The Big Ugly Blog is an honest and uncensored collection of anecdotes recounting the madcap shenanigans of a perpetually 39 year old divorcee, as she wades through the mire of the murky online dating pool - ravenously searching (evidently in vain) for the man of her dreams...Keep On Dreaming, Baby!


Saturday, April 24, 2010

A Real Nail-Biter

Not to spoil what could've been the surprise ending or anything, but I'm just dying to get something off my chest. Ok, so check this out...a few weeks ago, I went on not one but TWO dates, with a guy, who I actually found attractive and interesting...and believe it or not...I did not fuck him...or rather, I should say...he did not fuck ME...

Now, upon reviewing my pretty consistent track record lately, of screwing pretty much anything that moves, one might think that for me to grind my girl parts, deeply and mercilessly into some guy's kielbasa, through my jeans and his trousers, during a couple of separate, hours-long snog sessions...but to NOT do the dirty - should earn me some bragging rights, correct? So why is it then, that I interpret all of this as total date fail?...and definitely not some significant accomplishment...

Clearly the way that I define the basic concepts of what's "good" and what's "bad" and what's "right" and what's "wrong", these days - is a mite bit skewed. Cuz after my (comparatively speaking) decorous dates with the guy in question, I initially viewed the absence of premature, gnarly sex, as indicative of some sort of inadequacy on my part. Like, what was it about me, that had him slamming on the brakes just before getting all the way down my pants, and then adding insult to injury by sleeping next to me, fully clad? (Of course, the thought never crossed my mind, that he might just wanna take things slowly...)

But listen, before we delve ever deeper into that whole discussion, let's first examine another area where my perceptions have gone a bit awry, recently.

It has become glaringly apparent to me, that I should seriously consider having my age gauge calibrated. I mean...when I hear myself claim in all seriousness - that a man 7 years my junior, is actually an age-appropriate target, I know that something is definitely outta kilter.

Way back when Jimmy and I were first dating, I was admittedly hung up on the fact that he's 10 years younger than I am. He was, let us not forget, my first real (albeit accidental) stab at the cougar/cub relationship, and the stigma therein (among other things) took a little getting used to. To be perfectly honest - before Jimmy - my natural inclination had always been to gravitate towards older guys. My first (post-divorce) boyfriend of a year and a half, (who, incidentally I did ditch for Jimmy) - was 10 years my senior. And most every other guy that I dated before I was married, was substantially older than I.

It has in no way been an intentional effort on my part (over the last solid year) to stalk and be stalked by a veritable litter(?) of cubs...I swear! My sensible head tells me that it can't be instinctual, for a woman to adapt to such an unconventional form of dating (my body on the other hand, tells me something completely different) But I must far - this strange evolutionary process in which I've found myself naturally selecting absurdly young men - has worked out exquisitely, in more ways than one so far. The thing that I find kind of interesting though, is that 30 (Jimmy's age for part of the time that we were together) used to feel soooo dreadfully YOUNG to me...but now (years later) whenever I find myself chatting it up online with an early 30-something feller, I'm there like, "Ahhhh...FINALLY! Someone in my age range!"

No doubt, 30's is undeniably a whole lot older than the recent, average age of my escorts - which is something more in the neighborhood of 22 - 25. But per my own age of 39 (plus a few undisclosed extra years), early 30's is still realistically, for the most part...too young for me.

So...a few weeks ago, after making arrangements to meet an independent filmmaker with an appealing offbeat sense of style - I proudly announced to Willow - that I had a date lined up with a lad who wasn't too young, for once. "Well, how old is he?" she inquired skeptically. "HE'S 34!" I exclaimed........."Wuuull...yeah..." she weakly replied, "that is better I suppose...but it's still awfully young...for you...dontcha think?" "Oh, pshaw", I defended. "That's way better than my usual, you should be happy!"...and I flippantly skipped off to go get myself gussied up for a night on the town with...the Nail-Biter.

As I strode down the Old Town Mall, heading towards the bar where we'd decided to meet, I could hear the footsteps of someone walking not too terribly far behind me, and I just had this feeling that it was the Nail-Biter...but I did not turn around to look. I stopped at the door of the bar, and produced my i.d. for the bouncer, who very sweetly (but not so convincingly) feigned needing proof that I was of age, before he could let me enter the building...the dear thing. By this time, the person directly behind me in line had moved squarely into my personal space, and as I turned around to spy the encroacher, I was relieved to discover that it was my MAN for the night, the Nail-Biter...and yes, he had been the guy walking so closely behind me down the Mall.

