Final Dating Advice from a Guy (Inspired by Another Guy)

Dear Dears,

In a state of fuzzy delirium yet again, darn these spring colds! This one caused me to lose my voice completely for two days, and has left me gravelly. I'm hoping very soon to stop sounding like Ms. Kathleen Turner in its current manifestation and start sounding like her sexy growl of Body Heat/Romancing the Stone.

Considering the cold has coincided with my monthly bloody mess and I've had to take a few days off exercising, I'm surprisingly chipper. Usually I get crankypants when forced to rest, but having to shut up completely for a few days has mellowed me.

At any rate, being a blognerd I did my homework in order to better present the final installment of Dating Advice from a Guy. It entailed watching the excellent 2009 documentary 'Tyson'. It was recommended by Guyfriend (new official title for friend turned lover turned back to friend), and forms the basis for another one of his dating tips.

Let's recap first, shall we?

1) Eye-fucking (or if you prefer, eye-stroking or eye-grinding or eye-chastely kissing on the cheek, whatever suits your M.O. Eye contact, for a G-rating.)

2) Allow the other to bring their A-Game/give them space to be a-MA-zing (and for god's sake, quit being Funny Girl all the time, it's too much).

This leads to the final piece of his advice:

3) Tyson It Up

"Tyson's already won the fight before he steps in the ring." enthused Guyfriend. "He's won it in his head three days before he actually gets there. All he has to do is show up. That's what you need to do, Rutte. You need to visualize getting what you want, and then just show up and get it. Confidence. You need to watch this movie. You'll learn a lot."

Hmm, I thought. Makes sense. Isn't that the Shhh...ecret, after all, the power of positive thinking to manifest positive reality? So okay. Take it as a given that the physical conditioning is there, both in boxing and dating. Take it that the norms are established, and there are clear expectations of win-lose-draw. That you're both there knowing what's expected of you.

So I watch the documentary to learn, and I do, and come to an interesting conclusion. What I get from the film and what Guyfriend has taken away highlights our emotional incompatibility, which has recently neutered our relationship. (A turn of events I'm learning to appreciate after a few weeks of being sore as hell, by the way.)

Guyfriend saw Tyson very clearly as winning the fight through visualization. Here's what Tyson actually says:

"Most guys lost the fight before they got hit. I knew the art of skulduggery, I knew how to beat them psychologically before I even got into the ring...As I approach the ring, I'm supremely confident. I'm scared to death at the same time, but the closer I get to the ring the more confident I get. Once I'm in the ring, I'm a god. No one can beat me."

Tyson searches for weakness in his opponent, and at the height of his powers found it again and again. "It could be just a tenth of a second, his eyes slip...when I see the chink in his armour, boom! I know I got him. He may fight hard for two-three rounds, but I got him beat. I already broke his spirit."

Guyfriend interpreted this as Tyson seeing himself as winning. I interpret it as him seeing the other guy losing, the other guy getting beat. This may smack of semantics, but I think it's a telling distinction.

I partly disagree with Guyfriend on this advice. I don't want to take this attitude into my personal relationships. I don't want to conquer men (my sexually reticent ex-Date aside, but really, he was just ridiculous. He needed to go down. Sadly, it's ended before he had much of a chance to, but I'm glad I had him anyway as he was bugging the shit out of me).

Back to the nicey doughnut side of me: I want to trust myself and the other person enough to believe one side doesn't have to prevail over the other or resort to skulduggery, however charming. That we can find mutual benefit from knowing each other. Maybe only for two-three rounds, maybe longer, but at the end of it we can both walk away feeling like neither of us lost. Hopefully, we've each gained something from knowing one another. This is naive, but I like it. There are worse things than aspiring for some nobility in modern relationships.

So I'll take the advice to "Tyson It Up" with a large chunk of rock-salt. Confidence, yes. Arrogance and delusion, no. After all, this worked for Tyson only for a few years, and then he got cocky (another form of laziness), and got whupped by Buster Douglas in Tokyo in 1990 and never was the same. After losing his last fight in 2005, he stated he'd lost the passion for boxing and was only there to pay his bills, and was going to retire out of respect for the sport.

