What She Said

Today's post is definitely less about the fact that I'm lazy and unclever and still getting over this chest cold thing and am supposed to actually be working during my workday and good grief do angst and frustration make for considerably greater creative inspiration then my current frame of mind...and far more about if it ain't broke, not bothering to try and fix it. Or consciously avoiding an unnecessary reinvention of the wheel. Or something.

Fo' Sho'

The best part of the weekend had absolutely nothing to do with the weekend, really.

It wasn't when we got rather hammered and stayed up late laughing our asses off with my pals after finally arriving at their cabin at the conclusion of a drive that was at least 45 minutes longer than it needed to be because, until Friday at about 9:30pm, M3 hadn't known me sufficiently long or well enough to be privy to the sad reality that I should never ever ever be in charge of directions. To anywhere. Ever.

It also wasn't the moment when M3 went in for a alpine smooch on a blustery, deserted, snow-blown ski run and because our goggles knocked together, it took like two more tries to make contact.

Or even when we went sledding on Saturday and I totally ate shit and instead of coming over to make sure I was okay, he laughed hysterically and took pictures of the incident and for some reason that didn't piss me off in the slightest because if he really thought I'd actually broken my ass as opposed to simply making false claims to that effect supported by no medical evidence whatsoever, I know he'd have been by my side in about two seconds.

It also wasn't when roughly two trillion pounds of ice fell from the roof onto the deck above our bedroom at 2am on Saturday and as I proceeded to hyperventilate from having the crap scared out of me, he and his big ol' boner immediately ran upstairs to investigate even though he hadn't a clue what variety of burglar or large nordic and/or forest dwelling mammal he might encounter.

And still it wasn't any of the countless times I watched (in what I'm sure was a not-terribly-covert adoring fashion although I really tried to be all casual about it especially when my friend silently mouthed "oh my god" in my direction while M3 bounced the smaller of her two offspring on his knee) as he charmed my friend's sons, especially the teeny tiny one.

Or when that very same friend took note of the fact that M3's delightfully plump posterior isn't just a figment of my occasionally overactive imagination or periodic tendency to embellish my blog writings for artistic effect.

Or even how he took my hand in his and kissed it at least half a dozen times on the car ride home.

Instead, it had everything to do with the moment when, even though we'd had a wonderful weekend that we both hated to see come to an end because despite not mentioning it out loud we're both acutely aware of the hours ticking by, we also agreed that there was quite possibly going to be nothing better in the world than returning to my house after our long drive and finally getting "us" all to ourselves again.

And how, laying tangled up together this morning, every kiss bringing us closer to goodbye, knowing but refusing to verbally acknowlege that he needed to leave at least 20 minutes ago even though we'd been awake for well over 45, I told him "I hate this part."

(Because I really, really do.)

And he responded not by simply saying "me, too" but by expressing how after spending hour upon hour of uninterrupted time together over the weekend, "its something you want to have every day."

(Because it really, really is.)

And how, later still, having burrowed beneath the sheets and at least three too many pillows, trying really hard but pretty much failing to not feel sad while M3 prepared for the two hour trek back home under cover of cold and rainy darkness, it actually took him two return trips to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye before it finally stuck.

And then how, after our lips parted the very last time and he reluctantly headed for the door, I barely had even a second to lament how I'd do practically anything in that moment if it meant I'd never have to watch him walk away from me again knowing I wouldn't see him for five more days and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

Because just as M3 was almost out of sight, he looked back at me over his shoulder and smiled.

And told me he'd miss me.

So, anyway, its like I was saying...

The best part of the weekend had absolutely nothing to do with the weekend.

Really.

Working Title #1: Awwww Yeeeaaaah; Working Title #2: October's Like Eight Months From Now

From: J DILLS
Date: Feb 27
Subject: ay

hit me back if u are in to younger men

From: Smrtygrl
Date: Feb 27
Subject: RE: ay

How young is young?

From: J DILLS
Date: Feb 27
Subject: RE: RE: ay

20 but im 21 in october

an women like wine just better in time

For Mature Audiences Only

I'll be on posting hiatus for the next couple of days, as M3 and I are headed this evening for a mountainous weekend with two of my very good friends. There will be sun, ski, and undoubtedly repeated instances of me under the influence trying desperately and ultimately failing to not imprint the small, innocent and highly porous brain of said friends' four year old son with non-G-rated visuals or the expression of similarly inappropriate verbiage. I additionally like to believe that the toddler who will also be making the scene this weekend is far too young to be scarred by anything he might see or hear. Especially stuff that may or may not happen in the hot tub adjacent to his bedroom.

'Til Monday...

