Call Off The Search?

Man Eater is in a pickle…because the only way to rid myself of this incessant restlessness is to write about it, yet the man responsible for putting ants in my pants is also one of my readers (hell, during our 2nd date, he whipped out his iPhone to catch up on the blog, some of which he read out loud, including the phrase “clear as jizz”) in a crowded bar.)

The other part of the pickle (perhaps the part above is the head and this is the shaft?) is that since I originally wrote this post over the weekend, things between this man and I have changed dramatically.

So what’s a blogger in lust and a lover in flux supposed to do?

Write it anyway and let the chip fall where they may. Here goes...

The theme is falling. No, I’m not talking about ice (though I do have a nasty bruise on my ass…but we’ll get to that later...)I’m talking about falling into that four-letter word.

How does it happen? How fast is too fast? Are you supposed to chase the spark or should you run from it? And, most importantly, can you find The One on TV?

Okay, so maybe that last question isn’t foremost on your mind, but the man I'm thinking of (we'll call him Paul Bunyan, because he's big and brawny all over and has that luscious beard and brown hair like the Minnesota folklore icon) and I recently got into a debate about ABC’s reality show The Bachelor. Surprisingly, I was all for the cattle call courting and he was against it.

“You can’t find your soul mate by making out with 16 people in six weeks!” PB (ooh--digging this pseudonym even more since the initials are the same as my favorite food!) stated over mussels and edamame at Stella’s Fish Café. (Nostalgic side note: I hadn’t been there since my first date with Puck over three years ago. Sniffle.)

“Sure you can,” I said. “That’s totally what my life is like right now. I’m only two weeks into this and I’ve already identified who stands out as long-term relationship material.”

PB wanted to know how many Match get-togethers I’d had. (Let’s just say it’s in the double digits, but not as high as my *other* number.)

PB, for all his drop-dead gorgeousness, hot-bod flaunting, motorcycle-riding, mansion-owning awesomeness, said he prefers to date as little as possible until he finds someone that interests him, at which point he stops seeing other people.

“What do I need more dates for?” he asked. “If I find someone I like, I want to focus on that person.”

“I’m the same way,” I said. I’d much rather get to know one person in depth than a dozen superficially. But if the opportunities to do the former are sparse and the latter are abundant, what's a girl supposed to do?

PB insisted that, given the choice, he'd rather mate than date.

“And yet," I pointed out, "Only hours after we first met, I was giving you a blow job in your hot tub.” (What did I tell ya readers? Very hot story for another time...) “How does that behavior fit into either of our plans to find a partner?” I asked.

“So what if we fucked like rabbits on the first date?" PB countered. "Who made the third-date rule anyway? Now we know we’re compatible in that area. That’s good. Next we need to see what other areas we’re compatible in.”

This was only date two, but I felt like I knew PB already. I felt comfortable. Confident. I not only liked this guy; his pheromones were so intense, I could've come just sniffing him. Seriously! Of all the dates I’ve been on lately, PB was the one who came closest (and also came more times than I’ve ever seen a man do in one evening) to what I’m looking for. He was also my only first-date fuck in two years. Doesn’t that mean something?

I tried to ask that question. I rephrased more than once. PB didn’t seem to understand what I was trying to say was: “Do you think of me as just a booty call? Did I fuck it up by fucking you right away?”

If, for only a moment, we’re going to believe such dating bibles as Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, a spark as strong as what I felt for PB was a warning sign. It meant I should've run in the opposite direction, because if someone you just met feels familiar, that’s probably because they are, as in: you’ve dated some version of that person before. Many times. And what happened to you in those relationships? Heartbreak buffet.

But, as always, I refused to believe the experts. PB was the total package. (That he also had the most delicious package I've ever had in my mouth didn't hurt either.)

But PB, despite endorsing sex on the first date, could not be convinced that two people could fall in love in six weeks a la The Bachelor. His ideal timeline was five years! (TV shows don’t even run that long, unless they’re a soap opera! It’s a good thing I hit the snooze button on my biological clock or that might've been a deal-breaker!)

