Sex dreams and secrets

I woke up this morning, gasping for breath. I didn’t know where I was or who I was with. I opened one eye, then two and surveyed my surroundings.

There was my clock, ticking away obnoxiously on the wall.

There was my laptop, perched on my dresser, begging to be opened.

There was my window, the blinds of which I’d left open last night to watch the snow falling as I tried to get some kind of happiness from it.

I was under my pink comforter, laying on my pink and brown sheets in my room.

And I was alone.

Phew! It had just been a dream.

Albeit, a sexy, hot, toe curling dream. But a dream, nonetheless.

Then I remembered who it was about and I groaned.

Oh noooo… I thought to myself. Please do not let him be creeping back into my thoughts.

But he did and he is. He is there like this fungus that I just can not get rid of no matter how much lotion I put on it or pills I take. And he’s itchy. Like a rash. He’s an itchy fungal rash that creeps up on me when I least expect it and completely throws me off of my game.

Now I have thoughts of The Fling running through my head . . . and I really don’t know what to do about it.

For three months, he consumed the majority of my thoughts. We met, we both got a crush, it took awhile but we finally got together, it was great for awhile and then BAM! We cut communication and I forced him out of my mind. For the most part.

But now he is back. And stronger than ever. Which is really weird and unfortunate, because I  have no idea what to do to get him out of there. It’s also unfortunate because I never even thought he’d be in there in the first place.

You see, when I first met him, I didn’t even like him. Mostly because I felt that someone like him would never like someone like me. But he did. And for a short moment in time, I could have sworn he liked me far more than I liked him.

While I was in it, I thought to myself that it would never amount to anything, so I tried not to get attached. But despite our differences, we worked. And I, against my better judgment, fell for him. I couldn’t help but be sucked in by his rough exterior and caring heart. I fell for his crooked smile and kind eyes. I loved the fact that I made him nervous. That he stammered when he asked for my number the first night we met. I made him nervous but the truth was that he made me nervous too. He was a blue collar mountain man. He was new and fresh and exciting. And for some reason, we just made sense.

One day, we were driving in his truck, trying to find a place to eat. He grabbed my hand as he weaved through cars and I let in a sharp breath. I felt electricity. Sparks. It had only happened to me once before, and I never imagined it would have happened with him. But it did. And I knew from that moment on that no matter how much I didn’t want to get in deep with him, my fate was sealed. I was doomed.

The last time I saw him I was leaning against my car. He was kissing me, asking me to call him later on that night.

Everything was fine for the next few days until he began to blame being busy on not being able to see me. Conversations got weird. Mainly stemming from the fact that I wouldn’t accept being busy as a valid reason for not being able to see me. It just didn’t fly with me. I’d ask him to get together. He’d evade the question. Say he cared about me. I’d drop it.

I began to get nervous. Was this already the end? It wasn’t fair! I had just admitted to myself that I had fallen for him, and now it was going to be taken away?

There was nothing I could do. I tried to make contact. He told me the first free day he had would be all for me.

And then I didn’t hear from him for a month.

When he contacted me back in September, I thought that he may have had a change of heart. That he really had just been too stressed out to be with me and take care of what he needed to do in his life. But I was completely fooled. And it hurt. More than I ever expected it to.

So I tried to REALLY move on. I went on dates. I had sex. I worked out. I changed my hair. I went shopping. And for awhile I thought the itchy fungus had left the building.

It did not.

The last time we talked was a very brief text in October, just checking in with each other. When I never heard from him after that, I deleted all traces of him from my phone.

Be strong! I told myself. Like bull!

Well, I call my bullshit. I’m not strong. I’m weak. But I do have my pride. And someday I will have to see him again. And on that day, I do not want to be known as the girl who wouldn’t let it die. So I let it die with him, but not in my mind.

And I guess the only thing that really matters is that he doesn’t know…





The one where he wore a tie

I had a date the other night. With a boy who is 5 years my junior. Who is, coincidentally, still a junior in college. I feel like a cougar in training. Like I’m Stella, gettin’ her groove back!

