tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50493994724293410972024-03-08T12:13:25.890-08:00♥Lucky in Cards♥...does that really mean I'm unlucky in love? Would calling him one more time be ballsy, or desperate? Am I good in bed? If we have sex tonight, will he call tomorrow? Do I want him to? Is she prettier than me? Is he smart enough? Join me as I find answers (or not) to these questions and more. Hopefully, this brutally and embarassingly honest, real-life account of my re-entry into the 20/30-something dating scene won't be excessively brutal, or embarassing. Here's to happy endings...Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-83215356596761501372007-02-21T18:23:00.000-08:002007-02-21T19:04:56.907-08:00Hoping for a res-erection"Did the erectile dysfunction happen before or after you grilled him about Jesus?" my friend asked in all sincerity.<br /><br />It isn't the sort of issue I expected to face after only a fourth date with a new prospect, especially since I'm not religious.<br /><br />"It's a problem that preceded Christ," I said, and smirked. Neither of us even tried not to cackle. We were changing at the gym; this was locker-room talk.<br /><br />The subject of our conversation is a really sweet guy; I picked him up on my birthday. But after an intensive date weekend (three consecutive nights), I've established that he's got a lot going for him and two major strikes against him in terms of compatibility with me (I haven't yet determined whether they're related):<br /><br />(1) He's a regular church-goer, and<br />(2) He can't keep an erection.<br /><br />Performance anxiety is surely the culprit, right? I fear my blog might be aggravating the situation. Or rather, his knowledge of it. And that is what my friend was getting at. You see, once he told me he was a practising Christian, I ran to tell all my friends about this anachronism I was dating. And then I told him about their reactions to hearing that he's religious. It was too early for me to realize that he considers spirituality private, and that I'd inadvertently betrayed his trust.<br /><br />So, I suppose he thinks I'm running around telling all my girl friends about his sub-standard sexual performance and writing about it on the internet for the whole world to see.<br /><br />All of a sudden, I feel like a really bad date.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-13110007040658788752007-02-14T21:48:00.000-08:002007-02-15T07:54:08.021-08:00Valentine's Day: Perversions and ProspectsA sad hound with big, brown puppy-dog eyes and flaccid jowls --- that's how he looked after I outed him for masturbating with a vibrator in his pocket next to me on the subway --- except for his mouth, which opened and closed like a live fish ashore.<br /><br />I considered staying in and missing Valentine's Day entirely, but instead ventured out into the storm. The atmosphere has conspired to muffle the city's love and heartache under a thick layer of snow until further notice. They'll keep. Heartache can outlast <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pop-Tarts">Pop Tarts</a>, and love? No matter how bad that goes, you still can't just throw it away.<br /><br />Even though no romance was scheduled for me this night, I felt inspired by the prospect of a date tomorrow. He's cute, he's a little older and he's a professional. He's totally not my type, but something made me pick him up at a bar on my birthday last week. Maybe it was the whiskey. Still, I was convinced it was kismet when -- after throwing myself at him -- a mutual friend announced that this was the very same guy she'd already tried to arrange for me to meet. I gushed. I fawned.<br /><br />Happy thoughts in my head, I donned my boots and hopped a bus. I was headed to the west end of the city for a bar-hosted party in honour of the occasion. The band was good and the burlesque girls were adorable; however the venue encouraged alcohol-consumption and my prescription for antibiotics indicates that, until tomorrow at midnight, I run the risk of becoming "violently ill" should I partake of even a sip.<br /><br />I cozied up in a corner of the venue where I could still be social, but not part of the action. There are always drawbacks to acting the wallflower, but I hadn't anticipated pee to be among them. The men's urinal, I later learned, is exactly on the other side of that wall, and the exit pipes leak. My bag and my scarf had dropped into the puddle and were soaked with pee. Pee. An hour-long subway ride from home, completely sober and single on Valentine's Day, and now I smelled like pee.<br /><br />I decided it was time to go home.<br /><br />When the subway arrived, I was already chatting with another twenty-something singleton, and we congratulated each other on our first Single Valentine's Day in seven years. She didn't seem to notice the pee smell, but I was self-conscious and happy to switch trains.<br /><br />I was content and reading the <a href="http://www.walrusmagazine.com/">Walrus</a> until a fidgety man sat next to me. His proximity forced me to re-adjust my parcels (my pee-soaked scarf and bag wrapped in plastic from the bar) to accommodate him. As I did so, I noticed several completely unoccupied benches.