Heart Question Mark

So my newest fan was M3 after all and last night during our mid-week rendezvous at the Shilo Inn halfway between his house and mine we had a big emotional talk (he talking, me emotional) and now we're in this new and different place and its totally good but there was some serious ass gravity to how we got there which was scary and hard and will remain scary and hard because when something's the real deal everything suddenly stops being light and breezy and decisions are made and declarations are put out there which generally means sometimes I'll cry a little bit and pretty much always means I'll lose any and all ability to verbalize my thoughts and especially my emotions even though I'm really really trying because he and us is so totally worth it and last night was really no different but I guess he still likes me anyway for reasons that are truly beyond me and most of the universe searches for precisely what we suspect we might have stumbled upon and they never ever find it and so now we're allegedly not seeing other people which isn't something I've wanted with anyone for ten years and holy crap I'm really inclined to say all sorts of other unbelievable-to-me shit about how I feel about him but for the fact that he'll probably be reading this at some point tonight and even though I told him that my ability to creatively express my thoughts and feelings about him, me and us wouldn't be compromised if I knew he read my blog is like the biggest b.s. ever as it turns out and so maybe I'll just try saying directly to M3's face instead of wussing out and knowingly communicating with him through this very blog that somehow after one month of email + one month of boy-on-girl action I too could see us spending the rest of our lives together one day maybe and its terrifying to me too and I'm dead serious even though its about to sound like I'm making shit up when I say that every time our lips touched last night I thought the very same thing he told me he was thinking every time our lips touched and that's precisely what I was trying to tell him when he kissed me goodbye in the shower this morning but on two separate occasions I couldn't get the words out.

(I think I just got the words out.)

Disclosure

I had a total 26-year-old-discovers-blog flashback last night. My site stats were, yet again, telling a story. Same one as last time, as a matter of fact. New visitor to my site spends hours reading practically every word I've written blah blah blah. Only thing is, this time around, the reader in question was from out of state. It couldn't possibly be M3, I thought to myself.

Then again, could it?

Despite being compelled by an overwhelming desire to immediately email him to find out if he'd had an informative afternoon, or to put forth some other such baiting inquiry, I somehow ended up managing to resist the urge. If he was indeed my newest fan, I'd hear about it. And soon. And how.

He'd been asking about my blog for weeks now. Because, of course, like a complete idiot, I'd touted its artistic merits and creative virtues on our very first date. Then again, when no more than 15 minutes into your unbelievably long-awaited inaugural outing with the first boy you've genuinely been looking forward to meeting in a very very very long time and even though its just 15 minutes into said date its already become obvious that there absolutely needs to be a second one just as soon as possible you learn that he's currently cohabitating with another woman, possible fallout down the line from divulging the existence of one's online dating diary is about the furthest thing from your mind. Truth is, I was pretty sure I'd never see him again anyway.

Turns out, it wasn't M3 on my blog last night. But my brief moment of panic nonetheless served as a terrific catalyst for the two of us to spend the better part of this afternoon engaged in a semi-scientific analysis related to which of the various blog-sharing methodologies would cause me the least (or greatest) amount of discomfort. It was only a matter of time before M3 either sleuthed me out or convinced me to allow him access to my innermost thoughts. Surely the most desirable option, even in spite of the gas it might initially bring forth, would be to sit down next to him and read it together.

Ultimately, that's exactly where we landed. I'd rather be present, accounted for, possibly tipsy and quite probably with my hands down M3's pants when he discovers that I kept the 26 year old around far longer than I should have...that before M3 came along, I went out with so many boys I've genuinely lost count just to prove to myself how easily and frequently I could...that once he did come along, from the very first emails we exchanged to those first few moments standing inches from one another on date #1, there was something palpable and different and entirely, still to this day, totally indescribable going on between us, the likes of which I've never experienced with anyone else before...and now that there *is* nobody else, how I wouldn't want it any other way.

So tomorrow night, when M3 and I meet for a semi-impromptu mid-week rendezvous at a point almost exactly halfway between his home and mine, a plan that is coming together entirely and wonderfully by his design, I'll have brought along the laptop.

And I'll sit down next to him.

And we'll read it together.

(I wouldn't want it any other way.)

Slippage

The first time, under the impression that it was sensing an excess of smoke emanating from a still-lit candle, M3's over-zealous fire detection device startled us awake at 2am. It was the Sunday concluding our five days together. We were mutually, though joyously, sleep deprived, thus succumbing to slumber far earlier than usual. And without our customary late night sexual fanfare.

Until the smoke alarm went off, that is.

I mean, really, what else is there to do in the middle of the night when you're now both totally awake because one of you stood al fresco in the living room, desperately waving a hand towel towards the ceiling in a focused five minute effort to get the fucking thing to shut up, while the other watched the shenanigans from the bedroom, giggling the whole time?

The second time, which also happened to be last night, it wasn't a candle, but instead fondue that was the catalyst for a unexpected and surprising event.

Under the erroneous impression that we'd successfully convinced the device that there was no longer an imminent threat of fire, M3 and I hit the sheets. Roughly 30 minutes later, after having my concentration broken by yet another totally unnecessary alarm brought on for no apparent reason whatsoever, I put forth a firm request. M3 was seriously going to need to let his landlord know asap that the supposed life-saving device was becoming quite a nuisance. I simply couldn't work under these conditions.

