Eat at Joe's...But Do Dessert at Home

I last left you, readers, in a blue mood. I’d received some bad news just before my Xmas Eve Eve date with The Baconator. After plopping down on his couch to absorb the immensity of what had happened and dry my tears, The Baconator leaped to his feet.

“I know this is changing the subject, but…what do you think of my new hat? And look! A matching scarf! But how do I tie this thing without looking stupid?” He whipped his new accessories around and I giggled goofily. Silliness aside, the Baconator was beyond hot…and it had nothing to do with the clothes. That bearded grin, his adorable dimple, those breathtaking blue eyes…sigh…

“God, you’re cute,” I said.

The Baconator waved off my compliment.

“Are these jeans too tight?” he asked.

“No,” I said, noticing the slighest rip in the left thigh. “They look great.”

“I liked ‘em ‘cause they were a little edgier than what I normally wear. But I’m not sure about the size…”

“Did you have to jump into them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmm…well, that’s usually a sign…but don’t worry. They’re still not as tight as mine!”

And with that, our two cute asses went out to dinner. The Baconator had made reservations (with nary a nagging from me!) and he drove! (Have I mentioned how much I luvvv when a man, ahem, takes the wheel in a relationship?!) Appropriately, we went to Joe’s Garage in the very hip Loring Park neighborhood.

The waiter led us to a corner, candlelit table on the second floor and slipped us the specials. At the top of the list: Tater Tot Hot Dish. The Baconator didn’t even bother to glance at the regular menu. He knew what he wanted and saw no need to peruse any further. (Decisiveness. Another quality I luvvv in a man.)



I contemplated the comfort food selection, but nothing sounded good; that I wasn’t hungry was a cardinal sign that I was way more upset than I’d let on. I tried to hide behind my hair, but the tears filled my eyes and threatened to spill forth again. The Baconator wasn’t fooled; his gaze was so intense on me that I felt as translucent as a spring roll (That’s the best I could do for a food metaphor at the moment).

I settled on the virtuous SWG (strawberry, walnut, and gorgonzola) Salad with grilled chicken. We tried to talk around The Bad News until the food arrived. The Baconator let me steal several tater tots (OMG. Soooooo good. I would’ve liked a bucketful of that stuff!) and encouraged me to eat his mushrooms (one of his few food aversions).



“Dessert?” the waiter asked after we’d cleaned our plates.

I wanted chocolate cake, but as a tranquilizer only. In a rare moment of maturity, I said no.

“What I’d really like is a Jazz apple with peanut butter,” I confessed after the waiter left.

“We can go get an apple,” The Baconator said. “Remind me after The Walker.”

To tide me over until then, I unearthed a bag of “Snowman Soup” from my purse. The itty bitty gift bag was given to me by my neighbor; inside, it contained a packet of hot cocoa, a half-dozen mini marshmallows, a mini candy-cane, a chocolate kiss and a peppermint kiss. I popped the chocolate kiss in my mouth and offered the peppermint one to The Baconator.

“I’ve never tried these,” he said.

“Me, neither,” I said.

“Here, have half.”

I protested (albeit weakly so) and when he handed me the bitten-off hunk, I happily accepted. He also split the candy cane in two so we could share. (Aww, shucks! Is that sweet or what?!)

By the time we made it to the Walker Art Museum, there was only an hour left to explore before they closed. The Baconator and I instinctively drifted toward a photography exhibit about men who’ve committed “pseudoside” (my new favorite word). This was when guys abandoned conventional lives (and wives) and moved to a place called “Boy Mountain” to live off the grid.

“I could live there,” I said, pointing at a model tree house. “As long as I had wireless, I’d be happy.”

“I might enjoy it for a while,” The Baconator said. “But I’m too practical. I’d want to know where to find the water and the food.”

“True,” I said. “It would probably only be fun until I got hungry.”

Speak of the devil (read: my stomach), a “rumbly in my tumbly” (per Winnie the Pooh) began. After the museum guards kicked us out, The Baconator and I went to Kowalski’s for Jazz Apples. Just my (shitty) luck: the best stocked grocery store in the Twin Cities didn’t have my favorite kind of apples! The Baconator and I wandered around and around the aisles, looking for an appropriate substance to soothe me.

“Forget it,” I said. "I'm the lamest date ever. This is so bad, you should write a blog about it! Let’s just go back to your place."

“No!” he exclaimed. “You. Need. A. Treat.”

I couldn’t decide. Nothing enticed me. Not even apples and peanut butter anymore. All I wanted was to be flooded with pleasure, and fucking seemed like a faster way to go about that.

Instead, The Baconator led me to his version of heaven (a.k.a. the cheese aisle).

“See the puddles on the floor?” he said. (No, there weren’t any, but we were playing Let’s Pretend) “That’s from all the drool.”

We fondled some plastic-wrapped concoctions and gawked at the price tags, then returned to the produce section. I settled for a pair of Honeycrisps (“I’m gonna get the biggest fucking apple they have! And some lettuce!”) and, with the promise of homemade chocolate sauce awaiting on his countertop, we went back to The Baconator’s place. I ate most of the decadently drizzled apple slices, plus a heaping spoonful of chocolate sauce, then I decapitated a gingerbread man.

“Wow. These are still good!” I exclaimed. The gingerbread dudes had been in the fridge almost a week (Note: In most circumstances, I do not recommend keeping baked goods in the fridge. It’s either room temp for right now or freeze for later.) “They’re so soft!”

I told The Baconator about a study that showed that people’s personalities dictate which part of a gingerbread man they eat first. Headstrong people start up top (ahem, me); sensitive people start with the arms. As for those who eat the legs (or other areas)…um, I can’t remember. Oh well.

The Baconator made me a cup of loose leaf tea (another first). I was impressed that not only did he have all the equipment, he knew how to use it! (Yes, this is so rare it deserves an exclamation point.) Alas, I never got more than a tongue-scorching sip, because my honey soon moved onto another mood-brightening tactic too X-rated for my now squeaky clean reputation. Let's just say that when constructing my future dream kitchen, I will make sure the contractors measure the countertops for proper whoopie-making height.

The Baconator and I moved into the bedroom and by the time we were done, I’d forgotten than there was anything else happening in the world beyond him and me, naked limbs intertwined, the flutter of breath and the rhythms of heartbeats between us. (Was that too gooey? Can’t help myself.) I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn't fall asleep, either. If I was going to break my "no sleepovers" rule, I wanted to do so over the holiday weekend when we could bask in bed the morning after rather than rush off to our respective insane schedules.

"Are you sleepy?" The Baconator asked.

"Not really," I said.

"When I can't sleep, I go through my day in my mind from beginning to end," he said. "Then I realize how much I did and it makes me tired."

The Baconator began rehashing--not from the morning, but from the time I'd walked through the door. He enumerated every little detail of the date--even things I'd forgotten about...like how many tater tots I'd robbed.

"Sleepy now?" he asked when he finished.

"Yeah," I said. "So I should go."

Before I left, The Baconator retrieved a plastic baggie from his fridge. I’d recently experimented with a new Chex mix recipe, and The Baconator was my guinea pig. Judging by the crumbs, this was a winning combo.

“Refill this for next time,” he said.

It seemed like the least I could do, considering how well he’d filled me up. (Heh heh.)

The Baconator walked me to my car, which was now covered with a good two inches of snow. Of course he cleaned it off for me. (Quality #3 I luvvvv in a man: chivalry!) I revved the car and though it required many ins and outs, finally I was off. (Oh, the pun possibilities!)

Sleepy, snowy, midnight bliss…plus an excuse to make Chexxxstasy. What more could Man Eater ask for? :)

CHEXXSTASY



Ingredients

3/4 cup brown sugar
6 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon baking soda
8 cups Chocolate Chex cereal (I’ve only found this flavor at Kowalski’s, so you might have to search for it)
¼ cup chocolate chips

Method

• Line cookie sheet with waxed paper. Set aside.

• In large microwaveable bowl, combine brown sugar, butter, and corn syrup. Microwave on high 1 ½ minutes; stir. Microwave additional 30 seconds if necessary and stir again.

• Stir in baking soda until dissolved. Add cereal and stir until evenly coated.

• Microwave additional 2-3 minutes, stirring every minute. Spread coated cereal on wax paper and let cool for 10 minutes.

• Put chocolate chips in separate, small bowl, and microwave at 30 seconds intervals until melted. Drizzle over cereal. Let set, then break into hunks, transfer to plastic baggies or Tupperware, and store in fridge.

• To make sure your recipient actually gets his share of Chexxxstasy, do not prepare too long before your date or you’re bound to down it all!

• P.S. Your love is better than chocolate.


Because we’re OD’ing on sweetness tonight, let’s add a sappy song to our super sugary recipe!

Santa's Big XXXmas Package

This isn’t the post I meant to write for today. I had BIG NEWS to share with all of you…but just after putting the finishing touches on my Xmas Eve missive, I received a phone call that could, potentially, change everything. I’ll do the best I can to stick with what I originally penned. Here goes...

Santa came early this year. And ho-ho-ho, he brought me a ginormous package. Meaning: The Baconator's. But that’s not why I dig him so much. As he said the other night, “Sex should be the perk of the relationship.” And it is. What I love about The Baconator is that his heart is as big as that *other* part of his anatomy (I’m trying to polite. It’s the Lord’s day after all.) The Baconator keeps in touch everyday. He cooks for me. He makes me laugh with tickling attacks. He gives me thoughtful gifts, like Jazz apples, Dove Promises and windshield scrapers (you’d have to live in MN to truly appreciate that last one). He always asks that I let him know when I get home safe at night.

