Sunday Love Bites #1: Well, That Was Awkward

On Sundays, laziness usually overtakes me. I’m trying to write more frequently so, I thought I would try something new: Sunday Love bites: short, random musings on sex & romance usually written while I’m still in my pajamas. I’m hoping I can keep this up on a weekly basis, it will force me to keep things short & give me the opportunity tell stories that maybe don’t warrant a full length post.

{Today’s post is a little on the long side but, I thought I’d kick things off with a “bang” – pun intended}

Love Bite #1. “Well, that was awkward

I few weeks ago I went to Hemingway’s (a local bar) to meet up with Vanessa for an after work drink. Hemingway’s is the kind of bar that you really only go to for the following reasons:

1) You work in Yorkville (like I used to) & you want to get shit-faced after work but you don’t want to run into all your co-workers at the Pilot.

2) You’re using their conveniently located ATM machine that charges ridiculous service charges before moving on to somewhere cooler in Yorkville (because you’re too tipsy/lazy to use the real bank machines on Bloor St.)

3) You can’t really think of anywhere else to go. It’s close by. People know the place and you can always say “hey, at least we’re not hanging out at Remy‘s” (which, when it comes to cheesy Yorkville watering holes, is pretty much as bad as it gets. Unless of course you’re looking to hook up with over-tanned 40 year old guys who love Ed Hardy & wear pointy-toed shoes then, its a great place)

I was meeting Vanessa there for reason #3 – it was the first time we were hanging out and the bar is halfway between both of our offices. Because Hemingway’s prides itself on being one of the only bars in the area that doesn’t accept debit cards, after Vanessa and I had a nice visit I was forced to use their sketchy highway-robbery-omg-this-service-charge-is-totally-funding-organized-crime bank machine. While I was getting my cash, I thought of another time I used that bank machine.

Flashback tiiiiiiiiime!

It was the spring of 2004.

My friend and I had stopped at Hemingway’s to use the ATM machine before heading over to Babaluu’s to go dancing.

A few months prior, this friend and I had slept together ONCE. Then TWICE. This was the first time we were hanging out as “fully clothed friends” since getting it on.

The sexual tension in the air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I think we were both trying to play it off like nothing had happened and everything was cool. I know I was repeating the following mantra in my head:

fully clothed. just friends. fully clothed. just friends. FULLY CLOTHED.

That night I was wearing a really nice pair of black stiletto pumps. As I used the ATM machine, he waited behind me, a few feet away. Once I received my money and prepared to walk away, I realized that I couldn’t move. The heel of my shoe was stuck in the metal grate of a heating vent on the floor below the ATM machine.

Friend: Um, are you coming?

Me: I’m stuck.

Friend: What do you mean you’re stuck?

Me: I can’t move. My shoe is caught.

I kept on trying to move forward but I couldn’t. I took one more forceful lunge and BAMMO! Instead of freeing of shoe from the metal grate, I managed to free the metal grate from the floor. During the next few seconds that passed it felt like time temporarily stopped. I was standing there, just staring at my friend with a metal grate dangling from the heel of my shoe. I was looking at him, he was looking at me. I totally lost sight of my mantra. All I could think of was:

Oh my god. I know what his penis looks like.

A few months ago we were buck naked on the hood of a car.

I liked how his skin felt.

Penis! Penis! Penis!

He smells good. I wonder what cologne that is?

OH MY GOD I HAVE A FUCKING HEATING VENT STUCK TO MY FOOT.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Me: Um.

Friend: Err, let me help you with that.

We both bent down. I took off my shoe & we managed to dislodge my heel from the vent. We looked up at each other.

Friend: Wanna get out of here?

Me: Yes please.

What transpired after we left the bar- well, I’ll get to that later.

***

Back to a few weeks ago – after I got my cash from the ATM and I remembered this story, I looked down at my feet and smiled. In the spot where the heating vent was, someone had bolted down a sheet of corrugated metal. I guess the management finally took it upon themselves to prevent future awkward moments/law suits.

The moral of this story:

Sleeping with your friends can get awkward.

Stilettos and metal grates don’t mix.

Hemingway’s sucks (but, not as bad as Remy’s).

The end.

Happy Sunday!

(Anyone else have any “friends turned friends with benefits” awkward stories to share?)

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #2


Dear ______,

YOU’RE AN ALCOHOLIC.

There I said it. I probably should have told you that 10 years ago when I broke up with you but I didn’t. I’m sure by now someone has told you this. Or some other girl you’ve dated has tried to stage an intervention. Or you’ve figured it out on your own (I hope).