I don't think that I've ever broken this down for you all before, but just so you know - there are 4 types of guys that I generally dig:

1.) the extreme athlete

2.) the man in uniform

3.) the intellectual/higher thinker and

4.) the artsy/rocker (or any combination thereof)

The Nail-Biter was the first fella that I've met out in a really long time, who fell within the artsy/rocker category. And I was all over that shit. He had a thick silver hoop in each ear, a spiky mess of dark hair, and an absolutely ambrosial visage with dark, riveting eyes set amid perfectly clear, creamy skin. He was tall and trim and I liked the unconventional (for this area) way that he dressed...sort of refined vintage. I immediately found him to be practically perfect, in every way.........uuuunTIIIIL...he reached for that glass of Cabernet as the waitress handed it to him (K for starters, what man drinks red wine at the bar on a Friday night?) and I noticed something that made me recoil and which simultaneously obliterated that stirrin' in my groin.......The man's fingernails were so badly gnawed that they actually looked like they hurt...I shit you not, the dude had self-mutilated his nails into virtual oblivion. I stifled the urge to gasp, "Ooh!...oh GOD!" and all I could think was, "How positively GROSS!"...

By now you guys know how I am about hands anyway...and so the thought of those jagged nubs caressing my delicate skin (ha!) was so dreadfully unappealing, that it was almost more than I could bear. But I put all that aside cuz I figured - "Eh, so his idea of partying is drinking red wine...and he's got some of the worst hands I've ever seen. But if these are his only real flaws...well then certainly I can find a way to manage, right? Cuz I mean the rest of him seems pretty good."

The problem with these mostly insignificant physical imperfections that I observe in my romantic interests though, is that I can ignore them for so long...but oftentimes - they become inexplicably magnified and can even develop into the very thing that (I sometimes let) rot the fruits of our passion. I can see it now...the Nail-Biter and I, several months deep - in a serious* and comfortable* relationship (*both of these I must admit, are qualities that can trigger my wandering eye...consider yourselves warned) are sitting down to dinner together, when he lifts his (situationally appropriate, this time) glass of red wine to meet his lips...but those nails...oh, how they SCREAM at me...and as a means of avoidance, my eyes go blank while my mind trails off to my dating days of yore...and suddenly, I find myself plotting my escape...

This sounds so cruel and insensitive, I KNOW! And lord knows I'm not proud of being such a superficial bitch. After all, I myself, have plenty wrong with the way that I look. The main difference though, is that the Nail-Biter's problem is the direct result of a nasty habit, which theoretically - he should be able to alter. It's not like some unfortunate malady with which he was born, and about which he can do literally nothing. His problem is the side effect of a choice...and knowing this makes me feel slightly less evil about my abrupt consternation and lingering hypercriticism...brought about by those hideous hands...

All right, moving on...So, after many a drink and a couple of bars, but before last call - the Nail-Biter and I decided to call it a night. We walked to my car and I drove him to his, but instead of saying "good-bye", we fucking made-out for like 3 hours in the cramped front seat of my cute little Datsun...I was on him like a turtle shell......that had somehow slipped from the back to the front. I dozed off once, and awoke in a sloppy pool of drool - my cheek fairly well glued to his shoulder...(way to go, dork)

Over the course of our hot and heavy suck-face fest (so very reminiscent of my early days of promiscuity) I had thrown it out as an option, that he was welcome to follow me back to my place, if that's what he wanted...OR not. And so after weighing the pros and cons of hooking-up or not, we finally concluded that to wait...would be better. We kissed goodnight, and as I drove home alone, I realized that I wasn't bummed at all that we'd behaved. I was kind of proud of myself and I couldn't WAIT to tell Willow that I had been a good girl...

The next afternoon, the Nail-Biter and I touched base with each other (yea!) and after deciding that he would join me and my friends over at my house, for drinks and an outdoor fire, he said that he had something to tell me...oh boy...

I was like, "Okaaaaay...?" He said, "So, I had this weird accident yesterday, before you and I went out, and it might make it difficult for us to "do it", tonight as we'd mentioned we might." I said, "Really? Go on..." and he proceeded to spew some wanky story about how he'd been playing on the trampoline with his nieces and nephews and that somehow he'd skidded out on the thing while they were playing "lion" or some shit, and he'd scuffed up his dick pretty bad............

I told him, "Oh, that's rush on the sex thing (lies)...but Jesus! You ok?" He told me that yeah, he was fine...but "it" was maybe too tender to put "it" through anything too rigorous.

And then it hit me, "Oh my god! Was I like KILLING you last night, that whole time I was on top of you?!"

He admitted, "A little, but it was fine"

Now, I have to say, that after some time had passed, his story just wasn't sitting right with me. I mean, why hadn't he said anything about it the night before, while I was relentlessly digging my crotch into his allegedly ailing loins...FOR HOURS?! And why did he even entertain the idea of coming back to my house with me, that night? Naturally, I first became paranoid that it had something to do with him not being fully attracted to me. But I had CLEARLY felt his attraction (if you know what I mean) for pretty much the entire three hours that I'd been riding him...I'm sorry, but to me - it was definitely sounding like some weird, weak excuse...and I wanted to get to the bottom of it...but I was too chicken to interrogate him, so instead I just went along with it.

