Do It Like a Dude

Last night I went on a date with The Bouncer. No, I'm not into him. I wasn't into him before when I was several beers in each time I saw him, and I definitely wasn't into him last night when I was sober. But he had nagged me over a long period of time (because apparently he doesn't realize that when a girl "drops off the face of the earth", it means she's not into you) and I'm apparently too nice. So I agreed thinking I'd at least get dinner out of it. I didn't even get dinner out of it?!?!? We split two (weak) appetizers at a place that took forever to get to because he insisted on driving but then got road rage when he couldn't find a parking spot. So unattractive. This is Boston, you don't need to drive!!! The worst part of dating is not the dealing-with-douchebags, it is the pretending-to-have-a-good-time, which is downright exhausting. And then when he dropped me off he seemed pissed as I got out of the car without kissing/inviting him in. Ugh. Move along, brother.

In other news, I'm still seeing Financial Frank. The birthday booty call was just the tip of the iceberg. Let me make one thing clear: Frank and I are just sleeping together. We've talked about how we're just sleeping together. We're both content with this arrangement and have said how we just need to be open and honest about the situation. He even said "No disappearing." That's right, we actually talked about our relationship. Mark this down as the first time ever that I actually know what the hell is going on in one of my relationships. We do enjoy sleeping together, we do actually enjoy spending time together in bed, but once I leave his house I don't talk to him for days. It's kind of, well, awesome. Of course, we are free to date other people but I couldn't be sure how I felt about this until he told me he was going on a date last week. Get this: I didn't care! Not even a hint of jealousy! Not even a saying-I-don't-care-but-then-actually-caring thing. I was actually in a really good mood after he confided this. I felt free, I felt liberated, I felt like a dude. Finally, I've figured out the secrets to casual sex. Finally! I'm an adult!

In the past, I've had to make some rules to get around this. A strict no cuddling rule (Conrad, get your hand off my leg!) was needed to not confuse me. But with Frank, we cuddle all the time. We talk, we cuddle, and then go another round. When I told Violet of this relationship she said, "wow, you're really not into him then." But that's not entirely true. He's a cool guy, he's fun, he makes me laugh, he's good in bed. The difference is, I don't want anything else from him. I'm completely satisfied with our relationship and want nothing more. We're not friends with benefits, because we're not friends. And until this totally backfires in my face (and yes, I realize that's a very real possibility), this may be the healthiest/ most honest relationship I've ever had.

Birthday booty called

Yesterday, I turned 26.  Not only did Violet send me an e-card, so did OkCupid (yes, I'm still on it, and details will be coming soon).  They sent me a picture of a cupcake.  They said, "Happy Birthday Grayer!  Still single?" Hence, the one lone cupcake.  They changed my age on OkCupid for me.  I'm no longer mid-twenties.  I'm mid-late twenties.  Ugh.  Is this a marketing strategy?  To remind patrons that they are older and still alone??  Thanks, I hadn't noticed.  Birthdays aren't as fun as they used to be, but before I get too wistful about my mom making me waffles for breakfast and bringing cupcakes into school, we must remember the single greatest birthday gift a singleton like myself can receive: Birthday Booty.

Yesterday was a normal day, except for the fact that I inexplicably woke up too early and my hair looked fantastic.  I worked a long ass day and came home with just enough time to be sung to over the phone by the parentals, before my guests arrived.  I decided against an obligatory dinner out with friends and instead chose to have a few girl friends over for a craft night.  An apron-making party.  (If you've never heard of this, it's because it's not a thing.  But I do highly recommend it). They brought me flowers and wine, I provided them with cute fabric and a pattern.  We went to work in my kitchen.  We worked and worked until it was suddenly 10:30 pm, we hadn't even started the sewing yet, and I had obligations to attend to.  I shooed them out of my house with promises of finishing later this week and made a mad dash to Financial Frank's.

When you show up at a guy's house at 11 pm, you're there for one thing and you both know it.  He however, was still watching the Bachelorette with his roommate (he lives with 3 girls, 3 hot girls).  I sat down with them and in 15 minutes I was sucked in and calling all men douchebags (Don't even get me started on Bentley!).   Frank was pleased that I could bond with his roommate via men-bashing, but also impressed that I think girls are idiots too (Honestly Ashley, you knew him for a week, stop crying already!).  We eventually got back to his room where he made all my birthday wishes come true.  Seriously, that was the one thing I wanted for my birthday and what I wanted from Financial Frank.   A booty call.  It's not slutty because it's my birthday.  Obviously.  And at least this year I won't be crippled with a hangover the next morning (although I did briefly fall asleep at work today, I had a really late night).

So here's to being 26.  May it be a year full of great hair days, fabulous crafty friends, and enough sober booty to go around.

Operation Papa Smurf

Back in the days before Vi has her Potential Actual Boyfriend / Actual Boyfriend / whatever his title is right now, she was on the lookout for a new booty call. As I was visiting her in the near future I decided, being the amazing friend that I am, that I would help her out with finding a new man to satisfy all her needs and desires. We named it Operation Papa Smurf. Why Operation Papa Smurf? Why not!

However, now that Vi has her Potential Actual Boyfriend / Actual Boyfriend / whatever his title is right now, Operation Papa Smurf has been put on the shelf to gather dust. This has to change, a plan with such a great name has to be put to good use. Enter Fen.

Ever since that random evening with Posh Work Guy he's been on my mind. A lot. Reassuringly, for my sanity, I haven't been thinking about him because I like him but because it's been awhile since I've had any action. And before anyone starts mentioning my sleepovers with McNerdy and indeed PWG a few weeks ago allow me to clarify: there's action and then there's action. Normally, going long periods of time without action doesn't bother me. Except something has snapped and I have now decided that I need action. Enter Posh Work Guy.

