I’m back in Toronto. This is getting tricky. I’m scared that now, 45 dates in, I’m going to be recognized as “the blogger.” I’m like Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhattan, praying that nobody figures out she’s the maid. I have a new babe in my Tinder box. A Ralph Fiennes, if you will. I pray he doesn’t know the truth about me, cuz his tagline rocks.
If you have a cat, swipe left.
Bahahaha! I’m not a cat person either. I’ll snuggle my vibrator if I have to. It’s funner to feed. I write him within seconds of swiping right.
You had me at “hates cats.”
(Please don’t hate me ladies. It’s not like I’m pretending to know about football for a dude. I’m just in agreeance of a cat free life. I shed enough for one household.) He writes back fast.
Haha. You had me at “does slightly less crack than the mayor.” Nobody’s perfect, you know.
Bahahhaha! I’m so far from perfect. I’m like that parking spot you take that’s five miles away cuz it’s free.
That is right up my ally. When I fly from Pearson, I take the TTC.
As you should. Every time I decide to be a baller and take a cab home from Pearson, I have major regret once we’re pulling off the Allen, in that giant line of cars waiting to turn left on to Eglinton. It’s like paying for anxiety. I’m liking this guy, so I re-examine his profile pics again. I notice a similarity in our shots… (Don’t worry- it’s not the pink fedora.)
Is your last pic on Freemont Street?
Yes… yes it is. I think I actually like old Vegas more than the strip.
A man who KNOWS his Vegas! I like this. Staying on the strip is for tourists. Hitting up old Vegas, and the Double Down Saloon is for pros. We banter back and forth for a while until he finally asks me out. He gives me his number, and guess what? I actually give him mine too. (Not my usual rules.) We make plans, and then I tag the conversation with
And go Raptors! Woot Woot?
Then I write again,
Ooops! Typo alert. That was supposed to be an exclamation mark, not a question mark…
Without missing a beat, he writes,
I am really looking forward to tomorrow night?
Bahahaha! Nice. For a dude with a day job, he seems to have his “Yes, and…” improv skills down.
We meet at Barhop, on King West, which is totally one of my favourite spots. He suggests it. I could have said, “Actually, I’ve already had a date there- can we change it up for my blog?” But obviously, I haven’t told him about the blog. I’m still Jenny from the block. I get to the bar first. The bartender recognizes me, and we reacquaint ourselves. I get so nervous waiting for my date. He tells me he’ll still be in his work clothes. I tell him I’m wearing the only collared shirt I own.
He walks in, wearing a solid smile. I don’t know why some people don’t smile. People who smile are facking hot! WAY better looking than the alternative. It’s his first time here, so he tells the bartender he’ll have what I’m having. (He trusts my beer choices. Brownie points for sure. Plus, I will NOT steer him wrong.)
His shirt has pink around the collar. Is it weird that I like a man who’s not afraid to rock out some pink? He’s cute. For sure. I tell him his tagline made me laugh so hard, I had to write him first.
“I was writing YOU as your message came in!”
Sure, sure… (Well, that’s what I’m writing, but secretly, I believe him:)
The conversation is never ending. No lulls. I don’t even sneak away to the bathroom, to write things down. I’m totally in the moment. In fact, I’m actually on one of those dates where I’m holding in my pee for too long. I tell him some of my worst habits, like how I consider spicy salami, blue cheese and crackers dinner- it’s actually my favourite dinner.
I love blue cheese and salami! It’s MY favourite.
A man that loves stinky cheese! Amazing! I actually have white marks on my couch from all the blue cheese I’ve accidentally smeared everywhere. If you come over to my apartment, you would definitely think those marks were from something kinky, but I SWEAR they’re not.
There’s another thing about him that gets me excited- his extensive Seinfeld knowledge. I love some good Jerry references. Can you blame me? A man walks through the bar, trying to sell flowers. Oh God. Those people make me feel so uncomfortable. I don’t for one second want my date to think he has to buy me a flower. I have a line that I like to use when those people approach me. Ladies, feel free to use it:
“No thanks. I prefer oral.”
Flowers aren’t for everyone, yo. My date laughs, and even I get a little shy thinking that joke might have been too dirty for a first date with a dude in a suit. Oops. I recover by bringing the conversation back to my favourite kind of jokes- the self-deprecating material.
“So, tell me honestly. Do I actually look like my profile pictures? I know I only wear my glasses in one out of my five pictures, when in reality I wear my glasses ALL the time. My bad. But what do you think? How much do I actually match my profile?”
“Hmmm…. I’d give ya an 80%.”
Bahahahaha! I knew it. I’m just as guilty as all the other online daters. I should throw a shitty shot up on my profile, just to keep it real.
When it comes time for the bill, he insists on paying. I’m obviously Feminist Magoo, ready to pay my half, but he won’t let me. (Maybe he’s thanking me for repelling the flower man.) I finish my beer. He still has a third of a pint left.
