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hurt

Go easy on the fisting

OK, let’s be clear and get the bad news out of the way first. The fact is you’re dating, and that means sooner or later you’re going to get your ass hurt (doubly true for all you bears).

Despite your best efforts and before long, some uncouth whelp is going to boot you firmly in the emotional gonads, or twist your relationship nipples in a purpling rotation that Tony Hawk would envy.

There are fifteen flavours of damage out there. The thrilling brush with the psychotic; the drive-by snub; all the wee disappointments you inadvertently inflict on yourself.

The only guaranteed strategy for a pain-free existence is not to play. And where does that leave you? The only passenger on the lonely night-bus to Wanksbury.

Dating is by definition an acutely personal business. You’re judging and being judged on all levels, shallow and significant. Your hairstyle, your voice, your taste in music. Your body shape, the way you walk, your ability to kiss like an electric eel made of candyfloss.

To stand a chance of success you have to put a lot out there, make yourself available. Gamble. And the stakes are wallet-breaking: if you’re open to the long game – the R word – you’re shooting for something that could actually change the course of your life. That’s pressure.

But on the other hand… fuck it. It’s why we’re all here. Suck it up and follow some guidelines to keep any trauma to minimal levels. You’ll be cruising through this nonsense like a jizzy Fonz before you know it.

Problem 1: Hope will tear us apart

In the early stages of contact, one of your biggest problems is your own imagination.

remain calm

Deep breaths

Because of the scant information you have on new hottie X, you tend to fill in the gaps with your own invention. From the crude impression afforded by a handful of pictures and badly-sketched paragraphs, it’s all too easy to sculpt someone perfect in your mind; someone that’s going to end the game for you.

Even worse is to daydream, and project imagined futures. Like the old Newman and Baddiel sketch with the old married couple reminiscing, “And to think, if I hadn’t spoken to you at that party, we wouldn’t be here now…”

Conjuring a rainbow unicorn spunkfest is easy, based on a few fuzzy jpegs. But as fun as that is, what you’re doing is raising the emotional stakes. This is not in your interests.

So resist the temptation to get your hopes up about sugarface23. Go further: once you’ve taken the time to email them, forget about it. Put them from your mind. The truth is you have no idea what they’re like, so setting yourself up in any way is just to invite disappointment.

In practice there are no stakes until you have at least met. KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.

Problem 2: Tenuous connections

So you send out some sparkly wordbait and then – O frabjous day! – something comes back. It’s a bite! The tenuous first connection.

You should know by now that the first couple of emails are important. Many people are deeply cagey about the whole online experience, and frankly who among us can blame them.

In practice this thin, early connection you have can go wrong at any time, without any notice, and once lost will never ever come back. You’re two people balanced on opposite ends of a creaking tightrope, inching toward one another while high winds blow. One foot wrong and off you go, cheerio and goodnight.

With this balancing act, the impersonal nature of email can be torturous. If you actually care about getting a response, email is traumatic because it plays on your worst fears: even at the best of times, few people are inclined to reply immediately. There Will Be Silence.

In the intervening time – which can easily stretch for days – an exciting array of negative possibilities will become vivid in your mind, as painful as bum-cancer and as welcome as bukkake at a wedding.

If the tension is unchecked, you will return to scrutinise and agonise over every syllable, word, punctuation mark and ill-considered smiley in your missives; weighing up the chances of that particular choice pushing the delicate balance of the reader’s reaction from boner-joy into irritation, ambivalence, disgust, pity. And you know from your own experience that simply not replying at all is blissfully easy to do.

So here’s how to dodge all that: you have to NOT CARE. Recognise the traps above, catch yourself, care less. Does that sound harsh, callous, humanity-defeating? It’s not. In this harsh game of hurtball it’s basic self-preservation. Make like Bruce Lee and empty your mind. Go and read a book, think about something else.

You need to spread your excitement and hopes widely enough that when babygravy67 inevitably doesn’t reply to your messages, that doesn’t consume you.

Even if they are the only other person in the whole wide world that also loves Nepalese cheese carving.

