I exhausted Tinder.

 

Sorry, girl, Ryan Gosling is taken.

Apparently, when you’re a picky motherfucker like me, Tinder runs dry after so many “Pass” swipes.

Look.  I haven’t heard from the Bad Texter in over a day so I texted hello about 30 minutes ago (I also texted 6 other men).  Of the 7, 4 responded immediately.

Naturally, I only want one to reply, though I’m not sure why.  I’ll just be hustling in the inevitable.

I lost to bacon.

Don’t laugh, but when given the choice between sex and food, the Bad Texter chose food.

We met at his friends’ restaurant and ordered a couple of sandwiches — both of which had bacon — and a couple of ciders.  We sat down and I could see his energy was low, but he was there meeting me long after he normally grabs lunch and usually when he’s napping from an early morning work call.  It was a real show of chivalry and interest.

His sherry-colored eyes held onto my blue ones as we laughed and shot the shit for an hour and a half.  After our second cider he finally cried uncle.  “I have to get out of here,” he said.  I could almost see the little tiny men hanging on his lashes trying to shut his eyes.

We walked out into the blazing sun and I offered to walk him to his car parked a few ahead of mine.  He insisted on walking me to mine, maybe me convincing him to allow me to pay for lunch was enough for him.

I gently grabbed his elbow and walked proudly beside his towering height and when we stopped by my car he put his paw on my waist and pulled me in.  I’d been dying for him to touch me our entire lunch; he’d missed many innuendos that I’d had to lamely point out directly.

“Yeah, bowling isn’t really a sport, so I can’t exactly say I work out much,” he’d admitted.

“Well, there are lots of other, more fun ways to work out, you know,” I’d said suggestively.  But he’d missed it entirely.

“Yeah, but those hurt.”

“Not the clothing optional kind,” I said more bluntly.  He’d grimaced shyly.  “Are you picking up what I’m putting down now?” I asked.

“Um, yeah… I’m kinda dumb like that,” he chuckled looking chagrined.

But out under the blazing noon sun in the street he pulled me into his mass and dipped his head to kiss me.  He wasn’t missing a thing now.

His lips were soft and warm and I melted into him.  He’s a wonderful kisser.

“You know,” I said into his mouth pulling away just a little.  “I want it to be noted that today you chose food over sex.”  I lifted my face back up to his and reconnected with him and we laughed into our kiss.

“I know,”  he paused and we looked at each other.  “I was dying.  Catch me at 11 and I’d be all over it.”  We kissed again and I pulled him against my body before releasing him.

He thanked me for lunch and I unlocked my car as he walked away.  “Text me when you get back in town!” I called after him.

“Of course,” he answered.

Ordinarily I would end my tale — very Hy like — here, but that would be taking a lot of creative liberty to the whole story.  I had planned on today to be our last meeting; it felt right.  The more I like him, the less I feel it’s going to work out.  There are so many logistical things at play that seem insurmountable and completely at odds, but I like him.  I have not felt this at ease with someone in, well, years.  And being turned down for sex, while shocking and not a little disappointing, is so foreign to me I want to know more about this man.

He actually wants to just hang out with me.  What??  Who does that?  (This also raises the question: Is bacon better than sex??)

Men only want a piece of me!  They don’t want to have casual meetings where we snuggle a little and kiss goodbye as we walk out of a building.  My typical dates include a vetting meet-n-greet and then down to business: when and where will we put penis in vagina multiple times?  They never demand more from me and I never offer it.

This guy — a smart, numbers guy, introvert, with a dry sense of humor and wicked intelligence — draws me in like a bee to nectar.  I want to coat myself in his pollen.  No one can argue that I don’t have a type.  Brilliant introverts: I loves them.

I’m ridiculously busy tomorrow and then he leaves for the weekend again and I will wait patiently for his return.  I will suspend any attempts to connect via text because I have learned that the best approach with him is to keep it to a minimum and treat it like a telegram.  “When do you want to hang out.  Stop.  I’m free Friday at 5.  Stop.  Bring beer.  Stop.”  Attempting a natural conversation with him via text is perilous to my psyche.

I really want to learn more about the man that put bacon ahead of me.  I hope he wants to learn more about me.

 

 

I know how to fix a texting mistake.

I’ve gone on 3 dates with a man I really dig, but who is a shit texter.

Earlier today Troy and I were chatting about my dating life and I told him about this guy.  Troy wasn’t sure what a “shit texter” meant, so I hopped over to check our thread and typed back a reply regarding the frequency of texts.

Except I forgot to return to my thread with Troy.

It was on the Shit Texter’s thread.

My stomach dropped, my heart stopped, I clapped my hand over my mouth.  I might have yelled at the phone in a long, drawn out, “Nooooooooooooo!”

I hadn’t texted him since after our quick coffee date yesterday where we sat snuggled up together on a couch for about an hour before we both had to run.  He walked me to my car and we kissed sweetly; I wished we could have done more, but the clock was against us.  I really like this lughead.

An hour or two later I texted him a smiley face and note that he didn’t need to respond.  It’s an open, running joke that he sucks at texting.  He proudly owns it and this early in our dating I feel weird to demand any changes.

He replied with a laugh and a note that it was nice to see me that day.

I told him I’d had a nice time, too, and would like to see him when he returns from his 10-day vacation which starts today.

I hadn’t heard from him in 18 hours when I sent him that mistext.

Dating is difficult and strange; we try to become mind readers.  I’m done with trying to interpret people, so while his texting habits drive me fucking crazy I truly enjoy myself when we spend time together.  The odd thing is, he’s easier to hang out with than just about any other man I’ve met.  He’s on time, funny, affectionate, open.  He’s also sweetly nervous.

We also don’t “date.”  He doesn’t, I don’t, we don’t, but we kinda are.  I haven’t been as nervous to see anyone as I have been him and there’s something between us that draws me in.  I’m intrigued.  He can also eat pussy like a champ.

All this from a shit texter.

So how does one fix a faux pas such as revealing that you’re talking about his bad texting habits to someone else?

I did the only thing I could think of:  I sent boobs.

 

Hy text oops!

Within a minute or two he responded with “Well played.”

I texted back, “Thanks.”

Of course I didn’t hear anything else from him and now he’s on a plane to London.  It remains to be seen what the fall out from my texting seizure will be.  It also remains to be seen what the fall out will be from his horrendously bad texting habits.