Why Cant You Look Hot and Run?

Its day 3 of detox. No cigarettes, no illicit drugs, no alcohol, no coffee, no fun.

It all started with a pair of fluro pink and leopard skin black running shoes.

Well…. Actually, it all started with a boy…. Which led to the shoes…. Which lead to now…. Wait a second… let me just tell you the story…..

I’ve always been indulgent, a yes kinds girl. More coffee? Yes. More chocolate? Why not. Another smoke? Definitely…. Never had I said no to myself.

My Papa would always encourage me to read books on the topic of willpower, and discuss with me the importance of such things…. being able to control your mind over body…..

I would preach to people whilst happily chowing down my 3rd-morning coffee accompanied by my 3rd organic cigarette, that I could if I wanted to, but darling, its organic, and besides it makes me sing better…..Tom Waits??

Anyway, I met this boy, he’s an extremist. Yin to the Yang, black to white, yes or no. He runs when he’s not chain-smoking…He drinks power smoothies in the morning, strange “Heath Concoctions” kale, acai, chia, you name it… It’s in there…. I don’t think it actually tastes that pleasant, but honey it’s 2018, you’re in your thirties, and its the thing to do.

My friends are all getting to that age of discovering exercise… they tell me it actually feels good when those endorphins kick in…. gets you high in fact. I’ve always found those lycra clad, bad taste in shoes, hair ponytail slicked with sweat, iPod donning, brand emblazing, exercise iron man people rather freaky. But with a little encouragement of my friends, and fear of the middle-aged spread I decided to purchase my first pair of running shoes.

So…. My bestie and I, determined to get fit went from store to store, shop to shop, shoe to shoe… it was like Cinderella all over again…. Now you see this ain’t no easy task for two fickle ladies, especially from ladies that are both used to buying sequin heels, or Portuguese leather boots.

And let me tell you they were horrid…. these shoes…. I mean I don’t know who designs them or nothing, but Jesus Christ almighty… I mean the colour scheme…. What were they inspired by? The primary school highlighter collection….??? Every single fluro colour on one shoe….. strange lines, and detailing….

Why can’t you look hot and run? All I wanted was to look hot and run….

I mean already this was a step down in the hipster, bohemian queen identity I had going on…. But this selection? Atrocious.

Somehow I settled on a shoe that looked the best out of all of them, but honey, let me tell you, that ain’t saying much. There still ugly as all hell, fluro pink, lime and leopard skin.

I hate to say it, but way more comfortable than my Portuguese leather handcrafted shoes and way more comfortable than my Italian red wedges. Hmm goddamn! I understand why people wear them now, wear them casually, wear them when they’re not even running around, wear them to the local café, sipping on skinny lattes. I dunno maybe just wearing them makes you fitter you know, some kinda positive reinforcement manifestation.

In fact, I’m wearing them right now and I’m not even jogging… and as fugly as they are, they feel great, they caress my feet like a knowing lover, I feel fit just sitting here, typing like a mad woman, and burning calories like nobodies business. I get it. Maybe this is it……maybe this is the future.

Dirty Thirties

Welcome to your dirty thirties- Your skin starts sagging a bit. You start looking your age. No more ID checks, unless you’re queuing up for a gold coast club on a Saturday night, searching for paradise. Those cigarettes actually show up on your skin. You get bags under your eyes if you drink coffee and have a bad night sleep. Hairs start growing in peculiar places. You friends that had jumped the gun in there twenties are all getting divorced and now dating millennials. Your friend’s kids are starting to hit puberty. Everyone you know around is breeding and playing house. Your friend’s friends are buying their second investment property, planning their second baby. And you are still 19 at heart living with your folks, smoking dope and trying to start your life afresh for the 100th time this year.

 

“Quit it tiger, you need to make your body clean so you can make good babies”

“Aren’t you to old for that now???”