My problem is deciphering whether PWG is willing to be my booty call. I have to tread carefully here because I work with him and thus see him everyday. So embarrassing myself would be extra embarrassing. This means drunk texts are a no go area. And while having a similar "I shaved my legs for this" incident like Vi did would get the point across, if it went wrong I'd have to see him the next day. Tricky. I did take control of the situation by inviting him out for drinks on Friday which he had to decline but had a genuine reason and said that we should definitely reschedule, this seems like a good sign. My next plan is to see what happens next week, we have someone's leaving drinks after work. A little bit of alcohol always helps right?

Let Operation Papa Smurf commence!

Take advantage of me, dammit!

Oh, what a night. As I wrote yesterday, I was going to be spending the evening at a stripper retirement home. It was also the first time I would be seeing The Dark Horse since that nightmare of a morning just over a month ago. I didn't really think I was nervous about seeing him again until I met up with my roommate and a friend for drinks beforehand and they asked if I was nervous, since they were nervous for me. Thanks, guys.

I wasn't nervous, however, for three reasons:
1. I looked good. I even broke out the naughty boots, which I actually wear quite often, but they never fail. Black leather. Knee-high. Three-inch heel. Yowza.
2. My roommate and friend came along. That helped immensely.
3. I downed two vodka cranberries before we went.

Sure enough, when I saw The Dark Horse for the first time, things weren't awkward at all. It was part of the agreement that he was buying the drinks if I was showing up at a seedy place like that, so he immediately went to get me another vodka cranberry. It was served in a plastic cup. Classy.

I discovered that it would be entirely possible to go there and dance and never notice that there are strippers on the bar, but once you notice them, you can't help but stare. I quickly realized that if I worked there, I would be the hottest stripper in the joint. The first woman I saw had both a stomach and a vagina pooch. How it is possible to have a saggy vagina, I have no idea (apologies to anyone who is eating or has eaten anything in recent memory). Is this what the future holds? Another stripper was in her 60s. Seriously. I was waiting in line for the bathroom while she was in there, and she told anyone who would listen that she is 62. Wearing a Minnie Mouse costume. And the kicker: a woman with boobs to her belly button crushed a beer can between her boobs, then autographed it for one of the Dark Horses' friends. She crushed a can with her boobs! I wonder if I could do that...

At some point, the Dark Horse bought me another vodka cranberry-a mistake- and told me that I looked fantastic. (Mission: Accomplished) It was at about that point that I started to come on to the Dark Horse. HARD. It wasn't like that wasn't planned or anything, I had shaved my legs for the occasion, but the problem was that I actually told him that I had shaved my legs. He got the message loud and clear, and he was definitely interested. Problem was, he was worried about taking advantage of me. When my roommate left, I told him he had to walk me home, and he said that that was probably not a good idea.

He eventually succumbed to walking me home however, as I certainly shouldn't have been walking, completely hammered, at that time and place. (I mean, I live a block from this seedy strip joint.) On the way home, he told me that he is taking a break from the entire dating scene indefinitely, since he figured if he couldn't pull it together emotionally for me, then he wouldn't be able to pull it together for anyone else. I was extremely satisfied with this discovery.

When we got to my place, I walked up the stairs and realized he wasn't behind me. He was still standing on the sidewalk. "Aren't you coming up?" I asked. "Nope." So I walked back down to the sidewalk where he told me he didn't want to take advantage of me, no matter how many times I told him I wanted to be taken advantage of. Bah! Why can't I find scummier men who want to take advantage of me?

The conversation progressed into our future in booty calls, with the consensus that we are both game. He said he would remember that. He left. I went upstairs and drunk emailed Fenella.

It appears that I should be having a shitload of regrets and embarrassment this morning, but now he knows I'm game. And no, I don't have delusions of us getting back together. I'm not interested in an actual relationship with him. Too much baggage. Not enough devotion to yours truly. I'm over it, but a girl gets a craving for pistachio ice cream every now and then. (The good kind, of course.)

The Platonic Booty Call

Yes, that may sound like an oxymoron, but it's a life-saver, I've discovered. The Highlander and I dated for three months. Eventually, we were seeing each other 3-4 evenings a week. On top of that, I was working two nights a week, plus my weekly softball games. That didn't leave too many evenings of leisure time on my own. Cut to September. I'm no longer working two nights a week. Then I break up with the Highlander. Suddenly, I have an awful lot of evenings free.

Last night, I texted Scarlet and asked her to remind me of the perils of making a booty call. It wasn't necessarily that I needed the booty portion of the call, it was just the third straight night that I was home. I was really looking forward to playing softball tonight, and socializing with teammates (that includes Duke Logan, mind you), but the game was canceled due to torrential downpours. The moment I got word that there would be no softball, I immediately (and I do mean immediately) turned to McNerdy.

Over dinner, I was giving him the rundown on how I went from being only 10-20% to 100% single since the last time I saw him (which led to a conversation on "singleton statistics," more on that later), I mentioned the booty call. He asked if my calling him was a booty call, or more appropriately, a "company call." We decided that "company call" is more than a bit lame, and opted for "platonic booty call." Any platonic booty calls that cross the platonic line, are hereby known as "blown saves" on the stat sheet. Yes, we crack ourselves up. (And decided we needed to introduce this term to the rest of the world immediatly.) And no, this was not a blown save. When it comes to saves, McNerdy is 2008 Brad Lidge. He just doesn't blow them.