In the interest of fair debate, here, in its entirely is Katie's point of view recollection of our "casual encounter" as detailed in my two part series that precedes this post. And I'm even so generous as to not cut her off. Told you she could ramble as well as I can...
it started out the typical way. iming various pervy, "send me your pubic hair" posts back and forth with a friend. then i read dante's post which was a welcome break from the skeevy fetishists and sounded relatively sane. much more sane than one would expect on craigslist. i was feeling particularly lonely and particularly commitment-phobic so i responded with a similar list of 10 of my own and figured his response would be less intelligent, funny, and thoughtful and more "send me clippings of your pubic hair mixed with ketchup". unfortunately, it was brilliant, hilarious, and pensive. so i googled him like any self-respecting woman does in this day and age and found his blog, realizing that no, he's actually quite a creepy person and probably watches csi to laugh at the amateurs. i crafted what was intended to be a snarky response but ended up digressing myself with my own long winded verbosity.
so. over two weeks, 20 emails (20 emails?!), and a foolproof plan involving four friends in three separate states, i assured myself that the odds of becoming the next ripped from the headlines episode of law and order were tolerable. i told him to meet me at 1100 in the arena district at a low key bar designed for such tawdry trysts. of course, that was the night that all the middle aged, former hippies came out to play creating a loud, crowded, not at all low key atmosphere. so i left at 1110. yes, i know i told you 1115. what are you going to do? refuse to fuck me?
i came home and explained the situation to my friends. being nicer than i am, they pointed out that since it was late on a saturday night in the arena district, traffic was likely a bitch and he couldn't find a spot to park and i should have at least waited 30-45 minutes. in the comfort of my own home while wearing fuzzy slippers instead of four inch heels, i could admit to them that i might have acted a touch hasty in leaving. but i'd be a disgrace to my gender if i wasn't able to spin the entire evening to make it all his fault.
after only ten words:
wow. you sure fooled me. i actually showed up. whatever.
as you can see:
"Anyway, I do suck and you don't have to grant me anything except to believe that I had no intention of standing you up, or being late, or otherwise fucking up your Saturday night. Any degree of forgiveness would be great, but I think your "whatever" is likely a justified final word in the matter."
i succeeded.
so i wrote back to cut through the shit and say that after two weeks and a failed attempt to meet, it's ridiculous to continue as we had been. it may not have been the most erotic thing he's ever read, but honestly dante, would you have preferred to jack off to my email or actually come over to fuck me? ........... actually, don't answer that. so i gave him my number, told him to call me, and we'll see what happens. so he called. and since his voice didn't sound anything like a ketchup and pubic hair masturbater, i gave him my address, called my friends, and grabbed a bottle of vodka that i proceeded to consume while getting dressed and being berated by my friends.
so, he came over and we quickly realized that the combined strength of our will wasn't enough to force the sun to set at noon. and even though talking politics is the equivalent of talking dirty to me, the silliness of the situation just wasn't making me hot. now, granted i was pretty inebriated, and dante insists that this is an indication that my memory of the day won't be as crystal clear as his faulty memory, but i do remember that he was the whining about being sober. i perked right up with an offer of rot-gut vodka. three or four shots later, i did not say "this is as drunk as i'm going to get, so this is your last chance" and he did not "flinch" or "try to get comfortable". what happened is that i sat down and said "wow, i'm drunk" and he said "finally" and then grabbed me and started kissing me. i remember this because in my drunken frame of mind i thought that was a little shady and was going to shove him away. but, ahem, i opted against that course of action.
i'm sure most women will commiserate on some level the apprehension to allow a man you've just met to take a glance at your cellulite ridden, non waxed butt in the unforgiving light of day. however, now that the entire internet is under the impression that i'm a boring lay with mundane body image problems, it's unlikely that you'll need to worry about my quirks, anal or otherwise.