All in all, he cuts a sad figure. A talented fighter who hated himself to the point of being hateful. Alternately jailed, bankrupt, dissolute, ridiculed, violent, trusting of no one, he's not exactly an inspirational figure if seen purely through the lens of his past.

What is admirable about him, though, is how direct and humbled he is in looking back. He openly rejects a lot of earlier beliefs. For me, the most striking moment in the film was his observation on what he'd once thought made a man great.

"The thing that they (great men) have in common is conquest over great women, and famous women, whatever they may be. So I always thought that in order to be a great figure you had to have these women in your life. And the more women you conquer, the greater figure you may be. I never knew that conquering so many women takes so much from you, more than it gives to you, more than it adds to you."

Yes. This is what I'll tell Guyfriend the next time we talk, as this may be advice he could use. In the meantime, I'm adapting "Tyson It Up" to better suit my own temperament. Be confident, yes, but have enough respect for myself and others to be humble as well.

It'll be interesting to see how this works for me. In my last post I outed myself as an old-fashioned doughnut and ever-so-bravely accepted an absence of romance for the time being.

One day later (ha!) I met an interesting man. At an afternoon beer garden, of course, that's where all we old-fashioneds go looking for love. He walked up to me and complimented my eyes (and I hadn't even been eye-fucking, honest!) and said he'd watched me talking to some shared acquaintances and wanted to meet me. We proceeded to make a ten hour date of the day that was quite sweet.

Despite living a couple of hours apart, we are meeting tomorrow for dinner. Awwww cute, eh? I'm pleased at the prospect of spending time with an attractive guy one year older than myself, who doesn't drink to excess or swim in a protective school of bros or mentally curl into fetal position at mention of serious topics. It'll be refreshing. And hopefully I'll sound less like the Godfather by then.

Arrivederci (cough, cough)
G

An Old-Fashioned Doughnut of a Gal

Please note: the third installment of "Dating Advice from a Guy" has to wait a few more days. It's based on the latest Mike Tyson documentary. For research purposes, I've wanted to watch it before commenting on the advice. It's not in my local video store yet, I'm watching it in pieces off YouTube when I'm around free wireless. The joy of rural living means a data stick for internet, which works okay but limits me in downloads and streaming. Blah blah blah. The third and final installment will be coming shortly. Now here's what's on my mind tonight.

Sigh. Dear Readers, it's disconcerting, to say the least, to have inconvenient truths dawn upon me in low moments. I suppose that's what such times are for: to reveal unpleasant truths in all their smiling, dope-eyed glory. Here we are, we've been here all along...and we're here to stay.

I've felt increasingly foolish the past couple of months. It's accelerated this last couple of weeks in particular, with the thanks-but-no-thanks of the friend-lover-friend (?), the ever more reticent Date, and the sporadic regrets of the Ex. I've been trying to be chipper and practical about all this, process it through the SlapChop! of self-image. It doesn't work. Dang.

The truth is that I'm not particularly clever or modern. I've been trying my hardest, but conclude I'm lousy at casual dating/sex/emotions. It's not for me. I can't help feeling that I'm being used and/or using another person to avoid loneliness, be a plucky heroine, distract myself with sex. It makes me feel icky.

Hence the allusion to the plain old-fashioned. Yup, a cake doughnut, maybe a plain glazed. Not a profiterole or chocolate Bismarck, no showy sprinkles or mysterious centre. I'm a plain, solid romantic, and it's embarrassing for a couple of reasons.

One, it's out of sync with what I see around me. It's vinyl in the age of digital downloads. Or more befittingly, plain doughnuts when fancy cupcakes are in fashion. This, though, may become cooler as I grow more comfortable with myself. Classic is a different kind of cool.

More embarrassing is that my stodginess--or let's be kind and call it sweetness--highlights how silly I've been. I've been telling myself I'm a certain way: cool, hilarious, mercenary, adventurous.

In truth, I'm geekwarm, serious, and overly-sensitive. Yes, wilfully reckless, but it's been pant-shittingly scary for the most part. It takes a concerted psychosis to overcome the natural shyness most of us are born with, and I've been pretty good about doing so. Maybe too good. In short, I can't help feeling like I've been sending out some very mixed signals while I juggle image and reality.

