The Mexican: Fajitas, Fornication, and the Great Flight

The Mexican first e-mailed me asking if I wanted to come over the same night to watch a movie and smoke. I was out (yes, with another CL guy), and I didn’t get the message until late. But when I responded that I was sorry I'd missed the chance, he wrote back and asked me out for drinks and herbage the following day, a Monday. I agreed, and we met at a bar near his apartment. We had a good time chatting and got really comfortable really quickly when we went back to his place.

Because it was so late when the movie we watched ended (and, more importantly, because I had no cash for a cab home), I ended up accepting his offer that I stay the night. I made out with the guy, but I wouldn’t even let his hands roam on top of my clothes. While respecting my wishes for the most part, he, unfortunately, didn’t make a very good bed buddy. I don’t sleep well with others anyway, but this guy was tossing and turning spastically throughout the night. When he wasn’t flipping about, he was rubbing my feet with his and/or trying to make out with me. Between that and watching out for his occasionally-roaming hands, I got no sleep whatsoever.

The next day at work was, to say the least, absolutely horrible. In addition to the lack of sleep and the proverbial fan-hitting shit at work, I was pissed off that The Mexican never responded to my flirty e-mail I’d sent that morning. We’d exchanged about 30 messages the day before, and he’d told me he didn’t have much to do at work because Congress was in recess. So his not responding only sent me over the edge that day. He finally texted me the following night, asking what I was doing, but it was quite obviously a booty call-timed text, and that pissed me off even more. He went out of town a few days later, and I didn’t hear from him for a while.

He timed his contact so that when he finally did get back in touch with me, my anger had abated. After several weeks of sporadic contact and a few tentative plans that never panned out, The Mexican and I finally made arrangements to see each other. He was to make me dinner at his place. I was to bring some DVD selections. I threw a bottle of wine in my bag for good measure and headed out the door (only a few minutes late). Either my eyes or my directions failed me because I soon found myself in Georgetown, and that was not at all the route I should’ve taken. (What? You’re surprised I get lost driving in the District after being here 8 months? Don’t be. I sometimes get lost on the way to the gas station.) Long story short, I ended up getting to his place more than an hour late after parking all kinds of illegal. He was pretty gracious about it, though, so the night began and progressed fairly smoothly.

He made some delicious fajitas, and we settled down to watch one of my favorite movies. It wasn’t long before my shoes were off and he was rubbing my feet. We killed a couple bottles of wine, and I was pretty buzzed. He said I could stay the night again.

Belle: I would, but I don’t want to…
The Mexican: What, have sex?
Belle: Yeah.
The Mexican: That’s cool, as long as I know now… So, what, are you just not sexual or something?

And that’s when I laughed and drunkenly told him about The Resolution. He thought it insane, I’m sure, but we soon ended up in his bed. Things got a little heated, and we lost the clothes soon thereafter. Realizing his Little Mexican was at full attention and remembering what happened after he’d kept me up all night the last time, I felt I was faced with two feasible options if I wanted even the slightest opportunity to nod off: fellatio or fornication. Being that my confidence is low in my skills in the former (yeah, I just said that. I have no shame), I chose the latter.

So after about 10 months without sex, I ended up caving to a guy I’d met only once before. (Take note guys: two pseudo-dates + dinner = you in Belle’s pants!) And, to make it all even more bittersweet, the sex was less than mediocre. It wasn’t the worst I’ve ever had, but it certainly was nothing to brag about. When he got up to dispose of the condom, I suddenly felt amazingly sober. I got dressed and was practically heading for the door before he made it back from the bathroom. I told him I needed to move my car before it got towed (I did), and he didn’t make much effort to protest.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d left all my DVDs at his place*. I was kicking myself already. Now I’d have to see him again or lose some of my favorite movies. I considered the sex and The Great Flight an act of sabotage on my part. If a guy vamped like that on me, I’d never want to see him again. And I figured my doing so had pretty much guaranteed the same reaction from him.