"Five years is about how long it takes to really know a person," PB said.

I disagreed. I believe that what you see is what you get. People show you who they are right away; the question is whether or not you pay attention. Gut instincts are pretty fucking powerful. Remember Slump Buster? Of course you do. I hated him on our first date. Imagine how peaceful (and, okay, anticlimactic) 2010 would have been had I stayed away from him based on that first (foul) impression!

For the sake of argument, let's pretend it does take five years to get to know someone. PB is almost 40. WTF is the hold-up? Why hasn't he gotten married yet?

"Good guys always finish last," he sighed when I pushed him on the issue.

Bullshit. My theory: girls don't choose who they love. And when they really love a man, they're willing to disregard the flaws. If good guys finish last, it's because they were never in the running in the first place!

"I don't buy that," I said. "Because I totally put you in the bad boy slot."

PB insisted he was closer to the sensitive side of the man scale. He said he’d been criticized by women for being too intense, too emotional.

“I’ve been accused of being those things," I said. "But I've never seen guys struggle with that. Most of the men I’ve dated don’t have emotions, period.”

One could argue, I suppose, that I haven't been with a man long enough (forgive me; the phallic puns are bound to keep popping up as my sex privileges have been revoked...) for him to feel comfortable expressing emotions.

The best analogy I can think of is eating a peach. Dating as I have been (meaning, like a 29-year-old man would date: many people for brief amounts of time) is like licking the outside of a peach. All I get is the fuzz; no flavor. It sucks! It even makes me wonder if I like peaches at all. What I'd rather do is bite through that thick skin (PB loved when I did that) and get to the juicy part of the guy's personality. Sure, if you get to know someone in depth, you'll also hit the pit. But by then you've eaten the peach; your sweet tooth is satisfied. Life is good.

PB compared dating to finding shells on the beach (a curious metaphor, since he was simultaneously checking the mussel shells to see if they were empty).

“If you keep looking, you’ll always find a better shell,” he said. “I’d rather pick one and be done.”

“If you really believe that, though, why are you still single?” I asked.

(Psst: this question never fails to piss off guys. Still, I can’t resist asking.)

“Because I haven’t found the right one," PB replied. "Why are you still single?”

“I’ve been with several people who I would’ve married if they’d asked,” I said. "But they didn't man up."

“Okay, so there were obstacles,” PB said. "Same as my situation."

“No," I said, "Because the men put the obstacles there. Had they asked me to marry them, I would have said yes.”

“You could’ve asked them.”

“No. I’m sorry. A woman cannot ever ask.”

Power differentials of courtship aside, I still didn't think PB could justify his single status away by pointing the finger at me. He had 16 more years of experience beneath his belt (not that I’m looking, LOL) when you factor in the decade age gap and my six years of marriage. (If I’m still single in 16 years, readers, take me out to a field and shoot me in the head. I’m not joking.)

“What I need is a partner who’s my best friend,” PB said.

“Do you want to fuck your best friend?” I asked.

“Well…no, but let’s face it. We’re going to get old. Things won’t always work like they do now. Passion won’t last. There has to be something more.”

Yes, but...I say you can learn to like--or at the very least, look past--someone's personality defects. You can adapt to their quirks or tolerate them in degrees. Chemistry is either present or absent. If you don't have a big bang (literally) at the beginning of a relationship, how likely is it that it will occur organically later on? I don't think that great sex prevents relationship problems, per se, but it can be the glue that holds a partnership together while you find solutions to the problems.

My current dilemma isn’t how to find someone. Match has turned me into a dating monster. I averaged 5 dates a week for the month that I was on the service. (Jesus, I can't believe it's been that many, but it has.) What I need help with now is: how does a woman know when to stop dating? Until the man asks her to, she’s technically free game. Every dating book in existence advises women to keep their social calendars full, lest we let an opportunity for a wholesome relationship escape while we’re waiting by the phone, pining for the bad boy.

The issue that I'm having is: if I really like a guy (read: am satisfied sleeping with him and only him), it feels disingenuous to meet new people when my head and heart are elsewhere. But how am I supposed to navigate this if the guy I like (PB) doesn't seem all that interested now that he got what he wanted out of me?

