Geographically Challenged

Hello again, and my apologies for my prolonged absence. Life does have a way of, well, getting in the way doesn't it?

So I'm finding myself once again up against my proclivity for "emotionally distant and geographically challenged" men. I don't know what it is, but the further a man lives from me the more interested in them I am. I believe I've already mentioned my New York Ex... well now I can add my London Infatuation.

While in the Caribbean on a very challenging co-production with a UK company, I found myself surrounded by Brits. Funny (and attractive) accents surrounded me on all sides, but I took it in stride, befriended the Brits, even started adopting their slang. (Although it sounds ridiculous to say "sodding" in a Canadian accent) In turn, I found I was adopted, made part of the family so to speak. I was so impressed by the talent and work ethic of the British crew, I was honoured to be an honourary member. We would all return from long shoot days to our luxury resort, eat gourmet food together, and drink rum punches until we could barely stand. It was heaven.

And then one night, it happened. I was minding my own business, drinking my face off in good company, when someone thought it would be funny to mock propose to me! Oh well, if that wasn't unsettling enough, one of my British pals decided he'd have none of it, and scooped me onto his lap, effectively staking his claim to my time and affection, assuming I would give it. Lucky for him, I find talent exceptionally sexy and I was amenable to the situation. Seven lovely nights spooning in a 5 star bed ensued, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

But then reality crashed on my head. The shoot ended, and we returned to our respective cities. Myself to Toronto, Him to London. Now the rational part of me understands this was a week of comfort in a strange land... two people thrown together who found common ground and shared interests and a certain amount of solace from a demanding job by litterally falling asleep in each other's arms. But the daydreamer in me... now she's dangerous.

She likes the exoticism. She likes the idea of pulling up stakes and running of to a new life, a new world. She likes the fairy tale. She likes it when the movies lie to her and tell her that these sorts of things always work out. Despite the fact that's she's quite painfully been proven wrong in the past.

So how do I deal with the daydreamer? How do I set her right? How do I tell her to let go of the fantasy and move on, find a nice local boy, have a real life right here, right now? I don't, I suppose... I let her dream, I indulge her star eyed optimism for a few weeks... and I keep her from sending ridiculous emails (honestly it's how the last one got started... I have no idea of the power of my own prose!) and I slowly let her let go... move on... find a nice local boy and build ridiculous fantasies around him... there was that cute bar owner a couple months back, maybe I can renew her interest in him?

A Blast from the Past... or We're only hurt by the ones we've loved

I received and email today from my oldest and dearest friend. We haven't spoken in a while, but she admitted something she felt she could only tell me. She had recently cyber stalked her ex boyfriend. She had followed a trail of face book breadcrumbs that had lead her to photos of him, his wife, their vacation in Mexico and their toy poodle. And she was ashamed. Also, she was karmically punished, as she literally ran into him while on a jog two days later. It has her spinning. Not because she's sad and alone, she's with a lovely guy in a committed relationship. But he's her ex. And he continued existing after they broke up.

Now cyber stalking is nothing unusual. I'll admit to more than my fair share of it. Despite the fact that my ex lives in not just another city, but another country, any time I feel the need to poke the wound I just need to load up his band's web page to see how he's living it up as a retro rock star in NYC... complete with celebrity guest stars. I won't lie, it's not comfortable... but somehow comforting... to see pictures of him rocking out onstage. It was one of his more sexy traits, the way the testosterone dripped off him when he sang... or was that just sweat. There is a slight perspective I've gained, but the pain is still there. A ghost of what it was... they way it feels when you run your finger over scar tissue. You can't feel it, but you can. The sensation is unique and almost indescribable.

And THE Ex isn't the only way I can poke at old wounds. There's a rotating list of ones that got away. The too young for me guy from university... sweet, goofy, and not quite grown into himself... who years later reappeared as a muscular, suave geologist... a geologist that I let get away- twice. The guy I glanced at once across the room at a friend's party who married into the group and is expecting his first child. The guy I could have had an affair with if I didn't have scruples about that. Even guys I've tossed aside as not worthy, not up to snuff... they all find their partner, settle down, go about their lives.

Somehow I want them to stop existing when they leave my world. There is something supremely disconcerting when the specters of the past reappear... especially when they are the ghosts of what could have been. Honestly, it doesn't even help when I'm besotted with another at the time. I've had the privilege of introducing my (much more handsome, well built and successful) current boyfriend to an old flame. It tastes like victory, only stale... or with some sort of aftertaste.... of what could have been.

The truth is, I've never been completely able to remove someone from my heart once I've found them a place. They may move out, but their presence is forever stamped there... a song, a favorite food, silly rituals, the weight of their arm around your waist. Black Russians, Eggs in the Morning, Convertibles on a Summer Highway, New York City... they all connect back to someone, somewhere. A someone who didn't cease to exist when he left your world, or you kicked him out... a someone who still has a life that goes on and changes and evolves. A life with his wife, his vacation, and his stupid little dog. All you can hope is that when he runs a finger over the scar that is you, he feels something strange and altogether indescribable too.

