A couple of months or so ago, I started chatting with this 24year old on PoF. I was a little leery of starting anything with someone so young, but he seemed to have his shit together, plus he’s totally cute lol The problem is that he lives and works an hour outside of the city and works 6 days a week. So meeting was going to be a challenge. While we tried to figure out a Sunday where both our schedules would be free, we had lots of fun flirting and sexting 😉 I love stuff like that. But texting gets old fast. In the beginning, we had actual conversations, but those fell away as it became more and more about exchanging pictures and superficial conversation. I have an ample amount of patience, but when I’m the only one trying to make an effort to figure out a meeting, it starts feeling like work. I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to force him into meeting me if he doesn’t want to meet me.
There were a number of things he has said to me that had me thinking he really wanted to meet me and start something. He was the one who pursued me. I’m losing faith in what I thought were his intentions pretty fast. And maybe it’s being young and not knowing what to say, or maybe it’s because he just doesn’t care and is only looking for a way to kill some time, but anytime I do try to have a serious conversation or tell him what’s going on in my life, he abruptly ducks out. Case in point, he texts me at midnight after not texting me for over a week and wants me to send him some sexy pictures. I told him I was working and wasn’t really in a picture kind of mood. He suggested I probably have some saved on my phone. I then told him I was in the midst of writing a blog post about the recent death of a friend. Instead of showing any concern about how I might be feeling, he said now he looks like an asshole and he “doesn’t want to be a buzz kill. ttyl.” I would have had a casual sexual relationship with this kid. That would have been fine. And then I wouldn’t care whether or not he cares about my life. But he just won’t make the time. And I’m tired of waiting for something that isn’t going to happen. Life is too short.
So, there I am, on my way to supper with some friends after work, and I decide I need to stop at home first to freshen up. It’s cold out. Like, really fucking cold out. The house has shifted so the outside doors are difficult to close properly, and you have to make sure the latch catches. If it doesn’t, it very easily gets caught in any wind and bangs on the railing. Remember when I said it was really fucking cold out? Well, it was so cold that when I pulled, the handle for the door snapped right off! But not until the door had actually latched! Perfect. I stared at it for a few seconds and then went in to change and get ready. I go to leave and realize, I can’t open this goddamn door! I try to jimmy it open for several minutes. I open the window over the screen to see if maybe there’s a hole I could put my arm through and open it from the outside. Nope. But hey, I have two doors. So I decide to try the back door. The problem is, I was in Jamaica for a week in January and the snow really piled up. I managed to squeeze through the door and lock it behind me. Then I go to the gate. It won’t swing open so I start clearing the snow away with my feet. I was not wearing proper snow clearing attire and my feet got cold very quickly. Did I mention it was really fucking cold?! I get all the snow cleared only to find a chunk of ice preventing the gate from opening! Shit! Now what?
I bet you’re thinking to yourself, “If that was me, I’d just climb over the gate.” Great minds think alike! And fools’ seldom differ. The front gate is relatively low, and I’m tall. Shouldn’t be much of a problem. Or so I thought. It’s a tapering gate, low on one side, and gradually gets higher. I manage to get one leg swung over the lowest part of the gate, after “carefully” measuring it’s height against my legs. Turns out, the gate is a few inches too high once I get my leg over. So now I’m stuck! I have one leg over, dangling a few inches above the ground, the other leg planted firmly on the ground, and my crotch wondering if it’s going to survive this delicate balance. It’s around this time that the neighbour’s back door motion light turns on. I freeze. I mean, I’m already fucking freezing, but now I still my movements. I’m torn between hoping they come out and can help me by opening the front door or pulling me over the gate, and more desperately hoping they stay the fuck inside. They don’t come out. I make the decision to pull my leg back over the gate. Except it’s much harder to get my leg back than it was to put it over. My boot is caught and my foot starts to cramp. WTF?!? I finally manage to get my leg back and trudge back through the snow to the back door, squeeze through the opening, and go back inside.
I grab a knife and head for the front door. I struggle for a minute or two before realizing the very simple solution is just to wedge the knife in between the door and the latch and boom! Open door. I couldn’t have figured this out a half hour before?!
Since I’m already writing about my own brilliance, I’ll tell you that I have been paying the wrong accounts for two of my utility bills for the past 8 months, ever since I moved in. Only after receiving disconnection notices from energy and power did I figure this out. Smrt.
My friend Chelsey died a week ago on Sunday. I don’t know what to say about it yet. I’ve never had to deal with losing a friend before. She was only 30. I’ve lost a great number of family members in my time, at least one a year for a lot of years, but it’s different when most of them are in their 80s or 90s, and it’s somewhat expected.
I found out while I was at work on Monday morning, and I spent most of the day in shock. I didn’t go home. I thought if I could keep focused, I would be fine. I wasn’t. Later in the afternoon, I called her mom, and I could barely stand it. Her voice was naked, full of heartbreak and grief. Her baby is gone. I hope you go your entire life without hearing so much pain come out of another person’s heart that you just know, in that moment, they want to die too.
Ah, Jamaica. What a wonderful place you are! Full of sunshine, beaches, and rum. And dick. Big, black dick. I had a lot of fun this trip. I could not have turned off my sexual magnetism if I had wanted to. (By the way who would want to?!)
Fast forward to the last night at our resort. We are in the disco and there is a man. The details are foggy about meeting him, but I do remember finding out he was a pilot. Our pilot. As in, the pilot who would be flying us home to Regina the next day. That was all it took, I was in! I suggested to him that we leave and go to his room. That was all the convincing he needed. It turned out to be quite a hike to get back to his room. We stopped several times along the way to make-out, and I kept unzipping his pants. My mouth had a mind of it’s own 😉 He was a little more on the shy side and got nervous when he could hear footsteps, so we would stop and continue on our little moonlit stroll.
When we got to his room, well, I’ll spare you all the details. Except for one. The pilot really, really, really, really liked having his balls licked. I don’t know for sure that this is true for all pilots, but I’m going to go ahead and generalize and say that they all like a lot of ball play. So now if you ever meet a pilot, or perhaps already know one, you can have yourself a private little chuckle.