Amazingly, he’d e-mailed me by the time I got to work the next morning asking if I’d made it home okay. I told him I had and that I’d left my DVDs there. He said he’d keep them safe until next time.

I met up with The Mexican about a week later. I’d asked if he wanted to go to a movie, but he said he’d had a long night and just wanted to stay in. I went over after work, and he made dinner again.

That night, I got the feeling he had a girlfriend he wasn’t telling me about. Lots of little things that really mean nothing on their own, plus a vibe I was getting that I’ve experienced before gave me a suspicion I couldn’t shake. Before we went to bed, I asked him about it, and he denied it. But, really, if a guy is cheating on his girlfriend, why would he have a problem lying to my face about it?

Of course, I had sex with him again, but I made sure to collect my DVDs in advance this time. Not surprisingly, I haven’t heard from him since.

* It either says something about me or about my friends that almost all of them were much more concerned that I'd left my DVDs at his place than they were that I'd broken The Resolution. God, I love you guys.

The Chef: At your convenience? I think not

The Roommate, who was at the time living vicariously through my adventures in CL dating (more to come about her own foray into the deep, dark web) actually found The Chef’s ad and insisted I reply to him. His ad sounded pretty good, so I have to give her credit.

We exchanged a series of wonderful e-mails, asking one another a ton of random questions. He was good at the game, seemed to have a great (sarcastic) sense of humor, and, after all, he was a chef.

We met outside the Dupont Metro one evening. He got bonus points for making out at after a long, torturous day at work and even managing to maintain a decent, witty conversation.

We went to the Circle for a bit of people-watching. He told me about his love for Halloween (he actually went one year as a piece of bubble gum stuck to the bottom of a flip-flop. Gross, but pretty original, no?), some little-known (or at least not known to me) historical facts about the District, and how he came to be a chef. There’s really no telling what I divulged to him, but the conversation was engaging, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as I was. Pretty soon, the brass band that often graces the Circle sent out a few notes, and we decided to grab an iced coffee and position ourselves for a better listen. We spent a while bobbing our heads to the beat and enjoying watching the group work the crowd (nothing like having cute little kiddies out there getting down with the band to keep the dollars pouring into that conspicuously-placed five-gallon bucket). He explained some things to me about the way brass bands work and how much he loved the music.

For some reason I told him about The Resolution. One of the random questions he’d asked was if I kept my New Year’s resolutions, and I hadn’t thought it necessary to go into too much detail via e-mail. But I was having such a nice time with him that my overwhelming compulsion to tell the truth won out. I just couldn’t not tell the guy. Looking back, I think this might’ve been what put the brakes on in something that otherwise had been coasting along at a pleasantly agreeable rate.

When we hugged goodnight, he said we’d have to get together again. I agreed and went on my way.

The next day I forwarded him a message about kickball (we’d discussed his love for the game the night before) one of my friends sent me and said I’d had fun with him the night before. He replied to that one, but suddenly he was so “busy at work” that our e-mail and chat correspondence dropped to almost nil. We still discussed going out again a couple weeks later. He asked that I pick a place, and I did, but the day before we were supposed to meet I asked if I could postpone. The Roommate and I had just moved that weekend, and we could barely walk in the house because of all the boxes everywhere. I had to clear my schedule to get things done around there to regain some sense of sanity.

After that, though, the e-mails from The Chef went to nil and we stopped chatting altogether. It was mostly on his end, but I’d been on several more dates by then and my interest had waned as well.

Almost exactly a month after I’d last heard from The Chef, a tragedy occurred in the kitchen of Casa de la Belle. While she was preparing dinner, The Roommate let out a shriek the likes of which I can’t remember hearing outside a horror movie. I jumped up and ran over to see what was wrong, afraid she’d chopped off a thumb or something. The cry was one of utter devastation and remorse, and it was all because of a broken knife. Yep, that’s right. A broken knife. Before having lived (and cooked) with The Roommate, I would’ve thought this reaction a bit over the top. But the knife was the only one she used, really. She “traded” someone in a hostel for it while she was backpacking in Europe (this might be her only devious act ever, so I won’t alert the authorities), and it was a top-grade Italian chef’s knife that cut and chopped and diced and sliced with the greatest of ease.