“Your over the hill, should have had babies in your twenties, your much to old and fussy now”

“Your still so young, you can have babies at 40 now, and that’s fine”

 

All these unwarranted and conflicting opinions, these rants and raves about what people think I should do and when I should do it.

I was told I was over the hill the other day. I’m 32 years old. But I guess in some cultures that is a spinster age if you haven’t found “Mister Right”, or “Mister You’ll Do For Now”. All my Sisters friends have ended up worth Aussie Bogans. Part gentleman, part golf, part beer coaster. I wonder if it’s because of the diminishing selection of eligible bachelors in there 30’s and early 40’s. Or is that Mamas and Papas are bringing up uncouth, ill-mannered, sloppy men, and part bogan is better than full bogan so you settle, pettle.

Or is it this country.

I don’t get approached by men anymore, although to be honest I never really have, unless they’re drunk, desperate, ancient or stupid.

My Sisters tell me I’m attractive, my Mama tells me I’m special, my Papa says I’m alright, but men don’t say shit.

My Brazilian friend tells me to go to Latin America. She tells me it’s different there. My other bestie, who is now divorced from a Latin man, tells me to stay the hell away from there.

I was discussing this last year when I was told the problem is….I’m too attractive… which makes me intimidating, therefore unapproachable. Right…..

Or is that maybe as we get older, we have higher standards, are more stuck in our ways, have more barriers up, less reluctant to dive in deep and let it all go for love like we did in our free wheeling 20’s.

Last week I put up a sign on my community notice board.

 

SEARCHING FOR A HUSBAND

-MUST CLEAN- COOK- SAIL- GIVE GOOD ORGASMS-

I’m still waiting for a response…..

I used to be a sponge. My first few boyfriends had it relatively easy… I would shapeshift for them, chameleon into what was needed, desired…. But now. What? Can I no longer chameleon for love. Or is easier to live a single and sometimes lonesome life rather than cash it all in on some kind of crazy, forget me not guaranteed love….

Disney really fucked me up. I blame Disney 100 % on all my false hopes, fantasy rides and semi unrealistic dreams. From a young baby, I was brainwashed to think prince charming was going to come riding up on his donkey to take me away to a palace someplace… but I’m still waiting, and no donkey in sight…

But Disney and Bogans aside…. On a positive note….

Since I’ve turned 30…..

I have started living more of my truth, becoming more in my power, saying no to things that no longer serve me. Owning my worth and dancing like no ones watching. I’m more assertive, more focused and more alert. No longer do I have the endless soul-searching of youth, the “Who am I?, Why am I? Questions. I just am.

And although I sleep alone at night, am childless, ticking like a time bomb, with black rings under my eyes, I am happy and getting better at life one tiny step at a time.

 

 

 

 

Love sick

I’m addicted to love.

Here I sit in Nicaragua, my own casita, rain pours, tumbles down. The heavens are crying, or dancing… one can never be sure.

Its quiet here, so quiet, I pace and think of home…. Home where my heart is. Where my stuff is. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy, grateful to be here. But home is glorious.

I don’t really feel like I’ve started my travels yet, landed at my sister’s place in a strange paradise, on Higante Bay. Last night I got drunk on rum and sang my heart out at the local open mic at the backpackers downtown. I sung songs of you….

Here I was pretending to be a rock star from down under, hair done up like a cross between a poodle quiff and Amy Winehouse, wearing tight high waisted Dejour jeans in tropical thunderstorms and singing about… you. There I was with opportunities with the opposite sex (rowdy backpackers that they are, all looking for a good time) but all I could think of was…. you.

My past blog entries have been brave and bold, words… so many words…. But since then, I have consulted my tarot reader, via Facebook in Australia, my guru in Brazil, my mother in Queensland and my therapist in Los Angeles, and all roads point to you.

I’m addicted. Like a chain smoker, like a junkie, like a teenage girl on heat. Touched for the very first time….

I was trying to be all independent, brave, big, strong, bold intrepid solo woman warrior, but honey you only live once, and true love is rare in this day and age.