It's not like I can postpone current date offers by telling suitors that they're second (or third or fortieth) in the pecking order and that they'll just have to sit tight while I wait to see if I will be riding PB's cock on an exclusive basis!

An answer came to me from an unlikely source: the man who cancelled dinner last Sunday (which is why I had time to give PB a BJ in the jacuzzi). That guy had rescheduled, but the night before date one, take two (as I was having all these revelations), he cancelled again. Normally I would've been pissed...but this time I was grateful. His excuse was sincere--and it was exactly the language I'd been grappling for to use with my other suitors.

His message said something like: "I've gone out with someone a couple of times and I feel like I owe it to her to see where it goes. I'm not very good at dating more than one person at a time, so for now, I need to cancel."

If only I'd heard those words a week earlier, I could've saved myself (and some of my blog subjects) a lot of grief!

So. Confession: After that second date with PB, I cancelled my Match subscription. I left a lot of suitors in the lurch. I received several "WTF happened to you?!" emails. (My answer: "Sorry. Too many balls in the air.") I even opted out of two dates at the last minute because I needed time to (girly statement coming...gag) process my feelings about PB. (Thank you to Mother Nature, though, for providing a better excuse.) I composed a mature email to Good Guy saying I couldn't see him anymore (yes, despite that last post about my orgasm issues, he still wanted to get together!) Then I retracted the post about my last date.

I started thinking about how I could change this blog to be more in alignment with the kind of woman I know I am (read: a marriage-able one). I waited for PB to ask me out again. I spent the weekend solo. It was horrible. I felt vulnerable and lonely. I cried over my keyboard as I journaled. And then PB called.

There have been no exclusivity requests yet, but I'm doing what feels right. While the recent windfall of men has been a delightful surprise, I’ve also gone on enough mediocre dates to last a lifetime. My chit chat is predictable and my puns overused. I don’t need any more daisies in my chain (or whatever the appropriate foodie metaphor would be) and my astrologer promised that 2010 was the year for committed love. I'm fucking ready for more than just fucking!!! And yet, God forbid I say that to a man or he’d go bolting toward the hills never to be seen again.

PB has said more than once that finding the right partner is hard. I say it should be easy. And when it is, you'll know you’ve found someone worth exclusivity.

You’ll know because you aren’t afraid to look them in the eyes. You’ll know because when they complain about their bad day, your first reaction isn’t to fix the problem but make your partner feel better by whatever means necessary. You’ll know because you offer to pay a portion of the tab. You’ll know because you stop thinking so damn much about yourself. You’ll know because the hours when you’re with him pass too fast and the ones when you're apart go too slow. You’ll know because you want to suck his cock until he explodes--and you've never particularly liked giving blow jobs before. You’ll know because spooning in the nude can be just as satisfying as sex. You’ll know because you feel safe enough to fall asleep in his arms. You’ll know because when you wake up, you don’t really want to get out of his bed. You'll know because your "no sleepovers" rule suddenly seems incredibly stupid. You’ll know because you won’t want to blog about the experience at all, no matter how Earth-shattering and orgasmic it was. And you’ll know because if you do write about it, he won’t do the freak-and-ditch thing.

And yet, as soon as I say all that, I can easily enumerate how many times I thought I knew I was with The One only to discover I was dating a douchebag.

Am I overthinking this? Hell, yes, I am. I even have a new wrinkle in my forehead to prove it. Really, if I believe my own theory, I shouldn’t have to think about it at all. I know. What I don’t know is how he feels about me.

Amanda Hesser, food writer for the New York Times, recently created a texting helpline for cooks called "foodpickle". Have a question that you’d normally swallow your pride and call your mom about? (i.e. “What I can use as a buttermilk substitute?”) Submit your query and one of the experts will answer via text. (i.e. “Combine one tablespoon white vinegar with one cup milk and let stand for five minutes. Use only in an emergency, however, because there simply is no substitute for the real thing.”)

If only such a service existed for dating, my question would read something like this:

“I know. Now what?”