What’s transpired over the past two weeks hasn’t been a crazy this-is-happening-so-fast-I-can’t-breathe affair. It’s a steadily building bonfire of attraction. It feels natural. And safe. And 100% drama-free. Sometimes we go out. Sometimes we stay in. We eat fantastic food, we talk a lot, we fuck like rabbits. Does that sound simple? It is. But with The Baconator, simple is not the least bit boring.

I know I’m in a healthy relationship when everything else in my life just falls into place. I sleep better, I eat better, I take care of business better and I have more energy than ever. A good partner should bring out the best version of yourself. The Baconator has done that for me.

This is where my BIG NEWS was supposed to go. Because what I wanted to share with you all is in limbo, let’s just say that an opportunity arose (and no, it wasn’t sex-related) and I jumped on it (No pun intended...though jumping on beds never fails to make me giddy).

This new endeavor would require an incredible amount of work. I was looking forward to it. I like being busy (in addition to getting busy).

The Baconator was the first person I told about the big news and last week, over one of our co-created kick-ass recipes, he and I discussed the future of the Man Eater blog. To my surprise, The Baconator was the one advocating for me continuing to write. I was the one enumerating the reasons to stop.

“What you write about might have to change, but you shouldn’t stop. The blog is what keeps you going," The Baconator insisted between bites of what we dubbed Stir-Fry-Or-Something-Like-It.

"True..." I said. "But aren’t you afraid I’ll write about you?"

"I don't mind if you do."

“Everybody says that in the beginning,” I sighed.

“And then they turn into jerks, right? I already told you: I’m going to be different.”

Dare I say I believed him? If everything else that’s transpired thus far (great sex, creative dates, unconditional acceptance, little gestures that make me melt), then this was going to be different from anything I’d ever experienced before. And because I wanted it to be different, I decided the blog would have to end. For once, keeping our most intimate moments private was more important to me than entertaining my readers.

Everything was on the upschwing (err…I mean "upswing") as I mentally prepared myself to wrap up this blog by the end of the year. Then, last night, as I was leaving for my Christmas Eve Eve date with The Baconator, that fateful phone call came and my world came crashing down.

At first I thought, Guh-reat timing! Now I’m going to show up on my date and start bawling! (Which is not conducive to balling, natch.) Then I arrived at The Baconator’s, where, enveloped in his embrace, I felt completely comfortable letting go. I cried. And as I did, he held me tighter and reassured me that everything happens for a reason. I realized there was no better time to have received bad news than right before getting together with The Baconator.

Within minutes, The Baconator had me giggling through the tears. Afterwards, he took me out for what can only be described as a foodie’s dream date. (The deets are in my next post.) At the end of the evening as we cuddled naked in bed, he said, “What are you thinking?”

I nuzzled my face into his fuzzy cheek and said, "That I really, really like you."

Understatement of the century. Confession: I’ve fallen. And I don’t want to get up. I’m very happy prostrate, head over heels. I couldn’t ask for anything more from Santa than this.

Want to know what I’m giving The Baconator for Christmas? Can you keep a secret? (Just kidding, I already let it slip.) It’s something I haven’t given any man in years: a sleepover...plus breakfast. (The few sleepovers I've had this year were hump-and-runs. No lingering in bed the morning after.) There’s just one condition that must be met beforehand…which we have yet to discuss… (Cue "Honey? We need to talk...")

As for the future of this blog…I don’t know what to tell you, dear addicted readers of mine. I have a few straggler posts and plenty of oldies-but-goodies to keep you entertained until Man Eater calls it quits...and Erica Rivera embarks on a whole new chapter...

As for eats, Santa deserves something spectacular for giving me such a big package this year. What better edible metaphor than a big hole (err...I mean "wreath")? Made from Rice Krispies treats, this dessert is hassle-free, super sweet, and topped with red hots for a spicy bite. And yes, you still have time to make one before Old Saint Nick slides down your chimney (heh heh) tonight!

Wishing you all a very sexxxy xmas!

MERRY XXXMAS WREATH



Ingredients

3 tablespoons butter
4 cups mini marshmallows
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal
1 can green icing
¼ cup red hots

Method

• Melt butter and marshmallows in microwaveable bowl for 1 minute (or heat in saucepan over low heat on stove until melted).

• Stir in Rice Krispies cereal. Coat evenly with marshmallow mix.

• Immediately shape Rice Krispies into wreath shape on waxed paper. Let cool, then freeze until firm.

• About an hour before serving, remove wreath from fridge and decorate with icing and red hots.

• Serve, then unwrap his package before the sugar puts him to sleep!

Between A Rock(y) And A Hard Place

“Didn’t I tell you the story of how I met my wife?” my date asked a couple weeks back.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I must be thinking of somebody else. I guess I might’ve told this story last night, too.”

I laughed because this guy (who I’ll call Rocky, as that’s his movie hero and he used to be a boxer), was way too much like me, a fact I found simultaneously intriguing and frightening.

“I forget who I tell what,” Rocky said with a shrug. “I’m just being honest.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

The How-I-Met-My-Ex-Wife story, Cliff’s notes style: Rocky went to a nudist resort in Jamaica. He witnessed all sorts of freaky things. He met two cheesehead chicks who claimed to know the perfect girl for him…if only he didn’t live so far away from her (she lived in MN; he on the East coast). Months later, the perfect girl got a job only miles from where Rocky lived. Boy met girl, they fell in love, and at the end of the summer, he proposed because he couldn’t imagine life without her.

Aww. Now that’s the kind of fast-paced, impulsive romance I’m looking for! (Without the divorce ten years down the line, of course.)

Appearance-wise, Rocky looked like a cross between Brad Pitt and Stanley Tucci. (If you don’t think Tucci is sexy, watch Julie and Julia and you will see why I say he is.) Unlike Tucci, however, Rocky was tall. At least 6’3”. He had incredible fashion sense, was deliciously fit, and had just joined a rock band. Basically, he was a 20-year-old in a 37-year-old’s body. Within ten minutes I knew that this guy would be a fabulous fuck, but relationship material? No way, Jose.

Rocky was a repeat offender; meaning, he’d hit on me during my first bout on Match (waaaaay back in February 2009!) and again last month when I rejoined…without realizing I was the same person. I knew who he was right away, as he hadn’t changed his profile picture or screen name. (Because as we know, men never change!) I reminded Rocky of our prior online acquaintance and he reminded me of our flirtation surrounding our mutually favorite movie.

HIM: Want to know charming? The whole part in Rocky when he has the old school tank on and he gives a little Rocky love to Adrian in the corner by the door on the floor... so smooth that Balboa character :)

ME: Somehow I read "old school tank" in your email to mean "fish tank". No wonder I was confused! (Rocky liked turtles, not fish...right?) At least we were referencing the same thing--his undergarments. Ha ha.

HIM: turtles...yes...cuff and link :) old school tank = wife beater :) I guess I am rather new school when it comes to undergarments.... regular t-shirts and boxer briefs. I have a feeling that Rocky didn't have a single one of those in that wardrobe of his!

Hell-oh-oh-oh! We were discussing briefs before we'd even met. This guy was right up my alley (or at least, I wanted him to be, ASAP!) But we never got together. I don’t recall what the tipping point was that caused me to write Rocky off. Reviewing my email archives, it looks like there was a failed attempt at him calling me and my refusal to try again. I told Rocky so now.

“You probably met someone,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “There was absolutely no action going on at that time.”

Whatever the reason Rocky and I didn’t connect way-back-when, I didn’t care. Rocky didn’t, either. There’s no better time to enjoy a surprise package than the present!

I asked Rocky why he’d rejoined Match. He said he’d been dating a ballerina (whose hotness he mentioned multiple times) who toured too much for a relationship. I asked Rocky what his online dating experience had been like thus far.

“Match is like a part-time job,” he sighed. “All those emails. It takes forever!”

Uh-oh, I thought. Do I really want to date someone as popular as me?

“But I like that about Minneapolis,” Rocky continued. “I could have a date every night of the week if I wanted to.”

I nodded without saying a word, but my knee-jerk reaction was: Run. Away. Fast.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I think you’re a player,” I said.

You could’ve heard a pin—or a jaw—drop after that comment.

“Ooops,” I said. “Am I going to regret saying that? Did I put you on the spot?”

“Not at all,” Rocky replied, shifting his shoulders back like an attorney preparing his defense...or a prize-fighter readying for a right hook. “Do I date a lot? Yes. I’m looking for a partner. That’s how you find one. I’m doing exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do you like dating?”

“I like the company.”

“Do you miss being married?”

“I miss being married, yes. Married to her? No.”

Rocky told me how heartbroken he was post-divorce.

“I went through the rampage stage,” he said.

“Ahh, yes,” I said. “The cock rampage.”

Rocky chuckled. “Exactly. Then I went through my saint phase.”

“Yup.”

“Then I went through the I’m only having long term relationships phase.”

“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.

“It takes so fucking long to get anywhere!”

“I know. That’s why you have to have other people in between the genuine prospects.”

And that’s where I’d slotted Rocky: as an in-between-boyfriends beau.

As though on cue, Rocky slid up behind me on the banquette. He rubbed my shoulders, working his way down to my thighs. I tilted my head back and leaned into him, closing my eyes, expecting him to slip me the tongue…but he didn’t, and by the time I had opened my eyes, I realized I was nuzzling my cheek against his temple instead. His lips were nowhere near mine. It was weird. Finally, he kissed me…but he didn’t just kiss me; he sort of lapped at my face like a dog. His mouth—and mine—had been eclipsed by his huge tongue.

Rocky pulled back after a few laps (natch).

“What?” I asked. “You don’t want to?”

“I want to,” he said. “But I don’t know how the restaurant management feels about it. Or those guys.”

Rocky nodded at a table across from us where a few middle-aged men and a teenage boy were dining.

“So where are we going?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” I said.

Rocky smile drooped. He hadn’t had sex in a looong time (meaning, in male measurement: a month) and I was pretty sure he wanted me to be his slump buster.