My roommate and I are dogsitting right now, and on the first night, I let the poochie sleep in my bed with me.  This underscored the fact that I haven’t tried to sleep with anything or anyone else in the bed with me for, well, years.  I kept waking up and didn’t have the heart to kick the snoring pup out.  Who does that?! It’s basically thrown my entire sleep schedule off for four days.

If this were an episode of 30 Rock, Tina Fey would have found some old dog joke to make.  As it is, I’m not laughing.

Continued from part one if, like me, you need to remember what the frotz I was talking about. Ah yes.

So do you know what your type is? Are you sure?

3. Look at your exes

The thing is, it’s not always easy to see exactly what you fall for.

Sometimes it’s only when you look back over your exes that a pattern emerges, and you get some kind of aha moment. Or often, it’s your long-suffering friends who can call you out on the trends evident in your choice of partners. Example: at university, a roommate of mine dated exclusively petite, thin blonde girls under five foot six. One after the other, BAM BAM BAM (or maybe BIM BIM BO). I don’t think he ever recognised he was wearing those blondie-blinkers.

So what’s your hidden pattern? For those chaps raging with the yellow fever – a meme I hesitate to reinforce even more but, fuck it – perhaps a look back through your relationships resembles a sex tourist’s itinerary through East Asia: a progression of doll-like Thai, Chinese, Korean and V-throwing J-girls.

For the ladies, perhaps looking back at your boyfriends reveals a lineup of older, authoritative, tweed-clad men who on closer inspection all look strikingly like your Dad.

jennifer connelly

dark. eyebrows.

A couple of things become pretty obvious from an archaeological dig of my exes, regardless of what I think I go for:

  1. It’s a fact that every girlfriend I’ve had has been dark- or red-haired. No blondies, not a one. Evidently I don’t like my girlfriends to have more fun.
  2. There’s also a fair occurrence of what might accurately and revealingly be described as ‘Jennifer Connelly eyebrows’. I’m going to attribute this directly to the fact that I was full of sex drugs for most of the 1980s and early 1990s, when this was the trend. See: Miss Connelly, Madonna, Belinda Carlisle, Brooke Shields and [voice becomes oddly strained] Sherilyn Fenn.

4. Types are a tendency, not a rule

When someone of the opposite sex tells you their type, it’s easy to take it personally when that doesn’t match you. Resist that feeling!

This is the good news for jealous types: my nineteen-year-old self should have chilled the fuck out, rather than obsessing over my GF’s crushflavour. Having the features that she liked – long hair – might bump her opinion of someone a few percent in a good direction, but that’s not going to dramatically change her normal M.O.

This idea of feature X bumping up your opinion of someone slightly becomes very clear when you’re online dating. You’re spending a lot of time looking at faces and – unless they are DOING IT WRONG – bodies. If you’re paying attention, you can deduce from your own actions what eye-colours, what shoulder-shapes, what arbitrary body-things give your brain the holy fucktingles.

Because those things are many, and they are cumulative.

5. My type

It’s not like you can just point to actor/musician/minor TV celebrity X and say, exactly like them. Face facts sunshine, you’re not going to score with someone off the telly. In reality, there’s a bunch of small things that add up to lust, and they can combine in different ways.

hair rouge

hair. rouge.

Here’s a rough guess at what things work for me, based on how much my reaction will be swayed if those features come up. I’m going RPG-style here and assigning a percentage of opinion boost to each feature. Bear with me:
Continue Reading »

The DJ

Note from the DJ:

Greetings Miss REDACTED from downtown Manhattan, USA… I don’t come on here much but you just came up on the first page of my matches at 93% for each other so I thought I’d say hello….

My profile is sparce so a lil about me, as I haven’t used the site much – i’m 6’3″ tall well-traveled white dude that owns an Internet company. Curious what you do? :) For fun I like music, DJing, painting, snowboarding, and traveling everywhere.. Last year I was in SE Asia and spent 4 months backpacking through South America.. Ok I’m rambling a bit now.. I’d love to chat with you online the next time you’re on, or better yet I’m “djboogie” on AOL IM.. Are you on IM also?

