Shitting Where You Eat Part II, or Sometimes I Even Surprise Myself

Faithful readers of this blog may have been wondering what has been going on since my first encounter with Rule Breaker – you know, the married guy that I work with that I started fucking?  Yes, it’s still going on – and in full force.   I wish I could say that I had taken the high road and stopped it before things got complicated. But as I believe I may have mentioned, RB is human kryptonite to me – his mere presence makes my clothes fall off and a simple text from him can cause a full-body reaction.  So no.  I have not done the wise thing; I continue to take the lowest possible road in letting our affair continue.  He is gorgeous and smart and funny and confident and soulful.  I AM NOT MADE OF STONE. 

I am not going to share with you with the details of the weekend he came to stay with me during the Super Bowl. Because frankly, Reader, that weekend is mine.  It was that good. I don’t want to dissect it, because it feels like if I do, the magic will somehow siphon out of it.  So let’s just say, for the first time in a very long time, I let my heart open up all the way, and it was completely reciprocated.  I would not change a minute of that perfect weekend.  Not one.  In those few days, I had an amazing lover, friend, and partner in crime.  There was great fun, much talking, much drinking and hours of sex.  That’s it.  That’s all you get.

So.  

RB came to town recently to take one of our clients out (and to see me, I’d like to think).  He flew in and we, along with my boss and the client, went to a basketball game. I met him outside the bar where we were already posted up when he got to town, and he informs me that his hotel room has floor to ceiling windows that he will be pressing me up against later.  Instantly, I’m wet. FUCK.  We had a few drinks and then walked over to the basketball game.  My boss, who is lovely but a bit of a straight arrow, leaves in the middle of the game to handle a family issue.  This is great news, as the client that we are with is rather like RB and I in his proclivity for extreme fun.  So my boss leaving pretty much sounded the gun as the three of us were released from the gate. 

After some drinks at the game, I suggested, as classy girls do, that we go to a bar called the Tilted Kilt.  If you’re not familiar, this is a slightly upscale version of Hooters wherein the wait staff all wears short kilts and have their tits pushed up to the heavens.  The guys are thrilled by the idea, until they see the clientele – all men, of course.  It is a total dick farm, and if there is anything that you know about Rita and Stoney at this point, it is that we are straight up agriculturalists. 

At the behest of the client, we start to do grape vodka bombs.  This seems like an excellent idea for a Monday at 10:30, right?  We get trashed there, then head to another bar that is too quiet.  So I suggest going to the one strip club downtown – it’s been there since the dawn of time and is sort of quasi-respectable, as it mostly sees a clientele of businessmen from out of town.  And goddamn it if I’m not going to cement my reputation for being just one of the guys.

Of course the two of them appear pleasantly agreeable to this suggestion though I’m sure they want to fist pump and high five me.  The place is comprised of three round stages in the middle of the room, with seats right up against the stages and seats around the periphery of the room.  The guys choose a seat on the periphery and we sit down to watch.  I don’t have to tell you I’m not a prude, so I’m really enjoying myself.  I particularly like watching the men watching the women. 

RB buys me a lap dance, as I was hoping he would.  I choose a very cute girl with great boobs – hey, I have small ones so I’m sort of fascinated by the big ones.  RB and the client watch she and I with great interest.  Then RB gets a dance for himself –as one does at a strip club.  He chooses a girl and she beings to rub on him while I watch.  And suddenly my chest starts to burn, and I can’t breathe.  I am overcome with an intense need to get away from them.  So I stand up and stride to the bathroom, where I pace and stare at myself in the mirror, willing myself to pull it together.  What the fuck is going on here, Rita?  Why are you jealous of a stripper?  I wait a reasonable amount of time to go back out so that they are finished.  “Are you ok?” he asks with the hint of a smile.  “I’m ok.”  I reply.  He knows what just went down.