"Yeah, I'll make sure to tell him that it went off when I was having sex with my girlfriend."

I was so stunned by what I'd just heard, I had little choice but to just leave it out there.

Suspended in the ether.

Hovering right above us.

Just waiting to be brought back down to earth by a sarcastic comment (me) or a justification or explanation or bashful acknowledgement (him).

None of which happened.

So, I returned to the task at hand.

(After all, I had a job to do.)

Earlier in the evening, as we dined on the floor of M3's apartment, I came clean. I'd told my mom about him on the phone that morning, figuring if M3 felt ready to go open kimono with the sister, I could do likewise with my mother. Sharing our saga with friends, while certainly representative that we were both pretty optimistic about the future, was one thing. Baring all to next of kin was an entirely different situation altogether.

And then, somewhere between M3 losing an asparagus spear in the bubbling cauldron of fromage and when he inadvertently took a chunk out of my thigh with his fondue fork, I managed -- genuinely in the spirit of simple information-sharing and with absolutely no agenda in sight -- to casually mention that the very same mother would be coming to visit in June.

"So...will she mind hearing us have sex in the next room?" M3 inquired.

Surely he was joking.

His comment was sick and wrong, although given our apparent inability to keep our hands off of one another, especially when we're challenged by societal norms to do so, it was also an entirely valid question to be asking.

His comment, however, was also loaded with subtext.

I pressed onward.

Did he indeed just indicate a voluntary willingness to meet my former-psychologist-and-current-divorce-attorney of a mother? Like, three and a half months from now?

"Well, if we're still seeing each other come June, it would seem to make perfect sense to meet your mother."

Fully disoriented by the sensibility inherent in his rationale, I can't remember if I managed to divert the conversation to something entirely unrelated or if the piercing screech of the smoke detector took care of the task for me.

Though now, in retrospect, I'm not sure why I was so startled by M3's words.

Because meeting the mother...

Well, I guess that's just what you do when someone's your girlfriend.

Legit

In a few short hours, I'll be headed to M3's mid-sized city to spend a few short hours. Actually, I'll be there for more like 16 of them, which is about a million shy of what I'd prefer at this point, especially after going from spending five consecutive days with M3 to spending six consecutive days without him. But beggars who live two hours apart and have allegedly very busy lives can't be choosers.

During my visit tonight, M3 will either forcibly (though more likely, willingly) submit to a full-scale investigation of the third degree variety regarding the conversation he had with his sister, A, on Thursday night. The conversation in which the full can o' beans was spilled regarding me, him and us.

I've been privy to very little information about this conversation thus far. Although, I do have confirmation that the full chronology of events was shared with A, beginning from the very first email I received from M3 on December 14, as I sat on the couch in the surprisingly spacious New York City living room of a very good friend, in which he proposed we bypass the prescribed and contrived "get to know you" steps normally recommended by the online dating site that brought us together and, instead, go "fast track."

Good choice.

Last Sunday, as the end of our wonderful five days was coming to a close, M3 admitted that he was going to tell his sister about us. In turn, I owned up to the fact that, whenever thought or talk turns to this very topic, I find myself gripped by a debilitating (and, by the way, totally valid) fear that I'll be viewed as a homewrecker. Especially by his sister. Let's be honest, even the nicest and most supportive girl, especially when it comes to looking out for her brother, can instantaneously morph into a stone cold bitch).

But because M3 is wonderful and fabulous and perfect, he totally understood. And after debating the merits of full disclosure to the sister vs. putting forth a version slightly edited for this particular audience, he ultimately landed on the latter. He'd tell A about us but wouldn't necessarily share every single detail in its true chronology, lest he look like a philanderer and (of greater concern, at least to present company) I look like a trampy ho.

Somewhere between that conversation on Sunday and his dinner with A on Thursday, he changed his mind.

She knows everything. And thinks I sound great. And loves my name.

And I couldn't be happier.

The fears and concerns and apprehensions about being viewed as the person who came between M3 and his girlfriend...as the girl who willingly engaged with him (albeit only electronically) while he was still in the final stages of his relationship...or as the woman of questionable judgment who saw fit to get involved with him mere days after that relationship finally concluded...

...they've all fallen away..

Because telling his sister everything is fucking huge.

(So was telling my mom.)

I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.

As of approximately 7:30am, my online dating profile has been re-hidden. Its just too torturous, not to mention one of the world's greatest wastes of my time ever, to engage in what amounts to a totally futile and generally rather pathetic tete-a-tete with boys who - due in part to the fact that M3 spilled 100% of the beans about us last night to his sister (whoa) - really stand very little chance of even receiving a response, let alone scoring a date with me. However, due to their moderate entertainment value, I'm happy to share a selection from last night's bounty. Enjoy, dear readers, enjoy.

From: wildsalmon
Date received: February 16
Subject: Fundraising?