Ciao ciao-

~Mark
‘djboogie’

EYETRACKER:

Okay, misspelled sparse, is a DJ (blech), “lil”? (ugh), I am immediately suspicious of anyone who mentions their recent sojourn through SE Asia (sex tourist!) but okay, let’s have a looksy.

[Click over to profile.  Mouse over picture.]

Monet picture of tiny dude surfing. No other pictures?  Hm.

[Eye tracks down right rail.]

Looking for: New friends, Long-term dating, Short-term dating, Activity partners, Long-distance penpals, Casual sex

Long-distance penpals AND casual sex?

[Eye tracks further down right rail.]

Income: $250,000–$500,000

Really?  I mean, I don’t need to know, and it’s possible that’s real, but there’s only one guy I know who makes that much working on the interwebs.  And all of my poor friends work on the interwebs.

[Eye tracks vertically along left column to only thing in the center well.]

Email me at djboogie at a o l dotcom if youd like to chat more or AIM me at ‘djboogie’. Ciao! :)

You own an internet company, make between 1/4 and 1/2 MM a year and still have an AOL address?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

FAIL.

Here is a story.

A story

When I was nineteen, I was at university in Scotland, and one year into my first serious adult relationship. Her name was Colette.

We were both making the most of our first big adventure away from home: happily ensconced in our cheap student halls, ringing all hours with music and booze, and no parental figure within a hundred miles to walk in on us. We went to lectures, we drank, we had a lot of sex; your classic uni/college relationship. It was intense, turbulent and formative.

At that young age – without any of the tranquility that leaks slowly into your life over time – I was sensitive about a lot of things. Easily hurt. So I remember well the day when Colette dropped, all casual, like a grenade slipping from fingers, that she had a thing for guys with long, dark hair. And when I say long hair, I mean like these gaping assholes:

My immediate reaction just felt like an acid bubble of jealousy in my chest, but I choked that down. Instead, managing a tight-jawed look of nonchalance, I asked her to tell me about it.

There followed some breezy storytelling of how at the age of sixteen Colette had discovered that she had the bad hawts for her friend’s brother, a few years older: some local dude with a ponytail. That teenage crush was never consummated, but the preference stayed with her. She had a type.

Now, even though I was rocking some seriously floppy grunge locks, I was not that guy and never would be.

This was bad; terrible news. Nothing could strike me as more unfair. The one preference she had, the one type – I wasn’t.

I struggled with this. It was impossible for me to process adequately. I might forget about it for a few weeks, until we’d watch some band play and the sudden knowledge she was probably checking out the hippie bass player would fire sizzling in my jealous brain.

Who knows what fantasies she had? Was I a compromise? Would she be more likely to cheat on me if the guy trying to chat her up happened to look like fucking Nuno Bettencourt? It was maddening.

Even when that relationship ended a couple of years later, I still don’t think I was fully able to deal with it. What have we learned since then?

1. Nobody gets to choose

Types are received, not chosen. They are the lottery of lust.

You don’t get to choose which physical features give you a trouser soufflé. Otherwise, we would all be better off choosing to be excited by the mundane and commonplace. Popping boners to the hollow-chested boys and out-of-shape girls would give you much more chance of sexual fulfilment than harbouring a specific lust for the freakish frame of a Jolie or Kardashian.

The point here is that I could never blame Colette for being a sucker for longhairs (as it were). That’s the hand she was dealt, and it’s not to be resented.

2. Why do I love elbows*?

When you talk about your type, you start to describe physical features. Everyone has their weaknesses, the body patterns that match some circuit in your primate monkeybrain and make it light up with lurid and messy visions of sexual ambition.

There are random physical attributes or mannerisms that get you hot, for no objective reason. They could be obvious ones (ZOMG BOOBS), or not: wrists, earlobes, kneecaps, you name it, someone’s giddy for it.

So if they’re not chosen, where do these cockfoibles come from?

In the end your type has to derive from something genetic (say, you are born to want to hump midgets), or just learned (rather, your first boyfriend once played an Ewok). I think it’s probably a combination.

Physical preferences are without question influenced by experience: your early partners. My experience with Colette did a lot to sculpt what I found sexy, long after we broke up. Going the other way, I remember my very first high school girlfriend mentioning she had a thing for beards after our breakup (yes I had a goatee, it was the 90s).