Alright, we'll have to agree to disagree as to who kissed whom first. I will concede that I made the motion for alcohol. And to be fair, I thought "wow I'm drunk" was Katie being sarcastically cute and trying to get something to happen--not honesty brought on by a third of a bottle of vodka. Maybe I was going for a hug, saw a vulnerability and made a move. I do remember that once we locked lips I was pretty determined not to let go until we were well underway, lest she realized how ridiculous the whole situation was. By the way, Katie is not and was not a boring lay, nor does she have body image problem, lest there was any confusion. And she's got a cute butt, shaved or otherwise.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
A casual encounter--seriously! Part II
The Internet is full of sex. That's what it's for. But can you use it to actually get some? That was my experiment. And when I last left off (Part I) I had seemingly missed my chance. I had meant to post part II right afterwards, but I've been far too busy having sex. And while Katie is a pretty good sport about most everything I've subjected her to, she's pretty adamant about me not blogging during sex. I can't even briefly check my mail on the laptop while she's going down. Consequently I've had to chose between the internet and sex, and while there's rapidly less and less that the internet can't replace, I'm less optimistic in my waiting on my 1990's promise from Dennis Miller:
Sunday, February 12 I wake up mid-morning after having gone out to a bar for a casual encounter that did not come to pass. I finish up the last 20 pages of "Life of Pi" and trying to decide whether there's something compelling me to get out of bed. There really isn't, but I'd drug my laptop to bed with me the night before to write Katie her apology for having inadvertently stood her up. So I decided to check to see if I got a response. For better or worse I had. It was neither forgiving nor accusatory nor reconciliatory nor anything useful. It was in summary this:
The plus side to meeting your potential insignificant other during the daylight is, as Katie pointed out, that CSI cases don't take place during the day. The downside, as became glaringly apparent throughout our encounter, is that the goddamn sun is shining. Now I don't know what your experience with blind dates is, but there is virtually nothing you can do to get around the fact that it will be really awkward. This was the first time for me to be on a casual encounter (well, a planned one). It was her first blind date ever. So how do we meet? I have to phone her to come out to my car because the visitor code on the gate won't work and then drive her in the Ohio cold back to her apartment. Really hot.
So we're sitting on the couch discussing Ohio politics, what we want to be when we grow up, and generic small talk. It's fun, but palpable sexual tension doesn't quite describe it. Again, the daylight didn't help. Then there's the issue of the fact that we were completely sober. Don't get me wrong, Katie's a cutie and I'm... uhm, fairly tall.
Unable to block out the sun, we attacked problem #2 with shots of cheap vodka while we talked. Aside from the problems aforementioned we were developing another one; we sorta liked each other. Not a liability, per se, but not very conducive for casual sex. Time was running out as her meeting for work was looming. We were very awkwardly cuddled on the couch and on our third shot of vodka. I'm not quite sure the direct quote, but her sentiments were something to the effect of "this is as drunk as I'm going to get, so this is your last chance to make anything happen." I think I flinched, or maybe was trying to get comfortable on the couch. Whatever it was, she was moving my way, so we hit face to face and started making out.
Not to "yada yada yada" through the sex, but it's not as if anything ever works well enough to commit the script to memory. It was good fun: nervous anticipation of kissing, stripping a partner's layer, kissing some more, repeat until naked. Nothing kinky, nothing to throw anyone for a loop, nothing out of a traditional order, and nothing that would cause anyone to flip out. That said she only flipped out a little.
She was, by her own admission, fearful of anal sex. Fair enough, it's never really appealed to me either. But now it appeared to extend to an entire fear of me catching a glimpse of her butt. Oh well, a few little quirks are cute. Anyway, we were having sex missionary position, the theme of the afternoon being nothing that would offend the sexual sensibilities of a devout Catholic (other than the random hook-up of two people who'd formally met 90 minutes prior). At some point however, she'd suddenly hit her limit and threw on the brakes mid-coitus. Not that the sex was bad, or at least that wasn't her complaint, but had just sobered up too much and was dismayed by the ridiculous situation she'd found herself in. (I would later find out that she'd finished off 1/3 of a bottle herself before I'd opened the door.) We stopped short, put on some pants (our own pants even... still keeping things customary), and went back in the living room to see what we could make of the mid-afternoon.
Sobered up and settled down, we decided that the sex was at least as fun as it was awkward, we liked each other's company, and that we weren't bothered with love or marriage or commitment. It was thus agreed that we should try our hand at the casual encounter thing again, and maybe mix it with date or something similar.
So is it a craigslist fairytale? Didn't quite fit the casual encounter ideal, but I'm counting it as a success story. Not only that, but one to be continued...
Scientists estimate by the end of this century, via the means of virtual reality, a man will be able to stimulate making love to any woman he wants through his television set. You know, folks, the day an unemployed ironworker can lie in his BarcaLounger with a Foster’s in one hand and a channel-flicker in the other and fuck Claudia Schiffer for $19.95, it’s gonna make crack look like Sanka, all right.Kinda makes you want to sing along with Conan O'Brien, "In the year two-thousand..." Damn scientists had better get cracking, as the demand curve for the Claudia Schiffer market get's a touch slimmer every year. Anywho, sex, craiglist, the promise made complete...