I am never sure how this whole thing really works. I have a few friends that have met and actually married this way.
I was going to ask you for coffee sometime.
I was also going to ask you if you do the MS walk at [name of park removed] in April?
I'll be at home tonight if you want to chat.


From: sage494
Date received: February 16
Subject: hey

My name is Gary... I am from Calgary, Alberta... I really enjoyed your little profile, I am quite intrigued... You seem like a super sweet, cool lady and would really enjoy learning more about you! I have hidden my profile as I don't want my pictures all over the internet, but am willing to send you some photos and correspond elsewhere if you are interested... do you have a regular e-mail address? I am confident you will be pleasantly surprised... Look forward to hearing from you! Till then, have an awesome evening...


From: bbmcob
Date received: February 16
Subject: Hey

Well I am funny, I can Intrigue you (making you think) and I love dogs!!
Drop me a line sometime if your interested.
Have a great day!


From: jag_31
Date received: February 16
Subject: hi there

I noticed your profile tonight. How are you? Do you snowboard or ski ? keep smiling

Bring It

Just a few minutes ago, as I was responding to a comment posted by a rather alarmed and concerned reader in response to my semi-prediction that monogamy will likely drive me to a less frequent publishing schedule, I had a rather relieving revelation.

Some of the best material I've ever put out there, especially relative to the crap I've been producing lately, wasn't even generated by *me*.

So, in the spirit of remaining an ongoing, almost-but-not-quite-daily source of entertainment (and a periodic, though far more infrequent source of spiritual guidance for the wayward and lovelorn)...

Online dating profile unhid: 4:22pm

[Edit: First wink received: 4:51pm]

No Offense, Really

This is one of those rare occasions when I really really wish that back in October - when I finally reached my threshold for spending the first 90 minutes of pretty much every other workday drafting a litany of morning-after emails to countless friends regaling them with tales of the previous evening's boy-related and generally alcohol-infused hijinks - and decided to just start a blog instead, that I'd not been quite so stringent when establishing the editorial guidelines to which I'd adhere.

Because I really just have a whole lot of nothing to say today on the topics of love, longing and/or M3's crazy body. And I'm not allowed to talk about anything else, per me.

Unless, of course, I elect to engage in writings of a more adult nature...

Dabbling in smut was actually M3's idea. Knowing of my blog but never quite having the energy to go out and find it on his own, he commented on Sunday rather astutely that given my strict insistence upon only blogging about boys, I might be finding myself a bit short of material these days. And indefinitely. Considering we'd just spent five days together and still hadn't grown weary of one another's company, there seemed little in the way of other options in that moment than to wholeheartedly concur.

So, when M3 semi-facetiously but moreso-sincerely suggested that I explore porn, I actually gave the idea some thought.

But as I find myself this evening with little in the way of anything of consequence about which to write, and reflect upon if recent events are a predictor of future behavior, how I truly think I could do the proverbial nasty with this one particular boy so many times that I eventually lose count yet still somehow fail to grow weary of his strength, his tenderness, his power, his creativity, his humor, his intensity, his mischievousness, or his triceps...there's little in the world less appealing than sharing that with all of you.

My apologies if you don't hear from me for a while.

xoxo

I'm not sure which is more disturbing, that I willingly chose to wear pink today in observance of the universe's most contrived holiday or that I actually found myself smiling (and not just on the inside, and smugly) when I saw the queue of post-pubescent males in the Safeway floral department at 4pm today, waiting to fork over a fistful of cash for a crappy bundle of overpriced roses that will die in two days anyway, not because they want to, but because they have to.

Even during the years when I've found myself single on V-Day, I never really cared much. Certainly not enough to be bitter about it. I wear black about 75% of the time anyway.

But this year is different. Not only did I make a strangely jubilant and out-of-character wardrobe choice this morning, but if its possible, I care even less about being alone tonight than I ever have before.

M3 is three states away from me right now for business. Accordingly, I'll be spending the first part of this evening at the office, the second half eating dinner and watching a DVD. And I will be perfectly and entirely content with my agenda, or complete and utter lack thereof.

Because instead of lamenting the absence of someone special in my life or personally going to great, artificial, exhausting and generally rather costly lengths to leave a certain impression upon my allegedly special someone of the moment -- the only two options I ever thought plausible until this very evening -- today is, as it turns out, simply another day.

In email this morning, M3 apologetically announced that he hasn't and wouldn't "be doing anything to make today special or wonderful" for me, claiming his very recent bout with food poisoning as rationale for his failure to execute any V-Day plan whatsoever.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Because on Sunday afternoon, at the end of five perfect days together, it was entirely M3 who prompted us to devise a plan that might somehow allow us to spend just a little bit more time together.

And so, I submit...