The Worst

It was a dark and stormy night when I experienced the horror that came to be known as THE ONE EYED SQUISHER.

Gather round children as I tell the tale of an unsuspecting young woman and the ghastly occurrence of the worst sex of her life. It all started so pleasantly, but it all went horribly horribly wrong.

The woman met a man. Tall, handsome, with a rakish eye patch that made her think of dashing pirates and romance novels, he beguiled her with his humour and self confidence. They played pool, he winning her phone number by winning the game. The met again, chemistry ignited, and though they did not consumate their relationship, they stoked each other's fires for yet another meeting. On the third meeting, they met, drank, flirted, touched, walked drunkenly through the streets and made out like teenagers on the porch. It rained, heavy pouring sheets of water.

"I can't make you walk home in this," she smirked, "You'll have to come inside."

Once inside things heated up. Hands and lips and clothing flying everywhere.

"Safety first," and the condom went on.

That's when everything went wrong.

Climbing on top of her, he settled his entire weight, all 200lbs of himself, directly onto her. No supporting his weight with knees and arms, just lying completely on top of her. Already the woman was uncomfortable, being nearly half his size, she was pinned, and having trouble breathing, but things were about to get so very much worse. The thrusting began, his hip bones jamming painfully into her soft thighs bruises forming instantly. Something internal was being poked awkwardly and she was unable to shift position at all. It continued like this for a blessedly short amount of time. And then it was over.

As she lay there, counting her bruises and checking for compression fractures on her ribs, the woman wondered How can someone be so good at foreplay and so very, very bad at sex? It was a mystery. She contemplated that he was perhaps a little drunk, so she decided to give him a second chance in the morning. That did not go any better.

How on earth can someone manage to squish you from the spoon position?!?! No one is even on top of anyone!

Not one to give up easily, and believing that everyone can be taught a few tricks, she gave it one more chance. Another night altogether would surely go more smoothly.

Unfortunately for her...

Seriously? You can be squished from behind AND standing?!?! How is that even possible?

He was completely untrainable, and worse yet, seemed not only to be unaware of his squishing propensity, but to be unwilling to change.

The truth had to be faced. She had met the dreadful One Eyed Squisher. All she could do was walk away...

And dear reader, lest you think that is the end of the tale, listen closely as I tell you the anti-mating call of the dreaded Squisher...

When the woman tried to meet up with the Squisher, with the sole purpose of ending their brief relationship maturely and in person, she received a voice message, rambling, drunken, and over five minutes long, explaining how he was a drunk, the economy was down, and that he wasn't over his ex yet (lucky girl or she'd be squished), and that it wasn't her it was him.

How right he was, children, how very right he was.

3 Dimensional Shift

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'm sizeist.... heightist, weightist, even a little lookist... Yes, I admit it. When it comes to men, I'm a little bit... prejudiced.

It's not that if a man was otherwise fantastic, I'd completely write him off if he were, say, 5'7" (my height) or 125 pounds (my weight) but I'm going to be honest, I'm just more attracted to men who are taller and more... substantial... than myself. I like to wear heels. I think it's weird if I have to bend down to kiss my date. And I'm a fairly skinny chick, my guy shouldn't make me look big!

I know! I know! I can hear you already. Up in arms over the way I judge men.

"How would you like it if men judged you like that?!" you cry.

"That's so shallow!" you (pre)judge.

Well, tough.

First of all, I don't like it when men judge me, or my friends, based on physical factors. But it happens, and it's natural. If a guy doesn't like me because I'm too tall for his tastes, or too curvy, or too thin, my skin is fair and freckled or my hair is the wrong colour, so what? If I'm awesome, he may get past it... or he may not. And if he doesn't get past it, someone else will see how awesome AND how hot I am and there won't be a compromise.

The same goes for my prejudices.

I've dated short before. It was actually him who had more of a problem with our heights being the same. He was a good looking guy, well built, and gainfully employed. He was often sweet and funny, but just as often sort of rough and off putting. In the end it was just our personalities that drove us apart. He saw me as some sort of "artsy brainer" oddity, and that made me see him as a "wall street jock".

And he was so damned short it was like being made out with by an italian leprechan!

In all seriousness, you can try to change what you find attractive, and you may surprise yourself by what REALLY does attract you in the end. If the chemistry is there, you may not care that he's going bald or has a paunch, or that she's not a blonde. But maybe you will. You'll never know unless you try, but don't beat yourself up if you just can't get past it.

Attraction is a multi dimensional thing... and sometimes you just can't make a dimensional shift.

The Case of the Missing Man... or Why Men Just Disappear.

One Week.

That's all it takes to go from cautious optimism to embarrassed defeat. And the worst part is you never know what happened. He just disappears.