Reality is I find it unnatural to be attracted to someone but hold them at arms' length for whatever reason. Logic can't trump feeling. It's in my nature to want to get to know them better, to show my enthusiasm, to exude happiness that they like me back. Kid stuff, but real stuff. This whole post-modern thing of playing it cool and cryptic seems like so much horseshit, and kind of creepy to boot. I'm outing myself as a small-c conservative in this regard.

That said, I'm still hopeful about dating and romance. I'm still not "looking" for a relationship, I recognize the impossibility of willing love into existence. I just have to be honest that my ultimate goal is not vacation sex at home. Vacation sex is only possible on vacation, where the reality of logistics bookends things nicely, completes the episode. At home, these bookends don't exist, so it kind of trails off into messiness. I'm an insincere fuck-buddy. If the sex is good, I can't help but want more from the other.

I'm drawn to the whole person, and it seems natural to want to know them better and not dwell on the implications. Oh, the implications! What happens if we actually like each other, or he likes me and I grow tired of him, or vice versa, etc. What happens if we think we're in love but one day we wake up and realize we don't even like each other, much less love each other, but don't know what else to do? What happens if I make decisions about my life on the hope This Could Go Somewhere, and it deadends and time and opportunity have passed (my greatest fear). Oh, those implications. Very real, very hurtful. Fruit flies on the fruit of love. Am I supposed to fixate on the implications or the love?

For now, neither. I've given up, officially, now that I have nothing left to lose. I've got not a single person to romanticize anymore, and while it freaks me out it also makes me curious. An absence, why not? Sure, it's scary not to have anyone to dream about. But surer, it's scarier to dream about someone who is, in fact, just a dream.

If I'm ever to be swept off my feet while sweeping another off his (a fine trick on gravity, if one can manage it), I conclude it's time to set aside self-image. Just be in all the stalwart, contradictory sweetiemessiness. Good grief. Oh well. Of course, I could just be pre-menstrual. As confused as ever, but still liking the strangeness.

-GR

More Dating Advice from a Guy

Back after a week of seeing live music and hangin' with my dearest galpal and yes, practising eye-fucking upon a few attractive, age-appropriate guys I've met. If I get a responsive gaze back, I proceed to venture an exchange of numbers. It's a smooth blurt on my part, jeesh.

Results have ranged from sincere thanks-but-no-thanks-I'm-taken, to bewilderment. In the latter case, I walk away feeling like a total dork, wishing I had played it cooler, replaying variations in my head. Damn. Further illustration of what I've been doing wrong, according to my dear guyfriend.

Dating Tip #2: Allow the other person to bring his or her A-Game.

We all walk around with a pitch about ourselves. Who are you in 25 words or less? Well, I'm a confident, funny tomboy who knows what she wants, a real catch. Ha!

First off, I'm not so sure about any of that. My directness may spring from insecurity, my impatience from discomfort of waiting for the other person to fill the pause. I don't think I have any clear idea of what I want except I haven't had it yet.

I'm tomboyish, but don't want to be defined by it. Some of it is a genuine attraction to boyish things, but some has come out of a distaste for the extravagancies of femininity, the cartoonish aspects of which alternately bore and repel me. And funny, well, funny can be effective armor.

My guyfriend asked what I considered to be my most notable characteristic, to which I replied I make people laugh. I'm funny. He shook his head with some sorrow.

"No, no. Don't be the Funny Girl."

I was chagrined. "But that's who I am! I'm not going to hide it just to pander to some notions of how a woman should be. If the guy can't take it, then he's not for me...", and so I went on for several more sentences.

My guyfriend had looked at me steadily this whole time. When I finished, he blinked and repeated. "Don't be the Funny Girl." He sighed. It seemed like he was always explaining things to me. "Look, you can be funny, you can be witty. But don't be the Funny Girl. It's...mannish. It makes guys uncomfortable. Do you want to be Kathy Griffin?"

I do not want to be her. A woman beloved by gays and gals, and laughed at uncomfortably by straight men who think, man, I would not fuck her for a million bucks. It's true: in dating, I don't want an audience who laughs appreciatively at the truth exposed and then goes home. I'd like romance, and that requires some mystery. It's not a performer-spectator relationship.