I’d gotten plowed (and I ain’t talkin’ snow) the night before. I was still (OMG, am I actually going to say this? Yes, yes I am) bleeding a little bit from all the bumping and grinding. (Guys really like to go long the first time. And considering how long he was, I didn’t mind. Not one inch…err, I mean, “bit”.)

Rocky didn’t bother to ask me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid. I wish he would have…just so I could’ve motioned at his pricey watch and said, “In hours?”

“Just because we go to my place doesn’t mean we have to have sex,” he said.

I laughed skeptically.

“Yeah, sure. Have you ever had a woman over to your house and not had sex?”

“Absolutely. A few times, in fact.”

“Well, if I go to your place, I know exactly what’s going to happen,” I said.

How did I know? Because this date was playing out just like 99% of the others I’ve had lately: Boy meets Man Eater. Boy lures Man Eater to bachelor pad. Man Eater drops pants. Boy assigns Man Eater "booty call girl" title. Boy never takes Man Eater on a real date again.

“Listen,” Rocky said, switching into first-date-sex salesman mode. “I definitely want to go out on another date…but I can tell you right now that it might not happen until January.”

“I’ll be off the market by then,” I said.

“When was your last date?” he asked.

“Last night."

“Are you going to see him again?”

“Yup. Tomorrow.”

“Hmm. Well, I won’t sweat it,” he said. “If the timing’s not right, so be it. I’m not going to force anything.”

Rocky paid for my salad, his fish, and our shared platter of waffle fries (“They charge for that little cup of seasoned sour cream?!” he gaped) and we headed toward the restrooms.

“Oh my God! Chris Koza just emailed me!” Rocky exclaimed when he emerged from the W.C. (Apparently, I’m not the only one who checks email on the John!) “Have you heard of his band Rogue Valley?"

"Of course I have. I interviewed them for my blog."

Rocky wasn't aware. Thus far, he'd stayed away from this site.

"You really should read it," I said. "Just so you know what you're getting into before next time."

Rocky waved off the suggestion like there wasn't anything I could possibly write that would shock him. (Uh-huh. Yeah, right.)

"Do you mind if I reply to Koza?" Rocky asked. "Should I tell him I’m on a date with the Man Eater?”

“Yes! Yes! Do it!” I said.

"Will he remember who you are?"

"The band made breakfast for me." (Which is more than I can say for most of the men I've slept with!) "Koza knows who I am."

Rocky tapped out the message right there in front of me. (Chris was responding to a thank-you note from Rocky for some charity work he'd done.) The moment was sort of sweet…like Rocky was kissing my big brother’s ass so he could go feel me up in the car, guilt free. Which is precisely what we did. We made out like 14-year-old virgins. Meaning: sloppily. Cars are not great make-out spaces. Especially with all the winter gear getting in the way.

Not that it prevented much. Before I knew it, we were in motion. Rocky did naughty things with one hand and steered like a perfect gentleman with the other, all the way through the slushy streets of Eagan.

“Stop,” I said as we drove past the apartment where EconMan proposed five years ago (almost to the date, in fact). “That feels really good but if you keep going, we’re going to end up at your place. And that’s not okay with me.”

Though we were in spitting distance to my house, the return trip felt long. Verrrrry long. And awkward.

“So. How many other dates do you have lined up for this week?” I asked.

“One. It’s Friday or Saturday. I can’t remember.”

“Oh.”

The thought of Rocky going out with someone else after expressing so much interest in me was unnerving. I couldn’t hide my discomfort.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” Rocky said sassily.

“Yes, I’m learning that,” I replied.

Rocky pulled up into my driveway. We kissed goodbye. He said he’d check in with me about his schedule so we could get together again.

I’ll save you the suspense. He didn’t call. Or email. Surprise, surprise. Have I said “Trust your gut” already? Of course I have. Because you should. When things don’t work out the first time around, readers, don’t bother with second chances. Not even if a year-and-a-half has passed and he’s way sexier than you imagined. Unless you like torturing yourself or having regrettable sexual experiences.

Two days post-date, Rocky texted me to see how my date went (umm…awkward!). By then, I wasn’t interested in a man who could...um, give me the finger (literally), then give me the finger (figuratively speaking) by not contacting me for 48 hours. (Proper etiquette, fellas, is to touch base the morning after touching any part of a woman’s anatomy!) Forgive me, but I just assumed that single Dads would treat their lovers as they would like their daughters to be treated. (No worries, fellas; karma will come around soon enough. Some guy will knock up your daughter and you'll be a grandpa in no time!)

Rejection stings no matter where it comes from, but I comforted myself with the fact that if a foreplay-with-no-follow-up left me feeling that resentful, thank goodness I didn't let Rocky rock my world!

Delete, next.

***

Ahh, but that's all in the past. I'm scraping the bottom of the bad date stories barrel. Blame The Baconator. He's treating me so well, I'm running out of material! That’s good for me but not so entertaining for you. Or are you interested in sharing my bliss?

If so, we’ll tackle that in a future post. For now, a tidbit of advice: Keep the Rocky Roads in your mouth and the Rockys out of your pants. You'll thank me in the morning.

ROCKY ROAD



Ingredients

2 cups chocolate chips
1 cup peanut butter
4 cups miniature marshmallows

Method

* Line 9 x 9 pan with parchment paper.

* Heat chocolate chips and peanut butter over low heat in a medium saucepan, stirring often, until chips are completely melted.

* Remove pan from heat. Stir in marshmallows.

* Transfer mixture into prepared pan. Let cool. Refrigerate until firm, then cut.

* A tip from the newly matured Man Eater: be mindful about what you put in your body. Don't go overboard or you'll regret it when the high wears off.

The Third Time's A Cheese Curd

“When you put an intention like this out there, you have to stay vigilant,” my Energy Worker told me last week during my show me the love! session, “because the Universe will test you.”

Pop quiz #1: HukPhun.

A couple weeks ago, I finally met the Match man who I’d rejected over a year ago, blogged about, got chewed out about, and then asked out by again. For our first date, I suggested the restaurant where I was once hired to be a server. I sent an email to my former boss giving him a heads up that I’d be coming down with a date.

“Please do whatever you can to make the evening extra uncomfortable,” I told him.

Apparently, he didn’t know I was joking. Or he did and he wanted to give me a hard time (since he’s married, it’s the only hard thing he can give me, LOL). Within minutes of hugging HukPhun hello, my boss appeared and slid into the booth next to me.

“Sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mr. Elusive,” I scoffed.

The conversation was purely professional, but my boss was so physically close to me, I wondered if HukPhun got a tad envious. (And if he did, good. Men should know that other men find me find attractive. It keeps them on their toes.)

After my boss went about his merry way, I asked HukPhun where he lived, as he’d mentioned moving in a previous exchange. HukPhun named his hometown. I won’t say where (to protect his privacy) but it’s no where near the Twin Cities.

“What?” I gaped. “I thought you said you weren’t a cheesehead!”

“I’m not interested in football," he said, "But I do live in Wisconsin. I thought you knew that.”

Sometimes men I’ve met online think I forget such information listed on their profiles. The truth is that I never read it in the first place…because 99% of the time, it’s shtick. My bullshit meter is much more effective in person. But once I have a man in front of me, you better believe my radar is set to ultra-sensitive…and I will remember every tidbit of pertinent information.

“Are you in town on business then?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Wait wait wait wait. You came all the way here just to meet me?”

“Why does that surprise you? You’re an exceptional woman.”

Yes, but, I’d also learned my lesson from the Paul Bunyan debacle and was resolved not to make the sex-on-the-first-date mistake again.

“I wish I’d known,” I said. “I would’ve told you not to bother.”

“You’re worth it,” he said.

That’s not what I meant. I know I’m worth way more than I get most of the time. What I meant was: if I’d driven 2 ½ hours, no matter what number the date, I would’ve expected to get laid. And if that’s what HukPhun was expecting, he was going to be disappointed.

We dropped the driving topic long enough to order some ridiculously delicious cheese curds, a buffalo burger (for me) and a shrimp diablo pasta dish (for him).

Halfway through the entrees, our small talk meandered over to the topic of marriage. HukPhun’s opinion on matrimony?

“Marriage is friendship with benefits.”

Conversation came to a screeching halt. My cheese curd dangled frozen in mid-air.

“Um…”I said. “I don’t know if I agree with you on that. If you need a best friend, go get one. Your partner serves a different purpose.”

“Hence the benefits.”

“Something about that doesn’t fit for me,” I said. “I’m going to have to think about that.”

Isn’t the “benefit” part of friends with benefits that you can ask them to leave (or even better, that they do so of their own accord) after sex without anyone taking it personally? Isn’t the point of a marriage that nobody leaves anybody? And what about when children are involved (as was the case with both of us)?

“Marriage is just paperwork,” HukPhun said, digging the hole deeper and deeper. “And I do not want to get married ever again.”

My jaw might’ve dropped. Just a little bit. This guy was, physically, everything I was looking for (tall, dark, handsome and huge!). He’d also pursued me…hard. (Persistence is really sexy.) Now, he’d driven from out of state just to eat with me! (This was quite the change from people like Good Guy who wouldn’t even drive across town to pick me up.) I was incredibly flattered.

But HukPhun’s shitty opinion of marriage did not mesh with my long-term plans.

“If I met someone, we could do the whole commitment ceremony and have a party if she wanted,” HukPhun said. “But no paperwork.”

“Why not?”

“I think either partner should be free to go at any time. Making it legal just complicates things.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “Love ebbs and flows. Knowing how horrific divorce is and how long the process takes to end it will keep the couple together long enough to figure things out.”

HukPhun didn’t agree. His attractiveness instantly dropped to non-existent.