Despite his unusual revelation, we did somehow manage to enjoy another night together (although there was this part of me that kept thinking, "What's the point in him being here, if we can't even have sex?"......I KNOW! Ain't I just AWFUL?!) This time though, our surroundings were far more comfortable than some dumb, downtown bar...the fire crackled, the cocktails flowed freely and the conversation amongst old friends and new, was quite spirited. And so sex or no sex, I was still glad that he'd stopped in...(that's the polite thing to say, right?)

After our other guest left, and Willow and M.C. Ginger scuttled off to go to bed over in my studio, the Nail-Biter motioned for me to come perch atop him again, as he reclined in a comfy outdoor chair. I mounted him gingerly, not wanting to exascerbate his injury(?) and we kissed...and other stuff...for awhile...

At first I was very mindful of his mystery wound, but as things heated up - my body overrode my brain and amnesia caused me to totally forget about being careful. Next thing I knew, I was working his joint with my stuff, in a manner that felt eerily similar to that ole "tying a knot in a cherry stem" trick...

And then, "Ding!" I remembered his fragile condition...and I realized that he was in no way showing signs of experiencing pain...

I asked him if I was hurting him, he said, "No" and so we resumed cornering the market of 1st and 2nd base...which does get old after awhile, hate to say. Cuz seriously, what's the point in heavy petting at all that, if you have no intentions of closing the deal, am I right? I guess because he seemed to have made such a miraculous recovery, I became hopeful that maybe...possibly...he was enough on the mend to finally cattle prod my ham wallet (props to Jimmy for that one)

We called it a night and retired to my bedroom, where I waited anxiously for him to make a move. But instead he rolled over...and we just lay there...on top of the covers...each still in our clothes...until we both finally fell asleep...*snore*

The next morning, Willow, M.C. Ginger, the Nail-Biter and I - sat out on my front porch, swilling coffee and tea - as we greeted a gloriously unseasonable, warm Spring day. Before very long, the Nail-Biter split, and it was THEN that I laid everything out for Willow and M.C. Ginger, so that they might help me to solve the riddle.

Obviously, I wasn't particularly stoked (although Willow was!) that for the second night in a row, the Nail-Biter and I had kept things to a bare physical minimum, especially since all indications were that there was nothing really wrong with his cock. I actually took offense to the fact that he was seemingly so disinterested in dipping his wick, damnit! Why was it ok for him to earnestly kiss and to ardently paw me, but then that was as far as he'd go? The three of us put our heads together and bandied a few theories about - but in the end, we were all left perplexed.

We considered the notion that maybe he wasn't all that well-endowed. But it sure had FELT like he was fine...down there...from what I could to tell. Someone suggested that he could've been gay. Yeah but...(unless it was a case of him not fully knowing it yet) why would he have bothered to join a hetorosexual dating site...or even gone out with a girl, for that matter? They were stumped...but I had another thought. I was hesitant to bring it up at first. Why? It maybe sounded mean? Hard to say...But I did eventually throw out the possibility that perhaps he was suffering from an outbreak of herpes, or had gonorrhea, or something - I don't know!

Honestly, convincing myself of such a (far-fetched?) idea was the perfect solution for taking the focus off of whatever problem the Nail-Biter might've actually had with me, thus effectively bandaging my damaged pride.

But you know what? As I read over what I've written here, a couple of things stand out as a little bit queer to me (beyond the whole weird weiner thing, which goes without saying) For one, a couple of days later when I purposely let his call go to voicemail, I knew right then that the thing with the Nail-Biter was officially dead in the water. And remarkably, after all of that drama over his hands, my loss of interest wound up having nothing to do with those horrific hooks which I'd originally predicted would be the sure ruin of us...nope - not at all. Instead I was pointing the finger of blame for our hastily terminated flirtation - on some mysterious part of his body...that had actually rejected me...

And second, it does kind of startle me to realize that I've become programmed to think, that if a guy doesn't fuck me on the first or at the very least - the second date, well then, he either isn't into me at all in that way (and why tha hell not?!) or else there is something physically wrong with him. When in all actuality, it is entirely possible that the Nail-Biter for example, is simply a gentleman and I should be grateful that he displayed such good manners. You'd think that NOT having sex on the first and second dates would've been a much needed feather in my cap...and not the thorn in my side that it became...

1 comment:

  1. Nail-Biter had a STD. That's the only explanation.

    Coincidentally (or not) My hands look pretty good but my feet are ugly!