My guyfriend continues. "Being a Funny Girl is just one more way not to allow the guy to bring his A-game. You're doing all the work, and not giving them any space to shine. Let them bring something to the table. Let them make the joke, ask the question, suggest something to do. Give them some space to be amazing."

I've thought about this. It seems if I leave it to them, they turn shy or hesitant. This appears to be a problem, and being a chronic fixer I jump in with the helpful suggestion. No worries, little man, let me steer this conversation or make a plan.

Now I see that this is emasculating. Part of me goes too fucking bad, mate, grow a set to keep up with me. Another part counters that I've grown tired of admiring my own balls. Ultimately, they're not well-rounded company.

So note to self, shut up already with the Insta-Quip. Save it for friends and readers. In romance, allow some space in the conversation for him to impress me. Instead of me working to dazzle with my tough truthiness, trust that I'm attracted to him for a reason that may actually be illuminated if I stop controlling the situation. And vice versa, allow him to be attracted to me instead of me flaunting why he should be.

Sigh, it's not easy to relinquish control. It's part of what I've thought a Strong Woman does. Now I think a Strong Woman has to know moderation, has to be able to discern. She has enough real confidence to be quiet and patient at times, without becoming passive or mousy. There's no one way to be, there's just the back-and-forth volley required by the situation.

The most maddening thing is that sometimes there is no result yielded, there is no definitive yes or no. There's the spark of interest, the smiling conversation, the delicious eye-fuck, the exchange of names...and then the see you later. But...but...aw.

My challenge is to enjoy this for nothing more than what it is: an interesting moment. Instead of trying to shape an emotional future, I'm learning to enjoy the pleasant mystery of the present. Shutting off the anxious analyst is proving to be a struggle, but such is life.

One more thing. The girlfriends I've talked about this with bristle. No, no, they say. We love you the way you are, you're hilarious! You should be yourself, etc.

With all due respect for them and gratitude for the props, I don't want to romance my girlfriends. Eventually, they see this point, and reluctantly conclude there may be some merit in Dating Advice #2. I know, they don't want me to be a milk-sop. I don't either. I have to trust I can find strength in moderation, instead of faking it in excess. It's an interesting shift.

Onwards and upwards, ladies!
G

Release, Heartache & Dating Advice from a Guy

Hiya everyone, hoping everyone is well and you're enjoying the sun if you can see it and television in bed if you can't.

An interesting time has passed for me, notable more for what hasn't happened. I suppose lurching to a halt can be counted as action, as it does require a re-orientation before proceeding.

The arc with my lover has been completed: friend to lover to friend again. Myriad reasons, most of them well-defined over the course of a few platonic days we spent together. Sigh. He's lovely, I'm lovely. That's not the point.

Over the years, we've grown to recognize that we are twins, for better and for worse. On the side of good, the likeness allows for a natural intimacy, an accidental understanding. This recognition of each other within the other drew us into friendship almost a decade ago. It's enabled us to relate with joy and generosity, despite physical distance and sporadic disagreement and the usual solvents of friendship.

The risk inherent in similarity, of course, is that when twins fight the gloves come off. On occasion, we have butted heads with precise savagery. The ability to effectively wound each other could be incidental, could be tempered by forgiveness and a larger understanding. We could, as they say, make it work.

However, there is one obstacle we cannot overcome, and that is a fundamental emotional incompatibility. How we give and receive and express love, what we want to know and what we would rather not discuss. This distinction looms large enough to cause us to stop, gauge if it's possible to scale it or circumvent it; no. We could just keep running into it over and over, but we'd eventually give up bruised and bleeding and disgusted, me with his arrogance, he with my insecurity.

I suspected this incompatibility before we began the Experiment, and he probably did too. But being both reckless (or fearless, as you see fit), we were curious and horny and hopeful enough not to care. We had a murky faith.

The good news is it's ended before we built up resentment towards each other, or regretted the attempt. Not to say it's been all gooey-eyes and hot sex and flattery--hell, no! We've gotten irked and pouty along the way. But mostly, yes, it has been lovely and sexy and romantic, something to remember fondly.