Once the plates had been cleared, HukPhun came over to my side of the table. He was showing me cell phone pix of his kids when a text message popped up at the top of the screen.

Is she hot? it read.

HukPhun’s face turned as red as the Heinz ketchup bottle.

“Oh...um...that’s just my buddy. I told him I was meeting you tonight,” he gushed, slinking back to his side of the booth.

I don’t know why the text shocked me so, but it did. I started to get that icky prostitute feeling.

“I’m just going to go freshen up,” I said.

I gave myself a silent pep-talk in the bathroom. My plan was to return to the table and end the date. On the way back, however, I noticed a cozy little section of the restaurant with a widescreen TV, a fireplace, and a leather couch. When I pointed it out to HukPhun, he suggested we hang for a bit. Considering how far he’d come, and that we’d been sitting in the same booth for over two hours, I agreed…

..and instantly regretted it.

HukPhun put his hand on my thigh. I must admit, it felt good. He had big hands. Strong hands. Hands that could completely contain my ass while I was riding what had to be a ginormous cock...

Wait right there! my smarter alter-ego screamed inside my head. Remember your intentions, Erica! If the goal is marriage, you do not fuck someone—especially on the first date—just to “see what it would be like”. It might feel good, but it’s bad. It’s telling the Universe that you’re not really ready to remarry.

I thought about the driving distance, which HukPhun swore would not deter him from seeing me. This was a major roadblock (pun very much intended) en route to an LTR. Quite frankly, I am an attention whore. I like to have my man close by in case a sudden craving arrives. Besides, that amount of distance would really put the pressure on...and not in a good way. If I drove 2 ½ hours to meet someone (which I never would, BTW. One hour in the car is as much as I can handle at a time), I’d expect a lot of bells and whistles upon my arrival. I’d want a parade to march through the bedroom post-coitus.

“What are you thinking?” HukPhun asked. (Contrary to urban myth, men ask this question way more than women. It’s like they want you to grade them every half-hour of the date!)

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just processing.”

I repeated the warning signs in an attempt to turn myself off: HukPhun had a history of rule-breaking. There was the ever-popular bipolar ex. (Men love the crazies. Luuuuuuv them.) And despite his masculine physique, there was something, um, effeminate about him.

I slunk down into the cushions and sighed. No, this was not going to work. My brain knew it. My body? Still unconvinced. HukPhun’s eyes were doing that horny man twinkling thing. I could tell he wanted to kiss me. The familiar sensation of butterflies swarmed my stomach.

"I can get a room,” HukPhun said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t do that,” I replied. “’Cause I’m not going there with you.”

“Why not? I know how to stop.”

“Yeah, but when I start something, I like to finish.”

“I don’t have any expectations, Erica.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t!”

“I know you must have fantasies.”

“Okay, there is one thing I want.”

“I knew it.”

“A second date.”

“That I can do,” I said. “But for now, I need to call it a night.”

Someone whooped behind us. I got up on my knees and leaned over the back of the couch. A group of inebriated 20-somethings were testing out the mechanical bull—and my ex-boss was behind the control panel, plotting every buck and twist. Was I really going to forgo an awesome fuck to keep my promise to the Universe?

Yes.

“Would you walk me to my car?” I asked.

HukPhun obliged. Then he asked me for a ride...to his car. I hesitated, knowing the kind of intimacy cars encourage. But, again, despite my better judgment, I agreed.

“Is this one yours?” I asked, pointing at a white pick-up.

“Yeah, I think that’s it.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Gimme a break! I just stole it today!”

“Ah-ha, so that’s where the ‘hitchhiker’ came from?” I said.

(At the start of our date, HukPhun confessed to giving some stranger a ride to the Mall of America. In under an hour, the two guys bonded over their exes. The hitchhiker provided endless opportunity for mockery.)

“Is there a dead body you need to dispose of in there?” I asked.

“Now there is.”

I started laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. It felt incredible. I thought maybe, just maybe, HukPhun might be something more than another “I wanna fuck Man Eater” fan.

HukPhun was waiting for me to change my mind. I could smell his desire polluting the air like exhaust seeping in through the window. I felt bad that he’d driven. I felt like I owed him something in return. I was thisclose to making the fun but stupid decision of getting a room.

Then I reminded myself that my company should be enough. I deserve to be wooed. I deserve to be spoiled. I deserve to respect myself in the morning. I would not change my position just to get laid. (Natch.)

Sleeping with HukPhun, no matter how much fucking fun it would be, would not change his opinion on marriage. And I knew how unlikely it was that a hook-up would turn into a satisfying relationship. To sleep with him just because the opportunity was there would be (gasp—I can’t believe I’m going to say this) wrong. It would be using him for his body…and it would be abusing mine.

(Pat me on the back, people. This is growth.)

I could tell HukPhun wanted to kiss me. I didn’t make the move—or invite him to—and he read my cues correctly. He gave me a peck on the cheek instead and opened his door.

“Since my phone’s dead,” he said, “You can just give me your number on Facebook.”

I agreed, though I didn’t have any plans to do so. By the time I got home (a 15 minute drive, which made me feel supremely guilty in comparison to HukPhun’s ride home), HukPhun had already emailed me asking for my thoughts. (Tip for the fellas: follow-up is essential...just wait until the next day to do it, okay? Women only like pressure in the bedroom!)

“I need to sleep on it,” I said.

The truth was, though I’d enjoyed HukPhun’s company, I felt incredibly empty. It sucked coming home unfucked. Normally I’d never pass up a chance to get naked with such a hottie (I’m like a man in that way), but I recognized this for what it was: the Universe asking if I was serious about finding a mate. I’d passed the test. And yet, the pride of keeping my pants on paled in comparison to the pleasure of fucking my brains out.

The next morning, I composed a message to HukPhun. The new (and utterly asinine) Facebook deleted all our message exchanges, so I can’t take the easy way out and just copy and paste. My reply went a little something like this:

ME: I’ve been dating long enough now that I know I need to trust my instincts. If all I wanted was to get laid, I would’ve jumped (literally!) at the hotel suggestion. But I’m trying to keep my actions in line with my intentions. Marriage is really important to me but it sounds like we’re not on the same page with that. I’ve wasted enough time and energy on men who I hoped would come around and realize how fantastic I was and put a ring on it. You said you weren’t interested in that, so I don’t see how our dating would be healthy for either of us. Have I scared you off yet?

Apparently not. HukPhun wouldn’t let me get away that easy. Now that I was clearly uninterested, he continued to pursue me. Message after message arrived. He posted poetry on my fb page. He tried to retract his no-more-marriage statement, telling me that he didn’t know me well enough when he blurted that out, and that for someone like me he could easily see himself changing his mind…

Uh-huh. Where have I heard that before? (Easy. Econman.)

HukPhun pushed and pushed and pushed. I thought I’d made a firm decision about not proceeding to date #2, but ultimately, the "free food + starving artist = ‘nuf said" equation decided for me and I agreed to a second date a week hence.

Me: OK, OK. Let’s do another din din. Get a room. That’s not a guarantee about what’s going to happen if/when we go there, but if something were to occur, I wouldn’t want you driving home afterwards. I WILL wear you out.

I wasn’t really looking forward to the date, but I wasn’t dreading it either. Luckily for me, fate intervened. As we know, a lot can happen in a Man Eater’s world in seven days. And it did. I went out with someone else (actually, I went out with a couple people, but I stayed in with only one of them). We made bacon. Literally. Afterwards, we made out on the couch. Before the clothes came off, he pulled back to check the time. I was supposed to rush off to an impromptu concert by my Pictures of Then peeps.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

Absolutely…not. I wanted to come. And boy oh boy, did I ever. The evening was indescribably yummy. And I was happy.

But I still had the unfinished HukPhun business to deal with. A worse woman would’ve gone out with HukPhun anyway, just for the meal ticket. But no amount of grub, no matter how good (not even truffle mac n’ cheese as we’d discussed) would compensate for me having to fake it through a dinner when I’d rather be elsewhere. So I canceled. And went out with The Baconator for pizza instead. And, yes, you know what comes next. (Me. Innumerable times.)

The moral: Trust your gut. Especially when it’s asking for hot and spicy cheese curds.

THREE ALARM CHEESE CURDS



Ingredients

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup milk
1 quart oil
1 pound hot & spicy cheese curds (psst…you may have to order them ‘em online)

Method

• In medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. Add eggs and milk; stir until combined.

• Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat.

• Dip cheese curds in batter, then drop into skillet. Fry 1 minute or until golden brown. Remove with spatula and drain on paper towels.

• Serve with Chipotle Mayo (recipe below).

SPICY CHIPOTLE MAYO

Ingredients

½ cup fat free mayo
¼ cup fat-free sour cream
2 Chipotle chilies (from can of Chipotle chilies in adobo sauce)
¼ teaspoon dried oregano leaves

Method

• Combine mayonnaise and sour cream in medium bowl; stir and set aside.

• Remove 2 chilies from tin and chop finely, allowing some adobo sauce to cling to chilies.

• Add chilies to mayo and sour cream mixture; stir.

• Add oregano leaves; stir.

• Serve with cheese curds.

• Any sensation still left in your tongue? You know what to do with it. Just make sure to stop before you get stuffed.

Return To Sender--This Package Is Damaged!

There’s a theory that from the moment a woman wakes up, she keeps a mental list of all the annoying things her man does. At the end of the night, she erases the list. I don’t buy it. I say the list begins as soon as you meet a man and it isn’t wiped clean until after an orgasm. No big O? The annoyance tally lengthens. And if my body’s not being put to good use by the bad boy in question, you better believe I’m stuck inside my own head, revising that list until I’m totally turned off.

Such was the case after my sexless third date with Paul Bunyan. On the drive home, I cried for the first mile, then realized I'd have an accident if I kept that up. (If only he’d kept it up, we wouldn’t have had this problem…) When the tears stopped, the anger started. I obeyed the speed limit, but my mind was racing. The scales quickly tipped from “PB’s the greatest catch ever!” to “just another douche bag.”