Sunday, February 12 I wake up mid-morning after having gone out to a bar for a casual encounter that did not come to pass. I finish up the last 20 pages of "Life of Pi" and trying to decide whether there's something compelling me to get out of bed. There really isn't, but I'd drug my laptop to bed with me the night before to write Katie her apology for having inadvertently stood her up. So I decided to check to see if I got a response. For better or worse I had. It was neither forgiving nor accusatory nor reconciliatory nor anything useful. It was in summary this:
This is getting vaguely ridiculous and we need to either meet in person to decide if there's enough of a spark to actually fuck or stop emailing altogether...Not exactly the most flowery of erotica and a strange ultimatum to say the least. But who am I to pick a fight at this point. She continues:
Ideally what will happen is you'll call before 11:00, I'll give you directions to my apartment, we'll meet, joke around, the sexual tension will be palpable, we'll fall into bed for a while, and I'll still have time to go to my meeting.The only way to make a casual sex ultimatum hotter and less stressful is to impose a deadline. But the ideal, as described, is what happened. Well, more or less--but as far as unrealistic ideals go, I'd say we came reasonably close. Okay, she did miss her meeting for one, but let me back up...
The plus side to meeting your potential insignificant other during the daylight is, as Katie pointed out, that CSI cases don't take place during the day. The downside, as became glaringly apparent throughout our encounter, is that the goddamn sun is shining. Now I don't know what your experience with blind dates is, but there is virtually nothing you can do to get around the fact that it will be really awkward. This was the first time for me to be on a casual encounter (well, a planned one). It was her first blind date ever. So how do we meet? I have to phone her to come out to my car because the visitor code on the gate won't work and then drive her in the Ohio cold back to her apartment. Really hot.
So we're sitting on the couch discussing Ohio politics, what we want to be when we grow up, and generic small talk. It's fun, but palpable sexual tension doesn't quite describe it. Again, the daylight didn't help. Then there's the issue of the fact that we were completely sober. Don't get me wrong, Katie's a cutie and I'm... uhm, fairly tall.
Unable to block out the sun, we attacked problem #2 with shots of cheap vodka while we talked. Aside from the problems aforementioned we were developing another one; we sorta liked each other. Not a liability, per se, but not very conducive for casual sex. Time was running out as her meeting for work was looming. We were very awkwardly cuddled on the couch and on our third shot of vodka. I'm not quite sure the direct quote, but her sentiments were something to the effect of "this is as drunk as I'm going to get, so this is your last chance to make anything happen." I think I flinched, or maybe was trying to get comfortable on the couch. Whatever it was, she was moving my way, so we hit face to face and started making out.
Not to "yada yada yada" through the sex, but it's not as if anything ever works well enough to commit the script to memory. It was good fun: nervous anticipation of kissing, stripping a partner's layer, kissing some more, repeat until naked. Nothing kinky, nothing to throw anyone for a loop, nothing out of a traditional order, and nothing that would cause anyone to flip out. That said she only flipped out a little.
She was, by her own admission, fearful of anal sex. Fair enough, it's never really appealed to me either. But now it appeared to extend to an entire fear of me catching a glimpse of her butt. Oh well, a few little quirks are cute. Anyway, we were having sex missionary position, the theme of the afternoon being nothing that would offend the sexual sensibilities of a devout Catholic (other than the random hook-up of two people who'd formally met 90 minutes prior). At some point however, she'd suddenly hit her limit and threw on the brakes mid-coitus. Not that the sex was bad, or at least that wasn't her complaint, but had just sobered up too much and was dismayed by the ridiculous situation she'd found herself in. (I would later find out that she'd finished off 1/3 of a bottle herself before I'd opened the door.) We stopped short, put on some pants (our own pants even... still keeping things customary), and went back in the living room to see what we could make of the mid-afternoon.
Sobered up and settled down, we decided that the sex was at least as fun as it was awkward, we liked each other's company, and that we weren't bothered with love or marriage or commitment. It was thus agreed that we should try our hand at the casual encounter thing again, and maybe mix it with date or something similar.
So is it a craigslist fairytale? Didn't quite fit the casual encounter ideal, but I'm counting it as a success story. Not only that, but one to be continued...
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A Casual Encounter...No seriously! Part I
Okay, it's not at all casual and it's not at all serious. But it is sex and it is due to craigslist. Cheers Craig.
Again I've been a little lacking in my posting, but it's been largely been because I've been hard at work to bring you this story. Yes a story of a craigslist casual encounter. It was by no means easy, by no means traditional, and there much much more story than sex. But the story is memorable, to say the least.