That said, we've missed each other as friends. Sounds strange, for doesn't romantic cover platonic each time in the Rock-Paper-Scissors of love? Maybe, maybe not. We have the emotional incompatibility factor in play, it adds another element. Quicksand swallows all.

At any rate, while there are parts of me that are grieving and seething and pouting (sexual rejection is not fun), they still comprise a minority to the ruling parties of relief and affection and gratitude. He's my closest and oldest male friendship, and I'm his female counterpart, as much as a relationship carried out over the years mainly via email compares against face-to-face friends. We'd like to be in the other's life as long as we can, and both of us could see the logical conclusion if we tried to continue as sporadic lovers. All in all, I'm a little heart-battered and tired, but also conscious of a new sense of freedom. My infatuation was consuming me to the point of irritation with myself.

We clicked over into our resurrected friendship quickly enough for him to a) assist with a new romantic prospect as we were out for a walk (arc from friend to lover to wingman, perhaps?) and b) offer some dating advice I would likely never, ever hear from a female.

Let me hasten to add that this does not mean it is Right, or universal to the males of the species, or anything other than one person's perspective. But seeing how this person is dear to me (and I suspect more clever), and has a startling and hilarious degree of success with attracting the Ladies, I take his advice seriously and think it worth sharing.

A quick caveat here that this advice is predicated upon pursuing romance, with no end goal in sight other than good/great sex and a hope to be swept off my feet one day. I'm not "looking for a relationship", in the same way I'm not looking to encounter a crisp $100 bill at my feet while out for a walk. If I find it, I'll pounce on it, you're damn right! But I can't will it into existence. All I can do is keep my eyes open without fixation, and who knows, find a few fives and tens and even twenties along the way. All nice, all valid forms of currency to be spent and enjoyed without denigration. Five bucks for the taking? I'll take that!

We came up with three behaviours for me to take forward. As this is getting long, I'll start with one and make it a three-part series.

Behaviour #1: Eye-fucking

Okay, you're sitting in a coffee shop updating your blog and waiting for your laundry to be done. You see an interesting man by himself. Check out the ring finger. (In this case, he's wearing one so focus on the blog, child...)

If not, position yourself in such a way you can sneak surreptitious glances to confirm your first instincts. Check. Now make eye contact. Say hi. Engage in small talk, smile. Eye-fuck. This is hot.

I have yet to meet a person who didn't enjoy a little tickle as someone attractive sends out an appreciative gaze. Of course, it's like conversation. If you stare at someone unilaterally, you're committing the equivalent of monologue. Especially if their attractiveness is not relative to yours, or you're drunk and they're not, there's a chance you may be thought of as a creep. But maybe not.

On the other hand, if you avoid eye contact, you're sending out a clear message. If you initiate eye contact and then get unnerved and duck your head, you'll come across as hesitant. Ask yourself if hesitant is hot. Whether you want to call this flirting or checking someone out, the goal is the same: initiate. As Maria Von Trapp says, let's start at the very beginning.

Part 2 coming soon...

G

Conquest

Fist bumps all around, please. Like the Mounties, I got my man. I'd just gotten to the 'Fuck it' stage about will-we-won't-we-EVER. Et voila, penetration.

Seven weeks I'd been seeing this guy, on again and off again given our health and schedules. Seven weeks I'd been attentive to grooming, conscious of my morning underwear choices. After the Talk and a casual date which had me shaking my head, I'd cast aside pre-coital grooming and got busy with other stuff and didn't make any effort to see or talk to him.

So of course he has to jump my bones when I least expect it. The ambush occurs when I'm post-workout, unshowered, sporting several days' stubble in all the usual places, muff unkempt in preparation for an oncoming wax session. Wearing sensible but decidedly ugly underwear, socks unmatched, hair in a state of torpor. Obliviously earthy and resigned to probably not gettin' any for a while... Shazzam! He pounces! (Lesson: indifference is a powerful aphrodisiac.)

Some of you may be thinking, well, you should have put him off and gotten yourself cleaned up. Furthermore, delay on my part would have taught him a lesson, not to be temporarily neutered by his assumptions that I'd click into Girlfriend mode once we did the deed. I can hear the traditional among you coach me: play the game, maintain your pride, keep your eye on the good long-term strategy, etc. Yeah, I get it. But once again, fuck it.

