RePosting my guest post from 30 Dates & 60 Bottles of Wine

In case you aren’t all over the blogosphere and haven’t seen my guest post on 30 Dates & 60 Bottles of Wine, here’s a recap to bring you up to speed:

The Comedian with the Yellowtail or You Reap What You Sow

So, if you read her last post, the lovely heroine who has been chronicling 30 Dates and 60 Bottles of wine has decided to take a brief hiatus in the aftermath of getting found by one of the dates, so as the grad school buddy and fellow chronically single woman in her thirties, I offered to pick up a bottle and take a date for the team so that we could still bring you another story.

So, to set the scene, after finishing up grad school at USC, I bounced around working on independent films for a bit, and then finally made my way to Dallas, where for the last year and a half I was working in Alternate Programming, PR and Outreach for a growing national chain of movie theaters until about a month ago when I made a tactical blunder.

Apparently Dallasites are a bit more buttoned up than we Angelinos and so when I ran a team tent for a charitable event, I thought, we’re in the movie business – let’s give them a red carpet experience like the guests are live at a Hollywood film premiere. I had a red carpet, a step-and-repeat and lookalikes for Batman and Marilyn Monroe handy to take photos with people and I was the red carpet photog.

I wore a gold dress that would have been a little on the cleavagy side, but, knowing I was in Dallas, I had donned an ivory camisole underneath to hide my goodies and keep them in place. But apparently I am so white that the ivory camisole blended so well with my skin that someone who needed an update on his or her glasses prescription saw me in a photo of the event – at which my tent tied for first place, BTW – mistook a shot in which my dress was a little off center for one of my actual breasts hanging out of the dress. So I was fired. Come on.

So, needless to say, I was shocked, mortified and ready for a drink.

A friend of mine used to own a comedy club and so she pulled a few strings to get us into a club to see some stand-up comedians that she knew. We sat in the front row and of course I got picked on for being the only white person in the club by the opening act. Apparently my angelic porcelain skin makes me an easy target, but whatevs – a few jokes is nothing after you just got fired for being too white, right?

So, after the show, we stayed to visit with the comics and they invited us over to a bar for some drinks. I didn’t realize it at the time, but comic number one who dislikes whiteys was apparently looking to get it on with my friend, so comic number two apparently decided he would keep me occupied while our compadres disappeared out to the car to do whatever they were going to do.

I certainly didn’t mind him hugging up on me and trying to get close. I had seen him scope out the room looking for prospects and he had come back and chosen me so I didn’t think he was taking one for the team by flirting with me and kissing a little. I figured after a year and a half of sacrificing all romantic and sexual relations for a job that chewed me up for 60 hours a week and spit me out that maybe I was due for a little meaningless fling and gosh darn it I deserved to have a little fun.

But since there were four of us in one car and we had to shuffle our drunky friends safely off to their respective homes so that nobody was driving drunk, number two and I exchanged numbers to resume at a time TBD.

So last night TBD came to pass, and like any out of practice woman who never has anyone over, I went all out cleaning my apartment so it wouldn’t look like a frat house coated in dog hair and empty take out containers. I showered, shaved, broke out the sexy lingerie and since I knew number two wouldn’t be coming over until 11:30pm because his set that night was at 10, I decided to really embrace my inner bad girl and warm up for the main event by exchanging naughty texts with an ex back home in Cali so that when number two showed up, I would be ripe and ready to take that piece of ass.

So here I was, proud of myself for putting aside my romantic hang-ups and just ready to take the first steps to embracing my not-too-far-off cougardom. The ex in Cali was getting off on the fact that he was my warm up act for somebody else as was I for him, and lucky number two had the honor of coming over in person to reap the benefits, so shouldn’t we all just get some satisfaction?

Apparently karma and fate had other things in mind.

As promised, number two showed up with a bottle of wine, but my apartment complex was getting trolled by the tow truck looking for prospects, so I had to walk down and show him where it was safe to park. No big. Dogs needed a walk anyway. I went down and introduced the canines and we walked back toward my place, except as number two was slipping an arm around my waist my big dog stopped dead in front of me and I tripped over him.

Number two had brought over a bottle of wine as a nice gesture or perhaps a social lubricant, and it was a 1.5 liter bottle of Yellowtail Cabernet, so I guess maybe the volume of wine being equivalent to three bottles was supposed to make up for the fact that Yellowtail is typically one of the bottom shelf cheapest wines you find at your average grocery or convenience store. If I want to be charitable, maybe it was thoughtful not to get a nice bottle of red and let it sit in the car in 90 degree heat for four hours between when a liquor store would have been open and when he could get free to see me.

Re: the 90 degree heat, be glad if you’re not in Texas right now. It was definitely hot in my apartment and not only because of me. So, maybe because we were both starting from sober, or the tow truck, or the heat or the pleas for attention from the dogs, but number two was definitely not on his game the way he had been last weekend.

I poured him a glass of wine from the ridiculously huge bottle as I wondered how much he thought we’d need to drink, and he couldn’t seem to find a place that was comfortable to sit, so we had a nice moment kissing as we stood with my back against the wall, and I asked what I could do to make him comfortable.

We made our way to the bedroom, and he told me that on first sight he had been completely captivated by my breasts. Now, as someone who put herself through grad school managing a Victoria’s Secret store in Beverly Hills for about five years, I am quite used to my breasts being the topic of conversation with both men and women, and there’s really not anything original left to say about them.

I have them. They’re big. They’re real. When I was a teenager, I didn’t want them to grow big so I took a note from Chinese foot binding and would wrap them with duct tape every night when I went to bed in hopes they’d stay small, and somehow the end result was that I have this really expressed narrow cleavage that women would pay to have and men fantasize about hiding in.

But ok, I wasn’t asking for original. I was just asking for action, so I leaned in for another kiss, and then came the showstopper: “How do you feel about blow jobs?”

“I feel like I would need to get to know you better.”

And then came the dreaded, “Well, if you’re not into that, that’s kind of a deal breaker for me. Maybe I should go.”

What is it with guys and blow jobs? And what kind of girl hears an ultimatum like that and gives up the goods when the guy hasn’t even done anything for her yet?

Somebody fire up the DeLorean because we all need to go back in time and smack the first girl who did that for a guy under such circumstances, thus letting so many of them think that is acceptable. Obviously he’s just not that into me or has some deep seated issues because most people would just let nature take its course and perhaps offer a little more subtle encouragement if they want things to go that direction. Subtlety is an art dude, and you should learn it.

I decided to impart piece of wisdom in the form of rhyme so that it would stick with this young buck so I told him, most self-respecting women follow the saying “Baby doesn’t blow if you’re just some hoe.” He was slow on the uptake and had to ask if in this scenario I was referring to him as the hoe. Wait a minute. Was he, actually…offended??? That I was considering him my hoe????

OMG, I guess that flipped the script and suddenly he was all apologies. We got off on the wrong foot tonight. Maybe you can come to my next show and I’ll buy you some drinks. You seem like a really cool chick and maybe we can be friends or start over or something.

I wish I could say that you’re laughing with me because these silly situations are only in my life, but somehow I suspect it’s more common than we know. If you want to hear more about #o0DatinginDallas tweet @betsyelaine.




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