We are smashed at this point and it’s late, so we walk the client to his hotel and then head to RB’s hotel.  I have a sort of vague recollection of us touching in front of the client at some point during the evening.  Which is stupid as fuck, I realize, but the client works in another state all week and apparently has figured out what is up with RB and I anyway.  Not that it would take a rocket scientist at this point.  And as a pretty much golden rule now, I trust who RB trusts.  But it’s risky, I know – and I don’t have nearly as much to lose here.  RB sometimes slips into a lasseiz-faire attitude about us that I find interesting.  But fuck, I’m powerless to act in any rational way when I’m with this guy, so I get it. 

Per the seed he planted earlier, when we get to his room, I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window.  He turns me around and pushes me against it and starts to undress me.  When I am naked, he yanks my ass toward him and enters me.  Then it gets a little crazy.  It’s intense with him anyway, but this night is even more so – it’s been too long since we’ve fucked.  I let him put his dick pretty much anywhere he wants, and I do things to his ass that most guys wouldn’t probably want me to.  There is a giant mirror on the wall by the bed, so I have the best possible view of us fucking all night - as we did, until the wee hours.  It was dirty and it was amazing. 

The next morning, we have one last round of sex (with me riding him and watching myself in the mirror - you're welcome for the visual). Afterward, he mentions my tantrum at the strip club again with barely concelaed amusement – he says he hadn’t figured me for the jealous type.  I groan and crawl under the covers.  HUGE TACTICAL ERROR.  It feels like I blinked first, showed something that went way more emotional than I intended to go, ever intended to show to him.  Sometimes it's almost physically painful to keep my emotions under wraps when I'm around him, and I couldn't seem to supress it this time. If there’s one thing that I am terrified of, it’s being vulnerable, and I feel constantly vulnerable around him because I'm so ridiculously crazy about him.  He unseats me at every turn.  It makes me want to punch him sometimes.

We go to breakfast and get some things done for work together.  I enjoy doing these things with him just as much as I love his dick in my orifices.

And that, Reader, is that.  For now.  I continue to scheme for legit ways to see him and he makes it happen occasionally.  It’s always a guessing game with RB, but it’s fun and exciting and hot, and I get what I need when I see him.  And he leaves with a sore dick and a head full of things to think about when we’re on conference calls together.  This works for me.  

- Rita

Online Dating: The Real Life Version

A couple of weeks ago I went on two back-to-back dates from seemingly awesome guys from Plenty of Fish. Online they were almost exact opposites: one was a total hippie type that is obviously earthy while the other was an Irish hurling financier.  Again, taking a bullet for those single women out there trolling on any of the various dating sites (you guys can start sending me money any damn time for this painstaking research) I'm dredging through the sea of douchebaggery all in the name of this blog. Well...and in hopes of finding a potential mate or at least entertaining myself in the meantime.

The Breakdown

Date #1: The Bearded Hippie (BH)
So the long and short of our conversation online is that it was pretty damn awesome.  We have a lot in common: love for animals, attachment to family, passion of cooking, we both think I'm awesome. Blah Blah Blah. Listen, this guy is self-admittedly thinking that I am the coolest chick he's met on this stupid site that he doesn't even ask for a picture. And, no, I don't think he's crafty enough to use that as some sort of line.  I offer him one cause let's face it, I'm a shallow bitch and I'm not going to judge if he is too.  If he doesn't find me attractive, 1) he's fucking wrong or blind or 2) I just save myself the time and money involved in making myself all cute and shit and then going out with him.

All the same, he's sees a picture, fawns over me and we plan to meet for drinks a few days later. I go about my daily majestic life and eventually meet BH for a drink at a local brewery.  He's visibly nervous which is fine.  I'm in sales so not only am I good with strangers, I can talk to a fucking wall if need be.  We order some drinks and he starts asking questions about me. Endearing, right? He's curious. We chat for a bit. He pauses and makes a comment about how pretty my eyes are.  We chat for a bit more. He makes a comment about how pretty I am. He seems almost shocked.  We have great conversation and he starts stories with shit like: 'When I was back training dolphins..." and ends them with: "I didn't think that it would make me cry, but seriously? Have you ever seen a baby elephant up close?"  Ok, yea, most women would have run out screaming by now, but I'm a sucker for animal lovers. Whatever.  He suggests we go to dinner so obviously we are getting along great and he thinks so as well. We have dinner, more talk and lots of laughs.  He walks me to my car after a 7 hour first date.