Truth is I'm not looking for the long-term smart play with this one. My focus has been on the immediate conquest. Granted the opportunity, I was happy to ignore the rules of romance, didn't give more than even a passing nod to civility. Nope. This guy had pissed me off with all his paralysed anxiety on what might happen with sex, ooooh, scary...

Given the chance, I was determined to nail him, and I didn't really care if it was good or awkward or a miraculous explosion of emotion and ejaculate. I was going to get this sucker done. Let the chips fall where they may.

It was good, actually, given the circumstances. Though it is likely I joked too much throughout. I was amused by my state of unreadiness, and conscious of his roommates trying to sleep amidst the stop and start of a creaky bed; also we were almost interrupted by a tipsy buddy who saw the light on and staggered into the house before twigging to the fact that my Date wasn't alone. Furthermore, I was still a little irked by his assuming I'd been scheming to Land Him using sex as emotional blackmail. Male entitlement is irksome.

Whatever the pathology, mischief led me to joke right at the point of entry. “Armageddon is nigh,” I whispered in his ear. “And I can't believe I'm hammered.”

This last was a nod to his “confusion” regarding my alcohol and sex rule, where the "cut-off" was. Jesus. Over-think much? To his credit, he took my rapier wit in stride.

Determined to keep it casual, in follow-ups I've been keeping post-coital loungeabouts short to ensure I don't overstay. A 15-minute conversational interval and pop off home seems the appropriate action.

Mind you, now that the deed is done we are relaxing. I'm quite enjoying this casual sex thing. We're middle aged enough to be practical, young enough to be dirty. I'm not sure where it lies on the romance gradient when you blow someone and follow it up with a discussion on kitchen renovations. It does amuse me.

I don't feel like any significant change has taken place between us, other than feeling more comfortable now that It is out of the way. Once again, this statement lies at the far end of the romance gradient. It is nice to relax into a friendly non-attachment.

That said, I'm not sure what I owe him in terms of disclosure, seeing how my lover just emailed me yesterday to say he will be visiting in a few days, or maybe a few weeks. (Seems I only attract those incapable of advance-planning.)

Disclosure is a point of discussion with my beloved friends. The opinions so far include scepticism that I could sleep with two men and not feel conflicted about it. “How would you feel if he was doing that to you?” asked my dear friend.

I gave it a moment's thought. “Frankly, I wouldn't really care,” I said. And I mean it. As long as he wasn't being a skank about it, he was entitled to seeing other women.

Other friends are incredulous that I'd consider reviving the Talk just to ensure I wasn't hurting anyone's little feelings, that may or may not exist. In their minds, I've erred on the side of directness enough, and am not obliged to baby-sit.

I haven't decided yet. On the one hand, I feel I've been explicit enough with the Date. I was clear on the limits of what I had to offer. I went so far as to express not even expecting monogamy, as who was I to demand exclusivity when it was likely I was leaving in a few months?

Of course, I recognize this is not the same thing as saying “Oh, myself, I'd like to screw other people so no worries on the relationship thing.” No, it's not the same, but close enough. The main distinction between dating and being in a relationship is the expectation of exclusive rights. In my books, you can't demand monogamy and still call it mere dating. It's something.

Ultimately, the only reason I may resurrect Talking is a curious fastidiousness on my lover's behalf. Although he has several other lovers scattered across three continents, he sees a distinction in our situations. As a traveller, he is governed by the rules of “Just passing through, ma'am”, versus my inhabiting this town. For me, once again this seems like splitting hairs, as I'm determined to leave as soon as my house sale permits.

However, I've concluded that men have a peculiar distaste to even the hint of encroaching on another bro's territory. A primate instinct, translated in modern times to a swirl of incoherent yet firm discomfort.

I can deny being territory till I'm blue in the face, gripe at the double standard, point out they don't even know each other and that there's the little matter of my own free will as agency in the matter. But I suspect it doesn't matter. Men are delicate creatures. Nothing short of an explicit conversation may be good enough to let all parties plow ahead with confidence, or withdraw as they see fit.

In the meantime, tomorrow I get my Brazilian. If Armageddon is nigh, I intend to go to Dante's inferno with a slickety-smooth beave.

Amen, G.