<br /><br />Red is for hearts, red-light districts and blatant warnings of immanent threat. I read on with one eye on the magazine and one monitoring the periphery of my personal space. I wanted to believe that I wouldn't have to deal with this man. Really, who was I kidding?<br /><br />The city's infrastructure then conspired to confirm my suspicions about him. The train stalled momentarily, just long enough to make audible the buzz of what could be nothing other than a pocket rocket. Annoyed, I moved to a seat behind him and a male passenger took my place. Just as I knew he would, the pocket-diddler turned to see where I'd gone, and this infuriated me.<br /><br />I stared into his eyes and threw my arms in the air as if to say, "Wanna go at it?" He pouted with real disappointment and turned away. My pulse concentrated in my throat and I was seeing red. He can't just get away with it, I thought. I'll kick myself! I considered dumping the pee-soaked scarf on his bald head. I considered a lot of things, and none, I thought, would leave me with any feeling of security that he wouldn't follow me. The other passengers would likely think I was the crazy one, and only he and I would know the truth of the situation. I wanted nothing private between us. If there was going to be an "us", it would have to include all the passengers.<br /><br />By then, the subway car was nearly full, mostly with men, and I had only one stop to go.<br /><br />I rose, and with a calculated calmness, stood over the man and said, "Excuse me."<br /><br />He looked up at me with those big, round eyes full of feigned innocence. I grunted, exasperated, because I have seen this look so many times before.<br /><br />"Are you going to continue masturbating with the vibrator in your pocket AND follow me all the way home? Or is this going to stop here?" I announced, more than asked.<br /><br />His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Heads turned in our direction. I left with mine held high.<br /><br />As though on cue, the city's infrastructure conspired to stop the train, slide open its doors for my gallant exit and close him in with tens of disgusted single men, on Valentine's Day.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-56905620408389934212007-02-08T01:26:00.000-08:002007-02-08T01:42:28.394-08:00I am not into you. I am lying.Ow.<br /><br />My birthay dinner concluded with me telling the art-man that I am "just not into him", immediately after I used the argument of not wanting casual sex, as an excuse.<br /><br />I hadn't expected him to like me more than that. Or to tell me.<br /><br />It hurts to refuse someone on the same basis on which I am being denied. I am just not into you that way, I imagine him saying, just as I did. And even now, after my 29th birthday party, I'm crying about how he wasn't there. Nor did he try to be. He had a "rock star photo shoot" said his email; tongue-in-cheek I suppose. It wasn't even a phone message. I can only assume he was not interested in coming afterward. A shoot <em>never</em> lasts more than five hours. Ow. Ow. Ow.<br /><br />I can't believe I am crying over a boy. The right man would be here.<br /><br />Please, give me the strength to not only walk away, but to move on, even if I am not going anywhere. It's been along time since I've felt so sad or so scared. I don't quite know what to do with these dark feelings. At the same time, I'm so glad they're unfamiliar.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-23599408332583980122007-02-06T21:52:00.000-08:002007-02-06T22:15:26.474-08:00Emotional Hangovers and Hang-upsRight on schedule. I'm feeling better again.<br /><br />Mr. Dapper walked out my door Saturday afternoon, I had and overwhelming bout of loneliness Saturday night (see below), nursed a cold on Sunday and studied for an exam, attended a dull class on Monday, and arrived at home to messages from a few good friends, including one from Mr. Dapper.<br /><br />He never lets more than two days pass without trying to contact me. I shudder to think it's his "technique". He called again today while I worked out my frustration at the gym. Again he left a casual "hello" message -- nothing about making plans.<br /><br />Choosing to study instead of call back, I felt good about my decision to feed my brain first. I emailed him later, of course.<br /><br />My expectations are more in check than before. My priorities battle with my instincts and hormones. My hopes? Not entirely squashed. My skin is getting thicker.<br /><br />I say that even as I check my email one last time before bed to see if he's responded.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-62288239990932828572007-02-04T00:10:00.000-08:002007-02-04T22:50:37.175-08:00Emotional CharityThe phone number written on my palm is that of a best-friend. Although it's a well-meant joke, I can't call it in the morning as it suggests. Her new boyfriend is there tonight and he'll be still be there in the morning. Mine? I left him so long ago, there is nothing but idealized tidbit memories of comfortable, easy Sunday mornings and hour-long back rubs left.