As you may recall, I posted a craigslist CE post under the title "If I'm Half as Good in Bed as I am at Long Winded Rants." It debut with little acclaim, aside from a few people trying to peddle internet porn who wrote me. But after a bit I received a bite from someone who seemed to be real, who wrote:
Your ad caught my eye. Was it because I like being spanked, bondage, oral sex, healthy sexual appetites, big dicks, tall men, or all of the above?
Extraordinarily promising, but it was not to be, as she never wrote back after my response. My theory is that she googled me and decided that she could do without the publicity of having her sex blogged. But some day 500 years into the future I'm pretty sure my uncovered blog will be the part of a graduate thesis paper with the title: "Mating habits of the early 21st Century American Internet User" and it will be Molly's loss to not be a part of it.
A week later though, a new someone named Katie dropped me off an email. And though I'd love to share with you the entirety of our email correspondence (and maybe will pick out some highlights for a future post) the total when I now copy and paste into Word consists of 20 emails, 40 pages, 17,438 words and 97,018 characters. So yeah, Katie and I have talked. Which is why I haven't been doing as much blogging. I know, it's a bit selfish of me to expend so much energy on one person when my writing was just starting to get a fan base, but this was an opportunity not to pass up... a documented successful story of a craigslist casual encounter. Oh yeah, and sex. Sex is cool.
I fought hard to gain Katie's trust as she was pretty sure I was going to turn her into a CSI or a made for TV movie where our innocent heroine succumbs to the vile temptations of Internet boys. Eventually we made plans to meet at her favorite bar on a Saturday night, with the caveat that either of us could nix the entire shebang at any time.
Sadly, the gods conspired against me, and like some horrendous teen coming of age movie, I was comically thwarted before I even had a chance to make my case. On the way out the door for our meeting, the house phone rang. A very uncharacteristic thing for the phone to do, as I'm not horribly popular (must be all the hours spent writing rambling blogs). It was a friend I'd been promising to not blow off, but had been blowing off anyway, who now was having some sort of sobby Valentine's season crisis with a lousy husband. I did what I could to console and make it out of there, but I was definitely running late. A mile drive later I realize I have no idea where I'm going and have left the directions and the name of the place in the printer. All right, turn around, get the directions, let's try this again.
I finally arrive at the bar, only about 10 minutes late and only mildly panicking that she's going to give up and flee--or hook up with some other guy. But before I could so much as get parked, I realized I had absolutely no cash on me, and the guy collecting for parking wasn't giving any breaks. Stupid, stupid! So I had to find an ATM. For those of you familiar with Columbus's Arena District, please explain to me why there are no gas stations and no ATM's anywhere within a mile of the whole area. I mean, hundreds of thousands must be spent there every week, and not a single bank? A disorienting drive around part of the short north and I finally found a bank... My branch even. And yes, I was a little excited at the prospect of saving $4 in ATM fees even as the opportunity for sex was slipping away. Of course there was no ATM. Son-of-a... Drive around Columbus a bit more, find a gas station, get the cash, drive back to park in the arena district, half trot over to our meeting place. It's 11:25, much less forgivably late, especially to make someone wait who thinks you're going to stand them up, kill them, or be a 40 year old pervert.
I get inside, and it's packed. Okay, I've seen one picture of Katie, and I know the vital stats, but I have no idea how I'm going to find her. So I do the only things I can think to do... pace up and down the bar trying to make eye contact with random women, hoping that at some point there'll be some mutual recognition and I'll be able to shmooze my way into a forgiveness. So I fight my way from one end of the bar to the other, blatantly making eye contact with almost every girl I pass. I'm pretty sure by my third trip back and forth I was probably less popular than I've ever been--and that's saying something. So I eventually gave up actively looking, grabbed a beer, and tried to enjoy the styling of the jam band on stage and the atmosphere of a pretty fun bar.
Alas, time passed, as did a few more beers, and it looked like the casual encounter was not to be. And though I had a few laughs and a few dances and a general good time, I was a touched bummed. The fear that it was my fault was verified when I got home around 3 am to find the most concise of Katie's emails to date:
"Ah, fuck me," I thought. Rather than crash I jotted out a last ditch apology explanation at 3:10 AM, hit the pillow and went to sleep. Today, everything is worked out. Which is to say it's also strange, improbable, funny, and a long story. Unfortunately it's late and this is already wordy, so I'm going to save it for another time. I promise though, the next message will contain some scenes of sex. Hey, if you think the suspense is killing you, try 20 emails over 13 days.
Again I've been a little lacking in my posting, but it's been largely been because I've been hard at work to bring you this story. Yes a story of a craigslist casual encounter. It was by no means easy, by no means traditional, and there much much more story than sex. But the story is memorable, to say the least.