On PB’s D.B. roster: the drinking, the cockiness, the refusal to cuddle with me, the excessive talk about his ex (hint: if your partner is still angry over the break-up, s/he’s not over it yet. Anger is energy. A well-adjusted partner is indifferent to the ex.), the cold house (if you can’t afford to heat it, you need to downsize, honey), the bro-mance with his roomie (30-something men should not spend that much time together), and (yes!) his application to appear on The Bachelor despite his insistence that the process doesn’t work.

I could go on. I won’t. Suffice to say that in the absence of ecstasy, I easily came up with enough of his faults to soothe any sadness over the goodbye. Still, I believe that each man that is dropped into my lap, even if there’s no love connection, has a lesson to teach me. If I don’t learn the lesson, I get the same kind of guy. As you can see, I keep flunking the “keep your pants on” lesson. And I pay attention because, like house hunting, you learn the most from the ones you don’t like.

So what was PB’s lesson? It’s true that I once again flunked the “keep your pants on” course by having sex on the first date with PB. (Hey, don’t blame me. How could I not slip considering the sex began underwater?!) Does that alone explain why I am single despite every bone in my body wanting to make a life with someone? Or could it be that I...OMG...need to stop blogging?

After that question popped into my brain, I went into crisis mode in a way I haven't since the blog began to really heat up in January. Had you asked me, en route from PB's to my place, if I was going to stop blogging, I would have said yes. I would have said I was going to go home, pull an all-nighter, and remove every fucking trace of this blog from the World Wide Web.

But as you can see (read), that’s not what happened.

(Later, as I told Shrink, “I probably just needed to eat something. My blood sugar was crashing.”)

I got home, plopped down in my favorite chair, and pounded out a post. It felt so cathartic to get PB out of my system. I finished the post, I titled it Call Off The Search?, published it, then went to bed. I slept like I’d just fucked my brains out even though I’d only been mind-fucked.

PB cited me going too fast as the reason the relationship never got off the ground. The good news: I can take direction. The bad news: I have two speeds: stop and go. I will slam on the breaks when necessary. So that’s what I did.

I woke the next morning with a rush of energy. I scheduled dates with men that were chomping at the bit to meet me. (One even drove in from out of state to do so!) I wrote. I baked. I catered. I did my own thing.

By 24 hours post-goodbye, had you asked me about PB, I would've said, "PB who?!" Does that seem too quick to forget someone I felt so passionately about? I thought so, too, but all the dating I’ve done has taught me how to let go when something isn’t right rather than fight for someone who doesn’t value me. As they say: easy come, easy go. And as I say: as soon as I don’t come, I’m gone.

After several days sans contact, PB wrote me a gushy email saying what a wonderful person I was and that he was sorry, but that we were not a good match. He said his gut (no shit, natch) told him that something was missing. (Your sobriety, perhaps?) He said I was “sexy as hell” and hoped I’d find a worthy guy.

Before saying goodbye for good, he just had one tip for me: that I should remove any mention of Man Eater from my Match profile.

That was the last straw. Of course I hat to reply.

Oh, honey, I've already moved on. No goodbye message necessary. Your words are sweet, but your actions completely contradict everything you say you're looking for. Thanks for the advice on my profile, but I prefer to be upfront about who I am rather than hide it behind a facade.

I wish you all the best, though I guarantee you won't find better than me.

E

P.S. I'd appreciate getting my panties back. Those don't come cheap. Perhaps you could drop them off at The Turf Club next Saturday eve?

I realized I should’ve CC’d this email to myself, because there was as much of a reality check in it for him as there was for me. My actions were betraying my intentions. Had I held off on having sex with PB, he probably would’ve lost interest right away and I could’ve saved myself the emotional tumult and a lot of driving time. (That said, I don’t regret a single delicious second of it. Some fucks are worth fucking up relationships for, if you know what I mean…)

After washing that man out of my hair, I scheduled a session with Shrink to get an opinion on whether or not to axe the blog. (That's a lumberjack pun, BTW.)

“There’s always going to be people who disagree with what you’re doing,” Shrink said. “If they don’t like it, they don’t have to read it. You’ll know when it’s time to stop.”

Sometimes Shrink makes my head spin. Here I thought she was going to lecture me about how I’d lost yet another great guy and it was all the blog’s fault. On the contrary; she said it was him, not me, who messed up.

“You’re an exceptional woman,” Shrink said. “It’s going to take a very strong man to keep you in check. But once you find him, you will settle down. That doesn't mean you have to settle. You need someone who balls up.”

Shrink paused—and then we both burst into laughter.

“Did I just make that phrase up?” Shrink asked. “It’s not ‘balls up’, it’s ‘mans up’, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I like the ‘balls up’ image!” I said.

“What I meant is that men who get intimidated by you have not dealt with their own issues. A lot of people are hiding behind veneers. They see how upfront and honest you are and that scares them.”

I nodded.

“I remember when I first met you, Erica,” Shrink continued, referring to our initial meeting back in 2006. “You were so…vacant. Now I look at you and I can see the fire has been lit!”

I walked away delighted that for once, I was not the one who needed to be in therapy after all!

The next day, still on my self-improvement (or ego stroking) kick, I went to see my Energy Worker. Instead of doing the usual aura-cleansing, chakra-aligning routine, I told her I only had one objective for our session.

“2010 was supposed to be my year for committed love,” I said. “I’m ready and I want the Universe to know it.”

“You seem especially confident,” Energy Worker remarked.

“I am!” I exclaimed. “It’s amazing. I haven’t felt this much clarity about what I want in a man in a long time. I’m getting really good at identifying when someone is right for me and when he’s not. I know by the end of the first date.”

“What do you see as obstacles getting in the way of a relationship?” she asked.

“I don’t see any,” I said. “I think it’s the guys. I’m ready. I’ve never felt more ready in my life.”

“It could be that the Universe recognizes that you’re ready, but the man isn’t,” Energy Worker said. “It might be a logistical question. Perhaps he travels and he just hasn’t made it to Minnesota yet. Maybe there’s something he’s still working out and you just have to be patient.”

Energy Worker used a special technique in which she infused me with different colors of energy (sapphire blue for the lower region, rose pink for the upper region, and a golden ball of light for my third eye). She put stones on me. She burned sage. She put her hands on various body parts and infused me with positivity.

It might sound hokey, but if you’ve ever tried Reiki-style healing touch, you can attest to the (literally) good vibrations you feel while doing it. Afterwards, I was oddly drained; even a little irritable. That was a sign of toxicity leaving my body.

Energy Worker gave me two assignments which I’ve had practice with before. One is Celtic and includes fantasizing and masturbation to thoughts of my future mate. Needless to say, I was eager to get started on my homework.

Not to toot my own horn, but: I know I'm a hot ticket. I have a lot of energy, optimism, ambition, love and (hello!) blow job skills to offer a man. I also have six years of housewifery experience; washing dishes, doing laundry, and cleaning bathrooms are enjoyable to me. And, ahem, you may have noticed I can cook, too. I'm like a Stepford Wife...with a big brain and even bigger sex drive! I look equally enticing dressed as the girl-next-door as I do decked out in a cocktail attire, and I'm crude enough to hang with the guys but I clean up quick enough to take home to Mom & Dad.

I may not have a lot of cash, but don’t men feel more manly when they’re the ones providing for the family anyway? Speaking of which, instead of thinking of me as a single mom with spawns to support, let's say that I come with kids included! No procreation necessary! Believe me, fellas without offspring, this is a huge plus, because pregnant women are no fun. And because they’re my kids, my new man shouldn’t feel the same drain--psychological or financial--that a biological father would. My girls are also only with me part-time. In fact, their dad recently proposed that he take them off my hands every weekend forever!!! (And on weeknights, my mom is happy to babysit.) It’s a win-win all around. I’m the total package…now all I need is a good man willing to share his package!

Where will I find this guy? No worries, readers, I'm waaaay ahead of you. When I checked back in with Match (after canceling my subscription for less than a week), I had 127 emails waiting for my response. (To give you a baseline comparison, during the previous two dalliances with online dating, I maxed out at 10 emails.) I went from boo-hoo to double-booked in three days flat. And, yes, there's already one stand-out contender. But not a peep from me while the going's good...

To keep myself from blathering, let's fill that pie hole (the other one, you dirty bastards) with something edible ASAP. Today's recipe, in honor of PB, is for pancakes, since they are my post-breakup comfort food of choice and a metaphor for lazy lovers. These are no ordinary pancakes, however (nor do they contain peanut butter). These pancakes are pumpkin—a little spicy, a little sweet, and best devoured in excess. They’re also packed with protein. (Yes, you too can eat like ME and still stay cut like PB!). Finally, you’ll notice this recipe uses Almond Breeze instead of cow’s milk for those of you with sensitive stomachs (ahem!).

"PAUL BUNYAN WHO?" PUMPKIN PANCAKES



Ingredients

For the pancakes:
½ cup canned pumpkin
¼ cup unsweetened Almond Breeze
1 packet (½ teaspoon) Stevia
¼ cup oats
1 scoop vanilla whey protein
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup egg whites
½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

For the topping:
1 cup vanilla yogurt
1 pint raspberries

Method

• Coat griddle or skillet with cooking spray and heat over low heat.

• Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl.

• Pour batter by ¼ cup onto griddle or skillet.

• Cook pancakes until bubbles appear on surface; then flip and cook until set on other side.

• Serve immediately, preferably for dinner (it feels extra indulgent somehow), garnished with vanilla yogurt and raspberries.