See what fail to mention above is absolutely anything physical outside of the fact that he sports a beard.  BH is the same height as me (the actual version - flatfooted) and about 150lbs. So basically, he's really not a big guy. Some might even say tiny.  But I keep trying not rule out gentleman callers based on height. When I went on a date with a short dude awhile back, one of my friends asked if I was going to wear flats (mind you, outside of tennis shoes, I own exactly one fair of flats).  My response, "Fuck no. Are you serious?  Why would I pretend to be something I'm not? Which is 5'11" in heels."  I can't seem to get passed this with BH and he's nonchalantly asked me out again, but I haven't accepted. Shallow? Yea, probably but if I'm not attracted to him, why waste time...right?

Date #2: The Irish Hurler (IH)

The Irish Hurler is fucking awesome. On paper. He's sarcastic, witty and charming in writing. We exchange a dozen emails online and then he offers his phone number.  By all accounts, he's bad, beefy and well put together. He graduated with a double major in International Business and Finance and a minor in Japanese. (yea, I know, I questioned how he ended up on POF as well.  Especially without a shirtless self portrait taken in his mother's wallpapered bathroom).  So we arrange to meet for drinks.

We walk up to the restaurant, he gives me the once over and we walk in together and he barely says three words. He makes a meticulous decision about where we should sit and then proceeds to examine the menu with such intensity that I'm fairly certain he forgot that I was even there.  So, I start asking him questions (as one tends to do on a first date).  He seems almost off put that I am speaking to him while he is looking at the menu. What the fuck?

The short version is that I ask him a shit ton of questions, make remarks and witty commentary for two hours.  I listen to him drone on about Irish Hurling like it's the most interesting thing I've heard in my life, he talks about bad POF dates he's been on, he talks about his shitty divorce and how awesome he is a jiu jitsu. Two beers and dinner later, the check comes.  I throw down my credit card (which I've already pulled out of my purse because I am ready to bee line it for the door) and he throws his down too, "So you just want to split it then?"

After a couple of hours with me, this narcissistic monotone dicklick couldn't tell you one thing about me. Not one, I guarantee it.  Don't get me wrong here, again, I am in sales. I listen to people talk about themselves all day every day.  The difference is that someone pays me to do that, I'd rather not do it in my free time as well.

Honestly, looking back on the IH date, I'm thinking he knew right when he saw me that he wasn't interested.  He looked me up and down and stopped right on my tattoo.  I think this was a deal breaker for him.  Which is fine, just fucking tell me that before I spend $30 on fucking drinks and dinner over horrible company.  Is that too much to ask?

Needless to say, I hid my POF profile after these dates.  I'm still debating on going out with the hippie again. He was so much fun to hang out with and talk to surely I can get passed the tiny thing, right?

Rita read this and said I sound 'downtrodden.' After looking up what downtrodden meant (subjugated; oppressed. And then looking up what subjugated meant: to bring under control; conquer), I've decided that wasn't the right word to describe my feelings about these dates or this post.  Frankly, I'm just completely exhausted by the men I've been 'dating.' At this point, I feel like I've gone out with emotional clones and I should just expect to be disappointed by these men.  If they don't disappoint, I will then be pleasantly surprised.

In the meantime, I will continue to gather market research subjects elsewhere (read: NOT online dating sites).  And not to worry, all is not lost.  I didn't just sit around waiting for some awesome chain of events to satisfy myself after rewatching Wild Orchid (mmmm, young Mickey Rourke). Pshaw! Stay tuned for my next post: Shitting Where You Eat: The Restaurant Edition. Come to think of it...maybe that one needs a better title.

Additionally, Netflix Wild Orchid and then probably go ahead and put 9 1/2 Weeks in you queue too. You're welcome.

-Stoney.