Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Food and Sex: One Uncontrollable Urge

My Hott Waiter and I have been dating for almost a month. The sex has been fantastic. Last time we did it, we went at it for two full hours and I came three times in a row. After, I realized we had shot the bolts out of my bed.

But I digress.

I've always considered myself a foodie, but my Hott Waiter is a REAL foodie. He's very sensual -- really into food and wine, very knowledgeable and particular. It's nice to be with a guy who actually eats his dessert little by little, savoring each bite, rather than shoving bite after bite in his mouth.

The way a guy eats dessert IS representative of his skills between the sheets.

He talks about food passionately, and I've been finding that it turns me on. I'm serious! I find myself becoming aroused when he talks about the nuances of a wine, the accoutrements to a dish, or how tuna is just barely seared....God, I love tuna, the rarer the better....

The first time we had sex, I was blown away by how great a night it was overall. The sex was wonderful -- and since that first time, it has grown and evolved and morphed into FANTASTIC! Dare I say it? The Hott Waiter has given me the best sex of my LIFE! Each time is better than the last!

Anyway, on that first night, the weather was really bad -- we had a major storm, and most people were holed up inside. After having sex, we realized we were hungry, he had no food in his fridge, and we might as well go out.

We ended up at a really trendy place -- a painfully, ridiculously trendy place in our city's trendiest dining neighborhood, the neighborhood that includes his restaurant. This restaurant is open late (which it was) and the food is WONDERFUL and the prices are suprisingly low! We blissfully ate our food, smooched, fed each other across the table, played footsie....that's how he rolls. And I love it.

Since then, almost every time we've had sex, we've gone for food afterward. It's so natural -- you get so tired and hungry after sex that you need to replenish yourself -- and your metabolism is already up, so why not?

Whether expensive or cheap, it's always been good food. We've gone to Wendy's for chicken sandwiches, IHOP for pancakes, and an all-night brasserie in one of the nice hotels downtown.

It's become natural. Sex, then food. After the sex, I want the food!

Funnily enough, last night, he took me out for an incredible dinner -- a seven-course extravaganza and a fantastic bottle of wine. (His best friend is a manager there.)

Did we have sex?

Are you kidding? We couldn't even move!

Sex, then food. It should never be any other way.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

The Hott Waiter: Who is he?

Every guy I date has been compared to a guy on Sex and the City.

So who is the Hott Waiter?

There's no question that we met just the way that Samantha and Smith met. But that's where the similarities end.

And he's a waiter while I'm a young professional. Sounds like Miranda and Steve.

But in terms of how he acts, if only limited to the episodes preceding the finale, you know who he is? PETROVSKY! Intensely romantic to the point of blowing me away, sensual beyond all belief, opening me to a new world, and just impressive.

And also....we haven't been laughing together as often as I'd like. It's still very new, but....let's hope we can change that.

Whirlwind Romance with the Hott Waiter

It's been two weeks, and it has been fantastic.

In fact, I feel as if I don't want to write about it -- not in too much detail, anyway. I like holding it close to me, feeling like it's something special. I keep it special because I don't reveal too much.

Well, in the past two weeks, the Hott Waiter and I had our pivotal first date, we spontaneously met up at clubs twice, and we spent time at each other's places after that....

Here are a few things that struck me:

He is intensely, openly romantic. On our first date, he was holding my hand before we were halfway down the street. His arms were around me, he was actually playing footsie, and he was holding my hand across the dinner table.

I should have loved it, but it freaked me out!

"Listen," I said apologetically, him holding my hand across the dinner table, "I'm just not used to this."

"Do you want me to tone it down? I can stop--"

"No, no, no. It's good." I smiled. "I like it....I'm just not used to it. I need to relax." And I did relaxed. As time has gone on with us, I've gotten used to it, and I love it now.

There are so many other things. He won't let me walk over so much as a puddle -- he will pick me up and carry me across. He has no qualms about randomly feeding me in the middle of a restaurant, about reaching over to wipe something off my lips, about singing along with insanely romantic song lyrics while grinning at me.

It blows me away. There are times when I can't even breathe.

That is what's most notable about the Hott Waiter.

What's also notable is that, strangely enough, I've never dated a guy to whom I was really, really attracted. In fact, the majority of my relationships have been with guys who blindly adored me -- and while I loved the attention, I honestly wasn't attracted to them.

This is new. Because I am so attracted to the Hott Waiter, I am crazy nervous when I'm with him, and I completely clam up! It almost works out because he never stops talking. (Interestingly enough, my roommate just told me that maybe he talks that much because HE is nervous, too!)

It's weird. Because I'm so nervous, I feel like I can't fully be myself. At my most genuine self, I'm the crazy storyteller, making people laugh. I rack and rack my brain when I'm with him, and I can't think of any stories to tell.

I get paranoid when I'm not with him. I'll be nonchalant, but on the inside, I start freaking out and thinking, "NOW it's it. NOW he won't want to see me again. NOW he'll think I'm weird; NOW he'll think we'll be through."

But each time, we get together again and have an amazing time nonetheless.

Particularly these past two evenings. (My roommates are going to kill me.)

Am I setting myself up for failure? Am I trying to get myself to expect something bad because even if it fails, I can turn to myself and acknowledge that at least I was right all along?

I need to relax....

