Two nights ago I had a date. This alone is reason to celebrate considering how few dates I’ve had recently. This date was especially noteworthy because it came on the heels of wondering if I should give the short, fat, hairy, boring guy from the beach a chance. The answer, inevitably was “no,” but being asked out by this guy shortly after that confirmed my previous decision.
Anywho… Neil. Neil from the bar. Neil from two nights ago. (side note: does anyone else have trouble keeping track of aliases while blogging? I really do.)
I met Neil while I was out sharing 3 pitchers of sangria with a girlfriend of mine. Neil appeared somewhere between pitcher 2 and 3, and had my number by the end of pitcher 3. He called the next day and asked me out for a vague “sometime next week” scenario, which is not uncommon in Israeli-dating-world. I agreed. About a week went by. We spoke again, we met the next day. And now my story can begin.
First flag of the night (which I should have paid more attention to) was when he called me to tell me he was downstairs at my building, and asked if he could come up to drop off his backpack so that he didn’t have to carry it with him at the bar. At the time, this request seemed perfectly legitimate to me. He doesn’t live in Tel Aviv yet, so he probably had his all of his stuff for wherever he was sleeping that night and who wants to carry a big bag with them on a date? I let him up, and he dropped off his confusingly small and bag, but I didn’t question it.
On the date, he was perfectly fine. Fine. F.i.n.e. Ugh, I hate that word. But, it’s true. There was nothing particularly wrong with him, there just wasn’t necessarily anything right with him either. He was pleasant and smiled. I seemed to drive most of the conversation, but maybe that was a language thing (probably not). I gave him some opportunities to touch my hand, or be a bit more flirty, and he either missed them or let them pass. And the kicker, he didn’t give me a chance to finish my wine before he ordered the bill, paid, and said “c’mon, let’s get out of here.” But, but…my wine…
On the walk home, I wasn’t sure if he just wanted to go somewhere else, or if the night was over. You can imagine my surprise when he came upstairs, I thought, to get his bag and he sat down and asked me to put music on. I didn’t so much mind him or his company so I was happy to oblige.
Music turned into kissing. Kissing turned into touching and biting. The party moved to the bed, and we then proceeded to have first-date-sex all night long. Here’s where it gets confusing. The sex was pretty good. He’s aggressive (maybe even a bit too much considering he barely knows me) and he clearly knows what he’s doing. The condoms made things difficult for him, but I enjoyed myself (I came really close to really enjoying myself, but it was first-date-sex. One mustn’t be too picky.). And yet, he wanted to do it again and again and again. By 7AM, having had barely any sleep and feeling a bit torn apart from the condoms (let alone the fact that I haven’t had sex since Axel Rose on Purim), I had to turn down his plea for morning sex (which I LOVE). I’m ashamed to admit it, but I simply couldn’t manage it. It was the perfect storm and my girl-parts had had enough for a few hours.
Here’s why this is a bit confusing. After the bar, he was just ok. No butterflies, nothing to be excited or write home about. Perfectly reasonable and fine, but a bit dry and hollow. After the sex, he was not any more intriguing, but the sex was. I liked the sex. I’m just not sure that I liked him.
Talking to my sister today, I found myself getting really confused. On one hand, she’s advised me that unless there are sparks and butterflies and excitement and major interest after the first date not to pursue because it’s a waste of time. On the other, and usually in the same breath, she says that if perfectly-reasonable-Neil calls and I’m not doing anything, go out with him again. I know the butterflies are possible. I know the major connection and first-date giddy spark is possible. I’ve felt it before. It’s out there. She says, as many people do, that it’s ok to demand to feel the butterflies. Also, butterflies aren’t something you can force. So, by this logic isn’t seeing him again akin to desperately trying to make 1+1 to equal 3? Have I really reached the make-up-your-own-math era of my love life?
I don’t want to see him again. I sort of want to have sex with him again. I realize that in order to have sex with him, This means neither will be happening, tragically. I’m perfectly and reasonably ok with that.