• The nice part about pancakes? If you’re not hungry for them while they’re hot, you can wrap them up and freeze them for another day. They’ll still be just as scrumptious for up to three months from now. As far as dating goes, I can’t say the same…in three months, I very well may be off the market...



As for music to dine by, how about a little Dolly Parton? Country is not my usual go-to tunes, but these lyrics fit the PB situation to a T.

Don't You Wanna Get Lei'd?

"What time do you want me?” I asked Paul Bunyan when he finally called to schedule our third date.

“That depends," he replied. "Do you want to have sex before or after the movie?”

“Both!” I said.

PB chuckled, but I wasn’t joking. After a week away from my boy toy, I was starving for his touch. My recent “Why don’t you like me?!” email originally received a written response from PB—and what he said was a delightful surprise. As I complimented him later, he acknowledged my feelings, offered an explanation for his actions, and proposed a plan of action. He said he’d call that evening and, as promised, he did. Since I sensed PB wanted to take the reins, I let him choose the day, time, activity, and film for our next date.

When I woke up on the appointed date day, however, I wasn’t happy. I was anxious. Anxious in a way I’d never been with PB. I tried to stuff down the insecurity bubbling up in my tummy with fistfuls of Puppy Chow. (I’d made it as a treat for PB, but by the time I left for the date, I’d already eaten half.)

Foremost on my mind: how does a man deny himself sex as delicious as what PB and I had for seven days?! It felt like an eternity to me.

When I arrived, I slipped into the bathroom to freshen up before going upstairs to greet PB. Next to the sink, there was a recent issue of Time magazine, open to an article on whether or not marriage was passé in modern society. The article was not optimistic. Basically, it predicted the imminent demise of matrimony, especially given the current economy.

I didn’t read the entire piece…but I did see some stats about the average child of divorce witnessing up to six lovers sharing mom’s bed before the kiddos turn 18. That disgusted me. It’s also why, after EconMan bonded, then abandoned, my two (then toddler) daughters, I swore no man would ever meet my children again until there was a wedding date set.

PB and I were alike in our desires to protect our respective daughters from love-and-leave-‘em partners. In fact, we were alike in a lot of ways...so much so that this article was sitting there, mid-read, seemed suspicious. It’s something I might do if I wanted my S.O. to take a hint.

I went upstairs, hoping my lover was still in the shower so I could join him. He wasn’t; he was dressed and drying his hair. When I first saw his face, fresh, friendly, and familiar, my heart sighed. I know that sounds corny, but that's how I felt. Any tension melted away and I thought, “Damn. You are so handsome. I am one lucky girl.”

I attached myself to PB like Velcro…but he didn’t welcome my affection as he had in the past. He detached and went about cleaning his ears.

Since we’d both been slow to warm up during our first two dates (Hard to believe, I know, but it was true. It took a good half-hour or so to really let our guards down for some reason.), I didn’t think too much of it.

“My back is killing me,” he said. “Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?”

“I do, actually,” I said. I’d popped a pain pill on the way over--because the anxiety (or the sugar overdose) had given me a horrific headache. I retrieved the drugs from my car.

“Now all I need is some beer and I’ll be fine!” PB said. (He wasn’t kidding.)

We went downstairs to his chilly kitchen, where PB devoured the Puppy Chow I’d brought him. I stood by and watched, wondering when he was going to ravage me. PB seemed content tuning into a TV program about hunting with hawks. It was interesting, sure, but I wanted this man to give me some attention, not zone out in front of the boob tube!

“Hungry?” he asked.

“A little,” I said.

“We could order a pizza. Or I have a frozen one we could heat up here…”

I probably cringed. You all know how I feel about frozen pizza by now, don’t’ you? In the words of football player Randy Moss: “I wouldn’t feel this shit to my dog.”

“Or would could go to California Pizza Kitchen,” PB suggested. “It’s right next to the movie theater.”

Was this a test? PB had often complained about how expensive it was to go out (tip: your alcohol is the most expensive item on the tab, honey!). I will do a lot of things to cut costs, but eating frozen pizza isn’t one of them. Besides, I’d offered to bring pizza over and PB didn’t bite. If PB wasn't going to eat me out on the floor like he did on our first date, we might as well eat out.

“That sounds good,” I said.

In truth, I didn’t really care where the pizza came from. I didn't care about dinner at all. I just wanted dessert. But it appeared PB wasn’t in the mood for whoopee makin'. He put on his coat. I followed suit.

“You’re going to freeze!” PB exclaimed when he saw my corduroy button-up.

(Oddly enough, my mother had said the same thing about my outfit when she saw me earlier.)

“I'll be fine,” I said. I showed him the lining of the jacket. “This has fuzzy stuff in it.”

“Still,” PB said, giving me the disapproving head-shake of a step-father. “You’re dressed like it’s summer.”

Okay, so my blouse was sleeveless, but as I told PB, “I felt like being pretty in pink and wearing butterflies. Is there something wrong with wanting to look nice for a date?”

PB raised his eyebrows like I had a screw lose. “It’s not very practical,” he said.

“Well, I felt feminine,” I said. “Next time I'll wear my best hoodie for you, okay? Jeez.”

Soon we were in PB's truck, about to back out of the garage, when...PB groaned and leaned over the steering wheel.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My stomach…I think I need to go use the bathroom.”

Readers, I’m sad to say that this is not the first time a man has used this excuse to duck out of a date with me. (That story's in the Man Eater e-book!)

We went back inside so PB could use the W.C. and I watched Man Versus Food on the flat screen.

“Let’s stay in,” I said when PB emerged ten minutes later. I would've been happy to hang. He, on the other hand, was really preoccupied with doing the dinner-and-a-movie date. So we went...but the longer the date went on, the less confident I felt that we would ever have another one.

In a nutshell, PB was so full of shit (metaphorically speaking, of course), that I could smell it on him. If your stomach hurt, would you order pizza with pineapple (an extremely acidic fruit that can cause diarrhea)? Would you request Tabasco on the side? Would you drink wine? I didn’t think so. Whatever. I didn't call PB on his shit (natch); I just kept a mental list.



PB and I split a tray of chips, a scoop of ho-hum guacamole and a very unexciting Hawaiian pizza. I was dying for some chocolate (since cock seemed to be off the menu tonight), but PB didn’t want dessert.

“What did you think of that last post?” I asked, referring to the (now removed C’mon down! ditty. “Was it too mean?”

PB shrugged. “You write like a man, Erica. It’s all about getting laid.”

“You understand that the blog is written for entertainment. My readers don’t want to hear about the nights I spend watching YouTube clips in my bedroom while I paint my toenails. That’s not interesting.”

“I get that. I just think I need to stop reading the blog.”

“I think you do, too.”

“And to answer your question: I don’t know if that post was mean. It was honest. But…”

(Insert huge awkward silence in which a big elephant stopped alongside our table and began breathing down my neck.)

“…it’s like that email you sent me,” PB said. “It sort of shocked me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I like to be in control. And I don’t want to move that fast.”

“The problem I’m having is that I don’t want to date anyone else,” I said. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I’m still getting asked out. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” PB said in that utterly-unhelpful male way that made something very complicated sound so simple.

I nodded as though I understood, but I was left wondering if my words—or my appetite—had once again sabotaged a good thing.

The bill came. I paid. Thirty bucks. (In other words: fucking ridiculous. I would’ve rather eaten an entire loaf of my Happy Accident Pepperoni Bread.)

“That was unexpected,” PB said.

“It shouldn’t be. I told you last time that the next meal was on me.”

PB hadn’t remembered that. (I wonder if he’s been dating too much?) “Thanks.”

PB and I walked across the parking lot to the movie theater; it was bone-chilling cold and, yes, for a moment I regretted not wearing a warmer coat.

"I hate Minnesota," PB said, suddenly launching into what I will now call the Ultimate Man Fantasy: him, alone, on a boat, for all eternity. (Do you know how many times I have heard this, readers? No man is an island, but unmarried guys about to turn 40 sure as hell want to live like one.)

"I'd like to leave, but I don't think I ever will," I said. "I'd miss the people too much."

PB "pswah"ed. "As long as I see my daughter a couple times a year, I'd be fine."

Rather than delve deeper into uncomfortable topics, PB hurried me inside. We saw The Next Three Days, a film about a husband who goes to great lengths to free his wrongly-convicted wife from jail. It was a pretty good movie; the only thing that would have made it better was if PB had bothered to touch me, just once, during the film. But he didn’t.

“I don’t know if I agree with killing people in order to steal money to break your partner out of prison,” I said after the credits rolled.

“Those people were meth dealers, Erica,” PB said, his voice taking on an “I-want-to-debate” tone. “How many people do you think they killed by selling drugs?”

“Okay, good point,” I said, “But still. His wife wasn’t in imminent danger. He didn’t have to steal that money.”

“That's how far men will go for the people they love. What would you have done in that situation?”

“Wait.”

“For twenty years?!”

“If he loved her, he’d wait,” I said. “Besides, breaking her out seems like a big risk. What if he’d gotten caught or killed? Then their son wouldn’t have had parents. Better to have a full-time single parent than no parents at all.”

PB shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in that “Let’s agree to disagree” kind of way.

“Well, thanks for going to the movie with me,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“That makes it sound like you’re saying goodbye to me already,” I said.

“No,” PB replied, but his lack of eye contact implied the opposite. He sighed. “But I couldn’t fuck you tonight if I wanted to, Erica. And I do want to. But my back is killing me. Maybe I should have cancelled, but I can only imagine how upset that would’ve made you.”

The realization that PB and I were not going to get naked hit me like a surprise snowball in the face. I couldn’t hide how let-down I was.

“This is the problem with having sex right away,” PB said. “Now you expect it. And if I don’t fuck your brains out tonight, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Yeah, I’m disappointed,” I said. “But could we lie down for a while? Would you at least…hold me?”

As soon as the cliché request left my mouth, I scoffed at myself.