It feels a bit weird writing you a letter because I often wonder if you’d even remember me, like if we happened to run into each other on the street…or in the liquor store. If you need a bit of a refresher, here it is: I met you the summer of 2000 at a cheesy bar in my hometown. I was home for the summer, after my first school year in Toronto and was on the rebound from a bad relationship. I was out with my friend that night, soaking my troubles in whatever neon colored-tropical flavored-vodka infused bitch pop I was drinking that week. When I saw you, my first thought was that you were precisely the kind of guy I NEVER date. You looked like the stereotypical West Coast surfer dude (a look that seems to overpopulate my hometown): Yellowy bleach blond spiky hair, deep tan, Hawaiian shirt, pucca shell necklace. You also had these piercing ice blue eyes. When you looked at me with those eyes, I forgave the Hawaiian shirt. You were hot, in a “could be mistaken for a member of a late 90’s boy band” kind of way. I’ve always abhorred boy bands. So, the idea of dating you seemed kinky and exotic like dating the enemy. You also drove a truck, sold car parts for a living and enjoyed Bryan Adams. We had absolutely nothing in common. You were 25. I was 19. I decided that you would make the perfect summer fling.

A few nights later we went out on our first date. After a movie and some margaritas, we ended up back at your apartment. Once inside your place, you dimmed the lights, lit candles all over the apartment and spread a blanket on the floor of your living room. Sitting on the blanket together, you poured us two glasses of wine. After a few sips of wine we were making out on the blanket. When we started peeling off each others clothes, you paused, looked at me & my ivory colored skin and dark curly hair and said “Wow, I’ve never seen a girl without a suntan. You’re beautiful. Like a painting from the Renaissance. Like the Venus de Milo“. Then you said the words that every girl wants to hear “You deserve to be worshiped” (How do you say no to that?!). And that’s exactly what you did: you started at my feet, massaging them, sucking on each of my toes, kissing my ankles, allowing your tongue to travel up my calf…no body part was neglected that night as you worked your way back up to my lips to kiss me (much, much later). We never slept together that night but, I remember my back arching in pleasure as I came. hard. many times. on your living room floor. It was totally hot. It was exactly what my body needed. In the morning, I crept home with shaky legs on a multiple orgasm high.

Everything went downhill from there.

That many orgasms in one night can turn you into a bit of a dum-dum. I had a serious case of sexually transmitted stupidity. This explains dates #2-#5.

Date #2. A few days later I went back to your apartment. Everything looked different in the light of day, without the distraction of the margaritas, the candles, THE WINE, or your head between my legs. How did I not notice that your curtains were made of fabric printed with a Marijuana Leaf motif? Or the giant Marijuana Leaf FLAG on the living room wall? Or the creepy terrarium with the Lizard inside? Or the Star Wars paraphernalia? And how did I not notice the giant BONG on your coffee table? Or the other half dozen bongs all over the living room? Was this really the apartment of the guy I had shared Chardonnay and a candle-light pic-nic with just a few nights before?! When you caught me staring at the bong, you asked “Wanna take a hit off of my Old Lady?” (huh?). I politely declined. Despite growing up on the West Coast weed has never been my thing. You replied “Suit yourself! Don’t mind if I do!”. Then you dove face down into the bong. I sat on the couch, drinking the beer you had handed me (after mentioning you’d already had 6) and watched you orally pleasure your “Old Lady”. I would have preferred if you had been orally pleasuring me. But, like I said before I was 19 and a bit of a dum-dum. At this moment I was really turned off by you but then I thought of the orgasms (orgasms? bong? orgasms? bong?) and said to myself the thing that all 19 year-olds making bad dating choices say “I’m just going to see where this goes“. I dove down and took a hit off of the “Old Lady” and hoped for the best.

Date #3. I barely remember this date. What I do remember is that it involved another cheesy bar in my hometown, lots of Red Bull and an OBSCENE amount of Tequila. One moment we’re jumping around to Basement Jaxx, the next I’m outside in a parking lot watching you puke behind a parked car. At the time I thought “This is gross!” but the joke was on me. As soon as I got home, I was more sick than I have ever been in my life. ALL NIGHT. Scary sick. TMI: I threw up and threw up until I was just throwing up stomach acid and blood. I started to cry. My Mom completely freaked out (rightfully so) and got on the phone to the doctor’s office. She was convinced that I had an ulcer and a ‘very low alcohol tolerance’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her daughter had a bit of a substance abuse problem of her own.

To say I was slightly “troubled” at 19 would be putting it mildly. A lot of bad stuff had happened during my first semester of college. Traumatic stuff. Rather than really face what I was going through, I figured the best thing to do was to have as much fun as possible ALL THE TIME. I was all about “self-medicating”. When I would drink, I wouldn’t just have a few. I would drink to the point of oblivion where everything I felt didn’t matter anymore. Comfortably numb was my preferred state of being. I tried to explain this to you a few times but then realized that I couldn’t. I didn’t trust you enough to tell you about the things that had happened and why I was drinking in the first place. I couldn’t even admit these things to my best friends.