A super cute boy who's rump uncannily resembles two very ripe cantaloupe melons making such an obvious expression of his affection is *far* more romantic than getting some crappy box of milk chocolate-covered cherries or an arrangement of sickly roses with those plastic tubes at the bottom either of which would undoubtedly have been accompanied by a card that he probably would have ended up spending an inordinately long time picking out because we haven't yet said The Words which would make card shopping on the one day of the year devoted to following a prescribed methodology of expressing The Words by giving materialistic representations thereof, rather than actually *saying* them, it seems, really rather difficult.

Plus, at the bottom of his email today was a little heart fashioned out of a not-quite-symmetrical series of question marks.

Beneath it: "Be mine?"

Uh, done.

$110 Including Tax

Pretty much since I somehow managed to sober up after hitting the sauce just a bit too hard at the airport bar on Friday, I've been trying to conceive of what I'd write once M3 and I parted ways on Sunday afternoon.

When the time finally came, I thought perhaps maybe I'd end up waxing domestic for one final occasion about all of the terrifically routine and fantastically mundane moments we shared during the two days that he stayed with me in my mid-sized town. Or, provided they came to fruition as expected, I might instead elect to pen a tenderly bittersweet missive about our weekend away, remarking how it felt to finally spend countless hours together without having to say goodbye.

Instead, having returned to my house this evening for the first time since leaving it on Friday to meet M3 up north, I find myself struck by an emotion that is perpexingly stunning in its gravity yet also entirely not surprising in its arrival. Its a sense of loss... an absence of something that was fleetingly barely even present to begin with.

There's no M3 sitting at my dining room table while I make dinner.
And he won't be walking through the door any minute now pronouncing that honey, he's home.
And I don't get to fall asleep in his arms.
Or wake up to his kisses even though I can practically see my own breath as we sit in a big ass hotel room bed drinking really bad hotel room coffee made in a teeny tiny hotel room coffee maker because to procure something of higher quality would necessitate actually getting out of bed and its the first time we've ever had occasion to enjoy the luxury of time uninterrupted plus we'd have to put clothes on.
Or stroll to breakfast with my arm linked through his own and then completely lose my appetite once our meal arrives because I'm entirely and beautifully caught up in how much I adore him...and just how terrifying that truly is.
Or smile to myself as he makes my friends laugh.
Or look into his eyes and wonder if what I think I'm feeling is indeed really what I'm feeling.

Five consecutive days and four consecutive nights including 48+ hours of uninterrupted togetherness time, in the end, proved wholly insufficient. So with virtually no regard for pragmatic logic or even the most debatable tenets of fiscal responsibility, we evaluated a variety of hairbrained schemes, ultimately settling on one that -- even though it was expensive and inconvenient and caused me (more) sleep deprivation in the end -- was also both terribly spontaneous and romantic.

And so, this morning at 5am, pulling sleepily out of my parking space, I watched M3 stride back across the street to his building. And just as I was a simple few, reluctant inches from crossing the intersection, headed for home, he abruptly spun around and broke into a light jog. Leaning into the now open window of the one-way rental car responsible for the two of us being able to prolong our imminent goodbye if only for another few hours, he granted me one final, sweet kiss.

It was worth about a million bucks.

Bottom's Up!

At present, I am sitting at an the larger of the two international airports located in the Pacific Northwest. In an airport bar. And I am hammered.

M3 was supposed to pick me up at the airport at 2:30pm but his meeting started an hour later than anticipated. And then some guy wanted to talk to him afterwards. To pass the time, he advised me to drink heavily.

Its now 4:15pm.

I've taken his suggestion to heart.

(God damn, I am drunk.)

Tonight M3 will meet one of my very bestest (old) friends. And one of my very bestest (newer) friends.

And at some point between when my next drink is served at the "Airport Destination Lounge" and when we depart to meet the aforementioned bestest old friend, I will admit to M3, to his face even, how much I like him. And how sorry I am that my retardation -- caused no doubt by the debacle that was Dating K and my general garden-variety inability to accept that when something's good, one is well-advised to shut the fuck up inside one's head and cease questioning every single solitatry detal about said something and just endeavor to enjoy it -- is standing in the way of something fucking unbelievable.

Because I adore this man.

And I am hammered.

Thud

So, for some reason, it just finally hit me.

I'm going away this weekend with a boy. Though its far more than that, really.

Because its not just away, its also home.

I'm going home this weekend with a boy.

Holy crap.

Comfy

Leaving the risotto unattended far more times than any self-respecting cook ever would, I abandoned my post at the stove on countless occasions last night to instead wrap my arms around the exceptionally cute boy tapping away at his laptop in my dining room. There was a brief instructional lesson re: how to most efficiently chop an onion and his fulfillment of my request that he take on cheese-grating duties, but otherwise, M3 worked and caught up on the day's news while I rustled up dinner.

During the first of what would ultimately prove to be a lengthy series of very successful interruptions of M3's attempts at productivity, and as he placed a strong hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me towards him, I found myself remarking just how strangely wonderfully normal this almost immeasurable (yet not altogether surprising) degree of domesticity truly felt.

"It's life," he said.

