Curb your enthusiasm

All of these posts so far have been about either epically bad "first contact" messages and douchey profiles, or mediocre-to-horrifying first dates.  And I've got a few more of those up my sleeve, worry not.

But today's post is different.  It's about a guy who actually got a second date out of me - despite my better judgment.  Which I should have listened to ... but I'm guessing you knew that part already.  If you're squeamish, I recommend you stop here.

Our first date wasn't ... bad, exactly.  Greek food followed by Irish beer on a cold, clear night.  We had plenty to talk about, and he was quite adorable ... if you got past the sheen of sweat on his forehead.  Yikes.

There was enough, mild chemistry that when he pushed through his nerves and leaned in to kiss me at the end of the night, I let him.  Luckily, the cold outside had dried his forehead; unluckily, his nerves were still there and he kept opening and closing his mouth in a strangely mechanical way with only empty space in between.  I felt like I was playing an adult arcade game where the objective was to get your tongue in and back out again before you were trapped and lost your dollar.  Goddamn rigged carnie games.  Ow.

He (let's call him Skippy) asked me out again a few days later and I hemmed and hawed.  I'm one of those everything-rides-on-the-first-kiss kind of women ... but Skippy was sweet and non-creepily persistent about wanting to take me out to Mexican food ... so I gave in. 

That was some of the worst Mexican food I've ever had.  The chips were stale - and what self-respecting compadres won't serve you edible rice and beans??  I should have run then, but the surprisingly passable margarita kept me gnawing at my food and hoping I didn't break a tooth.

But Skippy really, really wanted me to come over to his place (conveniently located near Mexican Hell) so he could play some songs for me.  See, Skippy had studied guitar.  Like, actually went to school for it.  It didn't matter that he was currently in retail - he had a collection of about a dozen guitars and wanted to play for me.

So, out of curiosity ... I went.  I mean - the guy had ZERO kissing style ... I almost couldn't believe he'd have the dexterity or the soul to play a guitar well.  I needed to see it for myself.

Now, as all women know ... watching a man's hands work on a guitar is about the surest panty-dropper there is.  The men know this, too, which is, of course, the number one reason they learn to play (the second being so they can join a band while still underage and have someone to buy them booze and smokes).

Skippy was no exception.  The man could PLAY.  As I watched him effortlessly breeze through four or five different genres on at least three different pieces from his (admittedly impressive) collection, I began to reconsider his overall attractiveness.

(Beer goggles ain't got nothing on the seductive euphoria that emanates from an expertly-wielded guitar.)

He saw his chance and moved in, sitting next to me on the couch.  He kissed me - welcome to France, Skippy!  I didn't know you had it in you. 

But then the spell was broken.  Skippy moved down - to kiss my neck, I thought - but instead pecked at it, interspersing each peck with a strange "yummmmm" sound, as if he were burying his muzzle in a dish of food.  Peck, yumm, peck, yumm, peck, yummmm ....

Annoyed, I leaned away and tugged at his chin so he would kiss me instead.  But he then dramatically planted his hands on either side of my face, screwed his eyes shut, and proceeded to kiss me with redoubled intensity, as if we were filming the world's most epic, romantic moment for digital posterity.

Ew.

It wasn't that he was trying to create an emotion that wasn't there.  It wasn't even that he was sort of wrenching my neck in his effort to communicate his desire.  It was that ... between the moisture on his forehead, his palms, and his excessively drooly kiss, I felt like I was drowning.  When I couldn't ease free, I abruptly pulled away, gasping for air.

So what did Skippy do?  Jump in to save me, of course.  He literally got on MY lap and tried to kiss me some more.  As in, imagine every scene you've ever lived or witnessed where the girl is straddling the guy as he sits on a couch ... now imagine the guy on top instead of the girl ... but due to his limited flexibility and extreme excitement, he is KNEELING on her instead. still attempting to cup her face in his hands.

Down, boy, DOWN!  Skippy, I said DOWN!

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I admit it, I ran - I mean, I said goodbye first, but I was done.  There had been too many tries and fails in that short time - whatever spell had been cast upon me by the sounds of dextrous fingers upon willing strings had been rudely broken by strange moans and thoroughly dissipated by excessive moisture.

Skippy was a puppy.  A sweet puppy, to be sure - but a slobbery, horny one, too.  He'd managed to acquire a thin veneer of competent maturity with his instrumental mastery ... but it was painfully obvious he had mastery of nothing else.  Not of kissing, not of appropriateness, and certainly not of his own body.

I don't care HOW long your dry spell has been (in Skippy's case, a year) - there is NO excuse to go climbing all over your date!  Or for trying to create intimacy by suffocating her with fake movie kisses!

In fact, a little restraint might bring you better results.  Back off.  Let her come to you, and pay attention to her responses.  Yes, I know it's hard to concentrate with Skippy Jr. begging to be let out - but when you are acting exactly LIKE Skippy Jr. (puppy see!  want!  yummy!!  climb!!!  drooooooool!) ... well, neither one of you will ever get any action.  Chill out and act like a big dog.

There's a good boy.