“What? Why’d you say it like that?” PB asked.

“Because it’s such a girly thing to say,” I replied.

“What’s wrong with—oh, never mind. It’s not worth talking about.”

I suddenly felt like chopped liver. I fixed my gaze on the nothingness in the distance. I knew if I looked at PB, I was going to start crying.

“Great,” PB said. “I can see it now: He took me to dinner and a movie and he didn’t fuck me.”

“Blog post forthcoming,” I muttered. When PB didn’t respond, I turned and reached for his hand. He was as responsive as road kill.

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “It’s just…I would at least like to cuddle with you.”

PB was not enthused.

“Shit,” he said as he pulled onto his street. “I have to take the garbage out.”

Don’t forget to toss yourself in that bin, I thought.

After PB finished hauling the trash, we sat down on the couch together. The silence was suffocating. It was like he wanted me to leave but he didn’t want to say so. I leaned in; PB recoiled.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’re throwing yourself at me,” he said. “It’s really a turn-off.”

Now I pulled back in shock. If I was too much, he was not enough. I wanted to be kissed and caressed and adored. I needed to feel like even if extenuating circumstances prevented sex that at least he wanted to have it.

“It’s like…you’re trying too hard,” PB said. “The way you’re dressed, the Puppy Chow…”

Well, yes, I was trying too hard…but only because I could feel him pulling away. What was I supposed to do? Show up unkempt and demand he make me a steak? PB was clearly in a bad mood, so I picked up the slack by being extra agreeable. Relationships are supposed to be balancing acts…aren’t they?

A line from the movie shot through my brain: You want this too much. You're going to mess it up. Gulp.

“I’m sorry for liking you so much,” I said, semi-sarcastically.

“Don’t apologize. It’s just…it’s all sex, all the time with you. I’m looking for something more.”

“So am I. That’s why I told you I don’t want to date anyone else.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You’re moving too fast.”

My head was spinning. This was the warped alcoholic logic that reminded me of when Slump Buster would get angry and make my pain sound like my fault. Here was PB, saying he wanted something more than sex, yet dodging any discussion of exclusivity. WTF?! The confusion, coupled with my chocolate and cock deficiencies, hit me all at once. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that. You don’t need to get upset. I’m just being honest about how I feel.”

“And I’m being honest about how I feel. I’m hurt. And I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted.”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t feel good,” he said. "I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of our date. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"

“Yes, I understand. But you're human. You have a body. It's not a big deal. I'm suggesting a compromise. You don’t have to fuck my brains out, but could we at least cuddle?”

PB grimaced. Yes, grimaced. Now my stomach was upset.

“I don’t want to be touched,” he said.

“Well, I do. So if you’re not willing, I’m going.”

The tears came harder and faster than I could wipe them away. I hid my face behind my hair as I zipped up my boots. When I stood up and turned around, PB was right behind me.

“Bye,” I said without brushing my hair back.

He hugged me. It was a good hug, but I wasn’t really engaged in the embrace because internally, I was torn. I didn’t understand how his body could be doing one thing, his words another…though I was no different. On one hand, I wanted to grab his junk and coax him upstairs; on the other, I wanted to stab him in the shoulder with my keys. (I believe experiencing those opposing urges simultaneously is what is known as “passion”.)

The drive home was 45 minutes, which meant I had a lot of time to think...but we’ll do a post-mortem analysis in my next post…

**

For your oral and aural pleasure today, I’m going to get a little cheesy with the Hawaiian theme from what turned out to be my "last supper" with Paul Bunyan. Time for the soothing sounds of Meiko and enough carbs to put me in a coma until my heart mends...

"DON'T YOU WANNA GET LEI'D?" HAWAIIAN PIZZA



Ingredients

For crust:
3 ¼ cups flour
¾ tablespoon (1 packet) granulated yeast
¾ tablespoon salt
1 ½ cups water

For toppings:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 ¾ cup shredded mozzarella cheese
6 ounces Canadian bacon, sliced
1 can pineapple junks, drained

Method

• Whisk dry dough ingredients together in large bowl.

• Add water; stir with wooden spoon just until dough forms.

• Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rise for 2 hours.

• After initial rise, chill dough in fridge at least 2 hours for easier handling.

• When ready to bake, place pizza stone in oven. (A pizza stone ensures the crispiest crust. If you don’t have a pizza stone, a greased baking sheet will suffice.)

• Preheat oven to 525 degrees.

• Roll dough out on floured surface, shaping into heart shape (use pizza wheel to cut dough into heart shape if necessary). Transfer onto large sheet of parchment paper (so dough does not stick to stone. If you are using a baking sheet, no parchment paper is necessary.)

• With pastry brush, coat surface of dough with olive oil.

• Top with half of cheese, followed by Canadian bacon and pineapple. Top with remaining cheese.

• Gently transfer pizza, on parchment paper, to baking stone.

• Bake 8 minutes; slide parchment paper out from under pizza. Bake additional 4-5 minutes or until crust is browned and cheese is bubbly.

• With oven mitts, remove pizza and stone from oven. Cool slightly, then slice.

• It lieu of getting laid, get lei'd!

**

Manipulation Always Starts With A "MAN"

After a mind-blowing first date like the one I had with PB, it’s pretty much impossible to demand a repeat performance. Our second date was not as impressive--in any way--as the first.

Cut to my PB collapsing in exhaustion in bed and asking for a massage instead of something more moan-worthy. I didn’t mind; I used to give The Mexican massages all the time. It didn’t feel like a chore since I'd already been satisfied and we were both naked.

“Oh my God, Erica. That elbow!” PB moaned.

I giggled. “I’ve been complimented on many a body part, but never my elbow,” I said.

I dug aforementioned elbow into multiple knots in PB's shoulders and neck.

“You know what the yogis would say about this?” I said. “That your throat chakra is blocked. You’re not speaking your truth.”

PB scoffed at me, but I knew what was up (or rather, what wasn't).

Post-massage, we spooned nude on the dirty sheets, and PB started to fall asleep. I was falling, too; I could feel it. I felt so safe there in his embrace. Our bodies fit perfectly. I was totally blissed out...but I had to stick to my rules. I leaned over the edge of the bed and reached for my clothes, just as PB snored himself awake.

“I’m going,” I said.

PB pulled me towards him.

“Don’t.”

So I didn’t. At least, not before getting my rocks off.

As we lay there afterwards, PB seemed to be fishing for info on what I’d write about him.

“I wonder what my pseudonym is going to be,” PB mused.

“I already know,” I said.

PB perked up. “What is it?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to blog about you. At least, not as long as we’re still dating. When it’s over, all bets are off.”

“Tell me what it is."

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

PB rose up on his knees and hovered above me. He grabbed my hips. Hard. “Tell me.”

“I gotta keep at least one secret,” I said.

“Tell me, Erica.”

There was an edge in his voice; a dangerous edge. I liked it. It turned me on. Him, too, apparently, by what ensued. It felt good to withhold something that he wanted...something that I wasn’t going to give it up. PB continued to repeat his “tell me” plea but no matter what "torture" tactics he used, I kept the lips zipped. It was sick and twisted and incredibly sexy.

“I’m not telling you what your pseudonym is because I just might change it,” I said.

I was so tired after all the go-round, I wished I didn’t have to go. PB knew about my sleepover rule, so he didn’t expect me to stay. I don’t think he expected me to fall asleep, either. Whoops.

“Shit, Erica, it’s 2:30,” PB whispered, nudging me awake a couple hours later.

I started getting dressed. In the dark. I didn’t want PB to turn on the lights, so I ended up putting my shirt on inside out...and left without panties.

PB kissed me at the door. Sweetly. And pulled me against his chest. His body was so warm and comforting; I wanted to make a nest right there on his pecs. I was totally smitten. Finally, finally, finally! I thought. I’d found what’s referred to in Spanish as my “media naranja” (half-orange)...

…which is why I wasn’t surprised when PB started pulling back.

The next few days involved a few text exchanges, but no date invites. I didn't understand what the hold up was.

I continued on with my weekend, pretending that I wasn’t thinking of PB the entire time, wondering when I was going to see him again, and getting increasingly pissed that on a rare kid-free Saturday night, there were no concerts worth the cover charge nor was I going to get laid.

That night, PB sent me a picture of himself cooking up his kill in his kitchen.

ME: Soooo jealous! Enjoy that meat, caveman!

PB: What R U doing?

Have I said men can smell each other on me? They can. I was just leaving my latest bad date in St. Louis Park, a suburb neighboring PB’s hood. (From my house, his place was anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, depending on traffic and weather.) If we were going to hook up over the weekend, this was perfect timing!

ME: Just leaving SLP…and could use a nibble…

I refused to sit in a cold parking lot waiting to see if PB was going to invite me over or not. I drove in the direction of home. I tried to detach. I tried to not care. But, damn, it was only 9 PM and if he was awake and capable, I wanted some meat! Five minutes into the commute, I put one more feeler out there.

ME: Going once…going twice…

Nothing…until 20 minutes later, that is, as I was approaching my exit.

PB: :( I’m just sitting at home with my roomie and his girl.

I stared at my phone, befuddled. I had the slightest inkling of déjà vu. This situation reminded me of a time when I swore Slump Buster did the reaching-out-without-grabbing-onto-anything trick. (Note: subsequent texts are verbatim, including his misspellings.)

PB: Uh hu

ME: ?

PB: U say yes.

ME: To what? I haven’t seen an invitation…

I pulled into my driveway as my phone chimed at random intervals with a barrage of incoming texts. Instead of engaging in further drama, I got into my own hot tub and enjoyed several effortless orgasms, thanks to my favorite jet.

PB: I say yes.

PB: Huh??

PB: What?

PB: OK. Forget it. Sorry.