When I told you about throwing up blood you said,

“That happens to me all the time”

(what?!)

As messed up as I was, I knew that being around you wasn’t good for me. But, instead of walking away at that point (hey, remember those orgasms?!) I told myself two other lies that 19-year old dum-dums making bad decisions tell themselves:

Just because HE’S drinking, doesn’t mean I have to. Besides, maybe I can help him

Which brings us to date #4. I decided that I would plan a “sober” date for us (after date #3 I couldn’t even look at a bottle of liquor without feeling nauseous). I was house sitting for my Dad and decided to have all of my girlfriends over for dinner…and invite YOU to meet EVERYONE! You showed up bleary eyed, stumbling, WASTED, with a six pack. You proceeded to sit down in front of my Dad’s TV and drink six more beers. When my girlfriends went home, I suggested that maybe you should lie down for a bit and “sleep it off”. I went to go get something from the bathroom, when I came back into the room you had taken off all of your clothes and you were standing in the middle of the room STARK NAKED.

me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

At which point, you ran out of the room and puked in my Dad’s toilet.

As far as Summer Flings go, I was kind of hoping mine would be more along the lines of “Dirty Dancing” or “Blue Lagoon” (naked teens on a deserted island!). Instead, my summer romance had turned into “Leaving Las Vegas”.

When the amount of puke in a relationship outnumbers the amount of orgasms, that’s when you know its OVER….which totally doesn’t explain why there was a date#5.

For date #5, you asked me to the movies. Barring you managing to smuggle in a flask in the pocket of your Hawaiian shirt, I figured the movies were probably “safe”. When we arrived to the theater and you suggested we “Grab a Drink before the show”I knew it was now or never. I HAD to break-up with you. So, while we sat at the bar across the street from the movie theater, you nursing a Pint and me a tiny cup of coffee, I told you it was over. I wish I had told you the truth, that your drinking really bothered me. That I thought you needed help. But, I didn’t. I barely knew you. I don’t think I could have saved you. Not, when I needed saving myself. Instead I came up with some other bullshit reason for why I was breaking up with you: “Its not you…It’s me”

The fact of the matter was, it totally was you.

We never spoke after that night. A few months later, my best friend and I were driving through town. I looked out my window and saw you in the car next to us. Your head was hanging out of the passenger seat window. The only time I have ever leaned out of a car window like that is when I’ve had so much to drink that I am about to spill my guts. It was 2pm in the afternoon. I knew at that moment I had made the right decision.

You were a nice guy. A good-looking guy. A really good toe-sucker. We both needed help. I hope you’ve found that help. I hope you’re happy and in a good place now.

Love,

S.D

What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #1


Dear ________ ,

Originally I wasn’t going to write you a letter because our break-up was pretty cut and dry. You were too old for me. We were both at different points in our lives. When we broke up, we shook hands as friends and never spoke again. But here is what I should have said to you when I had the chance:

YOUR FRIENDS TOTALLY SUCK.

They’re pretentious. They’re elitist. They are total ASS-HATS.

Hanging out with them while we were dating was honestly one of the most painful experiences of my life. Don’t believe me? Let me refresh your memory. Here are a few things that happened while we were dating that convinced me your friends were douche-bags:

1. The Ikea incident: While we were dating I had to move apartments. Your best friend kindly volunteered to help me move. While you guys were moving you managed to break the legs off of my Ikea computer desk. When this happened, you and your friend started laughing.

Me: “You guys just broke my desk”
Your friend: “It was a crappy desk anyways. I think I just did you a favor. What is this.. Ikea?”
Me: “Yeah thanks. Now my desk has no legs”
Your friend: “You should really spend the money and buy better stuff Simone. Ikea is for low income people”

I really wanted to yell at your friend and say: I just graduated university and have 30K worth of debt. I AM LOW INCOME. And you just amputated my desk. ASSHOLE.

But I didn’t. I swallowed my feelings while you stood by idly, laughing with your friend as he made fun of my stuff. I should have broken up with you then.

2. The Wife: Your best friend’s wife is a total SHE-DOUCHE. I just had to put it out there. She’s one of the most controlling, competitive people I have ever met. I tried to be friends with her but it stopped being fun when I realized she tried to control every. single. social. situation. The worst was when we’d hang out with both of them and she’d pick these crazy fights with your best friend. They’d be swapping passive aggressive comments across the dinner table while we were held hostage, listening to this crap. It was seriously stuff right off of the pages of “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Wolf”. If I wanted to watch that, I’d rent the DVD. At least then I’d be allowed popcorn. The worst fight was definitely the one that took place at the Mexican restaurant. Between your friends embarrassing comments about how much they loved “ethnic food” and their public display of relationship problems, the staff was totally staring at our table. I just wanted to grab one of the oversize sombreros off of the wall so I could hide under it until this whole mess was over.