Truth be told, I wasn’t really interested in dating the guy in the first place. I only spoke to him while we were out at a bar because my friend was talking to his friend. But we began to chat and I have this nasty little habit of being super flirty and sweet to boys that I don’t really like, and being a huge wretched bitch to boys that I do like.

I’m royally f’d up in the head. If you’ve been reading for awhile, you should know this by now.

Anyway, I gave him my phone number, not thinking much of it, and went on my merry way at the end of the night (with a quick pit-stop at his hotel room which resulted in nothing more than a few minutes of music listening. Hand on heart!)

A few days later, I received a text message from him asking if he could call me to set up a date.

I tried to remember exactly what I felt about him when I’d been talking to him. Was I completely disgusted? No, certainly not. He was a nice guy. So, what would the harm be, really? I am not one to turn down a date, so I told him that that would be fun.

A few days later, he called me. He picked up the phone, took initiative and asked me out.

I really couldn’t say no, now. No one has picked up the phone, in lieu of texting, to ask me on a date in a year and a half.

He followed up. He made sure we were still on for the select day.

I liked it. It showed that he really wanted this to happen.

He offered to drive over an hour to see me. Over an hour to go on one little dinner date.

The last guy I dated would have never driven anywhere had I not asked him to.

He showed up wearing a suit jacket, tie, skinny black pants and vans.

I, as the girl, felt completely under-dressed in my sweater from Forever 21 and riding boots.

He picked me up and drove to the restaurant I selected.

We chatted about what he wants to do with his life and where I’ve been with mine.

He paid.

We went for drinks afterward.

I was worried that I was wrong about his age, but he was able to get into the bar.

He found me a stool to sit on.

He got my Yuengling.

My friend was at the bar.

They chatted.

He got her a stool as well.

It was nice.

We got along.

He asked questions.

He seemed genuinely interested.

As he drove me back home, I knew I wasn’t going to kiss him.

Not a single, solitary bone in my body felt like that would be the right thing to do.

He made no move to. He was fine with a hug.

He texted when he got home.

He was nice and sweet and genuine. He was nervous and awkward. He lacked the contamination and general aura of asshole that so many guys my age, and older, have. Everything seems new and exciting to him. It’s refreshing.

I wish I could keep him around for that refreshment alone. But, alas, life is complicated and I’m no spring chicken. I’ve been hurt and I don’t want to hurt him. So if he asks me out again, what’s the best way to go about saying that I don’t feel romantically towards him? Because, I don’t. At all.

I’ve done it wrong in the past and I don’t want to do it again.

The secret to meeting men

Ladies, if you’re single and looking to meet some men, I know a secret. I will share this with you now.

Ski resorts.

Please girls, do not hesitate to go along with your friends on that ski trip they’re asking you to join them on. Even if you don’t ski/board/like snow/tolerate cold, I beg of you, for the love of God, go. You will not regret it. And you will thank me when you score a date out of your trip to the mountains.

When I went away last week, I knew full well that I could not snowboard. My right wrist is broken. My left wrist was sprained. I’m a walking disaster. I couldn’t take a risk. But I wasn’t going to sit home and be the reason why my friends wouldn’t be able to go on the trip. The room would only be affordable if I could go. So I put on a happy face even though my jealousy of people on the slopes was intense. I spent my days working out, sitting by the fire, doing work on my laptop, going in the hot tub, watching snow fall, taking jacuzzi baths, having delicious sex. I really can not complain.

On the last day of our trip my friends and I met two boys at the local dive bar. The same bar that I met Irishman at a few nights prior. I thought these boys were cool but extremely young. Like, five years younger, young. Like, barely legally drinking age, young. But, I chatted, because what’s the harm in making new friends? I love meeting new people that I may not normally have the opportunity to meet. Out of the two boys, I found myself talking to the taller, more bean-poley of the two, T, whose pants were significantly tighter than mine. Who was a good six or seven inches taller than me (and probably still weighs less than me). Who probably straightens his hair. Whose tattoos were stereotypically Brooklyn hipster. Who I actually enjoyed speaking with about music and concerts and life.

