After four years of writing my column and now this blog, which coincidentally is lovingly referred to as, “my little dog and pony show,” it should come as no surprise to anyone that I date a lot. In fact, I am a serial dater and unless there is a neon warning sign flashing out of my peripheral vision, I assume twenty to forty minutes alone in a public place over coffee or a cocktail might end in a full length column…or at the very least, an honorable mention in a future one.
Let’s face it, it takes a lot of effort to ask anyone out on a date and especially when the object of your affection has a public forum to complain about a potentially bad experience. That is, I suppose, a tremendous amount of pressure. When someone bravely saunters up to me at a bar, nightclub, restaurant, and even a gas station parking lot and should profess a willingness to spend time with me, as a general rule, I find it polite to graciously agree to their, often times shaky request.
Having stated this, I take for granted that most people read my column, digest every morsel of wisdom, and commit entire sections to memory.
...Ok, well that is a little too much to hope for, but I assume folks at least glance at it while they line their kitty litter or use it to wrap glasses as they move out of their apartment (or is some cases, get evicted).
My point is this; I write about my dating life, social circles, and even my friends dating lives. So should you haphazardly stumble like a bull in a china shop into my personal dating pool, odds are good that I may have to put you in the center ring of my little dog and pony show.
Which brings me to a date went on a couple months ago.
The first date lead into a second and even a third. However, there was no real connection and I didn’t see a long term relationship looming on our horizon, but the end of date kisses were well above PG and sometimes even bordering on NC17.
You simply cannot teach a good kiss, and once you find that rare person that excels in this talent, good night kisses tend to linger way past the time they’re supposed to end.
Because modesty is not a particular talent in which I possess, I can blatently make the proclamation that I am a great kisser. Next to making the perfect martini, I would say that kissing is my second most useful talent. But as great as the end of our evenings were, the beginnings, middles and in-betweens were as dull as butter knives.
It has been said, that all good things must come to an end, so nearing the end of one of our dates, I thought it time to drop the “F” bomb. Now that I have gotten your attention, with that last statement, I will ask you to unfold my column from that glass you’re wrapping and have a seat for what I’m about to explain. The “F” word to which I’m referring to is “friends.”
Once you date someone, why is it impossible for most to be friends after the relationship? For me, after dating someone two dates or twenty, I find it easy to make the switch from romance to a casual companionship. I have discovered that most do not share this philosophy. After someone’s tongue has been in my mouth, the least I could expect is a resemblance of cordiality if I stand behind them in the express line at Target.
After my date heard, in my opionion, one of my best, “It’s not you, it’s me, I think we should be friends” speeches, he actually taught me a lesson.
My lesson from this debacle is to make sure that if I am planning on dropping the “F” bomb while still on a date, then I'd better make sure that I am at least within walking distance to my loft or have a cab waiting nearby.
Your lesson should be to use an actual litter box liner instead of my column...it’s far more absorbent.
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