So …… I did the deed, I invited him over here, to come with me on a month-long pink Cadillac, moonshining, dancing under the redwoods to the mutha flippin USA.

It was a big move I know, but Ce la VIE! Such is love, such is life.

Since I popped the big question I’ve acquainted myself very well with Skype and have been chatting, coffee-fueled chatting, vodka lipped chatting every day, hours in fact…. Each morning I check to see what time it is in Australia waiting for him to awake.

We have Skype dates now, he took me to the ballet, the opera, the Tin Pot coffee shop in Fitzroy, on the trains, Flinders street station, through the streets I know so well…

We have Skype love, Skype talk. And I count the hours till I can hear his voice through the receiver.

It’s getting out of control. Here I am on my “trip” and all I want to do is be with my love in Melbourne. Here I am having spent all my savings and my grandma’s inheritance, and with my big dreams and bold independence, and…. pining….

Love Sick they call it. Love fucken sick.

But love aside, money is now the issue… money money money always seems to get in the way… He’s broke, I’m on a shoestring. I’m on the other side of the world. I told him to buy a lotto ticket…. Maybe just maybe he could win the lotto….And if the numbers don’t match then to rob the local bank ASAP….

I’m getting desperate and I hate being desperate… it’s almost painful to hear his voice now… Awakes this longing within me, makes me want him even more.…. Drives me into being a desperate needy lovesick little girl… (and that just ain’t my style)

My friend says, you should go cold turkey on him…. Turn of Skype for a while and be present. She could be right…. But how do you explain to a junkie why they should give up smack when it’s so good, feels so right….

heading nowhere but heading places…

I’m inside a silver winged bird, heading nowhere, but heading places.

Destination one- The City of Angels.

I’ve packed up my life into 8 suitcases and stashed them in the basement of my Aunties dentist clinic. I’ve left my job, my home, and my love. I’ve left my friends, my family, my comfort and did I mention my love….

I have 2 stops and then no itinerary or plan for the next 4 months

I’m not sure why I’m here, where I’m going or the exact details or the purpose of this trip. All I know is that I need do this alone and test myself, my spirit as well as test love and all its desires with the true test of time.

My love is beautiful. At my going away party he bought my friends and me Indian takeaway food from the best curry house in North Fitzroy. He drops my 8 suitcases off to the basement of my aunties dentistry clinic, He sends me my current favourite album “Inside Llewyn Davis” for my trip, He loves me up hard yet tender. When he smiles he’s eyes crease warm and genuine. He takes me out on incredible and outlandish dates and chain-smokes organic Manitou cigarettes. He talks too much but I don’t care. He is a gentleman.

I left him last Sunday morning. I didn’t want to, untangling myself from him, his warmth and his scent were harder then I imagined, I almost wanted to cancel my flight… I didn’t want him to come to the airport, I prefer short and sweet goodbyes but he insistently jumped in the taxi with me and chaperoned me to the plane.

We drunk coffee and shared our last cigarette on the cement pavement in the taxi rank…. We kissed, me on my tiptoes, him slightly crouched down. He said goodbye and walked away. My love… his lips thick and succulent, his stubble feels like velvet through my fingers…. His swagger. Damn.

I watched him disappear into the distance.

We are so brave, you and I…..

We’ve spoken once since. He’s distant now; he’s gone into self-preservation mode, self-protection, put those stainless steel titanium walls up. Now. Hard. And he does…. did. And I can’t blame him for such things…. Human survival. No more kisses, no more I love you’s, no more storybook text messages. And I understand why, the reasoning and all…..

My good friend told me you that you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

Here I was trying to have it all, writing love letters to my Australian gentleman lover while having the pick of the USA

I planned to love deep and pure, fast and furious, and then to disappear into early morning skies to the next happening. But is that just easier in storybooks and moving pictures… once love is confessed, saliva swallowed, DNA exchanged, hearts magnetic… How do you leave without hurt, without “what ifs” without that shooting pain of loss that trembles through your body?