Anyhow, the result of the knife breaking is that The Roommate threatened to boycott the kitchen altogether and leave the cooking to me until she found a suitable replacement. This, friends, is completely unacceptable. Initially, I did a search for the brand of knife, but their site didn’t have the type she needed and didn’t cater to my needs for U.S. currency conversions. I couldn’t find the brand on eBay or anywhere else. Being that I’ve been spoiled in my current living situation with nightly dinners that consist of more than three or four rotating staples, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of reverting to eating out all the time or subsisting on the three or four dishes I can cook with relative competence. I went into emergency mode. I did what I always do if I can when I need advice about something; I consulted the expert. In this case, that meant asking The Chef.

I sent an e-mail and heard nothing back. This was Sept. 27. On Oct. 15, The Chef IMed me through gmail chat. It surprised me. I expressed as much. He was cordial and flirty, revealing that he’d gotten another chef position with less stress and better hours and that his roommate had gone and joined the Air Force, so he’d essentially had a ton of down time lately. Then he fished for an invitation to the Halloween party I’m attending this weekend (he loves Halloween). I considered inviting him. We had, after all, had fun together, and he’d seemed like a really cool guy. But then I thought about it, and he’s the one who bagged me. He’s the one who suddenly became busy, didn’t return my e-mail. Why should he get what he wants when it’s convenient for him? That’s no longer the way Belle operates.

Mission Impossible? Reviving the dead art of dating

Looking back at all these dates I’ve had in the past few months (No worries: more war stories will follow), I have to admit I’m suddenly in mourning. It seems the art of dating seems to have all but gone the way of the dodo*.

With a couple notable exceptions, the guys I’ve been out with lack even the most basic grasp of the concept of a proper date. I’m not asking for the clichéd five-star dinner followed by dancing and a moonlit walk along the Potomac. I do realize it’s 2006, everyone is busy, I’ve met this (these) guy(s) through a Web site, we really know nothing of one another, and that hardly anyone can be expected to willingly devote the time and energy it takes to plan a three-course, formal date for a total stranger. That cliché is not at all what I’m mourning.

All I really want is the basic premise of an actual date. Two people agree to said meeting. Someone (preferably the guy, although that, perhaps, is an antiquated notion to most) selects a destination. The two agree on a meeting place and time on a specific day. Each party prepares for the date, preferably by showering and putting on some clean and presentable clothes (there’s typically no need for a three-piece suit, but can anyone do better than a rumpled T-shirt these days?), and leave their respective locations with ample time to arrive at the destination at the agreed upon hour (and, yes, that should take into account the possibility-– nay, the reasonable expectation-- of Metro and/or traffic delays. These things are a daily occurrence in our grand city, and it won’t hurt anyone to arrive somewhere a few minutes ahead of schedule).

The two greet one another with smiles and a handshake, perhaps even a hug, if so inclined. During the date, they discuss a variety of pleasant topics and do their best to engage one another, maybe learn some things about one another (it is, after all, quite similar to an interview, no?). When they depart, they once again shake hands (or hug). Perhaps there is talk of another meeting or plans are made, perhaps not. They go their separate ways.

Rather than resembling anything like the scenario I just described, the vast majority of the so-called dates I’ve been on have started with the guy insisting that I find a place for us to go. Almost none of them has been willing to devote any portion of a weekend day to meeting me (no matter how insistent they’ve been about meeting or for how long and how I try to impress upon them that my weekdays usually pretty full). Most of them want me to travel to meet them on their home turf (especially, it seems, if they live beyond Metro access. What’s with that?).

Most dress down as much as possible for our meeting, making it feel less a like date than a chance encounter on his laundry day. Several have launched into telling me all about their terrible days almost immediately upon arrival. A few have even gone into detail about past relationships, flings, and/or one-night-stands within an hour or so of first setting eyes on me.

