Five Strikes & Four Pointers: Can’t I just send SWB this link??

The original agenda with Star Wars Boy was to hit up the Zoo, then grab dinner somewhere, and go watch his favorite show ever, but we had amended it earlier in the week because I’m opposed to avoidable exposure to cold weather. Instead of the Zoo, we opted for the National Gallery.

On Friday afternoon SWB asked when I would be over on Saturday, and I gave him a time. He mentioned that he’d told his friends he would watch a freakin’ basketball game with them, but immediately said he shouldn’t even have mentioned it because he’d made plans with me first. Of course, him mentioning it at all ended up seeming like he wanted me to tell him forget about the museum and I’d just come over later. No. Freakin’. Way.

Anyway, on Saturday I rushed from NRA Guy’s place to mine to get ready for my date with SWB. I managed to find a decent parking spot without even having to look and actually arrived at SWB’s on time. We hit up the East building and had fun just goofing around. He decided on a French café for dinner, partially because he’s obsessed with all things French and partially, I’m sure, because it’s merely a couple blocks from his place. (I’m not complaining. At least we finally went out to eat.)

Strike one of this date came when SWB stepped out of the Metro car we were on, leaving me behind stuck in a mass of shove-y people. He was halfway up one of the escalators by the time he turned to find me. I was just stepping onto another one. Not only did I have NRA Guy with his fantastic manners and hyper-awareness of me to compare SWB with, there was also a couple who had been on the platform with us earlier and standing near us on the train on the escalator next to me. They were both looking right at me, making me feel self-conscious about this boy leaving me behind.

When we got to the restaurant, I made him order for me, mainly because every time I try to pronounce something French it comes out in a ridiculously comical (and oh-so-sad) Spanish accent. He ordered some yummy potato dish for me and mussels for himself.

After dinner, we went to the liquor store, and I purchased a couple bottles of wine, as he’d taken care of dinner. We went back to his house, and he started kissing me. I tried to get into it, but he tasted like the mussels he’d eaten (strike two: that’s completely repulsive). Strike three came when I realized this guy was a tongue thruster. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s all-tongue, all the time.

So, basically, I was trying not to gag while he rolled his mussel-ly tongue around every crevice of my mouth. (Yeah, I think I threw up a little as I typed that just then. Sorry for the graphic description.) I tried to vary the kissing up (that’s the key people; it’s imperative that you change up what you’re doing, no matter what your style is) because I was so not into him licking my teeth and whatever else he was doing in there. But he was having none of it. After a while of attempting to communicate my desires (nonverbally, of course; I had an extra tongue in my mouth), I just gave up and did the kissing equivalent of going limp during sex; I stopped reciprocating the kiss whatsoever.

Meanwhile, he was pretty much ready to have sex right then. I so was not. (As much as I want to count that as a strike, I can’t and won’t because I know pretty much all guys are ready to have sex pretty much all the time.) He actually pulled me over on top of him, which I thought showed incredible laziness on his part. I like to be on top sometimes, but if he can’t even handle propping himself on his elbow while we’re making out, I’m thinking it’s indicative that his preferred style of lovemaking includes minimal effort on his part, like oh-so-many other things about him.

It was around 8 p.m. at this point. I was sober and was in no way ready to crawl under his Star Wars blanket to let him dock his Nebulon-B Frigate* in my, um, port. I’d already decided I wasn’t having sex with SWB (or NRA Guy… or anyone, for that matter) while dating multiple people. That has potential to get messy really quickly. Plus, it’s pretty freakin’ slutty.

Anyway, I extrapolated myself from his roaming paws, probably none-too-gracefully, but I really didn’t care at that point. I told him I was going to pour myself some wine. He begrudgingly agreed to join me, all the while trying to talk me out of watching his favorite show ever, since it would require him to pay attention, thereby eliminating his ability to put his sad, sad moves on me. I insisted, as that was the plan and he had me intrigued about the show. So we found ourselves back in our familiar arrangement on the couch and watching a… what? A space Western? Yeah. That’s right. (It was actually pretty good, I must admit.)