And now I fly on a silver winged bird over oceans and countries I have never visited and think of him, of us…..

How things could have turned out different. There’s a loss in my gut and a pain in my heart, longing for him, and for the last month of passion we shared. but there’s also a crooked smile on my lips, thinking of the good times we had and what is yet to come.

Babe, that was one of the best months of my life…. Sleepless and reckless…passionate and concubine feline-like… hmmmmm you rocked my world.

And you will make my coming home so much more tantalizing….

Pheremones, Hormones and babies…..

Love mystifies me…. I talk to many people from all walks of life, asking them on their matters of love. For we all seem to need it, like food, like sleep, like water…. All searching for it…

I have never been clucky, I mean, maybe when I was 16 and wanted to be a single mum in a kombi van with a border collie, daughter and a guitar… but for the last 13 years, I haven’t. I’ve actually been “anti-baby” and seriously considered not having kids at all… until this, man came swaggering by and romanced me like nobodies business.

Pheromone: An agent secreted by an individual that produces a change in the sexual or social behavior of another individual of the same species; a volatile hormone that acts as a behavior-altering agent.

It’s been 14 days now. This is the first time I’m alone. I’m on a romantic love marathon.

My bits are swollen from excessive use, my body jellied and head slightly wobbly. I’ve dropped out of the world, no longer on the Internet killing time, hardly seeing my friends. My world has been consumed by love, taken over by this man and his romantic woos that literally has sweep me off my feet.

I am 29 years 8 months and 5 days old. We’ve been having a seriously romantic escapade for the last 14 days now. He is my new addiction, my new cigarette and cup of long black with a side of honey and cardomon. He is my man in white leather Michael Jackson style jacket, white singlet, black jeans and movie star eyes, he is the swagger in my hips and the glint in my eye. He is magnetic, quiffed up, carries a comb in his back pocket with these strong muscular arms.

We went away to the country last weekend; it was our 14th date in 14 days. We had spent every spare moment together until then. Fast-talking, jumpin, jiving, lovin, dinin, dancing more talking. Time was elastic, with him, I lived nocturnal and concubine like with him. We only had so much time together so we made it count. 14 days in, and 14 days till I left for the USA to try and cast my luck on The Great American Dream.

He took me to a farm in East Gippsland. There were 2 caravans, a shed, cows and a river. There was no reception, the outside world didn’t exist, and it rained day and night. I love the sound of rain on an old tin roof. We ate salmon, drunk wine, made passionate love, slept by day and loved by night. We had breakfast in the afternoon and dinner at dawn, broke all the rules we did… I made the fire he cooked the dinner, we sung songs on cheap guitars drinking counterfeit whisky and smoking endless cigarettes. Life couldn’t get much better, wrapped up in a bubble of love and womb. Glorious. My version of heaven.

What is it about a man that can carry you, that has strong arms, that can envelope you and literally lift you of you’re feet, and make you feel light as a feather.

He smells incredible like an old chesterfield mingled with single malt whisky, smoked wood and tropical flowers.His smell drove me crazy.

It was about then that the idea of “babies” started coming up in my brain, all I could think about was having babies to this man, getting hitched and building a happy home in the country, dedicating my life to being a contented mother and housewife. It all seemed so easy, so fantastical, so right.

I could let go of all my fanciful ideas and big dreams for a while and just do what it is that women have done for eternity, making that transition from women to wife and mother.

Now I don’t know whether this feeling suddenly attacked my brain by the excessive dopamine that was flooding through my body or it could be my age. They always told me sooner or later my body clock would start tick-tocking.

I’ve met a man that is incredible, charismatic, charming, intelligent, leather-clad, dapper, strong and single and I know that this man would be able to provide for and protect my children. This cluckiness overrode all logic, realism and timing and came at me with such an urgency that I couldn’t see reasoning at all. I think my clock has started the tick-tock, screaming MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

I thought I was to be career women, only having children when I’m 35+, famous, rich, successful, have a home and a stable relationship. I had it all planned and perfectly timed so I could continue to live my self-reliant independent, fancy-free, do what I want, gypsy lifestyle that I have grown so accustomed to.