There’s some science in there too though. Even though we now know that human pheromones are almost certainly bullshit, there is the sound idea of your genetic complement. Some partners’ genes are going to mix better with your own to create healthy children (which means, ‘don’t get nasty with your cousin’ if you can help it).

So it’s likely your DNA does wire you up to want to bang some people in particular, regardless of who interfered with you behind the bike sheds when you were fifteen.

To be concluded in part two, with a frank discussion of my type.

* I don’t, incidentally.

The Producer

Sorry for the silence.  I’ve been thinking that I’m over the whole sex correspondence thing.  As with any e-mail exchange that goes on too long, it’s too easy to be disappointed when you actually meet up with the real thing.

Take the Producer — pale, pretty eyes, and obviously a healthy libido.  I noticed one titillating detail in his profile and asked him to say more.  A couple of pings back and forth and we were hot and heavy, trading preferred video links, discussing past experiences and divulging fantasies.

But then we met in person and…I lost my boner.  He was so polite and sweet, so different from the person I imagined in our exchanges.  He wanted a girlfriend.  I couldn’t imagine being his girlfriend.  It’s not like I expected him to slap me around at the cafe, but all that dirty talk felt so wrong in light of his chivalry.

And it’s not like I can maintain that level of erotic repartee over a cup of tea in broad daylight.  I don’t know what I was thinking.

So after two very proper and civilized dates which each ended with a chaste peck on the lips, I had to break it off.  He was disappointed, but so was I.  Is the testicular path of least resistance really going to be the map to my emotional fulfillment?   It’s okay to not believe in One True Love, but I ought to believe I deserve love of some kind.

No more kinky chat with randoms.  I’m saving my dirty mind for someone who’ll make chicken soup for me when I’m sick.

Ugh.

In OKCupid they send you emails like this:

Hurray! Someone chose you on Quickmatch. We’re not going to tell you exactly who, but it was one of these people! Log in and rate your matches to find out which one!

Along with an image like this:

quickmatch lineup

They are fucking with you


This is frankly annoying. It’s even more annoying that more often than not, it’s the fugliest lady on the page who gave you the magic five stars.

The annoyance is reaching teethgrindy levels when you realise that none of those images link to the profiles! Clicking just leads you to your normal homepage. So if you actually fancy one of the people in the email, you have literally no way of finding out who they are.

Until now. If there’s someone hawt, you need to dig into the source code. In Gmail you do it like this:

show original

Behind the scenes

You will be rewarded with a bunch of HTML uglier than the chick who started this whole mess. Persevere though and use your browser to search a few times for ‘alt=’, to find:


<a href=”http://www.okcupid.com/blahblahblahblah”><img width=”160″ height=”160″ src=”http://cdn.okcimg.com/php/load_okc_image.php/images/160×160/blahblahblahblah.jpeg” alt=”uniquenyilicous” style=”border:1px solid #cbdaea;” /></a>


BOOM. Don’t let them fuck with you – information wants to be free.

tipple

I've only had a few ales

Air stands up in front of the group, looks awkward for a moment, then says

“My name is Air, and I have been a drunk dater.”

Here is my full admission. Drunk dating is where the sensible limits of daytime decorum are breached, and – generally by unspoken mutual agreement – you and your date both launch yourselves into the wild unknown of untrammelled cocktail abuse, and hang the consequences.

Now don’t get me wrong: note the emphasis on a mutual experience. This is a wobbly dance for two.

I’m not the sweating, red-faced dude who’s downed a healthy glass of wine before leaving the house and sluiced three pints by the time you arrive, just as a pre-cocktail apéritif. The scent you catch from my neck is Creed Vetiver, not the tangy aroma of Bombay Sapphire. It generally takes no longer than a second for my eyes to converge in unison on your face.

My problem is that I’m a fast drinker, and I’m used to carousing with slow drinkers. My pacing is normally taken care of by watching the glass opposite and matching that. As a native Brit I’m quite capable of sucking down as many beverages as anyone else and still remembering what colour the 123 subway is (even if I can’t focus on the white squiggles). Reasonable level of alcobuzz, no embarrassment, job done.

