This Italian Was No Stallion (A Dating Disaster)
When is it okay to whip your dick out on the first date? *
With Summer rearing her beautiful head, I decided it was time to drop a few winter pounds. Too broke for coke and too lazy for the gym it was time to hit Atkins. Hard. I’d heard over and over again that grocery stores were among the top primo spots for meeting young, eligible bachelors. At 33, I’d been shopping countless times and had yet to meet anybody that would even loosely fit that description. Like the unicorn and good credit, I firmly believed this to be a Greek myth. Until now.
With a basket full of eggs, meat and cheese I wondered the grocery store aisles of my local tweeker Ralphs in search of the perfect no-carb food. Hoping against hope that there would be a hidden aisle dedicated to pasta, ice cream and bread free of the now ostracized carbohydrate.
While I never found that mythical aisle, I did find the eye of a tall, non twitching Italian hottie. He looked, I looked, I turned away, I looked back, he looked back and then….he said “Hi”. The door was opened, he was stunning and not wanting my chance to slip by I responded with a mysterious, soulful and intriguing “Hello”.
After that, I found myself at a loss for words (something which rarely happens). He made me nervous and for lack of anything else to say, I asked, “So, do you live around here?” Just in case he had decided to make the special trip down to Tweekerville in search of the perfect tomato (and feel free to use my line should you end up in the same situation). Honestly, I’m not even sure where that line came from other than the countless books I’ve read on pick-up lines from the 80’s. I used to think I had game. I now know I don’t.
Small talk was made and Mr. Italy came across as a gentleman just as nervous as me. Numbers were exchanged and with butterflies in my stomach I purchased my heart attack basket and proceeded home. By the time I hit my driveway, he had texted and asked my plans for the evening. Playing coy and not wanting to seem too eager I responded with “nothing”.
By 10 that night I was sitting on his couch drinking a cranberry & vodka watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Things were going well. Until he started to “feel warm”.
At first it was his outer button-up shirt. I knew what was happening here. He could have turned on the AC or opened a door but that would have been too easy. He was trying to disrobe nonchalantly except he didn’t realize I had played this game before.
“I love giving massages.”
Of course he did.
Then, the heat of the apartment became too unbearable and it became vital to his utmost existence to take his undershirt off, as well. While I had decided within the first 5 seconds of our meeting that I would eventually be seeing him in the nude I had made it abundantly clear that it would not be happening this evening. I was going to play this one differently and leave some things to the imagination. He didn’t seem to care and actually took that as an invitation to take off his shorts.
The night went downhill fast from there. All my dreams of taking him home to meet my mom and step dad were dashed. They would have been so pleased. They had long given up hope that I would bring home a “good Catholic boy” but unfortunately, this Italian was no Stallion. Mr. Italy had already crossed the line into Creepyland.
As though with superhuman speed, he was suddenly laying completely naked on the couch with his dick in his hands while I scoured the depths of my purse for my car keys. But, to his credit, he did offer to let me sleep in the bed while he took the couch should I feel uncomfortable driving after one drink. I completely appreciate the irony of him “being a gentleman” while he was trying to persuade me into watching him jerk off.
Why does dating have to be so hard?
*Never (unless I ask you to). Otherwise, that’s just plain awkward.
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Over the years, I’ve had great debates revolving around online dating etiquette in regards to dating profile emails. There are certainly those who prefer to receive responses to their emails
This article originally posted on SingleEdition.com At 12 years old, I had it all planned out. I would marry at 18, have my first kid at 19, second by 21,
If you had a car, you had a bedroom. The backseat was ample enough room to become acquainted with the object of one’s desire. Darkly lit streets, vacant parking lots