But all of sudden this animalistic urge is clawing up inside and rattelin at my soul.

In reality, the timing is terrible, I live in a shared house, I’m on Centrelink, I spend my time being another self-absorbed artist that lives in Northcote, I have no savings, I’m about to leave for overseas… But this tick tock is screaming out at me and sounding the alarm. I thought I was beyond all this biological, we are born to breed thing, a modern day woman wanting to make it big before poppin out a babe…. it makes you realise how the human race has survived this long…that clock is infecting my insides and only sees BABIES BABIES

So what do you do?

I thought I was in control of my baby-planning destiny. But can you really plan these things, is there ever good timing, or do you just make it work when it happens?

Can you ever really plan anything at all?

The Second Date in a Decade

So it’s been exactly 8 days since I went out on my second date in 10 years.

My lip has a kissing cold sore fighting to grow, I have chaffing on my chin, my body is in a constant state of desire and fatigue, my head a loved-up jumble.

He asked me out under the pretext of a production meeting, I gullible, naive and curious said yes.

He was all suave and leather, jitterbug quiff, an old-fashioned romantic and had a gift for the gab.

I liked him at once.

He took me out for coffee in an old TAB diner in Reservoir, and then we skipped town and didn’t come back for 4 days.

Longest date in history, we were battling for the record. Lost in a romantic loved up sick and randy haze. We had everything in common, We had the same horse in our room. 4 days later I left my toothbrush at his house.

I like synchronicities, I search for anomalies in someone, seeking parts of myself in a person to make me feel as if they were “The One”.

I hadn’t been touched intimately for 1 year, my friends were concerned I was going to grow old lonely and senile and die alone, but aren’t we all?

Its true, my singleness, nun exterior was becoming a problem, so much that I began to be scared of penis’s and felt like a virgin all over again. But my standards were high, higher than the Eifel tower, that it was hard to find someone remotely in that league and SINGLE.

But then, out of nowhere, he came, swept me off my feet, and I just wasn’t expecting that. I was looking for a fling, a love affair like the movies and picture books, someone to wine and dine me, take me to theatre, treat me like a queen, good old fashioned chivalry. My friends told me that didn’t exist no more, since the equal rights movement. But guess what, he came, and that’s just exactly what he did. I tried to be cool, stay cool now girl, don’t get lost in his scorpionic eyes, and his leather jacket, don’t get lost in his deep timbre voice and love of theatre, in his stories and damn charm. Don’t lose yourself now honey.

But truth be told that ain’t easy. When you share ultimate intimacy with another, exchange DNA and sweet nothings, how can you not fall……

He called me Bonnie I called him Clyde, he drove a motorbike, he romanced me like no other, wrote me gangsta poetry through text message, hired an alpha Romeo and took me to the Coburg drive-in, wine, chocolate, leather, (did I mention leather?!) dinner, breakfast, picnics, music… ohhhhhhhh he was sensual, dynamic, smooth talkin man

I was in a stupor of love.

I was leaving to the USA in 20 days and all of sudden I wanted him to come and ride horses into the sunset on Mexican beaches, drive from town to town in a pink Cadillac like Bonnie and Clyde. I thought maybe he was the one. And maybe he is…. And how do you let a good man go, once he’s in your fingertips? There doesn’t seem to be that many around so do you pounce while the goings happening?

My friends are jaded by matters of love, they date and fuck through the Internet, discarding men as inferior and only necessary in terms of sex. They no longer believe in love for being stuffed over too many times. They’ve been cheated on, hurt, lied to, and fucked over time and time again.

I, on the other hand, am still a believer, you could call me Charlotte from Sex and the City, I am a romantic and a relationship kinda gal. I’ve never done one night stands or flings, vowing when I was young to only sleep with men I love and therefore and have been with a total of 6 men in my whole life.

