Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Concrete Jungle. Concrete Crotch.

You know it's taken a turn for the worse when your friends announce they'll be commandeering your dating life. They're pretty much saying, "You're embarrassing us, and if you don't kill yourself soon, we will." Actually, I think that's exactly what my friends said when it happened to me. I can't say I really blame them. 

The dating coup was decided over a fancy Restaurant Week dinner, the only kind of fine dining I could afford having spent all of my money at bars on putting-myself-out-there drinks. They realized it was time to step in once it was my turn for the "any special guy in your life" update. They had all just finished boasting about their seemingly wonderful relationships, and were horrified when I showed them a picture of a bar hook up that passed out on my couch before the hook up part of the deal ever happened. Apparently, this was the last men-in-Lily's-life overdose they could handle before staging an intervention.

Sure, it had been a while since I had been out on a real date. The dating world was apparently boycotting me as much as my vibrator, which had decided to go on strike right in the middle of my slump. Just because it had been a while (or forever) since I had a great guy in my life, didn't mean I was incapable of choosing the right men on my own. Or did it? Regardless, I gave in to their demands, and found myself six emails into an "Introduction - Lily/The Ted" conversation later that week. 

The banter was fueled by sports talk after my matchmaking friend, Cane, made it well-known that we were football rivals.  Historically, Cane had always refused to set people up so as to not disappoint on either end (she never disappoints as a drinking/judging/bitching buddy). For me and "The Ted," she decided to make an exception. Spoiler alert: she shouldn't have.

The thing is, I should've realized it wasn't going to end well when the scheduled steak dinner turned into happy hour drinks. There must be something about my email correspondence that screams "no self-respect" because he knew I wouldn't object to an excess of drinks replacing food. Fast forward a few hours and we were back at my apartment (high fives to my doorman on the way in - he always appreciates a fresh new face).

I didn't necessarily want to make out with him, but the Jameson convinced me it was better than the solo manual labor I would try for and undoubtedly fail at later. We found our way to my bed, which isn't difficult in a studio apartment. The floor would have worked just as well, but why make an already uncomfortable situation more so?

The kissing wasn't terrible, but it was only moistening one set of lips. As is typical with most bankers, his seductive talent lived only on the trading floor. My mind began wandering (and wondering) to the better days of hook ups. Would things ever live up to past excitements?  Gone were the college days where the beds weren't the only things that were extra-long. Gone were the juvenile, yet stimulating, high school days of sneaking out to head down the block giving the neighbors a show in the back of your hand-me-down car. Now all I had to show for myself (and the neighbors) was this average guy, his average kissing, his average penis (assuming the latter - and I'm probably being generous), and unfortunately some Concrete Crotch.

If you're wearing fairly tight jeans while reading this, you're at an advantage because you can follow along and experience this as you continue (I suggest against this if you are currently around children - pedophilia is frowned upon). When spreading your legs in tight jeans, you create a firm barrier that can form anywhere between two to four inches from your actual baby making parts. It is rock solid. Not even a karate chop could affect your situation (chopping being my favorite method of testing the concreteness).

Now, many guys fail to consider this when attempting to pleasure a woman. Either they don' t care or they don't care realize they're making a mistake.  While attempting dominance, they hover over you and spread your legs with theirs. You're wearing tight jeans and this spreading quickly creates a concrete barrier versus a preferred warm welcome (why didn't you just wear the sweatpants?) They put forth their best effort in clitoral stimulation, and it's all for naught as they remain two to four inches away from any vaginal (you're welcome) contact.

The Ted hit the Concrete Crotch as aggressively as Chad Johnson hit his wife (I wanted to go with a Chris Brown reference here, but I decided to attack it with current events). I was amused by his ignorance.  He really thought he was doing me a favor. "Please her and she'll please me." It's a standard misconception, and it should be renamed "Try and please her, she'll fake it for my sake, and she'll please me if I spend money on her."

I suppose I could have let him know the common mistake he was making, but his ignorance was the only thing that amused me at the time. If he couldn't find his way around a Concrete Crotch, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perform as I needed him to. It was finally time to cut him loose. I muttered, "I'm sorry, you have to go, I'm a lady," and escorted him out as he begrudgingly walked toward my door with a bewildered look on his face. I couldn't decipher whether his confusion was from me declaring myself a lady or me laughing and texting a backup mid-step.

The backup wasn't available, and sadly, I wasn't even in the mood to buzz one out (or my broken vibrator wasn't). A failed night in my eyes. It did teach me a lesson though: buy a dependable vibrator wear leggings more often on dates.

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