Confessing your crush in the Church confessional box. And by confessing, I mean banging.

 
My flatmate Jay and I had a quiet dinner at home the other night.

“Are you going to Elton’s beach party next week?” He asked.

Ah...Elton. The guy who has been Nick’s best friend since highschool. And who is also the crush I’ve had since I was in eighth grade. He embodied everything a 13 year old wanted: he was smokin' hot laid back, hilariously funny, and everyone loved him. And okay, he was smokin' hot.

So a beach party with a tall, dark, handsome and witty guy should be as enticing as having hot sex in a Church confession box, right?

Wrong. Unless you’re into threesomes...because Elton got a girlfriend about six months ago.

However, before that had happened, I had revealed my nine year crush on Elton to Nick at the beginning of this year, which turned out to be the longest mistake I made in 2009. I say “longest” because for about three days, Nick ranted and raved about how Elton and I were unsuitable as a couple. He was too laidback, a tightarse, had no ambitions/sense of direction. I was a “high maintenance princess” who was too smart and driven. Eventually, after raging for hours, he finally concluded that Elton wasn’t interested in my type anyway.

I had looked at him and shrugged. “You’re right,” I said. “I just felt like telling you I had a silly crush on him. It’s not a big deal.” And it wasn’t, because he was right. Elton and I had the chemistry and the attraction, but we weren’t after the same things in life.

Jay interrupted my thoughts. “Is it because of what happened between you two? I always thought it was weird that you guys never got together, considering how you were both into each other.”

Rewind. The. Fricken. Tape.

As soon as he saw my face, Jay knew he’d made a mistake. “I thought you knew now, seeing as it’s been so long...” He sighed, before continuing. “A while ago, Elton told Nick he was interested in you. And Nick went on this huge diatribe about how you were too high maintenance, and that you weren’t interested in Elton’s type anyway. And then when you told Nick you were interested in Elton, Nick gave you the same spiel about how a guy like Elton wouldn’t be interested in you. He basically decided he’d launch a campaign to keep you two apart.”

Seeing my face, Jay hastily added, “But you know Nick was doing it with the best of intentions, because he thought you two weren’t suitable for each other. You would both end up putting him in an awkward position when you inevitably broke up.”

You bastard Nick. I WILL put in an awkward position. With me and Elton in a Church confession box.
...Maybe I will get that threesome after all?

On a serious note: I am going to Elton’s beach party. How should I act?

1.    Confront Nick about this mess and get confirmation as to whether the story is true.

2.    Reveal to Elton my long-time crush on him, even though he now has a steady girlfriend.

3.    Say nothing and treat Elton as a friend, like I normally do. Who knows what might happen in the future?

4.    Other – leave in comments.

My new BFFF (Best Foot Fetish Fan)

One of the online websites I signed up to sent me a slightly chiding email recently, reminding me that I had not logged in for about 3 weeks to check my messages. Considering the last message I got from a guy on the website, it’s little wonder why.

This is what the message said.

 Hi There!

I'm a guy who has a foot fetish! Basically I really like the female legs and feet! I'd like to kiss feet, suck on toes, and rub my body parts all over them! I would love it especially if you walked on me!

You don't need to be naked, I'll like it anyway! I don't need to touch any of your other body parts, so you don't need to worry!

Or even if you aren't into this, I'm looking for girls who could let me practise giving foot-rubs! I bet you love footrubs!

Contact me!

The best part is that I apparently don’t need to worry...It’s not like he’s some freak who’s trying to use foot rubs as bait to trap me into his foot fetish fantasy.

Slip. Slop. Slap me.

Let me recap on my last two disaster dates. The first was Mraz Lover, who I ended up trying to do a hit and run to stop him from kissing me on our second date. The second guy I went out with seemed pretty normal, but turned out to be a Stalking Storkman. With a jaw that resembled Godzilla’s arse.

So I had thought that things couldn’t possibly get any worse. But you know Murphy’s Law? It’s that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Well, it’s bullshit.