I talked to my friends, high on love and him, they said this feeling was normal, flings can feel like love, and then boom its over….. or he’ll fuck up and show you his true colours, or I can just see the end already. I rebelled and fought for what I felt and told them this was true, I think he’s the one, this is different I swear.

He left to Tasmania, he is coming back tomorrow.

Since he’s gone, I’ve had more perspective, I been clearing my head. I’ve been so confused by love, especially love when you grow older. Last time I fell in love I was 19 years old, a true romantic waiting tirelessly for the one. And I met him and dived into it deep, unquestioning, and naïve. It lasted 10 years, 10 beautiful years of my life. Now as I’m older, I get scared, cautious to fall, to share my independent existence with another, I’m more cagey and selfish with my time, my life, my future.

We are in the age of independence, of “I” “me, me, me” put yourself first and live an independent non-dependent existence. Depending on a man is taboo in this age of powerful women and feminism. Is it because of mortality that we feel less inclined to give everything to another? Is it from fear of getting your heart ripped out and stomped on?

It’s so much easier to fall in love young and give in and adapt to another, but getting older means more sacrifice.

I’ve talked to my polyamorous friends, and they bring a point that you can love many and that no person is able to give you everything you need. Share love with many, let it go round they say, don’t hold on to anything….

They have a point, in an idealistic world we would have many loves, and not grow attached or “own” a person… and after my 10-year relationship I too, don’t believe anything lasts forever.

So why not dive deep into love with no fear of a broken heart. Live for living sake and make new stories and challenge the cynics with pure love.

But having said that, I have made up my mind. I’m gonna try to separate “love” and “flings” and I will go to the USA alone, and seek new stories and adventure. And if he is still around and not yet snapped up by a high standard woman, I will pay him a visit and maybe the story will continue… who knows….

The first date in over a decade…

It’s been 8 months and 7 days since I came out if a 10-year relationship with the man of my dreams. Everything since then has changed, we communicate now through little black boxes: texting sweet flirtations and suggesting the art of tease through phones and virtual communication. Facebook has come and taken over like a virus stripping away all mystery and wonderment of a stranger. Commitment has become taboo and casual sex has become the norm, people play “I want you, I want you not” games with each other, and to say “I love you” is becoming rarer. I guess I have a lot of catching up to do.

I decided it was probably time to get back in the singles game before I shrivelled up and became dry. Besides, I craved intimacy and this was the longest drought I had experienced for just over a decade.

My first date with another man in 10 years happened last night. I didn’t expect to get nervous but an hour before 8pm my heart was buzzing like a jackhammer. I was a butterflied, bellyaching teenager all over again… all the internal dialogue of heart beaten patter “should I go, should I stay, who is this man, he might be a psychopath, what am I doing, maybe he’s the new man of my dreams, what do I wear, what am i doing!!?

Step back in time- 1.5 weeks (11 days to be specific)

I was skipping down Swanston St in Melbourne CBD peak hour, singing a song, with a bounce in strut and happiness in my gait when a man ran in front and stopped me suddenly. He told me I was the most beautiful and exotic specimen he had ever seen on the street that day, and wanted to know my story. Why I wasn’t like the rest. I was quite taken aback by him and his outburst but I was inwardly flattered and my internal romantic was curious. I had just been reading Anias Nin’s journal in the library and inspired by Anias’s epic love affairs and this mans boldness, I gave him the time of day.

I had been single and fancy-free for 8 months yet this was the first man that wasn’t drunk and drooling to have approached me.

Here was a man who had put his pride and limb on the line and was brave enough to follow his instinct and approach a lady mid-stride on the busy city street. Rare.

He asked me to read him poetry from my journal, I did. He asked me for my number so we could drink some wine together and get to know each other, I gave it to him. I was flattered and intrigued by his boldness. He wasn’t my type, all I knew was his first name and postcode but I am a romantic at heart and was feeling ready to try myself in this singles game.