<br /><br />Until I was the last singleton of my girlfriends, I'd never noticed that couples retire earlier. The night was on, and so was the party. But, I know that they'd all stayed longer for me already; the one who goes home alone. Emotional charity.<br /><br />I didn't think I'd feel like this and I'm hoping it will pass, but it's times like these that I really wish I had a boyfriend. Or, at least someone to pet me. Someone with smooth brown skin familiar to me. I can't even begin to think about the morning.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-53354655396528273152007-02-03T15:56:00.000-08:002007-02-04T09:07:45.375-08:00The Morning After ChillMr. Dapper left this afternoon, the same way he always does. Late. Looking good.<br /><br />I didn't get any of my homework done. Instead, he did me on top of my homework. He broke my bed, nearly broke a leaf from my dining room table, and almost broke a rung of my antique chair. If I'm careful, he won't break my heart.<br /><br />I'll have to start being more careful than I've been.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-13042078868044449252007-02-02T23:22:00.000-08:002007-02-04T22:42:08.759-08:00Four strikes and one score<strong></strong><br /><strong>One down:</strong><br /><br />My mom's questioning earlier this evening was telling. "So whatever happened with that <a href="http://lucky-in-cards.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-cant-fcking-believe-it.html">art show</a>?" she asked.<br /><br />"What art show?" I inquired.<br /><br />"The one where you had to turn that guy down as your date. You know, the guy who had no time for you!" she said, incredulous that my frivolity allows me to forget such things. She was talking about Mr. Dapper. "Oh. I just didn't go."<br /><br />I realized then just how much faith my mother had in me in terms of dating and self-respect. She knew in her heart that I would never put up with someone who was careless with mine; making it harder to admit to herself that actually, I am.<br /><br />After that, my friend called. "What were all those emails about?" he marvelled. "What do you need?" I'd emailed him probably five times earlier that day. I'd been invited to see a band - the guy I've been sleeping with. The one who isn't into me. And, I was on the guest list (plus one). I needed a partner in crime. A partner to hold my hand when the inevitable happened.<br /><br />I explained to him my request. "I wouldn't have helped you with that anyway," he answered. "You only like this guy because he thinks he's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">rockstar</span> and he's all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">rockstar</span>-asshole to you."<br /><br />"No, it's better now," I heard myself say. "I just have to keep my expectations in check." I would lecture my friends if I ever heard them speak like this.<br /><br />"Oh, brother," was his answer. He may have said something more enlightening, but I wasn't listening.<br /><br />It was the same thing I said to my mother an hour earlier. She'd sighed as though she'd heard it too many times already - which, really makes sense considering that I have two older sisters. She <em>has</em> heard it all before - just never from me. What I meant was that I know he doesn't have as much time for me as I'd like; nor does he reassure me that I am anything special to him. Yet, the sex is great. When we do hang out, I feel incredible. I pretend he's a trusted companion; right up to the point where he disappears out my apartment door. I lock the door behind him and begin wondering if I will ever see him again in a context anything similar to this.<br /><br />My consolation is in that I'm not sure I would date him given a fair opportunity. But, at least 40 per cent of me knows that's not true.<br /><br />He said he'd call me when he finished packing away his gear. I desperately wanted him to, but wasn't sure he would. I tried to feel indifferent.<br /><br /><strong>Two down:</strong><br /><br />Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Dapper's</span> so-called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">rockstar</span> demeanor makes me feel the need to look busy (and popular) in his presence. Just tonight, I invited an old friend to join me at the show. As he already knew the band, and the people in it, he was a prime and enthusiastic partner in crime. He is, in fact, one of the cursed. You know what I mean. He's the guy who's friends with everyone, but never <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">anyone's</span> boyfriend. An untouchable man-about-town. Always a bridesmaid. Never gets laid.<br /><br />Ultimately, it was his behaviour that made me realize just how much Mr. Dapper ignored me. After an entire evening of band-watching, two after-show beer, a mid-show mention by the leading man (and even a brief kiss good-bye), he still thought I was available. That means everyone thought Mr. Dapper was still available, too.