Dont Mince Words

Zipping a dress.  Helping with a necklace clasp.  Reaching the top shelf.  As a single woman, these are some of the things I need help with around the house.  This was a banner week for special requests from men.

A let’s-just-be-friends male invited me to dinner.  While we are highly compatible, I assume men with women friends are going for the slow conversion.  I remain hyperaware and keep the pussy on lockdown.  I drank a bottle of wine while he cooked.  Great meal.  Good conversation.  When I was preparing to leave with my thoughtful leftovers, he asked me for a hand job in a come-on-please very sober voice.  I took my chicken and assumed his arms were long enough to reach his own cock.

Three days later, I’m in a jacuzzi with another guy.  When we got back to his place to change, he called me into his bathroom.  “Could you do me a favor and shave my back?” he asked.  Finally, something a man can’t reach.  When I finished and looked at the pile of fur, I had a sense of accomplishment I hadn’t felt since…. clipping my schnauzer.

These experiences mirror my personality – a mix of crazy red head and den mother.  From hand jobs to back jobs, my life can never be called dull.

“I’ve been quoting you all week,” a girlfriend told me when she saw me tonight.  I say a lot, but I’m not sure if it’s worth repeating most of the time.

The week before we were walking home from a few galleries and noticed two hoodie-wearing cholo gangster types were walking a little too close.  We stepped aside to let them pass and the stopped in front of us.  I immediately went into Brooklyn-ready-to-shank-you-motherfucker mode.  They made small talk.  Our short answers and lack of interest did not drive them away.  And then, the question that sent them turning on their heels and crossing the street mid-block:

“Do you really think we’re going to fuck a guy in a hoodie.”

This may be the first time my mouth got me OUT of trouble.

My first 90 days in Santa Barbara are complete and I can say, I’ve survived.  If my blog is going to continue with nonfiction observations and intermittent dating stories, I may not have much material to work with.  Or I need to step up my game.

Like most relationships, I go in with no expectations so I can be pleasantly surprised.  SB Man and I had a nice time getting to know each other after I moved here.  I was probably still detoxing off the LA dating scene and smitten with his communication skills and planning.  Great guy, but not a good match for the long haul.  And that’s what dating is about.

I got to experience my first MeetUp stalker shortly after I arrived in Santa Barbara.  He told me redheads were like unicorns here and then proceeded to tell me he read my whole blog, from 2003 to present, and wanted to meet me about a project.  We had coffee and he pitched partnering on a writing idea.  In the next sentence he admitted he was ADD and couldn’t focus.  At some point after that he told me he was good at oral sex and would like to hang out.  Santa Barbara was starting to feel more like LA again.

In an effort to put myself out there and try to meet new people, I finally attended a MeetUp event.  The organizer took my card and asked me out.  By the next morning, he’d read my blog and he wanted to meet sooner.  Apparently, I’m intelligent and funny. He opened the date with “We have to be friends, is that ok?” and went on to explain that  he realized I hadn’t had a long-term relationship in a long time. (He’s been married twice). He wouldn’t give me a pass based on the fact that I lived in LA for the last seven years.  I told him he was scared of me which is usually the case when they read my blog.  We’ve met a couple times since and he told me he liked me because I have a “nice bladder.”  While I’m not relationship material, my beer drinking skills give me a whole new layer of attractiveness.

And there you have it:  the good, the odd, and the weak.  So far, dating in Santa Barbara is turning out to be on par with LA.  My friends beg me to leave this state, but how can I?  It’s a wealth of material.