PB: Drive safe. O

WTF?! (Male readers, please hear me out: if you’re an asshole sober, you’re doubly so drunk. Alcohol does not make you sexier, funnier, or more charming; it only makes you think you’re new and improved. If you stopped drinking, you’d lose weight, get harder, go longer, and be less buffoonish in general. Lay off the booze already, all right?)

PB: I’m confused. Yes? No?

ME: I’M confused. What question am I answering yes or no to?

PB: U r or r not coming over. Ok so I thought maybe u should but u don’t think like me huh?

The only thought I had at that point was “GRR!” I decided no response was the best response. Over the next half-hour:

PB: Will y come or no

PB: Ok. Ni ni.

PB: I love being yor back up. I get it though, just wish u could talk straighter than u already are arrow o

PB: Hello

That was it. What I did next surprised myself. I played the part of mature adult, picked up the fucking phone, and (gasp!) called him.

PB answered in Spanish. Slurred Spanish. There were people laughing in the background, which really irked me. It was like this was a skit put on for his friends’ entertainment. I hung up and texted instead.

ME: To be clear: I’ve been wanting to see you. You’ve been busy. Too bad the wires got crossed tonight. You’re not my “back up”. I don’t want to discuss via text. Call me when you’re sober.

End of conversation. Confession: I was so upset, I cried myself to sleep. My dreams of finally meeting a mature man had turned into reality (read: a nightmare).

PB didn’t call the next day. He texted to say the pepperoni bread I'd brought him on date #2 was really tasty (tell me something I didn't know). And then? Silence.

I admit, I started to freak out. I was finally psyched about a guy who was fun in and out of bed, yet now all he seemed interested in was mind-fucking me. So, on Monday morning, despite all my common sense to the contrary, I sent PB a message:

So I know it's totally uncool to ask this, but my curiosity wins out over the rules every time. Is there some reason you don't seem to want to see me again? No need to sugarcoat anything. And if you have any questions, just ask.

Sometimes men say they're intimidated by me and I don't understand that. I'm an open book. Literally. And, while I'm laying all my cards on the table here, I really like you. I know there was some concern about being my "back-up" and that you mentioned insecurity as being a problem in past relationships. I think you're the whole package and I'm kinda bummed that the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual. :(

Anyway. I don't want to sell myself to you and I'm not trying to "sway" you. I think I'm pretty fantastic. It'd just be nice if you thought so, too. :)

Erica

PB responded...and what he said stunned me. But we'll get to that next time...

***

I wish I had a recipe for you today, readers, but my baking mojo has been off lately. Everything I've made has either been either over-baked and crumbled or too moist and limp. (You should be laughing, people. You really are what you eat.)

'Til I get back on track, this song from The National should be plenty of food for thought. I can't decide if I relate more to the man who penned it or the woman it was written for, but the contradictions inherent to falling in love fascinate me either way.



I was afraid I'd eat your brains
'Cause I'm evil

I'm a confident liar
Have my head in the oven so you know where I'll be
I'll try to be more romantic
I want to believe in everything you believe

I was less than amazing
Do not know what all the troubles are for
Fall asleep in your branches
You're the only thing I ever want anymore

Man Eater In Hot Water

This story is two weeks old. Why did it take me so long to post it? 'Cause I wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. (Go ahead, ask me how that's working out...)

It's over now, so let’s begin at the beginning.

Back up to the morning after a really shitty third date with someone else, followed by a three-hour drive home in an ice storm. (I tell ya, my life is stranger than fiction.) I’d only slept a few hours and still had a chip on my shoulder about having to drive so much for so little pleasure, so I tried to postpone my coffee date with Paul Bunyan 48 hours hence. He was willing to switch to a venue closer to me and convinced me to follow-through because he said if we hit it off, we could go out again in two days.

“Wear your lucky thong,” his last message said.

I giggled to myself, thinking, There is NO WAY you’re gonna see it today, honey. I hadn’t slept with a man on the first date in over two years and that was such a disaster, I trusted my willpower to keep my pants on. I didn’t even shave my legs as an insurance policy.

Right on time, I settled into a plush armchair at Starbucks with a peppermint mocha (holy shit, those are good. If I could afford to have a java addiction, that would be my drug of choice!) and prepared for more bland getting-to-know-you small talk with the down-to-Earth single dad.

I got anything but.

Not that I’m complaining.



PB was just my type: 39, never married, scruffy faced, six-foot-something and seriously cut. He had a really rough, sexy voice and the most hypnotizing eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. It was hard to look away. He wasn’t just hot; he was handsome. A man’s man. Think George Clooney’s younger, darker-haired brother.

Personality wise, we were identical. As PB exclaimed, “You’re like me, but with long hair!”

The dull chit-chat I expected quickly progressed from caffeinated flirtation to a discussion on threesomes--his versus mine. (Both involved way more emotional fallout than either of us had expected.) PB was also a writer with dreams of penning a TV show script. (Think Sex and the City for guys.) Though he’d seemed shy onscreen, PB didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by me in person. He was cocky, even. The only thing I hated about him was that I suddenly liked him more than he seemed to like me. After an hour or so, when he stood up, I thought that he was going to awkwardly excuse himself, never to be seen again.

Again, I was wrong.

“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, pointing across the Galleria to Kozy’s.

A switch inside me flicked. The only meat I wanted was his. But I kept that to myself and we went to the steakhouse.

“Thoughts?” the waitress asked after PB and I had studied the menu for a few minutes.

My date ordered beef tips and calamari for us to share. I smiled naughtily.

“What are you thinking?” PB asked.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” I said. “I’m watching a movie in my head.”

“What kind of movie?”

“You know exactly what kind of movie,” I said.

PB’s gaze met mine and…holy mother of God. If I thought I felt fireworks with Good Guy, what I felt at this moment was Pearl Harbor, part two. Even better? Now I knew the feeling was mutual.

“You must be a terrible liar,” PB said. “Your eyes would give you away every time.”

(He’s right.)

“Didn’t you just have a date last night?” he asked.

“Yeah…” I said.

“With someone that you really like?”

“I guess…though I’m pretty sure it’s not going to work out. I just haven’t admitted it to myself yet.”

“What date was it?”

“The third.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“We’d already gotten that out of the way on the second date,” I said and shrugged. PB flashed a look that I wasn’t sure how to interpret, but it looked like disgust mixed with concern.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that TMI? Did I turn you off?”

“Not at all,” PB said. “I’m just jealous that you had sex last night!"

“The sex last night was mediocre, if that makes you feel better,” I said.

“That’s still better than no sex! I haven't fucked in a month.”

"You say that like it's a long time!" I gawked. "Fourteen months is a slump. One month is a pause."

PB did not agree. He was hungry. (For a piece of me, naturally.) I was salivating for a taste of him, too. My eyes were undressing this man already. Though he was completely clothed, I could tell that PB was harder than any hard body I’d ever been with. I wanted to leap onto his lap right then and there.

Again, my eyes contradicted any attempts to play it cool.

“You want to ride me, don’t you?” PB said.

I blushed in response. (Yes, I am capable of being embarrassed.)

“I know you want to," he said. "I know what you like. I’ve read the archives of your blog.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I said.

“You know it’d be good.”

“No doubt. But I didn't shave."

"I'll shave you."

"I meant my legs," I said. "Besides, I know I'd regret it if we had sex on the first date.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. I don’t want this to be a one-night-stand.”

“Who said that’s what this is?”

“Have you ever had sex on the first date that turned into a relationship?” I asked.

“Yup.”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh. And how long did that last?”

“Five-and-a-half years.”

Well, then. PB smiled like he knew what was about to ensue and I was a sucker for thinking I’d ever get out of this date fully dressed.

“I know what you’re doing,” I said.

PB jerked back like I must’ve been crazy to think he was up to something. I suddenly felt like I was in a used car lot, being sold a lemon…and I couldn’t wait to take it for a test drive and floor that mother fucker.

“It’s not like I haven’t been seduced before,” I said.

“We’re not exactly strangers, Erica. This isn’t the typical first date. I told you about my threesome. You told me you just got laid last night. Most first date conversation is, ‘So…what’s your favorite movie?’ ”

I giggled because the thought of wasting time discussing such mundane bullshit in front of such a hottie seemed fucking ridiculous.

“I have a hot tub…” PB said. “Do you have a suit?”

What did Cupid expect me to do, readers? You can’t combine the orgasmic dissatisfaction and sleep deprivation from the night before, then put a sex stallion with a completely free evening in front of me and expect me to walk away un-laid! It’s impossible to keep your pants on if your date invites you to take a dip in his hot tub. I’m just sayin’…

“I happen to have a suit in my gym bag,” I said. “But do I really need one?”

PB’s smile spread so wide, it almost split his face in half.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“No. You’re trouble,” I replied.

Half-an-hour later, I emerged from PB’s guest bathroom wrapped in a towel. He was wearing trunks and a vintage silver chain.

“Turn around while I get in,” I said, dropping my towel on the deck and tip-toeing into the hot tub. I lay back and tried to enjoy the full-body jets while keeping my naughty bits underwater.

We talked for ten minutes or so. All the while, PB kept a respectful distance on the other side of the hot tub. I started to wonder if he’d changed his mind…so I bobbed closer. I traced the tattoo across his shoulder blades with my fingertips.

Then he kissed me.

Oh. My. God.

What happened next was pornographic beyond belief.

The next few hours passed in an ecstatic blur. I came something like a dozen times. He came three. (I didn’t even know men could do that!)

I drove home with the dorkiest “I just got laid” grin on my face...and a big-ass bruise on my bedonkadonk.

"I'm still in the 'wow' stage," PB texted me the morning after.

Yup. I get that a lot. Alas, all good things, even multiples, must come to an end. We’ll tackle that topic next time. ‘Til then, how about my favorite song by one of PB's favorite bands?