<br /><br />After buying bagels at the all-night bakery during the walk home, he said, "All I ask is that you share my bed tonight."<br /><br />"No," I said, crushed. "But, take some bagels. You'll want them in the morning." He conceded that I was right, and we swept up our pride, dusted off the snow and walked our own directions home. His ego was hurt because of how easy it was for me to say no, and mine was damaged by the ease with which he asked.<br /><br /><strong>Two to go:</strong><br /><br />I checked my email when I got home. I'd written a note to an acquaintance about my concerns that he might be thinking I was interested in sex with him. He'd invited me on a company-comped vacation for my birthday weekend. It had occurred to me that his intentions might not be so innocent when he said we should rather go alone than with another couple as originally planned. Clearing the air about any sexual expectations would squash awkwardness, I thought.<br /><br />Wrong. WRONG. <span style="color:#ff0000;">Wrong</span>. By contemporary standards and email trends, his response was violent: caps, red text and copied-and-pasted quotes from my original email. According to him, I had suggested he was capable of "rape", that he was desperate for both friends and "pussy", and that I was just using him for a "free vacation" - which, to be fair would have cost me $200.<br /><br />This is why my friends didn't want me to go. He's an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">asshead</span>.<br /><br /><strong>Last man standing:</strong><br /><br />The email made me angry and I was steeping in it when Mr. Dapper called.<br /><br />"Hi," he said, with a smile in his voice.<br /><br />"Hey," I said, and the anger swam to the background. "You want to know if you are still invited to come over? You are."<br /><br />"Okay, I just ordered a cheeseburger but I'll be over as soon as I get it."<br /><br />I come second to a cheeseburger, I reasoned, irrationally. I can live with that. The man is hungry. As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again.<br /><br />"Hey," said another familiar male voice. It was the art-man checking in on me. "You didn't come to the show."<br /><br />Earlier he'd called to see what I'd be doing that night, forcing me to be vague and avoid telling him about the plans to see Mr. Dapper rock out at another gig. He'd gone to another diversionary gig I strategically mentioned, and missed me. Now, at 2:15 a.m. he was making a booty-call. Opting for the "oblivious out" we hung up politely with breakfast plans in the imminent future. He called back minutes later to make it clear he wanted to come over. Mr. Dapper was already on his way. "I don't think so," I said. The disappointment in his voice was clear and I was reasonably sure he wouldn't be calling again for sex. Still, when the doorbell rang I wasn't sure who'd it be.<br /><br />I knew <em>who</em> I wanted it to be, and <em>how</em> I wanted him to be, but it's never really that easy. Is it?Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-41058893443619366132007-01-21T22:07:00.000-08:002007-01-22T09:25:02.358-08:00All-in-one (night)I am not sure how you managed, but my bed smells more like you after one night than it ever has of me. We didn't even have sex. Still, I can smell your smooth, brown skin, Mr. Dapper.<br /><br />After sharing breakfast at the most popular scenester diner in the neighbourhood - where I picked at my sausages and found excuses to touch you under the table - we parted ways. I have no idea when I'll see you again. I think perhaps I have finally learned to stop waiting. Upon returning home, the other lover (and I hate that word) - the one actually <em>into</em> me - emailed to ask if he can drop off a gift - an art piece. I had to say no. It just didn't seem appropriate.<br /><br />Then, I received a long-distance phone call. I thought it was my Argentinean lover. I've been avoiding answering his question. The one he asks by not asking it. By not asking anything anymore. <em>Is there any point in continuing our unlikely, intercontinental love affair</em>? No.<br /><br />So, I took a deep breath and answered the phone. When I heard the voice, my legs simultaneously melted and combusted. It was my ex-boyfriend - the one of seven years - hoping to make amends. To apologize for his meanness during the break-up, and (because it can never be that easy) to confront me about whether a rumour he'd heard was true.<br /><br />Was it true that I'd slept with a friend of his when he moved away, as said friend had claimed during the Christmas holidays? No! I mean, sure we were "hanging out" for a week, sometimes with little clothing, but there was no sex. I drew the line. What an asshead to lie about an issue that was so sensitive already. What a slimeball to choose ego over friendship. What a jerk to bring it up as though it was still happening when I'd dropped his hot potato months ago.<br /><br />From morning to night, they all contacted me, knowing nothing of the others. The sex that never was. The love lost. The love that can't be. The one I want.