Anything that can go wrong, will not only go wrong, but will end up with you waking up to find 8 dead naked midgets in the back of your car, blood all over your hands, and you wearing nothing but a t-shirt that says “I killed those 8 dead midgets in my car and all I got was this stupid t-shirt”.

Guaranteed.

So I went on a date with another guy I met online a few weeks ago. As we’re both into soccer, we decided we’d meet at a nearby park to kick a ball around.

It was a very, very hot day. In Australia, we have a national campaign called “Slip, Slop, Slap” that runs during summer to try to stop us from having fun cancer. Essentially, the point is to slip on a tshirt (because we always walk around topless Down Under), slop on some sunscreen, and slap on your friend’s three year old son* a hat.

I had lathered on my sunscreen and was waiting impatiently for Soccer Boy to turn up. He arrived a few minutes late, jogging up to me and apologising for being late. As he was peering into his bag to grab his soccer ball, I only got a quick glimpse at his face.

“Ha ha, you put the slop in ‘slip, slop, slap’,” I joked.

He froze, midsearch, head still turned mostly away from me.

“You know,” I continued, thinking he didn’t understand my joke. “You looked like you put sunscreen on with your left foot.”

And he did. His face had lots of blotchy bits where the sunscreen hadn’t been rubbed in properly.

It was like telling someone who had a skin condition that their skin was so patchy they looked like they had bits of sunscreen smeared over their face like they’d used the wrong limb to apply it.

Which is exactly what happened.

As Soccer Boy straightened up to look at me, my jaw dropped. The skin on his face was full of pink and pale pigmentation patches, which stood out against his natural tan colour.

Pigmentation patches. Not sunscreen.

Slip.

Slop.

Slap me.


*Reference to the award winning book called The Slap.

The Story of the Stalking Stork

Once upon a time, there lived a man who resembled a stork. He was tall with gangly legs, had a protruding, beak-like jaw, and regularly travelled around the city for work. Sadly for Storkman, he came from another city, and had not yet met too many new people.

So one day, Storkman signed up to an online dating website.

He also took a picture of himself from an angle where his raptor mouth did not jut out like the helm of the Titanic.
...Deceptive fucker.

Storkman had been on the website for a while, when he saw the Princess's* profile. After some gentle wooing, he convinced the Princess that he should be given a chance to court her.

The two organised a rendezvous, and when the Princess met her suitor, she found him rather sweet and very genteel. Despite the fact that he almost poked her eye out with his huge jawline when he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

You could hang a few kid's lunchboxes on that thing.
Or a few kids, for that matter.
Anyway. I digress.

In an attempt to encourage the Storkman to use his mouth for something other than eye extraction, the Princess asked the Storkman whether he'd met any other ladies from the online dating website. The Storkman looked downcast and mumbled something about how the lady he had met before the Princess had refused to return his call or reply to his message after their first meeting.

The Princess was appalled at this lack of courtesy, and voiced her outrage for the Storkman's plight. He merely continued to look sadly at his feet. Feeling sympathetic, the Princess reassured the Storkman that she was not like any ill-bred commoner (or "cold hearted bitch" may have been the words used), and that she had enough manners to give the Storkman a chance before passing judgement.

Stupid fucking Princess. She may as well have told him that the dragon usually guarding her was on long-service leave.

The Storkman accompanied the Princess back to the entrance of her castle, looking much less like a stork and more like a puppy by this stage. She left him at the doorstep of her home, after risking losing her other eye a kiss on the cheek.

Within the half hour after, he left three missed calls and two smses on the Princess's phone. Just to ask her whether she had gotten home safe. Even though he was right outside her window and could see her getting out of the shower.

The following days did not provide the Princess with any reprieve. The Storkman had become the Stalkman. In desperation, the Princess told her suitor that she had an upcoming task deadline to prepare for, that would occupy her for the subsequent weeks. It wasn't that she didn't like the Storkman: she did. But as a friend, not as the future Prince.

Unfortunately for the Princess, the deadline date is looming. Looming like the Storkman's jaws in the Princess's nightmares.