Monday, December 10, 2007

The Trainwreck Known as Superbowl

Superbowl Sunday has always been a most important holiday to me, near and dear to my heart. Even when I was too young to fully understand the rules of the game, I'd been captivated by this yearly clash of the gridiron titans.

Dandy had mentioned that he was planning on having a Superbowl Party for the big day, so I immediately requested it off, and mentioned to Dandy that he might want to do the same. He eventually got around to it and when the schedule was about to come out, my manager told me that I needed someone to cover the shift for me, otherwise I'd be working. I found someone to do it, and when the schedule was posted I had my coveted Sunday off!

Dandy didn't.

In fact, not only did he not have it off, he was scheduled to close.

To clarify, most nights, when cover counts are low, you have the chance of being cut from the shift. When you close, you are absolutely guaranteed to work.

I was incensed. Both of us had requested the night off, and even if they couldn't schedule him off, why would they place him in a position where there wasn't any chance he could get it off? I felt horrible, like I had somehow stolen the night off from him, and riddled with guilt, I went on a mission to get his shift covered from him.

So I sought out Born-Again Billy, the creepy 34 year old supposed pious Christian who happened to be the only other person to have the night off without requesting it. After much swindling and finaging, he managed to squeeze $50 out of me in agreement to relieve Dandy of his closing duties.

A few days later, I caught wind of Born-Again Billy telling Dandy he was willing to pick up his closing shift... in exchange for a small fee. I was livid, and immediately went to management to report his attempted extortion. Finally after much argument, the matter was resolved, and Billy was only paid the firstly agreed upon $50.

Superbowl Sunday finally rolled around and my most hated team, the Colts, were contenders. I was a band-wagon Bears fan that night. I spent more than a few hours selecting my outfit. Not only was this party going to be a gathering of Dandy's friends, but his parents, whom I'd never met before, were also going to be in attendance. I wanted a nice balance of sporty casual yet still alluring and attractive. I settled on a pair of nice jeans and a 3/4 sleeve gray and green striped top that displayed my breasts quite nicely. I called him while I was driving over to ask if there was anything I should pick up. He suggested I get my preference of beer because I might not like the selection he had available, and also asked if I could pick him up some cigarettes. Being the most excellent pseudo-girlfriend, I agreed.

I arrived, gave Dandy his cigarettes and a kiss and we shared a smoke and then went inside for some beers, app's and football. I was immediately settled in, embraced by friends and family, engaging them all in conversation and jokes. The Bears returned the kickoff back for a touchdown and I was easing into what seemed like was going to be a most enjoyable Superbowl Sunday. Dandy's mother sat beside me and told me all the wonderful things she'd heard about me and how happy she was that a girl like me was seeing her son. Perfect.

This perfect evening came to a screeching halt as the second quarter began. The door opened and the game was interrupted by the loud obnoxious laughter and stumbling of three drunk girls. Three underage and skankily dressed drunk girls. And the ringleader of this triumvirate of annoyance? None other than Dandy's "ex-girlfriend" Fanga*. My stomach tightened, then dropped. I sent a confused look over at Dandy, who was conveniently avoiding my gaze. The duration of the first half was tainted by those idiotic girls chattering away, slurring about the game and not even being aware of the quarterback of either team, let alone what teams were competing.

My blood was boiling and by halftime, I knew I needed to get away from there. So I asked Dandy's best friend Chi-Town, to join me outside for a much-needed cigarette. We walked around to the front of the house and I lost it. I yelled, "What the fuck is she doing here? I thought they broke up!!" Chi-Town just looked at me sadly and earnestly replied that he had no idea what was going on. Eventually Dandy showed himself and Chi-Town excused himself to return back to the game. All I could do was look at Dandy, there were no words.

For about a minute. Then all of the anger and emotion came flooding out with a vengeance. And I let him have it. In a stream of venom laced with obscenities, I told Dandy that he was a pussy ass piece of shit who tried to make me look like a fool and I was fucking done. And folks, that's the watered down version of what I said. My senses were numbed by the rage I felt and much of what transpired was a haze of white hot anger and burning hatred. I concluded my tirade with two punches, one to the gut and the other a straight kidney shot. Despite the physical and verbal abuse, Dandy pleaded with me to stay til the end of the game and for some unknown reason, I obliged. Maybe I did it to stick it to Fanga, maybe I did it so I could "save face" in front of his friends and family. Either way, I went back inside for the duration of that abysmal game, and Dandy herded Fanga into his bedroom and I didn't see either of them for the rest of the night.

The game ended, I politely said my goodbye's to my friends and family and called one of my friends from work, Hippie. I burst into tears after holding it in for so long and she told me to come over. I made it to her house and imagine my surprise when I saw none other than Rocky in her living room on the couch. Normally I'd be completely against letting Rocky see my vulnerable side, but I was just too far gone that I just let it out. They cheered me up with hugs and copious amounts of weed, leaving my eyes puffy and squinted from all the tears and THC. I made it home pretty late that night to curl up against my pillow and lament in the fact that I'd been made such a fool and allowed myself to care so deeply for such a degenerate.

*Fanga's name is derived from the fact that while stoned on 4/20, she flipped her car over reaching for a rogue chicken finger that her fat greasiness couldn't do without. No. Seriously. That actually happened.