<br /><br />I need to sleep off this emotional hangover, but my pillow...ugh...it still smells exactly like you. Not cologne or shampoo. Like warm, clean skin. I love it/I hate it, because you are the one not thinking about me.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-50033406521087388572007-01-19T15:42:00.000-08:002007-01-21T15:32:28.047-08:00Touch me now! No, not you. The other one.I can't f*cking believe it.<br /><br />I gave up on Mr. Dapper. I should have known that would be exactly when he'd throw me a crust. And now, I'm in trouble.<br /><br />Once I started feeling like a experiment (i.e. Exactly how long <em>will</em> a 29-year-old female follow a feral male's trail of crumbs?), I stopped responding to his little touch-base emails and meatless voicemail. I pretended I was too busy for him. I <em>was</em> too busy. Too busy healing my wounded ego.<br /><br />But he found me. He found me at my favourite Italian cafe. Everyone's favourite cafe. My safe spot. I played it as cool as I could (not very) and filled the air with more stories of things that matter not. Tales of last weekend's party. What so-and-so said that was funny. Anything.<br /><br />Then, as we prepared to leave and part ways, I busied myself chatting with an aquaintance, and let Mr. Dapper wait. And wait. I intended my behaviour to say, <em>I have more important people to do.</em> But, my body betrayed me by screaming, <em>Touch me! Touch me!</em><br /><em></em><br />Eventually, he told me he was leaving, and asked what I planned to do later that night. Ohnononononono! I fell for that one before. I didn't assume he was asking me out. Still, he called to tell me he'd be at a going away party for a friend, and that he'd like me to drop by. I played it cool(ish)...again, and told him I'd be busy with other friends, despite the fact that I was desperate to see him. To have him try to win me again.<br /><br />Good-bye romance. Enter strategy, ego salvaging and self-consciousness.<br /><br />Then it happened. Finally, he hinted at a real date, and asked what I would be doing Saturday. <em>Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss</em>, I heard echoing in the void where my heart once resided. <em>Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit</em>, said my head. <em>I have to go to an art show</em>, I explained. <em>I'll come with you</em>, he reasoned. I would have said yes to anything. After hanging up, my head reprimanded my heart for getting me in a pinch. It didn't matter. My heart was too far gone to listen.<br /><br />An art show? It's a goddamn vernissage hosted by the <em>other</em> man I am sleeping with. The one who actually likes me; who blows off work to spend time with me. The guy who made me a mixed CD! The guy who looks at me longingly, and long enough that he makes himself uncomfortable, and I blurt, "We're not dating!"<br /><br />We're not. I care about him, but I'm not instinctively attracted to him. Still, I catch myself sleeping with him, enjoying the sex, and reminding him that we are still <em>not</em> dating. Enter the guilt. Honestly, I would drop him in a second for a <em>real</em> chance with Mr. Dapper. Until then, I'll enjoy his company and pray that he won't hate me before the end of all this. I mean, he's had fair warning, right? Right?<br /><br />Ouch.<br /><br />This poor artist is to me what I am to Mr. Dapper. Filler. A friend. Fun. A fuck. I feel sorry for him.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><sigh><br />I have to go to the art show. Alone.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-66962579498251822852007-01-18T16:05:00.000-08:002007-01-19T15:32:09.701-08:00Blown to the back-burner by baldyI forgot how humiliating dating is.<br /><br />I shaved my legs five mornings in a row, <em>godamnit</em>, and he didn't call. I wore "special reserve" panties every day, only to drop them in the hamper at night - and not lose them in crumpled sheets as intended. Each time I checked my voicemail or email inbox my self confidence diminished. I got fatter. I became less talented and less interesting. I craved red wine more. I am thinking of having some right now.<br /><br />When I caught myself hiding in a corner at the Indigo bookstore reading, "<a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/item/books-978068987474?Lang=en&boutique=&amp;amp;amp;amp;N=0&zxac=1">He's Just Not That Into You</a>", I knew it was bad.<br /><br />The first few months of my single life seemed designed to feed my ego. Every day was a bloody adventure, full with dating prospects. And, I oozed confidence. Oozed it. Monogamy? Forget it. I've proven more than once that it's not part of my skill set. My main concern was how to run last night's date out of my house before noon and get on with my day.<br /><br />I had a tall, handsome long-distance Latin American boyfriend on reserve. I had a courter visiting from my past, to lavish me with attention and affection. And, I had this chivalrous, snappy dressing musician batting his thick lashes at me in cafes. All three, at the same time. I was on top.