The last couple of weeks have been problematic therefore as I’ve been matched with extremely irresponsible drinkers of Eastern European descent. Who would have thought that second-generation Ukrainian- and/or Polish-Americans would have been brought up on a liquid diet of neat vodka? My liver and professional To Do list are now painfully aware of that combination.

First was Bertha, who spoke and drank fluent Polish. We sat on a quiet night at Larry Lawrence and steadily got absolutely steaming. Without any real discussion about it; just a sly not-looking-at-the-time and lots of well-why-not eyebrow raising. Before you know it we’re waving goodbye to a battery of empty glasses and shuffling outside into the snow for some extremely enthusiastic but totally inaccurate fumbling through heavy coats. I distinctly remember thinking to myself, my brain has actually stopped working.

Following not long after was Celia, keeping it real for the Ukrainians and not calling into question their reputation for making ethanol disappear faster than Usain Bolt surfing a cheetah. I arrived at Angel’s Share to find she was two drinks ahead of me (one of them a Guinness, which should tell you something). After conjuring away several cocktails in embarrassingly short order it was off to Pete’s Tavern for pints and – WTF was happening – car bombs. On date one. Again inevitably there was some serious street-necking at the end of the night, some of the details of which escape me.

It’s no doubt true that some level of machismo came into it. Some stupid fear of being out-drunk, along the lines of, ‘even though you have the day off tomorrow to recover, I’m not going to be rendered a quivering alco-pussy here, another round!

Once the effects wore off though – and by god there were painful and debilitating effects the next day – it became clear this kind of nonsense is not sustainable. Let’s break down what it means so can make your decisions clearly.

Risks

Be prepared for:

  • Poor decision making. You may well get yourself tangled with someone who is considerably less hawt when the beer goggles are off.
  • You will have a terrible first kiss. Only if you are lucky (or unlucky, depending) will you remember it at all.
  • Fuzzy McMemoryTheft will visit you in the night. All that careful work establishing what kind of human they are will be flushed away in the surge of synthesized formaldehyde through your brain.

Rewards

It’s not all grim! No one’s suggesting you have to live like Bukowski, it was just a night out.

  • There’s a whole level of bonding over the OMG-we-got-crazy hedonistic romance of it all.
  • Extra bonding over the trauma afterwards. The shared pain is a struggle you’ve both survived.
  • Goodbye inhibitions! Whatever level of physical intimacy is appropriate for your date is going to be boosted by two or three dates. There will be pawing.

Drink safe, but more importantly drink sexy.

For all of the talk of hot lays, lingerie and sexual empowerment, the nut in the pit in the fruit of my heart is hopelessly romantic.  A rainy Sunday afternoon viewing of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day made me remember what a blubbering sap there is underneath my New York kevlar exoskeleton.

What is it about a good love story that makes a girl feel so good?  Well, not good, really — they just make me FEEL intensely.  I feel sorry for myself for being alone; I’m optimistic that love has the power to transform; I crave the emotional catharsis the characters experience. And what I love is the strength of feeling, the knowledge that, despite spiritual atrophy, the old ticker is still capable of blooming with passion.

One of my favorite lines in Miss Pettigrew is when Guinevere says of her former flame, “He smiled whenever he saw me — we could have built a life on that.”  I know that feeling, and is it silly to want it again?  To give that to someone and to be the recipient as well?  For a few hours after watching one of these movies, I feel that love will make me a better person, that love is everything AND love is enough.  Maybe 24 hours later, I can feel the cynicism creep back.  I troll the dating sites looking for a savior.  And, often disappointed by my expectations, I can feel the dream dissipating, the forcefield hardening back up.

Luckily, I can always return to movies, stories and art to help me expose my vulnerable bits every once in a while.  Here are a few other movies I like to rent when I need to wring it out.

Continue Reading »

This is a response to Gaga’s sartorial post.

Actually it’s never occurred to me to do the ‘I am wearing’ chat beforehand. “I will be the gentleman in the scarlet fedora drinking Baileys from a shoe.” But then I’m not arranging dates with J-girls at the NY Asian Film Festival, so the task of identification is generally pretty easy. Take a good look at those profile photos before leaving your apartment.