Perhaps, friends, the reason most of these men are on Craigslist is that they lack any understanding of the art of dating. (And, yes, I’ll argue dating is--or should be-- an art. It takes effort, skill, and hard work. Some people do it beautifully, others not so well. It’s subject to interpretation and criticism, and the same exact actions can yield different results for different players, or even for the same players at different times. If you’ve ever created anything, you know that’s pretty much how it works. And dating—not the we’re-already-in-a-relationship type of dating, but the kind prior to any such commitment—is, in that dying ideal, a step toward the creation of a relationship.)

Now, I’m not one to pass a chance at a self-deprecatory side note, but, I must say, for my part I do put some effort into these so-called dates. I dress the part, make sure I’m reasonably well-groomed, and, if I can’t revisit my daily cleansing regimen (if, for instance, we’re meeting just after I get off work), at least freshen up my makeup, brush my teeth, and dab on some fresh perfume. I do my best to arrive on time. I behave pleasantly and do my best to remain attentive. I try not to whine to this near-perfect stranger about the latest office drama or anything else he’d likely find exceedingly tedious.

But so far, the “dates” I’ve landed, with the exception of two, from this whole CL venture, did not meet those basic requirements. The two guys who did pretty much follow the pattern, now that I’m thinking about it, were with guys a bit my senior. I think both were in their early- to mid- thirties. Neither had a problem planning the evening or arriving on time (gasp! Even early!). Each kept his end of the conversation light and respectful, made sure I got home safely, and never once made an off-color remark or said anything laced with sexual innuendo. But, then, there’ve also been several who were around the same age and didn’t do so well for themselves, so I’m not claiming guys in their 30s actually know what dating is… more like noting that these two had that (and nothing else, really) in common.

So my question is, what happened to dating? Seriously, I don't think I'm too far off in saying that it wasn't so long ago when people took dating to be a normal step prior to the formation of a relationship. It was like a series of long interviews, fun (presumably) included.

Actually, I first noticed this my freshman year in college. I had been on several dates with a guy in one of my classes. We only saw each other on weekends (aside from the class, of course) and didn't talk on the phone except to make plans. We were actually dating, in the we're-trying-it-out-before-committing-to-anything sense of the term. This went on for probably a little over a month before I was informed by another girl at dinner one night (with him by my side, no less) that we were dating, the in-a-relationship kind of dating. I nearly choked when she said this (it was really posed in the form of a question, but the meaning was quite clear and it still freaked me out beyond belief). Before that, I had no idea that more than three or so dates constituted a relationship. At the time, the word made me break out in hives (I'm still a little itchy from typing it just now).

Perhaps the next time I post an ad, that's what I'll ask for. Actual dating. Not going out once or twice on some sorry excuse for a date then jumping into the sack and trying to figure out what the hell's going on between the two of you from there. See, I've been there. Where I haven't been is on a series of decent dates, especially not with the same guy. Not since, at least, that guy I dated my freshman year. He knew what dating was. But maybe that's really only because he was still in the closet. Are gay boys better daters than breeders now? I wonder...

Belle's mission, should she choose to accept: To resurrect the art of dating using only her charm, wit and the CL personals.

* I’ll concede that my experiences are nearly entirely through CL meetings and that this site may just be a magnet for guys who are dating doofuses. I won’t go so far as to say that dating is completely dead. I hear things that indicate otherwise. I’m just saying I haven’t been a first-hand participant in the phenomenon.

Frank & The Fiancée: Hands off my man

This entry will be an exception to my rule not to use names or other identifying information. I feel it’s warranted. The e-mails below are posted in chronological order and have not been edited except to remove the names of everyone but Frank.

Subject: Hello, I am also 420 friendly and quitting smoking.