Should she:

1. Tell him the task deadline has been extended...until forever.

2. Explain that she would be happy to meet again, but simply as friends.

3. Lie and say that she would be happy to meet again, but she is now no longer single.

4. Not respond to him at all, like the other girl she called a cold-hearted bitch.


* No prizes for guessing who the Princess is. Actually, if you're a girl, I have a prize for you: a guy's phone number. He's tall, athletic, and he can even carry your handbag for you...with his face.

Enter or Ex(it) The Essayist?

I'd like to apologise in advance, because this post doesn't have my usual level of humour. I think having been on four dates in the last week have destroyed what little was left of my wit (and sanity). But I promise I have a hilarious story or two to tell you soon (one involves a stalker, yay me!).

Guy: The Essayist

Date: 5 hours. Started off at a cafe, walked around the Botanical Gardens, and ended up at another café for lunch. He paid for coffee, I paid for lunch. Wait…I paid for lunch?! Wtf! We ate lunch way too late and by the end, were both exhausted and walking around in a slumped haze. Not the best end to a date.

Conversation: Huge. We covered topics ranging from the definition of normality and whether it was relative, to Freud’s theories of psychoanalysis, to relationships. He talks A LOT. Then he’d suddenly stop, and say “so tell me about yourself”…which I found a little disconcerting (surely you’re supposed to ask something specific about the other person?). We made each other laugh heaps though; he has fantastic humour. Challenged me a lot, and really made me think: it was a serious mind f*ck (in a good way). Perhaps not as easy going as Mraz Lover, but I did say I wanted someone to mentally push me further.

Chemistry: Solid. Good amount of flirting, interspersed with dirty banter. Just the way I like it. He also had this hot way of letting his eyes trail to my lips briefly when I was talking. Distracting, but hot.

Attractiveness: Hmm…He’s not bad looking…just chubbier and shorter than I expected. He was saying how he was going to get into shape by Christmas, but that’s what men always say…

Conclusion: Definitely had the conversation, the humour and the chemistry…In fact, he is the exact same as my ex (the humour and personality…and the fact that I paid for lunch). But, The Essayist is not as good looking….A mental f*ck, sure. But a physical one? Not so sure...

I have a question for you all…Should I go out with The Essayist again?

   1. No – he should have paid for lunch.
   2. No – he should lose weight first.
   3. Yes – you like your ex and The Essayist reminds you of him, so give him a shot.
   4. No – for the exact same reason as number 3.

The Essayist

Readers, I have forsaken you. But I'm here now, so the fact that you were left hanging on a cross limb is okay.

Basically, so far I have gone out on three online dates. And they have had a 100% success rate. Or failure rate, depending on how you look at it. I have not found a guy that I want to settle down with, but I have made three good friends.

Who all think that I'm the one they want to settle down with.

Yes, including Mraz Lover, despite our hilariously cringe-worthy disastrous last date.

BUT...there's more!

There's a guy who I have been emailing back and forth with over the last few weeks, who I met online. He's been overseas in America, and got back on the weekend. In fact, "emailing" might not be the right term. "Essaying" seems more appropriate. Because we write around 2,500 words to each other, about 3 times a day. Total around 7,500 words per day. I shall dub this guy "The Essayist".

And let me tell you, all 2,500 words of each email are dirty, ridiculously funny, and borderline legal. But still not quite.

For those of you who follow my blog, you'll know that I NEED a guy who has naughty, hilarious and witty banter. Because that's what I've got

Back to the point: I've only found two guys in my entire life who've managed to have that. One was my ex, Lee. The other was the guy I am still secretly stalking in love with, Asher.

But The Essayist...he has it. In fact, he reminds me of Lee.

As he put it,

On a side note I can look back on the early emails and I'm like really polite, and now here I am with the swearing and talking of fisting young children and kicking over the elderly and stuff... or was that the other girl.. hmm.

So, onto the exciting news. I am going on a date with this guy today. In a few hours. And because our emails have been so naughty...I mean lengthy...we've been really honest with each other. I've even admitted that I've put him on a pedestal already. He's admitted to worrying about falling off the pedestal. I've admitted that I'll laugh if he falls off and the pedestal falls on top of him.