As you may recall, I posted a craigslist CE post under the title "If I'm Half as Good in Bed as I am at Long Winded Rants." It debut with little acclaim, aside from a few people trying to peddle internet porn who wrote me. But after a bit I received a bite from someone who seemed to be real, who wrote:
Your ad caught my eye. Was it because I like being spanked, bondage, oral sex, healthy sexual appetites, big dicks, tall men, or all of the above?
Extraordinarily promising, but it was not to be, as she never wrote back after my response. My theory is that she googled me and decided that she could do without the publicity of having her sex blogged. But some day 500 years into the future I'm pretty sure my uncovered blog will be the part of a graduate thesis paper with the title: "Mating habits of the early 21st Century American Internet User" and it will be Molly's loss to not be a part of it.
A week later though, a new someone named Katie dropped me off an email. And though I'd love to share with you the entirety of our email correspondence (and maybe will pick out some highlights for a future post) the total when I now copy and paste into Word consists of 20 emails, 40 pages, 17,438 words and 97,018 characters. So yeah, Katie and I have talked. Which is why I haven't been doing as much blogging. I know, it's a bit selfish of me to expend so much energy on one person when my writing was just starting to get a fan base, but this was an opportunity not to pass up... a documented successful story of a craigslist casual encounter. Oh yeah, and sex. Sex is cool.
I fought hard to gain Katie's trust as she was pretty sure I was going to turn her into a CSI or a made for TV movie where our innocent heroine succumbs to the vile temptations of Internet boys. Eventually we made plans to meet at her favorite bar on a Saturday night, with the caveat that either of us could nix the entire shebang at any time.
Sadly, the gods conspired against me, and like some horrendous teen coming of age movie, I was comically thwarted before I even had a chance to make my case. On the way out the door for our meeting, the house phone rang. A very uncharacteristic thing for the phone to do, as I'm not horribly popular (must be all the hours spent writing rambling blogs). It was a friend I'd been promising to not blow off, but had been blowing off anyway, who now was having some sort of sobby Valentine's season crisis with a lousy husband. I did what I could to console and make it out of there, but I was definitely running late. A mile drive later I realize I have no idea where I'm going and have left the directions and the name of the place in the printer. All right, turn around, get the directions, let's try this again.
I finally arrive at the bar, only about 10 minutes late and only mildly panicking that she's going to give up and flee--or hook up with some other guy. But before I could so much as get parked, I realized I had absolutely no cash on me, and the guy collecting for parking wasn't giving any breaks. Stupid, stupid! So I had to find an ATM. For those of you familiar with Columbus's Arena District, please explain to me why there are no gas stations and no ATM's anywhere within a mile of the whole area. I mean, hundreds of thousands must be spent there every week, and not a single bank? A disorienting drive around part of the short north and I finally found a bank... My branch even. And yes, I was a little excited at the prospect of saving $4 in ATM fees even as the opportunity for sex was slipping away. Of course there was no ATM. Son-of-a... Drive around Columbus a bit more, find a gas station, get the cash, drive back to park in the arena district, half trot over to our meeting place. It's 11:25, much less forgivably late, especially to make someone wait who thinks you're going to stand them up, kill them, or be a 40 year old pervert.
I get inside, and it's packed. Okay, I've seen one picture of Katie, and I know the vital stats, but I have no idea how I'm going to find her. So I do the only things I can think to do... pace up and down the bar trying to make eye contact with random women, hoping that at some point there'll be some mutual recognition and I'll be able to shmooze my way into a forgiveness. So I fight my way from one end of the bar to the other, blatantly making eye contact with almost every girl I pass. I'm pretty sure by my third trip back and forth I was probably less popular than I've ever been--and that's saying something. So I eventually gave up actively looking, grabbed a beer, and tried to enjoy the styling of the jam band on stage and the atmosphere of a pretty fun bar.
Alas, time passed, as did a few more beers, and it looked like the casual encounter was not to be. And though I had a few laughs and a few dances and a general good time, I was a touched bummed. The fear that it was my fault was verified when I got home around 3 am to find the most concise of Katie's emails to date:
To: dante.hunter@gmail.com
Date: Feb 11, 2006 11:32 PM
Subject: Re: craigslist ad
wow. you sure fooled me. i actually showed up. whatever."Ah, fuck me," I thought. Rather than crash I jotted out a last ditch apology explanation at 3:10 AM, hit the pillow and went to sleep. Today, everything is worked out. Which is to say it's also strange, improbable, funny, and a long story. Unfortunately it's late and this is already wordy, so I'm going to save it for another time. I promise though, the next message will contain some scenes of sex. Hey, if you think the suspense is killing you, try 20 emails over 13 days.
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