And he was right.

Because absent the urgency that's both inherent and simply unavoidable when you have but one time-limited weeknight evening together...

Absent the unwelcome promise of one person's imminent and certain departure in the morning...

Absent the tragedy that customarily laces our farewells because we're never entirely sure when we'll next see one another...

He could do laundry.

And I could make dinner and later be overheard referencing said meal as *our* rice.

And we could go to sleep at a ridiculously reasonable hour because this night together, unlike all of the others that have come before, wouldn't be our last for an undetermined number of days that somehow always ends up feeling like weeks.

And I could, in an uncharacteristically inarticulate moment, find myself incapable of uttering anything more than a simple "Yup" when M3 looked into my eyes, whispered my name, and said "This is wonderful."

And I could come up behind him in the bathroom at 6:35am, in a scene straight out of a Gillette ad, and simultaneously attempt to pry him free of his towel, kiss his impossibly broad shoulders and ask about the scar on the left side of his neck.

And he could mention that maybe I should meet his sister and cousin this weekend, after all. (No fucking way and that's another post entirely.)

And I could watch bemusedly, over a cup of coffee, as he used the scientific technique of employing his forefinger and the counting of button holes to measure the appropriate length of his tie.

And I could set the microwave for another 30 seconds so the bowl of risotto he wanted for breakfast was actually warm when he tucked into it, even stirring it so it would be fully heated through.

And I could iron his shirt. Crappily.

And I could tell him, as he departed this morning for points south, that I hoped his meetings went well.

And that I'd see him tonight.

I could get used to this.

Gag Me With A Spoon

With the bittersweet although not entirely unforeseen retreat of the 26 year old and the imminent-but-not-quite-here-yet arrival of M3 (we're now inside the one day mark until the five day, four night interstate relationship exploration extravaganza begins), I find myself supremely challenged to produce anything of substance today. Or yesterday, hence that abominable display of artistic horribleness.

So, for lack of any fodder of either a salacious or self-deprecating nature to share, I'll instead offer an endearing anecdote. Its all I've got today, people, so bear with me. Its only a matter of time 'til this shit gets good again.

In an email penned by M3 upon returning home on Saturday night from an emergency poker game, I was briefed not only about the extent to which his card-playing ultimately evolved into an act of philanthropy, but also regarding the astounding progress he'd managed to make relative to the unpacking/furnishing of the new digs.

M3 then expressed a sentiment so sweet and so sincere...only someone as smitten as I would be able to dig deep enough to overlook the proverbial ick factor.

He wanted to know when I'm coming up to visit.

Because the new place will seem vacant until I share it with him.

(I kinda feel like I owe the world an apology right now.)

T-minus 24-ish hours until the title of this blog and the contents contained herein will once again have something even remotely to do with one another.

Seriously, Are These Lyrics To A Song By Winger?

From: Carey
Date: Feb 5
Subject: A poem

The Angel

the angel closes her eyes
as destiny passes her by
she watches the time as it flys
she bows her head and she cries
the angel needs to explore,
the feelings she can't ignore
she hungers for the taste of a kiss,
to feel things she has long missed
she whispers to me on the wings of the night,
will you heal my heart and make everything right
yes babygirl I can and I will,
but first you must stop,
come to me, and be still.

Busted

It took four months which, to be honest, is about 3.5 months longer than I thought it'd take. Especially given my propensity on early dates, after a beer or two, to inform my potential suitors that the punishment for bad behavior or horrid fashion choices will be candid documentation of their poor judgment in a public forum otherwise known as my blog.

(Dumbass.)

The online chronicles of my largely-uneventful, generally-anticlimactic, and for-the-most-part-entirely-fruitless-until-lately dating escapades, as innocuous as I like to believe my blog content to be on most days, has been discovered.

About a week ago, though the wonders of technology, an interesting tale began to unfold. Someone had recently discovered my blog. Someone in the state where I currently reside. And that same someone spent hours spread out over a couple of days reading just about every word I've written since last October.

Now, I like to believe that my writing could strike a chord with anyone who has, at any point in his or her life, been single...or has attempted to find love (or whatever) through online channels...or, say, who lives in the world at large and enjoys humor at the expense of others, in particular one allegedly intelligent and by most accounts not-unattractive, young-ish woman who has a tendency to occasionally embellish her trials and tribulations with the opposite sex for the sake of her art.

So while this newest reader seemed a little more interested than the average visitor who more often than not disappointingly and inevitably stumbles upon my blog thanks to a Blogger/Google search for "sex," it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that this could be an honest to goodness new fan, a lost soul seeking guidance, or even the author of one of the many unfortunate email solicitations that I've posted here for the benefit (and safety) of the greater good.

I'd really hoped upon hope that my newest fan wasn't going to turn out to be someone I've dated.

And wrote about.

A lot.

I don't think the 26 year old and I will be seeing each other anymore.

P.S. Hi, Jeff.

'Hawks By 7

M3 has started telling his friends about us.