<br /><br />What was it about Mr. Dapper that made him irresistable to me? His looks. His confidence. The laughter. That, and his great, unconvential date ideas. We'd spend afternoons drinking Turkish coffee in cafes I'd never previously noticed. We'd go to the library to look at travel books and compare notes. He focussed on me when we were together, but never offered me any sense of security. I became addicted to winning him, to having <em>him</em> win <em>me</em>. Eventually, I forgot that he's <em>balding</em> under those goddamn dapper hats.<br /><br />The first time we had sex - right before I was set for a month-long absence - he made me feel like an amateur. I'm too unfamiliar with the Kama Sutra to say whether we covered all its positions, but clearly, he'd been studying. The next morning, I called my girlfriends and raved that I'd been properly rogered. By a bald man. It felt like a coming-of-age. They wanted details. I could hardly find the words.<br /><br />When I returned, there was little left of the romance I'd by now idealized. It took him two days to call me. When he finally did, he made no certain effort to see me. In fact, I wasn't sure why he'd bothered to contact me at all. My heart sank a little deeper every day. By the time he called to arrange a breakfast date, my heart had sunken so low that my head could no longer communicate with it.<br /><br />Uncomfortable when he arrived to pick me up, and uncomfortable as we seated ourselves at the diner, I consoled myself that my twitchiness was part of my charm. <em>Reassure me</em>, my brain was hissing. <em>Tell me you like me, or let me go drown my sorrows</em>, I wanted to say. Instead, I talked about everything that didn't matter. Afterward, we strolled through the park, and before we said good-bye, he kissed me. And, he said he would call.<br /><br />He did call. He called when he was at work, or already busy. I know he really is busy. His band was recently signed. He has a million and forty projects on the go. He is a scenester. A Kung Fu master. A sportsman. He is not, however, my date.<br /><br />Hopefully, my heart will reinitiate contact and my head can tell it what to do next. Until then, I'll wait for his call and hate myself for it. I'll pretend I don't care, until it's true. I'll continue to date the others. And, I'll mutter under my breath, "Blown off by a bald man." It's all I've got on him.Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049399472429341097.post-47598348482874422482007-01-11T22:04:00.000-08:002007-01-18T16:05:28.961-08:00First, there is something you should(n't) know<div align="justify">I didn't foresee how much of my single life I'd spend naked - figuratively or literally .<br /><br />Actually, I hadn't foreseen how much of my life <em>overall</em> I'd spend naked. Who would have? I was a bookish, shy, small-town girl from a loving, supportive family. I didn't consider myself beautiful, wore no make-up, and barely needed a bra. I still don't need a bra.<br /><br />Perhaps you'll blame my decisions on early exposure to adult magazines, or blue movies on cable TV. Maybe illicit internet exploration in my hometown library throughout junior high is the culprit. Personally, I credit the all-too-common pressure of a $40,000 federal student loan. That, and natural curiousity.<br /><br />No matter the reason, at 21, I hosted my first online videochat session and my secret life began. Initially, a friend introduced the concept to me. At the time, I still preferred sex with the lights out, earned straight As in all my university-level Women's Studies courses and didn't know enough about computers to install a printer. Still, in a short skirt and tight t-shirt I planted my 110 lbs in front of the web cam, my face just barely out of view.<br /><br />As I prepared to log on to the website, I knew that whatever happened next would have lasting effects. Who would see me? Would they be kind? Am I pretty enough? Am I safe enough? What the hell am I doing?<br /><br />Years, two university degrees, numerous day jobs, and more than 1000 online visitors later, I've come of age, gained a strange insight into the male psyche, and nurtured a scandalous past (by conventional standards). My boyfriend throughout tried to be understanding, though you can imagine how complicated this was for us. I won't pretend that this did not affect my relationship with him, or others. Even now, only a select few of my closest friends know my details. Keeping secrets is often easier than justifying my decisions.<br /><br />I manage two lives and continue to balance both, with a distinct vernacular for each. I have separate wardrobes, including task-specific make-up, and a closet assigned to hide my equipment. Friday night tends to be most profitable, so I rarely go out on weekends. An excuse for this, without sounding like a bore, is hard to come by. It complicates dating and that's why I mention it here.<br /><br />This journal won't be a chathost confessional, an erotic diary or an apology. I don't define myself by my online identity, but she can't be ignored either. She's pretty, charming and gutsy and she's better at dating than I will ever be.</div>Anna Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09964304762784618120noreply@blogger.com