I think he wanted to kiss me as we huddled under my jacket for warmth at the end of the night.

I felt no real desire to kiss him.

But I have to admit that he is, hands down, one of the coolest kids I’ve met in awhile.

He texted me a picture of a concert he was at a few days ago, with a witty comment in the body of the message.

I smiled.

He said he wanted to take me out and that he’d call me during the week if that was OK. I didn’t have any good reason to say no, so I didn’t really say anything except “You’ve got my number.”

Tonight, as I was on the way to dinner for a friend’s birthday, my phone rang.

Not a text message.

A ring.

An actual phone call.

He told me he’d come up by me next weekend. Take me to dinner. He lives an hour away. I appreciated him so much that I didnt have the heart to say no. He’s the first guy in awhile who has stepped up and called me on the phone and asked me on a proper date. The only time my last boyfriend called me was to ask me to pick him up food on my way over or to ask what I wanted to eat (as I was on my way over). So what if he’s years younger and is still in college? I’m not exactly the most mature girl on the block.

And, really, what’s the harm in one little dinner?

So, readers, here’s the bottom line. On this three-day trip to the mountains, I had some amazing sex with a cute foreigner and now have him on my speed dial if I’m ever in the mood for some fun, chatted it up with several nice guys, and was able to score a date with a skiing, surfing, skateboarding, plaid shirt wearing, tall, skinny, emo boy (who, despite not being my “type,” I’m looking forward to hanging out with).

I didn’t believe it when my friends told me at first, but ski towns, my friends, are really a single girl’s wet dream.

Anyone want to plan a weekend getaway?

Blame it on the books…

I’m going to blame Nora Roberts.

That’s what I’m going to do.

I mean, of course I’m going to take some responsibility, but for the most part it’s her fault.

You may ask why.

You may ask who Nora Roberts even is.

Well, this quote sums it up nicely.

“Ireland is a land of poets and legends, of dreamers and rebels. All of these have music woven through and around them. Tunes for dancing or for weeping, for battle or for love.” – Nora Roberts

I think that I was about 12 when I read my first Nora novel. I remember being on a flight from Nassau, reading one of her books from cover to cover. If you’re not familiar with her, she writes romance. Sometimes there are mysteries woven in. But, at the core, they are novels about love and human relationships. They are my guilty pleasure books, and I happen to think that she writes beautifully.

She also has an obsession with Ireland.

I’m not quite sure when my fascination with the land of fields, sheep, cliffs and pubs began, but it has been present in me for a very long time. It only intensified when I visited there a few years ago. I guess that my love of all things Irish, despite the fact that I have not one kelly green bone in my body, is one reason why I seem to date a lot of Irish men. There’s something about them that I can’t put my finger on. They are manly and, for the most part, charming. They have cute smiles and pretty eyes. They have an aura of strength that makes me weak in the knees.

I don’t seek them out though. I swear! It’s not like I go out at night with the intention of landing myself a big, strapping Irishman. It just kind of . . . happens.

A few days ago, for instance, I was in a ski town with some friends, drinking at a local dive bar. A few guys were playing pool in the back, but aside from that it was rather empty. As time went on, more people began to file in, drinking away aches and pains they acquired from a day on the slopes. I was discussing what a horrible idea it was to get “Spam Fries” with a guy from London sitting next to me, when a group of Irish boys approached my friend and I. They began to talk to us as a group, but there was one who kept coming over to me. Subtly, at first. But, as time went on we began to have a rather nice conversation. Full of words like “craic” and “deadly” and “to be sure.”

I, of course, was a goner.

Happens EVERY time. For God sakes, almost every single man I write about on here has a last name beginning with Mc or O’. And why would this time be annnny different?

He was cute and sweet and friendly. A bit younger, so everything out of his mouth was a question that made it seem as though he was truly interested in what I had to say. He had reddish hair and a cute smile and though he was only an inch taller than me, his nicely toned arms made up for that fact.