11 days and 8.5 hours later-

He met me at a busy bar in Fitzroy. I was nervous. He was not (he’d done this many times before). I was a smoker. He was an ex-smoker. (Little bit of a problem as when smokers are around nonsmokers you begin to notice that your breath distinctly smells and tastes like an ashtray and with or without mints, this can immediately cancel out the possibility of French kissing unless you eat a lot of parsley and brush your teeth 2 times)

It was easy, fluid conversation; we spoke of music, passion, and science… He told me he had once worked at a spiritual festival reading faces. I asked him to read mine. He came up real close to me, putting his legs on mine and put his face so close to mine I could feel his breath. He told me that my bottom lip was thicker than my top lip, which meant I was highly sensual but that my top lip is thinner, meant I was afraid of expressing my full sensuality. Hmmmmmm…….

The date was good, we laughed, we drank whisky on the rocks. We bar hopped from venue to venue and talked over bad electro music. I lost and found my wallet, we told stories. It was Chinese new year. I was a new woman again, fresh, and still a mystery.

Somehow I ended up in his car, on the pretension of going to get Pho’ (Vietnamese soup) at midnight on Victoria St. And Lordy Lord there was not one single food place on Victoria St open. He super smoothly decided that we should go to his house as he lived a minute away and eat there. So against all odds, my first date seamlessly led me to his lair. Like a lamb to the slaughter. A fish to water. I was in his house, meeting his cat, cooking broccoli and veggie patties and sitting under a strange gazebo mood lit with candles and drinking dry wine.

Classic.

Who would have ever thought?

Before we went to bed. I told him I didn’t want sex. In fact, I couldn’t have sex as I would probably have an emotional breakdown, seeing as I hadn’t touched another man intimately for over a decade, and I just wasn’t ready.

He said, “Whatever you want, darling”, and continued to drape his arm about me tickling his fingers softly on my skin.

20 minutes later under the covers. The air was thick with tension. He wanted it. I couldn’t. He expected it. I had a knot of anxiety in my gut. I thought to myself, how the hell did I get, myself in this situation in a strangers bed on the first night of the date. I had a broken the first date rule number one.

So as you can imagine the whole blue balls saga continued. Although I had forewarned him about me being currently sensually disabled and a ball of anxiety in that department…

Don’t get me wrong I was aroused and thought he was a nice enough man. Curious but I guess not that curious.

The fear of a bad lover, a foreign body, alien scent, condoms and chemical lube. Freaked me the hell out. I felt like a virgin all over again.

We lay in bed, I could feel his hard-on pressing into my buttox.

It took me a long time getting to sleep that night. I had nightmares. I felt like I was 16 again, when my first boyfriend would try to persuade me to lose my virginity with him, and proceeded to get angry and tell me how sexually frustrated and what torturous pain he was in when I said no.

Morning came.

I didn’t kiss him. We didn’t have sex. It was a 12-hour date. We talked for 8 of them. He was charming, but I could tell he was trouble.

I gave him blue balls. He bought me a vegetarian burrito for breakfast and strong black coffee.

He was half of a gentleman. I behaved almost like a lady. I skipped all the way home.

I don’t think I will ever see him again.

Why are a women expected to put out sex on the first date?

Can sex with strangers really be non-attachment and purely pleasure for pleasure’s sake?

Is this a modern conception of the 21st century? Whatever happened to good ol’ fashioned courting? Getting to know or trust someone before exchanging bodily fluids and potentially bad/ good sex.

Do men really get blue balls? Or is that mans biggest sob story?

The moral of today’s story

What women want-

  • A gentleman who acts in gentlemanly fashion
  • When a man has the courage to ask out a random woman on the street there’s a pretty high chance of success.
  • Random encounters of romantic love/ lust definitely make blood sing and skin electrify.
  • Don’t pressure a person to have sex.