From: Frank Black
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello luv. I just came by your profile on craigslist. I liked what I read, and I would like to hear more about you and to get to know you. I do have pics if you are interested, but I do expect some in return. Drop me a line. A little about myself, I stand in at 6'3, I weigh 235lbs solid, I do work out, regularly. I have brown eyes, and my hair is locked. I love the outdoors, sports (watching and playing). I love to read/write, I am also a movie/music/book junkie. I look forward to hearing back from you.

(I also received this same message in response to my initial ad. I didn’t respond the first time ‘round. I shouldn’t’ve responded the next time ‘round. I would not have if I'd realized he'd sent the thing before. I don't respond to form letters when I spot them.)

To: Frank Black
From: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello, Frank is it?

Thanks for responding. Here's a pic. I'd write more, but I'm at work and need to get some things done pretty quickly here. How are you today?

Belle

*Pic was attached*

To: Belle
From: Frank Black
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hello Belle,

Thanks for the pic, you are beautiful. I like alot. I am sending you a pic as promised. It is not the best pic, but you can see what I look like. I would love to hear more about you when you get a chance.

The following message omits a canned response I’d begun sending to everyone who responded to my second ad. It helped me weed through guys at a rapid rate. I took it out of this post because it made it too damn long and had nothing to do with Frank, as he never responded.

To: Frank Black
From: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Hey Frank,

How about that pic??

Subject: me
From: frank black
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 10, 2006

Tell me what you think.

*Pic was attached*

Honestly, I though Frank looked perhaps a little crazy and not quite my type (which is why I deleted his response and our first two e-mails). Needless to say, I didn’t respond. When I arrived at work, I had the following message in my inbox.

Subject: Frank
From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

Hi Belle,

I saw that my fiancee communicated with you today about pic through his myspace account, can you please refrain from communicating with him as we are scheduled to be married in 5 weeks.

Thanks in advance,

The Fiancée

Ummmmm...Wow.

Subject: Frank
From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

The Fiancée,
Wow. Sure thing. Thanks for telling me. Frank Black, is it? I won't be talking to him any more. Good luck.
Belle

(I then forwarded the above message to both Frank and The Fiancée with the following addition.)

Oh, wanted to make sure you got this, too, Frank. I hate drama, and I'd never get involved with someone who already has commitments.

From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

Thanks so much ---! yes his name is frank black, just be on the lookout

From: The Fiancée
To: Belle
Date: Aug. 11, 2006

thanks ---, I forwarded this to him as well!!!!

Note The Fiancée’s reference to contact through Myspace. Since this was a craigslist posting (and because he’d responded to both of my ads), I have to assume he’s been contacting women both on Myspace and on Craigslist, and probably for quite some time and pretty frequently.

I’m glad she was polite to me and didn’t automatically go on the attack. She could've gone all Springer on me and made my life hell. So, like I said, I'm really happy she didn't automatically assume I was a bitch intentionally trying to steal her man.

But five weeks before the big day and he's trolling for women? I'd've dumped his ass without hesitation. If I'd been in the same situation, my e-mail would've read something like this:

Subject: Frank
To: The Other Woman
CC: Frank
BCC: Everyone in Frank's address book; Frank's employer and coworkers; Everyone in my address book; Anyone else I could think of

Hi The Other Woman,

I just saw that my fiancé, Frank Black, has contacted you. We were to be married in five weeks, so I'm glad I found this out before I made that mistake. Anyhow, I just thought you should know that, in addition to being a liar and a cheater, Frank's got a much smaller penis than he'd like you to believe. Unfortunatly, he can't really work it either. He also has --insert incurable STD(s) here--. He still sucks his thumb at night, and he almost never brushes his teeth. Anyhow, I just thought I'd let you know!

Thanks,
Belle

Essentially, I'd tell every embarrassing thing I knew about the guy and then make up a few kickers of my own to add. If I had any compromising photos, I'd include those as well. And I'd probably post it on Craigslist for the next several weeks, no matter how many times it got flagged and removed. Maybe even make posters and hang them up around the neighborhood.

I didn’t hear from Frank or The Fiancée again. I only hope she came to her senses and didn’t marry the asshole.