We made plans for a second date. "What are some thoughts as to things to do?" he texted, feeding right into a major pet peeve of mine with dating Seattle men... You are the man. Take charge. Tell me where to meet and what time. Make a reservation. Buy tickets. I'll be there.
I didn't respond right away, and after a few hours he offered a suggestion: "I sometimes do a meditation thang on Sunday if you wanna."
Ahhhh, nothing makes for a better second date than sitting in silence with a large group of people. Yet as weird as the idea was, I was intrigued. I had never been on a meditation date, and options for activities are limited when dating a recovering alcoholic. Boring is a dealbreaker, and that he was not.
On a gorgeous Seattle Sunday afternoon, we met up at Cal Anderson Park pre-meditation to actually speak with each other. Conversation was easy, and it quickly turned sexual. "Let's see what questions I can ask you to try and make you feel uncomfortable," he challenged. "What's your favorite position?"
It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable, and that didn't even come close. I told him my favorite position, and he told me that it could be better modified with one leg over his shoulder. I laid down on my arms in the grass, and he said he liked the way my ass looked. This went on, for half an hour, back and forth, two people flirting and testing boundaries, of which we seemed to have few.
"I have an idea," I posed. "We clearly want to have sex with each other, so let's see if we can go ten minutes without talking about sex and we can figure out if we want to spend time with each other too." He agreed, and I set the timer on my phone.
A tortuous ten minutes passed and the timer went off. "Can we make out now?" he asked. We rolled on top of each other in the park, second daters in their early thirties, completely sober.
We never made it to meditation. I invited him back to my place to watch the sunset on the roof, and when he suggested I give him a blowjob I told him I didn't want to be intimate on the second date. He was respectful and said that was fine, then he came into my apartment and I changed my mind. We had sex on my bare mattress. I had underestimated my libido after three months of celibacy and had left my clean sheets in the laundry basket thinking I wouldn't need them until a third date. The chemistry couldn't wait for a well-made bed.
Yet something felt off the entire date. Chemistry is crucial for me, but it only takes dating so far. Red flags abounded, and I have dated enough to know not to ignore that sinking feeling in my chest that screams something isn't right. Maybe it was the alcoholism, or the dual diagnoses of bipolar and borderline personality disorder, or the fact that he said he'd had ten partners in the last three years and hadn't used a condom once. Or maybe, MAYBE, I am finally becoming wary of dating men that have criminal records. But when he left my apartment, I felt the same feeling that I've felt over and over again the last few years, with few exceptions.
Apathy. If he contacts me again, I'll see him. If he doesn't contact me again, I won't care. Two years of dating. Who is the crazy one?
I didn't respond right away, and after a few hours he offered a suggestion: "I sometimes do a meditation thang on Sunday if you wanna."
Ahhhh, nothing makes for a better second date than sitting in silence with a large group of people. Yet as weird as the idea was, I was intrigued. I had never been on a meditation date, and options for activities are limited when dating a recovering alcoholic. Boring is a dealbreaker, and that he was not.
On a gorgeous Seattle Sunday afternoon, we met up at Cal Anderson Park pre-meditation to actually speak with each other. Conversation was easy, and it quickly turned sexual. "Let's see what questions I can ask you to try and make you feel uncomfortable," he challenged. "What's your favorite position?"
It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable, and that didn't even come close. I told him my favorite position, and he told me that it could be better modified with one leg over his shoulder. I laid down on my arms in the grass, and he said he liked the way my ass looked. This went on, for half an hour, back and forth, two people flirting and testing boundaries, of which we seemed to have few.
"I have an idea," I posed. "We clearly want to have sex with each other, so let's see if we can go ten minutes without talking about sex and we can figure out if we want to spend time with each other too." He agreed, and I set the timer on my phone.
A tortuous ten minutes passed and the timer went off. "Can we make out now?" he asked. We rolled on top of each other in the park, second daters in their early thirties, completely sober.
We never made it to meditation. I invited him back to my place to watch the sunset on the roof, and when he suggested I give him a blowjob I told him I didn't want to be intimate on the second date. He was respectful and said that was fine, then he came into my apartment and I changed my mind. We had sex on my bare mattress. I had underestimated my libido after three months of celibacy and had left my clean sheets in the laundry basket thinking I wouldn't need them until a third date. The chemistry couldn't wait for a well-made bed.
Yet something felt off the entire date. Chemistry is crucial for me, but it only takes dating so far. Red flags abounded, and I have dated enough to know not to ignore that sinking feeling in my chest that screams something isn't right. Maybe it was the alcoholism, or the dual diagnoses of bipolar and borderline personality disorder, or the fact that he said he'd had ten partners in the last three years and hadn't used a condom once. Or maybe, MAYBE, I am finally becoming wary of dating men that have criminal records. But when he left my apartment, I felt the same feeling that I've felt over and over again the last few years, with few exceptions.
Apathy. If he contacts me again, I'll see him. If he doesn't contact me again, I won't care. Two years of dating. Who is the crazy one?
No comments:
Post a Comment