I know you found these fights totally awkward and inappropriate. But you never did or said anything.

The day I completely wrote your friend’s wife off as a SHE-DOUCHE was the night I showed up at your birthday toting my vintage Louis Vuitton bag. I had recently got my first “real job” and just felt like dressing up that night. As soon as she noticed the bag she was suddenly nicer to me than she had ever been. She pulled me aside and said condescendingly “Oh, Simone. Isn’t it nice to finally be able to buy nice things for yourself?“. Then, she held up her $700 pocket book and said “Welcome to the Club!“.

What I really should have said to her was this: The purse is three years old. I bought it with my own money (vintage). And despite being a CHARITY CASE in your eyes, I DO have nice things. I just don’t wear my nice things around you because frankly, you’re not worth it. And unlike you, I don’t need to rub these things in other people’s faces because my whole sense of worth isn’t built around what kind of monogram is on my purse. I actually feel really bad for you that this is how you see yourself and the world. Whatever “Club” you think you belong to, I’m not interested in joining.

3. The Hitler incident: This is what convinced me once and for all that your best friend was an asshole. We were driving through a “low income” area of Toronto that is known for its high density housing projects and large immigrant population. Your friend says,

“This neighborhood is disgusting. It doesn’t even deserve to exist”
Me: “I have friends who grew up around here”
Him: “Well, its disgusting. The city should just bulldoze the whole area”
Me: “Umm, I don’t think the residents would be too happy about that”
Him: “I would just round everyone up, put them on buses and ship them off to farms in the country. Maybe they’d learn how to become productive members of society”
Me: “Oh you mean sort of like how Hitler rounded up the Jews and sent them off somewhere?”

YEAH.


Your friend stared DAGGERS into my eyes. I’m pretty sure at that moment he hated me. And I hated him. That was also the moment I lost respect for you for not standing up against your friend’s obviously fucked up values.

You became an asshole by association.


4. The Trapeze: You and your best friend were really into Kite Surfing. My new boyfriend says that this “sport” is retarded and for pussies. I have to agree with him here. Because of your obsession with Kite surfing I will never, EVER date another guy who plays a sport that can have the prefix “XTREME” placed in front of it. I hated Kite Surfing because it totally monopolized our time together. One Friday night we went over to your friend’s house because he had set up a Trapeze swing in his loft that apparently simulated the “aerial movement” (?) of being on an actual board. I sat on the sofa, watching two 35 year old guys swing from one end of your friend’s loft to the other, like overgrown monkeys. Eventually I got so bored that I fell asleep sitting up. When I woke up, I looked at my phone and saw that 3 hours had passed. I don’t think you had even noticed that I was unconscious. I realized at this point that there wasn’t room for me in this bro-mance.

I never understood why you liked hanging out with these people so much. I always thought you were “different”. I thought you were better than all this. But, it can’t be denied that the people you choose to surround yourself with ARE a reflection on who you are and your values. You CHOSE to be these people’s friends. Looking back on you and me, I can now see how much of your friends values were your own.

I don’t think you really liked me for who I was. Not really.

There were many, many times where you criticized the way I dressed and the things I liked. You called them “tacky”. You thought I was too bright. Too glittery. My personality too brash. My hair too curly. My earrings too big. Around you, I toned down so much of myself just so that you and your friends wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I straightened my hair. I listened to my Roots CD in private (because you thought my music taste sucked.) I tried to become the white-washed-WASP-y-white-cotton-pantie-wearing-GAP-commercial-girl that you wanted. But it didn’t work. Because that’s not who I am. I will never be white cotton panties. I will always be leather and lace and garters and bright colors. And as much as YOU hated it I love animal print (in moderation.) I have Eastern European roots-wearing animal print is like my fucking birth-right.Deal with it. I love music with bass and dancing around the living room to Craig Mack with the volume cranked. Your comments hurt my feelings because when I met you, I was happy with who I was ( I still am). It was you who didn’t like who I was.

Honestly, I think you only stayed with me because you thought I was hot and liked fucking me. When I stopped wanting to fuck you, I think we both just decided to cut our losses.


But that’s OK. Water under the bridge. In the end we both wanted people that neither of us were. You wanted a girl that would stroke your ego. I wanted a guy who stood up for what he believed in. Neither of us got what we wanted from each other.

And I hated your friends.


That pretty much sums it up.

xox

Skinny Dip


What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?

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