It was not my intention to let things go any further than a kiss.

I wore granny panties and purposely did not shave my legs when I left my room for his.

I would only stay an hour. That was the game plan.

My willpower is zero when it comes to many men. Especially ones with accents. So, we had fun. Lots of it. And I have no real problem admitting that maybe this is just something I need to do. I need to get this kind of thing out of my system. I need to sow those wild oats and maybe even make some for breakfast. It’s taken me some time to admit that I’m the type of woman who may wind up never being married. I like to live with passion. I don’t believe in saving money when you really want to experience things. I live for today, because tomorrow is never guaranteed.

And I’m sure this will come back to bite me in the ass someday, but I’ll just find a way  to blame it on Nora.

Dating digitally


In the beginning, I enjoy receiving texts. There’s something very exhilarating about hearing your phone beep or vibrate or light up when you receive a new message from someone you’re interested in. Don’t get me wrong, I also like hearing a man’s sexy voice on the other end of the line, but I’m (trying to be) a woman of the digital age and I see nothing wrong with short texts to make plans or to tell someone you’re thinking of them.

So, what does this have to do with me right now? I’ll tell ya.

Back in November, I met a guy at a bar. He was nice, but young . . . and short . . . with a slight hipster obsession. But he made for enjoyable company that evening, so I chatted with him for an hour or so before my friends and I left for the night. He texted me a few nights later to say hello, I responded, he responded, I responded, and then he stopped texting without another word until a few days later when he drunkenly texted me from a concert. He said we needed to hang out. I said okay.

I didn’t hear from him for several days, so I decided to send him a little message to say hi one Saturday. Our text conversation continued into our drunken nights, and we made tentative plans for the next day. These plans were ruined by the fact that we were both massively hung over the following day.

I didn’t hear from him all week.

Then I heard from him again with no mention of hanging out.

Then I went another week or so without hearing from him.

We played this back and forth game throughout the month of December until finally we made plans (at my suggestion) to get together.

Then I broke my wrist (and possibly sprained the other) and my driving abilities went to shit.

When I told him about this he didn’t offer to pick me up or meet me somewhere in my town so I wouldn’t have to drive.

He didn’t really say anything at all.

In fact, again I went several days without hearing from him until I received yet another drunk text on Christmas Eve.

No more mentions of getting together.

I’m beginning to wish I lived in a time with no cell phones, or phones at all for that matter. A time where, if a guy was interested in seeing you,  he would come to your house and call on you. He’d court you. He’d be a man. He wouldn’t stop talking to you mid-conversation or go a week without making contact.

I know what to do in this particular situation – I won’t be making contact anymore. He’s a good kid, I can tell. But his lack of effort is something that I promised myself I would never fall for again. The last guy I fell for fed me lines and somehow got me to travel miles and miles for him twice a week. I quickly went from being the hunted to the huntress, and I never want that to happen again.

Maybe I don’t belong in this digital age. This age of social networking, texts, bbm’s and 3D televisions (which I’m so anti, btw). Maybe I’ve read one too many Jane Austen novels or have seen too many period pieces. Maybe my dreams of being pursued are just not meant for this era. But I can’t help wanting to feel wanted. Wanting to feel like I’m worth a little bit of a chase by someone that I’m physically and mentally attracted to.

I kind of wish I could go back in time. Back to when “dating digitally” meant writing love letters with quill pens instead of typing short-hand messages on a mini computer.

Can we rewind the clock a bit? I think I have nostalgia for a lifetime that’s never going to be mine.

The new kind of hate

“Have you ever cared about someone so much, but hated them at the same time?” a guy I was once dating asked me. He was telling me about a phone call he had received from his ex-girlfriend the day before, and felt the need to divulge that he broke up with her because he realized that he didn’t like her.

“I don’t hate anyone,” I told him.

“Even your ex’s?”

I thought about it for a moment, “Even the man that I fell in love with that broke my heart.”

