find one that would be
fun.
We were about to leave when a lovely woman, probably in her early 30's came up
to us and did her job very well flirting with us...really, with me.
So...we got a "booth" and the three of us went in and I was very curious what would transpire.
"Sophia" explained what you can and can't do and I decided just to relax and let her do her dirty dancing.
She didn't really dance, she just touched my arms and neck and wriggled around me.
It was oddly intoxicating. Very odd because I'm not bisexual.
My date was truly enjoying the show and he rubbed my arm, leg and it was fun.
I was conscious of the cost - 25 bucks a song, and the booth was 70 bucks, plus we had a few drinks.
So I ended it after the second or third song.

As we drove home my date stated that I was very brave and a lot of fun.
"Sophia" was a professional, she really sold the fantasy to us. My date said that
she could probably work at a car dealership and do very well. Although, he pointed out that she probably wouldn't make as much money.

For the record, I shall add that my date was a perfect gentleman.
He offered to take me back to his place - yeah, big surprise there - but I declined.
It was late and I had to get up early and besides, I didn't like the idea of going to bed with
him after such a date. I would have felt kind of cheap.

A DATE!!

I'm going on a date with a man I met online.
We've already had the meet and greet drink and
seemed to get along well.
He's on his way to pick me up right now...

He asked what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go for dinner and
I replied that I would like to be surprised.
I hope he doesn't think that this is a Big Test, it isn't. It's just that
I was the social convener in my marriage and always making the plans,
choosing the resto. etc..and I would like to be wined and dined.
So, I wonder if I am dressed appropriately. What if he takes me to Milestones or
Jack Astor's? Oh dear.  He didn't tell me how to dress, which I think makes sense.
Though, it might have been sexy to be told what to wear...but maybe that's best left for date #3?

I hope I have a good time - I'm passing up Gray's Anatomy for this late date.

And...I'm starving!

Perhaps I should have read this book first?

Shaken and Stirred

What's with men falling for bartenders? After a long relationship or marriage a guy gets suddenly single and finds his next love in the neighborhood watering hole. Is this part of the phenomenon of dating down that has swept American celebritocracy? Tiger Woods couldn't keep his hands of the various waitresses dangling their pencils at him. Same for David Arquette. And what was up with Ethan Hawke and his waitress? Okay, so a bartender is different, but only just. She is cooler. And hell, she pours him a drink and wipes up after him to boot. Sounds perfect, don't it?
Now don't get me wrong. Many a time in my twenties did I find the bartender the only attractive man in the club and yes, I did sleep with one or two, or was it one... In any event, that was in my youth. I'm talking about men in their 40s and 50s. Is it because they are sick of being with women who are peers? Are they afraid of being whipped by an accomplished woman their own age?
Meh. Hey, lady, make it a double...

You're a peeing on my parade! Please. Stop.

I knew he was European because of his clothes.
Men from Europe dress like men from Europe.

As me and the European man smiled at one another on Yonge St. during the G8,
a dude pulled out his dick and sauntered to the "gutter" and pee'd. It wasn't a gutter, it was the side of Yonge Street in downtown Toronto.
My European man laughed in disdain and having my full attention said
"You're peeing on my parade."
His accent was Slavic.

A few minutes later, Eaton Centre windows were being violated. The peeing man made a dash toward the storefronts. European man and I watched all this together as we walked in the crowds.

I watched European man eye line away from my gaze to the source of the racket;
watched him walk over and reach the pee'ing man's black clad hand which held now, not his dick but a coke bottle filled with sand.
The European man only let go this boys arm after the bottle dropped harmlessly to the ground.

And then he threw the kid, not across or over the crowd, he simply threw the kid to the ground with laced fingers and two solid wrists into the small of the kids back. The kid crumpled on all fours.

"Please. Stop". the kid wailed.
I went along my way and European man never looked my way after we'd split the eye contact.
I will always remember that European man.

Would have liked to buy that European man a beer.