Well, okay...thus far its just *one* friend. But given the circumstances at the time of our very first meeting (for those of you late to the proverbial party, said circumstances involved a cohabitation-with-girlfriend scenario), and given that those very same circumstances tragically remained in place for the first however-many-weeks of our pseudo-courtship, who can blame the guy for being a little reserved and apprehensive about cluing his friends in on the fact that, in what has to be a land speed record for re-coupling, he's already managed to become one half of an entirely new and different "us," thereby making him like the biggest philanderer ever.

I don't actually believe he's a super huge philanderer, I just think that's perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious word ever derived for a condition that, at its core, is really quite despicable. But whether or not M3 was technically cheating on his girlfriend by going on what amounted to little more than a blind date with me and then, in the weeks that followed, corresponding perhaps a little less blindly on what seemed at times to be an almost hourly basis while he waited for her to get back into town so he could dump her ass and move out is not the basis for this post. (Though feel free to discuss amongst yourselves and/or comment liberally below.)

In other related news, M3 has officially closed the book on his transitional housing phase, having moved in to his new pad yesterday.

This is good.

On the other hand, he and the ex-girlfriend will be partaking in the same Superbowl activities tomorrow. And to the best of my knowledge, he is actually picking her up and they're going to the venue together.

This is bad. In theory.

In reality, I don't really give a damn. Because, starting Wednesday, I get to fall asleep in M3's arms for four straight nights, wake up to his goofy smile for four straight mornings, log countless hours of hot hotel room action (here's hoping!) and introduce him to *my* friends at various points in between.

So, unlike last weekend, when M3's email admission that he wasn't dealing with post-breakup fallout quite as well as he'd initially surmised nearly ruined what had been an otherwise perfectly lovely afternoon in San Francisco..and even unlike the very next day on the phone when he admitted to the joint football-watching and carpooling plans and I was quite positive in that moment that if I stood up too quickly, I'd find my stomach and quite possibly other innards deposited on the floor beside my handbag...

His agenda tomorrow now doesn't really bother me all that much.

The doubts I'd been having about whether he was anywhere even remotely ready to consider possibly maybe getting into something serious with me have started to slowly but surely fall away. Not completely (because I'm not a stupid idiot) but they've dissipated immensely. And I'm pretty sure I know why.

'Cause the cat's out of the bag that there's an "us."

And he's finally out of his ex-girlfriend's house.

And while it may just be one friend for the time being and M3 put an end to the actual relationship weeks ago, what can I say?

I'm a stickler for details.

Juxtaposition

As a series of well-intended-but-never-completed entries in my archives will attest, for a good couple of months this past summer, I was seriously and dangerously and emotionally recklessly smitten with K. He was smart and witty and charming and tall. His eyes twinkled when he laughed. He didn't let me get away with shit. And he was fucking hot.

Unfortunately, as I eventually came to learn, smart + witty + charming + 6'5" + fucking hot = I get played.

Still fairly new to the dating scene, I naively misinterpreted what would have been - were K a normal adult male - a series of unmistakable signs that he was just as into me as I was him.

Summer evenings spent on his back patio, eating salmon from the grill by tiki torchlight with his darling son and my annoying dog. Lazing together under the stars in his hammock, my head on K's chest, his hands in my hair. The unexpected sushi picnic in the park that he artfully surprised me with when I thought he was simply coming to my mid-sized town to take me out for dinner. The intentionally horrid poems, the unintentionally horrid song lyrics, the countless emails. And of course our very first date (still relucantly on record as one of the best ever) three hours spent talking and throwing grass in one another's hair and pretending to be asleep so we could steal covert and hopefully undetected glances beneath quite possibly the oldest and most majestic oak tree in my entire mid-sized town.

Silly me.

Yesterday, basking in the afterglow of my perfect evening with M3, I found myself surprised to be hearkening back to those many summer nights with K.

In particular, just how far up my ass I'd somehow managed to lodge my own head.

Next weekend, M3 and I are traveling to the mid-sized city that, until last May, I'd called home for nine years. He'll meet some of my most cherished and dear friends. I'll show him my most favorite places. He'll hold my hand and kiss my cheek and smile at me as we walk together through the rain-soaked streets of a city that not so long ago, for reasons I now have trouble remembering, I was terribly eager to leave.

Last September, with a trip to said city in the works, I decided I might like to bring K with me. The two of us having never even dabbled in the exclusivity arena, let alone spent two consecutive nights together, I hemmed and hawed for days, apprehensive about asking him because of how my offer might be construed. Our relationship (and I use that term loosely) was an ongoing game of cat and mouse. To quote my favorite 80s misanthropic asexual lyricist, the more I ignored K, the closer he got.

One evening after his son had gone to bed and I'd finally had enough to drink that I believed I could extend the invitation without sounding like I gave even half a shit either way (not realizing, of course, that there wasn't enough alcohol on earth at the time to make that even a remote possibility), K's response was entirely and completely non-committal.