“You’re gonna judge me for not finishing that, aren’t you?”
Obviously. He just gets me, you know? We walk out of the bar. It’s that awkward moment, where we say goodbye, or… do post public place activities. With the least amount of enthusiasm as possible, I say,
“Well, I should grab a cab…”
He takes my hand and grabs me for a hug.
“Well, it was great meeting you.”
I think he’s just gonna hug me, or maybe give me one of those fast kisses on the lips. The kind that platonic friends can get away with giving you, but then… it turns into full blown making out. I’m excited. It’s happening. And it’s happening in my own city. Why does this always freak me out more?
“Do you want to come over for one more drink?”
He stutters a bit on this next line.
“I have to warn you though… I just moved in, so my place is a bit of a mess.”
My old roommate Michelle and I used that line for a whole year.
“Well, I have to warn you I have Bloody Kitty, which is what I call my period. I probably just totally grossed you out, but I’m just letting you know that I’ll come up for one drink, but then I have to go.”
(If you’re a regular reader, you totally know my body’s schedule by now. Once every four blogs, Mother Nature curses a Tinder date.)
We both smile, and agree each other’s worries are actually “no worries.” As we walk by his door man (do I have that hooker look? I hope not,) my date does a double take.
“Wait, what did you call your period?”
I know, I know. I’m gross.
We get into his apartment, and immediately I know I’m not going home tonight. I mean, from an economical standpoint, it’s a waste of money to take a cab home, then waste a TTC token on the ride to work tomorrow. Not that saving money on transit is a reason to sleep over at a dude’s place. I’m just noting the fact that I can actually walk to work in the morning. I’m saving twenty bucks by staying over. (Please don’t ever consider me a role model.)
I ask him for pajama pants, and he manages to find me a nice plaid pair. (Plaid has been a theme, eh?) I change in the bathroom, offering even less kinky vibes. Why am I being such a prude? I don’t even have another drink. I have water! Who am I pretending to be right now, and why?
We spoon/snuggle the shit out of the night. I’m so self-conscious. He has his arm around me. I get scared my breathing might be annoying him. So I start monitoring my breathing, taking smaller, less noticeable breaths, which accidentally leads me to holding my breath, which leads me to needing to take deep, GIANT breaths. At this point, he probably thinks I’m having an asthma attack. What’s wrong with me? Why am I being such a weirdo? And why do I think somebody would be annoyed by me BREATHING?
I’m really not used to sleeping with people. Yes, once in a while, I sleep with someone. Post sex, it’s super easy to just pass out. You don’t even need to snuggle, cuz you already got all your touches out of the way for the night. But this guy, who matched my pajamas, piece for piece, and chatted with me all night with his arm around me, made me want to seem… innocent? He gave me boyfriend vibes. I can tell he makes a great boyfriend. Or maybe he just got out of a relationship, and is used to just chilling in bed with a girl. For some reason, I wanted to give him the impression I’m a “good girl,” even though I’m not so sure I am…
The next morning, I wake up still in his arms.
“How did you sleep?” He asks.
“Not bad for someone who’s not used to sleeping next to someone. Sorry. I know I tossed and turned a lot, going back and forth between spooning, and that “face in your chest” snuggle, whatever that’s called. How did you sleep?”
“Fine. Do you want an espresso?”
FACK yeah I want an espresso. I love it when dudes are nice hosts in the morning. Not a “well, I gotta work, so get moving” kind of vibe. I go back into the bathroom to change back into my clothes (again, not even a glimpse of me in a bra- SUCH a prude!) I joke that maybe I’ll leave an earring behind, so I have a reason to call him. He says,
“Well, we should definitely go out again.”
Cool. Next time I’ll remember to breathe in bed. When I’m all set to leave, he says,
“I’ll walk you out.”
He takes me to the elevator. We make out until it comes. We finally say goodbye. In the elevator ride, I’m really surprised I can still have after-sex hair, even though we only snuggled. As I walk by the concierge, he smiles at me. I want to scream, “Don’t give me that dirty devil smile. I don’t deserve it!” I was God damn Candace Cameron last night. I might as well have just pulled a bible out before we fell asleep. Who the fack was I up there? If that guy finds this blog, he’s gonna think,
“What the FUCK? She’s had a threesome? She gives blow jobs on her period? She banged a guy who took her to Ikea?!!!!”
Yep. You wouldn’t suspect ANY of those things from my behavior with him… (Though Ikea is kind of out of the way for somebody without a car. I hope he can understand that one…)
They say, “Nice guys finish last.” Oh man. They’re right. That guy was nothing but walking respect, and I acted like a nun. So if you’re out there, and you’re reading this…
I totally owe you a blow job.
Keep calm and Tinder on,
P.S. I met a girl whose name is actually Jennie Lopez this past weekend. This one’s for you, yo.
P.P.S. I know, I know! “Agreeance” isn’t really a word.
P.P.S.S. Bathroom graffiti is really taking a turn for the positive, eh?