Later, we found ourselves in his room. I, having consumed a fair amount of wine, was in no shape to drive myself home, as he pointed out. Since he didn’t actually offer that I stay with him (strike four), I had to ask if I could and if he would loan me a T-shirt to sleep in.

In the interest of not being labeled a tease, I’d told SWB much earlier that I thought it was too soon for us to have sex. He was disappointed, and I believe he was still attempting to change my mind throughout the evening, in his own strange way. But when it was time to get into bed, he asked if we were really going to sleep. When I replied with an affirmative, he promptly laid down (taking every single pillow, I might add. I definitely called him on that shit, though), passed out, and commenced with the most raucous snoring I’ve ever witnessed. I’d been warned about the snoring, but holy freakin’ hell. That was ridiculous!

I’m just going to count the whole night in his bed as strike five. There was the snoring. Add to that the Star Wars blanket, the lack of a top sheet (gross), the lack of cuddling/spooning (and him sleeping with his back to me), his tendency to wake up when I’d finally drifted off to sleep to ask, “are you sleeping?” and wake me up, the lights from his computer shining brightly in my eyes, and the unusually high temperature of the room. It was miserable. I was miserable. The snatches of sleep I did manage were from pure exhaustion rather than any sense of being comfortable.

The next morning was… awkward. I tried to make it as comfortable for both of us as I could, but he just kept following me around looking at me like, “What next?” I had plans with the roommate for the afternoon, so I wasn’t around for too long, but I tried to make sure we parted well.

The next two days we had limited and extremely awkward interaction on AIM while at work (usually, we have a great rapport). The next day was better, but then he left for a weeklong pleasure venture with his buddies. (Before signing off the last day, I told him farewell and to take advantage of the red light district. I bet that confused the hell out of him.)

And that’s where we are now. He’s off gallivanting in a country much more liberal and less puritanical than ours, and I’m about 17/1,036 way into his favorite book ever.

After I left his place, I wanted so badly to tell him a few things that would help him out, not just with me, but I feel would be lessons that could serve him well throughout life.

1. Pay more attention to the woman you’re with. Don’t leave her in the Metro. If you’re lucky enough to get her into your bed, don’t leave her pillow-less while you have three under your head. Don’t make her carry two bottles of wine through the liquor store when you’re empty-handed. Hell. Go wild, occasionally pull out her chair at dinner or open a door for her or something.
2. Kissing should be fun and interesting; you have to vary it up. Tongue is great. Sometimes. So are gentle nibbles and light pecks. None of these things make for excellent kissing on their own. If you just keep doing the same thing over and over, she’s going to be reaching for the remote rather than the nearest zipper.
3. Wash your freakin’ sheets. I really have no proof that your sheets are unwashed, but your bed being unmade every time I’ve come over leads me to believe as much is true. (That and that most guys are disgusting slobs who don’t even wash their sheets after hours-long, sweaty sex, let alone on a regular basis when they aren’t getting action.) Oh, and get a top sheet. And ditch the Star Wars blanket. You said it’s really comfy, but I’m here to tell you it isn’t.
4. Make a freakin’ decision. If a girl asks you to make a plan, just do it. You’re an intelligent guy with good taste and the capacity to find things to do. Just because you’re perfectly content sitting in your basement apartment in all your free time, you shouldn’t assume she is, too. If you want a girlfriend, or at least the opportunity to get laid, you’re going to have to do a little work for it. Or pay. (But there are no clean bill of health guarantees with the D.C. professionals, so I’m not recommending it.) After you succeed in impressing her and keeping her around for a bit, then you can revert to sitting around all the time and deal with the fighting that ensues.

* If you follow that Wiki link, you’ll see that the Dreadnaught is classified as a “heavy cruiser,” ranking toward the top in the measurements. I really have no idea how to accurately classify his, um, spaceship, as it’s currently unexplored territory, but I thought I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, the description says they had “a laughably low sublight speed” and “were ridiculously crew-intensive vessels.” The first quote there just amuses me. The second seems like it would be eerily accurate if I ever got around to doing any, ahem, work on SWB’s spaceship.