I was crushed.

To this day, I think I'm technically still waiting for him to get back to me.

The trip out of town next weekend was M3's idea to begin with, and although he had another destination initially in mind, he didn't hesitate for a second when I proposed we instead visit both the first and last place I've ever called home. Over dinner last night, I presented him with the weekend's itinerary. There'd be a surprise birthday party for a pal on Saturday and an intimate dinner with two or three other couples on Friday.

"I'll be auditioning for two straight days," he joked.

"Everyone will love you," I assured him.

And I meant it.

He unconditionally accepted my invitation.

Such Sweet Sorrow*

Standing barely a foot inside my front door yesterday evening, gazing with great anticipation upon one another for the first time in more than a week (the highlight of which featured one hell of a rollercoaster ride as M3 divulged his true post-breakup emotional state), he bestowed upon me the biggest, most boyish, endearing and utterly adorable grin for which I have ever been able to take personal responsibility in my entire existence.

We remained barely a foot inside my front door making out like teenagers for what felt like hours but really couldn't have been more than 15 minutes when we finally did stop to come up for air. In that instant, I genuinely thought that time might quite possibly have just stood still. Just then. Just for us.

Agreeing that leaving the premises for a meal was wise on a variety of accounts, M3 reached for my hand as we walked the 15 feet from my front door to the car.

We played footsie at dinner and drank many cocktails.

And shared an appetizer, a salad and an entree because when you live two hours apart and he just broke up with his girlfriend so even though you've been corresponding now for almost two months you've only managed 2.5 dates (he said last night counts as #2, I maintain it was #3, thus we're splitting the difference) yet you feel like you've known one another for a lifetime, the sharing of food somehow manages to take on an entirely unwarranted romantic affect of its very own.

And, with the exception of one single and brief foray into totally unnecessary and gratutious discussion of the fact that he and ex-girlfriend will be partaking in the same Superbowl festivities on Sunday (topic broached, natch, by yours truly), we were nothing but light and breezy.

And maybe a little bit drunkedy drunk.

Later, finding myself face to face with boy wearing an expression that defied explanation, I asked M3 what his problem was.

"You're so pretty."

(Oh, it gets better. Or I suppose worse, depending on your perspective.)

Later still, arms and legs tangled, his blue eyes twinkling as he soulfully, eagerly searched my own, M3 asked in the sweetest whisper...

"What did I do to deserve you?"

(You broke up with your girlfriend just like you said you would, found a new place to live just like you said you would, and you make me deliriously happy and content, just like I desperately hoped you would. That's what.)

And in that moment, overwhelmed by the if-it-was-anyone-else-I'd-so-be-gagging-right-now sincerity of this smart and sweet and witty and wonderful boy in my midst, and feeling feelings that I had entirely no right to be feeling on date 2.5, time lurched forward with a velocity and speed so great, it seemed to bring the dawn in barely an instant.

And with it, M3's departure.

*Line stolen from "morning after" email sent by M3 upon his return to his mid-sized city this a.m.. Email not being discussed at this time due to excessive volumes of overwhelmingly nauseating content already contained in the above post.

Three Birds In The Hand...(and I am *so* not finishing that adage)

I have at my disposal this evening not only my semi-frequent make-out companion otherwise known as J, the 26 year old, but also the 24 year old who "hit me up" a few weeks back via myspace with the irresistible offer of getting me tipsy (apparently via a game of flip cup, whatever the hell that is), letting my hair down, and losing my inhibitions while he's in town for a visit.

(I actually think he spelled it "loosing" but no matter. All women of a certain age know there's scientific evidence supporting the inverse relationship between the age and intelligence level of any given boy and his degree of desirability. I say, if they're dumb, at least let them be young.)

Thing is, while maybe seven or eight months ago, I'd have found it virtually impossible to believe that I could manage to date multiple people at once, let alone have my menu offerings at any given time include boys in their mid-20s, I could really give a rip right now either way.

Because two hours from now, M3's totally unexpected trek to my mid-sized town will come to a lusty, groping conclusion on my front porch.

Tonight will be our first face-to-face encounter since our much-anticipated and fan-freakin'-tastic reunion slash second date last week. And our first since he went to the very bad TMI place vis a vis his lingering swirl of emotions related to his breakup.

So, tonight, after we're done with the requisite initial-making-out portion of the evening, will we be able to regain our light and breezy footing despite having shared, divulged, proffered and admitted to feeling so much for one another so intensely, so soon?

And after we've inevitably failed in repeated efforts to leave the house to procure tangible sustenance, instead opting to lay in bed, limbs entwined, gazing nauseatingly into one another's eyes for another two to three hours, will we also be able to bite our respective tongues and somehow manage to not talk incessantly about his issues, how dangerous we both know it is to jump headlong into something so soon after the demise of his last relationship, and how that scares the living crap out of both of us?

[Lacing up the skates...]

Who the fuck cares, really?