Clarissa

Boston Legal by Margot

Margot here:
After six years barely-there sex and several months post-break up great sex with European Man, I wondered, would next man be great or barely there?
A night out at ultra high brow event with BFF Clarissa, but intermission hits and we discover we're low brow people in high brow heels and after tossing back a single flute of Kir Royale we hoof it to the nearest bar.
Inside it's dimly lit, we like low light, low light is flattering light. And given we are no longer 20 or even 30, forget diamonds, low light is a girl's best friend. We sit at a long high bar table and order wine. As usual for Clarissa and me, we are ignored. men abound, but so do the blondes either on their arms, in their laps or serving them drinks. We are not blonde. Then it happens.
Two men in suits ask if they can sit across from us. It is a long communal table you see, so one cannot at first assume it is us in particular they are into, but rather, a place to eat. We say yes and immediately they introduce themselves. They are cops from Boston. They have that Boston accent, like a Kennedy only tough. The tall one, let's call him Frenchy, chats me up. But not until he spills a glass of red wine. Spill is being nice. He shattered a glass of red wine and doused the table, and his little cop colleague we'll call, Freddie. Freddie is chatting up Clarissa.
It goes well. For two hours Frenchy tells me all about himself, his job, his hometown, his love of hockey teams from Canada and also of cooking. He drinks more red wine and still more. I nurse one glass of Pinot Grigio for three hours. How drunk was he? He was definitely happy. How drunk was I? I was driving. So I was not drunk at all.
Then it was time to leave. Frenchy and Freddie walked us to my car. I loved having a police escort without having done anything illegal. Frenchy was hot. Cops are hot. I felt very safe and was hoping someone would try and mug us so that Frenchy could bust a cop move. It didn't happen.
Once beside my car he kissed me. Slow at first, then deeper, stronger, wetter. And it was good. It was even better than European Man. Frenchy knew his stuff. And he wanted more, much more. He wanted me to go home with him. To his hotel room, not to Boston.
But I was too sober and I said no. I drove all the way home regretting that moment of sobriety.
It would have been great. It wold have exorcised European Man and Barely-there-Man from my senses, all of them, for good. But I was unable to let go.
Moral of the story? When a sexy cop from Boston takes you into his arms and kisses you like you've never been kissed before go back to the hotel with him... In other words...This was a night of Too Much Sleep, far too little Drink and even less BLEEP.

Me: The Perfect Date

I had been separated from my husband of fourteen years for about six months when I decided it was time to go on a date. So I went where everyone goes...Plenty Of Fish and wrote my profile and put up a pretty picture. I have to admit that writing to impress is tough. I didn't like that I had to "write about your hobbies and interests" and I tend to be somewhat sarcastic so if I recall correctly, I wrote something like "I'm supposed to impress you with my hobbies and interests. Napping if it can be called a hobby is my favourite pass time...." Well, you get the idea that I no doubt came off as pissy (yes, it seems that pee is already a recurring item in this blog), and imagine my surprise when a week went by and not one man said "hello" or winked or whatever it is that they do to show interest. I went to the "see who viewed your profile" section. 1,400 men had viewed me and not one of them contacted me. Didn't they see my pretty profile picture? Didn't they get the wit and humour of my profile? Clearly they did not. So, I went fishing. I finally found a man who looked good and I hoped smelled even better and contacted him. Let's call him Bobo. We talked on the phone and then met at a pub in Yorkville. He was very good looking and very nice and interesting to talk to. We shared a meal and a few pints. When the bill arrived, I didn't hesitate to pick up the check. And he didn't hesitate to let me. Then we walked back to his place and shagged. I was a bit surprised that he didn't offer me a beverage. I was surprised that a man of fifty years would be living in a no bedroom apartment, but who am I to judge? We had our way with each other and that was nice and then I went home.
That's me, the perfect date: I paid for the meal, I shagged him and went home.
We decided we'd have another date. We met at a restaurant that I like. I expressly told him that a friend was staying with me and that I wouldn't be going back to his place and that my friend would text me at some point to meet me at the end of the evening. Well, she didn't text me, she showed up. She sat with us and had one glass of wine. When the bill arrived I hesitated to pick up the check. I admit it, I was testing him. After some hesitation, he reached for it and said "oh, I'll get this one, you got the last one". Okay with me. My friend took out a twenty to pay for her one glass of wine and...he took it. He did not offer her any change either. He did, he took twenty bucks from her to pay for one glass of Merlot. My hairdresser, after hearing the story has forbidden me to ever date him again. I certainly did not need any convincing.

European Man

Okay, I knew dating after hitting the big 4-0 was going to be no piece of cake. But when was love every cake? Except of course after a break up when all I can eat is, well, cake.
But life can't be all cake and champagne or can it?
I just ended things with a man I'd been dating for three months. He was handsome. He made decent money. He was single. He was great in bed. But there were reasons.

Reason for break up number one: And here it gets tricky, he had poor aim.
The first time it happened I figured it was an accident. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe the floor with its dark brown color made it hard to see. Or maybe he was that careless. Just what am I talking about? Ladies, and gents, the man missed the bowl and peed on the floor. My bathroom floor. I know it was pee because what other liquid turns a soaked tissue yellow on contact? It wasn't water put it that way.
But then it kept happening. Every time he slept over and used the loo I would pad into it after and sure enough my barefoot would hit the puddle at the base of the toilet.
Did I ever say anything? No. Why not, you ask? Because I was polite. I didn't want to embarass him. I kept thinking he'd realize it and clean up after himself. Add to this habit a constant leaving up of toilet seat and well, he had to go, but not in my bathroom ever again.