He sent me an email last night and I replied this morning. I signed off with this:

Talk soon....literally, in 3 hours...I'm scared now...we're standing on the edge...are we going to fall off together?....or am I going to push you off and watch you fall? And touch myself while it happens?
Who knows? Who. Knows.

I am so wrong. And I love it. Lets hope he does too.

Suckarsebye

Why do they call it “goodbye”? I think “badbye” is more appropriate. Or better yet, “suckarsebye” in my case. Because that's what I do.

Suck arse at saying bye.

Mraz Lover and I spent an hour at the cafe before getting kicked out. The conversation was slightly more stilted than our prior date; and while he was smart, funny, and interesting, I wasn’t feeling the chemistry. Again.

Plus, there were weird pauses throughout the evening, where he’d just sort of look at me. I recognised that look.

Back when I was 14, a boy called Connor asked me out for a movie. I went unsuspectingly along on our first date. At the end of the date, in broad daylight, he cornered me against his car and proceeded to give me mouth-to-mouth. Considering I was perfectly healthy, this manoeuvre frightened me.

Ever since then, I have developed a radar for recognising when a guy thinks you need assistance breathing...with their mouth on yours. And from the way Mraz Lover was looking at me last night, you’d think I was on the precipice of death.

By the end of the evening, I was almost near the precipice of death, hyperventilating in anxiety. I did not want his mouth on mine. As we walked slowly out of the café, Mraz Lover offered to walk me to my car.

“Oh, that’s er, really not necessary,” I said, waving vaguely in the other direction. “I’m erm…I’m parked a block over that way.”

Complete lie. My car was at the kerb right in front of us.

“Oh great, because my car’s just around there,” he said enthusiastically.

Shit.

“Um…I…er…” I managed to gasp, only to find he’d already started walking ahead. Part of me wanted to unlock my car, that was waiting about 2 feet away from me, and run him down home.

Inspiration struck.

“Actually,” I called after him. “I just realised, I think I left my car keys back at the café.”

Mraz Lover turned and came back to stand right in front of me. “Oh, I’ll come back with-” he began.

“No!” I screamed, causing the nearby pedestrian to turn and glare suspiciously at my date. “I mean…I’ll just go back and get them,” I garbled. “You go ahead.”

That was when I noticed Mraz Lover was discreetly rubbing his eye.

“Oh my god!” I exclaimed, mortified. During my panic, I had launched a spray of spit into his left eye. Hastily, I opened my handbag wide and pulled out a pack of tissues.

“Hey, your car keys are there,” Mraz Lover said, pointing into my open bag as he squinted through his good eye.

Shit. I should have spat in both his eyes.

“Oh…oh, cool. I thought I’d left them back there…” I mumbled, inwardly cursing. We continued walking around the block, me dawdling as much as possible.

So, which car’s yours?” He asked politely.

“Er…the one up there,” I said, pointing towards the car at the end of the road. I mean, what were the chances that particular one would be his?

100% apparently.

“Um…are you sure? Because that’s my car,” he said, looking perplexed.

Shit. I should have spat in my own eyes and claimed impaired sight.

“Oh…You’re right. It’s just that your car looks exactly like mine. Exactly. Like. Mine. Isn’t that weird? They could be car twins. We could breed them or something. Except that would be incestuous. Or would it be? Actually you know what? I must be losing my mind, my car’s actually back around at the front of the café. God I’m such an idiot,” I said, my voice hitting a fever-high pitch.

“Oh.” He looked a bit crestfallen for a moment. But before he could say anything more, I jumped in.

“So, um, it was nice to know you. I mean, see you. So, good luck with everything. I mean…Good luck with getting home in your car which looks EXACTLY LIKE MINE. Take good care of it, okay? My car would be very upset if something happened to its twin.” I leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, before bolting back the way I’d come.

It wasn’t until I was in the safety of my car that I sighed with relief. I’d escaped.

Except that as I started to pull away from the curb, Mraz Lover’s dark green sedan pulled up next to mine. And he saw me.

In my silver sportscar.

Suckarsebye, Mraz Lover.