We've all been there. One good date is a fluke. Two is a blessing. Fantastic good night kisses, the kind that shouldn't be indulged if one party has no intention of seeing the other again. You're beginning to give the butterflies in your stomach a little free reign, starting to think "Hey, I could like this guy"

And then the communication stops. He doesn't call, he doesn't return texts. He simply ceases to exist in any tangible form you can access. He has become a foggy dream that is starting to feel like an uneasy nightmare. The only blessing is the fact that it was only two dates, and you managed to keep your feelings in check. If it had been four, or even three dates, the emotional fallout could have been much worse.

As it stands, you will be fine.

But it's impossible not to feel the slight disappointment, the sharp reminder that someone has found you not worth the trouble of seeing again, much less giving you a moment's thought afterwords. You are trying not to be hurt.

The truth is that it's the simple cessation of contact that is the most irksome. And the knowledge that if you persist with trying to break through the radio silence that you risk looking "desperate" or "pathetic", but you somehow hold on to the idea that perhaps he didn't get the message... or he lost your number? or he's just holding back and playing hard to get?

And the worst part is you know you've done the same thing to others before... that karmically speaking you deserve it... So really you know you should just shut up and take it. But you don't want to. You're fighting the urge to send one more text. The question is... what response do you expect? And if there is no response again, will that just make it worse?

So do you send that text, leave that one message... or do you put down the phone and walk away?

I am naked in a book...

Let me tell you this is not an easy subject to broach... with anyone... family, friends, co-workers... much less a potential boyfriend.

I figured the best way to handle it, and the possible fall out was to hit it head on. After all, it's not something I'm embarrassed or ashamed of, and if he's going to be, well best we all know now. In all fairness he's the one who brought up skeletons in the closet. I believe the term "Charged but never convicted" was used. So I figured it might be okay to bring up my presence in an art photography book... naked. Granted it was a second date, and maybe telling someone you've stripped down for art that early is like saying "I love you" too soon, but I took a chance.

On the surface it was well recieved... not even a cheap leer or request to see it. He said "Well, it's art." I thought it went over well. But it still wasn't easy to spit out. And later, as we walked along the street and ran into people he knew, I wonder if it began to sink in with him.

This girl is naked in a coffee table book. Some people here will probably see it. Maybe some
of them have seen it already.

It's like how the dream of dating a stripper or porn star is not quite the same when you realize that everyone has seen what you're seeing. Some people just can't handle it. Have you ever seen the look in a man's eyes when he meets someone his girl has slept with? It's this moment where he realizes that someone else has seen his prize.

Now it's the modern age, and few of us are naive enough to think that our partners have not been naked with other people. But the truth remains, we don't like to be reminded of it. No one likes the evidence staring them in the face.

Do I think I made a mistake? No. The photographer is extremely talented, the photo striking, and my dignity intact. Do I think it's something I might hold back a little while longer on the list of confessions? Maybe. At least until I think he's kinda hooked, so there's something at stake for him if he panics about it.

In the end, though, if he can't handle the truth, then it's best to know as early as possible.

The Little Carnivore Takes Another Bite...

Throwing caution to the wind the Little Carnivore decided to meet the Quiet Vegetarian for a late evening drink. They had both spent the day with Sibling Offspring, and were ready to be civilized city dwellers having a couple drinks in the vibrant city scape. After a rain canceled motor cycle ride (more on whether Vegetarians should own motorcycles later), and a rain check on intimate scotch drinking (it was after all, a second date), a bar was chosen, and the Gastronomically challenged couple met.

Thankfully the Q.V. took the lead, conversationally speaking, much to the relief of a once again nervous Carnivore. Good conversation, and a couple Coronoas later, it was time to call it a night and begin the walk home. The Carnivore was relieved to find that he seemed to have every intention of walking her home. A very busy queen street and the Vegetarian's rather large acquaintance base seemed to have other plans. Every five feet it seemed they were stopped by someone who knew him. Brave faced, the Carnivore smiled and nodded her way through conversations that did, in the end, shed some small light on the man she was spending her time with. And to her relief she also ran into a friend that night, so she felt somewhat hip and cool.

Finally extricating themselves from the chatty hipsters, they continued on their way... as raindrops began to fall...

"I like when it rains on my way home" she said.

He smiled.

They walked.

They arrived at the Little Carnivore's home. She turned to him, expectantly, and smiled thinking:

Damn does that boy know how to kiss a girl goodnight... and the best part is it's totally respectful...no hands where they shouldn't be but in all the best ways....
like firm on my back, gently on my neck and wrapped in my hair...
and no drool... and perfect tongue... and tmi... but seriously... just for the kissing i'd go round three

And then he pulls away and puts his hands just there on her waist and says

"Sleep well"

And the Carnivore nods because she can't make words...

And then they're kissing again until he pulls away once more saying;

"Sleep well."

She nods again because words are slippery and she can't find them

L.C. gives him one quick kiss and walks away.

*sigh*


I'll just keep dating him I suspect
Until it all makes sense and I either love him or hate him.