Swapping phone numbers before the date is essential though. Did I tell the story of how I once arranged a date at a bar that did not exist? Oh how I laughed.

Tip: your date venue should actually exist in the physical universe

This was how I arrived at one of the vital first-date rules, specifically ‘at least one person must have been there before.’ As a young n00b I thought I would do some exploring at the same time as the date. Two birds, one stone. I fired up yelp.com to locate a venue. I trusted the internets.

So I turn up at this UES address – which appears to be a hotel – and ask the front desk lady if this was bar X. She looked at me a bit like Marty McFly had stumbled in from another century wearing an orange life preserver. Her bemused response was along the lines of, ‘that bar closed over a year ago.’ Turns out the last yelp review was over a year old and I didn’t notice. FAIL.

Without phone contact that extremely embarrassing incident could have been a deal-breaking disaster. As it was, I got away with it, just. Again I’d say the critical thing in the face of an almighty fuckup is to be mostly amused and briefly apologetic, rather than dwelling on it with cringing embarrassment.

Get to the clothes already

So here’s the thing: I am a bloke. I do not recognise designer. Well apart from if the article has those cutesy little wingding shapes on it, then it’s Louis Vitton. That’s about it.

Now we know there are some dudes who are all Patrick Bateman about the gear, unleashing withering judgement from the style and composition of every accessory. Not me.

That said, what you ladies wear absolutely makes an impression, even if I couldn’t tell you what the label inside says. It does register.

In fact as an exercise, let’s see if I can reconstruct from memory what some 2010 first-dates were wearing, and what effect it had on me.

What they wore

Annie turned up all in black: black sweater, black jeans, black boots. Like a ninja costume, an absence of information, I could fathom nothing about what lay underneath. She could have been any shape really. At the same time it struck me as classy and somehow adorable; I just wanted to put her on a sofa and cuddle. Big earrings looking cute under her hair.

Bertha had a punky-but-feminine thing going on. Lip piercing, bangs. Pale pink dress, a hint of cleavage and an abundance of skirt over chunky boots. Definitely got the impression this was someone in charge of their look.

Celia was similarly into the dresses, long patterned skirts this time. On top there were so many layers that again it was impossible to get a sense of her build; a definite negative if you’re trying to inspire lust in someone.

It was after meeting Daphne that it really occurred to me how important your choice of date clothes is. She struck me immediately as being shockingly under-dressed for the occasion; in the sense of, I just whacked on a pair of black leggings and this top, nice to meet you. Top marks for the low-cutness of the shirt, but the rest of it didn’t make me feel special at all.

Erica told me about how her friends had prepped her for the date. Their advice included the gem, ‘don’t wear a skirt or you will come across as easy‘. I disagree. Hawt yes, slutty no. So given that restriction she had a fairly vanilla setup with dark blue jeans over brown boots, and a nicely cut navy blouse with pulse-firing cleavage on show.

Farrah I’m kind of blank on, which is weird as it was recently. She wore a long summery dress and possibly-home-made artsy jewellery, I remember that. Nothing that blew me away or made me want to kill myself anyway.

What’s the summary from this? Feminine is good; don’t bury your shape unless there’s a good reason; boobs are important.

Tips for blokes

I mostly agree with everything Gaga said for guys; though personally I’d never go with anything involving a suit unless you have to come directly from work. A tie, maybe, but on the condition it’s loose and casual, not all Dwight from The Office (Gareth for British readers).

A shirt with a collar is pretty much the safest bet you can make. Roll the sleeves up, job done: sexy and relaxed. A great T-shirt can just about be pulled off (if you see what I mean) but frankly it’s a bit Jersey Shore.

My favoured setup is dead simple:

  • Clean shave
  • Dark-rimmed specs
  • Plain white buttoned shirt, skinny fit, sleeves rolled up neatly just below the elbow
  • Dark blue Diesel jeans, get some that fit you properly and don’t hang off your ass in shapeless fashion!
  • Slightly battered brown leather shoes, dignified without being too fancy

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