He shrugged as he took my hand. “I guess I don’t hate her, but I really can’t stand her. That’s why I broke up with her. She wanted to marry me. I couldn’t marry someone I can’t stand.”

I was trying not to think about why he was telling me this. I hadn’t even asked about his ex-girlfriend. I mean, isn’t that something that’s supposed to be saved for awhile? Aren’t you not supposed to really talk about previous relationships until you are at least an official couple. And, even then, isn’t it just supposed to be something you say in passing? Like, “Oh yeah, my ex lives in (insert town here) and always hangs out at that pub. I really don’t feel like running into him so maybe we should go to a different bar…”

Anyway, a few weeks after that conversation, I found a picture of his ex-girlfriend and him hanging up on his bedroom wall, hidden behind a photo of his friends. It stung. The pain sliced through me like a knife, even though I had only known him for a few months.  I knew then that even though his relationship had ended years before, he still wasn’t completely over her. That that picture resembled much more than just two people who used to date.

People fall in love for all kinds of reasons. You see something in someone else that pulls at you. That attracts you mentally, physically, emotionally. You grow together. You learn together. You change together. Sometimes it’s for the better. Sometimes not. If it’s the latter, then you may break up. But the fact remains that you once were in love with this person. And even if they have turned crazy, psycho ex on you, can you really say that you truly hate them? Wouldn’t that, in a sense, be saying that you never really loved them in the first place? That you were wrong?

This situation made me realize that I don’t think I will ever be that girl for someone. The girl that the guy will always have somewhere in his heart, and always feel some connection with. The girl he will compare all other girls he meets to. The girl he will keep a picture of in his room, because it would feel like a piece of himself was missing without it.

I hope to God that someday someone cares about me enough to think that they hate me.


“I’m so lonely, Amanda! I mean I have a lot of people around me but I’m still so lonely. Are you in the same boat?”

I woke up to the above text message from my dear friend, H, who I wrote about briefly in this post. She is currently going through a tough time. She is in complete and total love with someone whom she can never, ever physically be with for religious reasons. She’s currently trying to put space between them, but it’s hard because they work together. They used to speak on the phone every day after work (usually starting as work conversations, but then going into other life topics).  I feel for her because I know all too well what it’s like to want to be with someone so badly, but not be able to. It’s a terrible feeling.

It makes you feel lonely.

I looked at my phone for a few moments as I sat at a traffic light on my way to work. And I thought to myself. I really thought to myself.

Am I lonely???

Would having a boyfriend make me feel like I was wanted? Desired? Yes, of course. I always enjoy going out more when I know that I’m not looking around the bar at possible love interests. It makes me a bit lighter on my feet to know (or. . .think) that there is someone who wants to be with me just as much as I want to be with them. I love the whole courting process. The butterflies, the first kisses, the dreamy-eyed stares. Yes, look up cheesy romantic in the dictionary and you will find me! But, does not having those things at this moment make me feel alone?

I’m surrounded by amazing friends who are just as frustrated with dating as I am. I have just as many single friends as I do attached friends.  I have a loving, supportive family. I have a full calendar and wonderful opportunities coming my way.

So, after debating about it for awhile, I realized that, no. I’m not lonely per say. Okay, maybe I don’t have someone to cuddle and watch movies with. Maybe  I still have to look around nervously while at weddings, wondering who I’ll dance with when a slow song plays. This Valentine’s Day I will probably once again be going out with girlfriends, drinking wine and eating chocolate.  But, I’ve been doing this for awhile. I’ve kind of got it down. My flings and relationships have never stood the test of time, so I’ve learned to become a pretty good single girl. I just smile when family members ask me if there is someone special in my life. “Sure,” I respond as I rattle off my parents or friends. When my grandmother tells me it’s time for me to get married, I pat her hand and say “Someday, nonna. Someday.”

I’m not lonely. I’d love to have a guy in my life. It would make me happy. But I can’t define my loneliness by if I have a male in my world. It can affect my mood and make me sad from time to time, but it can’t and won’t change the fact that I’m already surrounded by love.

And when you’re surrounded by love, how can you be alone??

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