Scent of a Woman

I was actually planning a post about all the perfume-related MCs there have been lately, but I read this and decided it needed its own.

Missed connection with my date tonight - w4m (Downtown)

We've been seeing each other for a few months, and I thought you were into me. I know I'm into you; you're smart, we share interests, we quote Shakespeare at each other. It doesn't hurt that I think you're pretty hot, and you definitely smell amazing. And when our chemistry's on, it's on. I thought you were into me, too: I'm smart, I laugh at all your jokes and groan at all your puns, you tell me you like how I look, and I get all your allusions except for the '70s pop culture ones (unfortunately that's your favorite kind).

I know not everything's perfect -- you're not over "the love of your life" who left you years and years ago, what we have isn't going to turn into love, you think I put myself down too much, and our age difference makes you feel old sometimes. But for what it is, we have a great thing going: we have a ton in common, we get along well the majority of the time, we're becoming good friends, and the sex is hot.

The last time you stayed over was the first week of September, and frankly, that time sucked -- it was a weeknight, so we were both exhausted and irritable, and didn't have much time together at all. So near the end of this week, I called to see what was going on, and you said the weekend was hectic (of course; my life is too, which is why I agreed to being FWB as long as we're genuinely friends too). But you said Saturday night would probably work. Perfect, I said, since Saturday night was also best for me. We agreed you'd call me once you were sure what your plans were.

I know you're a spontaneous kind of guy, and that's great; I'm not really rigid in my planning either. But since we both have hectic schedules and we're only free at the same time once, it makes sense to arrange in advance that we'll see each other, even if we don't decide exactly what we're doing until later. For you, it's easy: you call me, then maybe an hour later you show up at my place all ready to enjoy a night of spanking, oral sex, and cuddling. But I'm a girl, and I go crazy when I only have an hour's warning. I get your call, and then before you get here, I have to clean my apartment, shower, shave everything below the neck, do my hair and makeup, use about five different kinds of lotion, put on semi-sexy clothes with full-out sexy underwear, get groceries, start making dinner for you, and be sure everything in my apartment is ready.

I'm learning to adapt, though. This time, since I knew you'd come over sometime Saturday evening, I did most of the work in advance. On Friday, besides my normal life, I planned a meal, found and got a DVD I know you'll like, got groceries, and did all the shaving and so forth I could do in advance. This Saturday, I went out and did normal Saturday-morning and -afternoon stuff, but when I got back, I scrubbed the place from floor to ceiling, then showered. When I got out, I did my hair and makeup, chose my outfit, put the underwear on, did what dinner prep I could, then sat around in my bathrobe waiting for you to call and say what time you'd come by.

I expected to get your call around 5 PM -- that's when you usually let me know if you're on your way. I waited until just before 7 to call your cell . . . and got voicemail. I left a breezy message, asking you to let me know what time you're coming, or if something came up and you're not free, let me know so I can do something else. A little while after 8, I called your cell again, and made it to voicemail again. I laughed and kept it light, saying I was trying to work out what I was doing tonight, and I was wondering if you were an option, but if something had come up I'd talk to you later, whatever.

It's now just about 1 AM, and there's no way you're coming tonight. It sucks -- everything, including me, is here and ready for you. All my prep might not be a big deal if I could just postpone it a day or two, but now that we've missed this Saturday, our free nights won't overlap until next Saturday. It sucks that you didn't even call to say you weren't coming; like a fool, I just sat around and waited for you.

It's 1 AM. I have to take off my makeup, and all this uncomfortable underwear you like to see me in. I feel like such a lonely loser.

This made me really sad. I'm glad this girl called herself on it. But hasn't everyone been made a lonely loser of? Hasn't everyone been felt a waste of freshly-shaved skin and pretty underwear? And more to the point, what's the point of a Friend with Benefits if there are no benefits?

Here is someone who has no delusions or romantic deceptions about the relationship she's quasi in, and she still gets let down.

Verdict: MC-cum-lament: Have a poignant summer!

Rainy Sunday

MC with rainy lazy sunday afternoon sex - w4m - 25

You: rainy, lazy, soft yet passionate, intensely mellow sunday afternoon sex. you start in the afternoon, hung over, smelling like booze and smoke, cotton mouthed, half asleep and going in for the spoon position. after some refreshingly burnt coffee and possibly some eggs with a side of advil you become more serious. you go for the belle and sebastian (really does not matter which, expected yet fitting), open windows, the smell of fresh cold rain coming in with the cool breeze bringing with it hours upon hours of dirty pleasure and the beautiful agony of brining in the evening with entangled limbs, raw lips and full ashtrays not to mention marathon style orgasms. breaks are given to bathroom, ordering thai, cat naps and the occasional meaningless conversation about how hot the other person is and why. Me: totally missing out on all-o-dat.

Now, what DID I do on my rainy, lazy sunday afternoon? woke up, hung over per usual, fuzzy headed, confused, messy haired, phone vibrating up a storm. who is it? bff. on her way over all bright eyed and bushy tailed ready for brunch. I tear myself out of my floral sheets, throw some american apparel on and zip (i mean, walk kinda slow) over to who the fuck cares. after some way too many calories we have the genius idea of not missing the last day of free music at maccaren pool (YACHT are good but not enough to endure). worst idea ever thought up by a human, ever. why did we think that gawking at the topless skinny boys high 5'ing each-other hard core in the spitting rain while all the 19 year old girls who are firmer, perkier with way less baggage and zero trust issues, cheer in tube socks and hot pants while we, now the older girls who should know better than to be there in the first place having some minor panic attack about the upcoming work week and the idea of our desks with the macs on them and our bosses who want their files saved as PDF's not JPG's for the millionth time, a little chilly, tired and defeated after spotting way too many old flames and one nighters, decide to bouncity bounce outta there asap. best we can come up with is making cookies and watching a movie which in reality turns into cookie dough (that shit can really make you sick) and dwelling for what seems like decades on decoding cryptic text messages from the dudes, no, douches, who deem it cool to do us once in a while.

Jenny: what do you think he means when he says "yeah, sorry for the booty call, was out with the bro's hoped you were still up"?

Amanda: I think he is trying to tell you that he was too shy to make actual plans.

Jenny: maybe... i don't know... i think it was just a booty call.

Amanda: sounds to me like he really likes you and wishes you were his girlfriend.

Jenny: you are fucking dumb.

Amanda: sure but his tats suck. he's not even straight edge anymore.

Jenny: but he calls me "babe"...

Amanda: well, ok, what do you think "busy, call you later" means?

Jenny: so into you.

Amanda: really? you think so?

Jenny: totes calling you later. Amanda: for cereal?

Jenny: whatever. his jeans are like girl jeans anyway and his band aint that great.

Amanda: yeah... animal collective did it better.

This goes on forever until the sugar crash, some TBS movie starts over and we should probably get it together and realize that dudes don't care that much about what they write via text message and are getting laid as we speak with someone other than us.

So rainy, lazy sunday afternoon sex or R.L.S.A.S, I missed my connection with you big time. I hope I run into you sometime, maybe when we are riding our bikes or walking our dogs or on our 4th cocktail, who knows... just wanted to let you know, I really love you R.L.S.A.S, you mean a lot to me, please don't stop being amazing cause you rock my vagina... no, I mean my world.

This girl had me for a while. The first paragraph is kind of genius longing, especially for a scenario that sounds so delicious and appealing.

Then WHOA. It slipped into desperation. Why do so many MCs end up akin to diary entries? That works if it's cute. But if I was her, I would have stopped after the first paragraph. If I was a guy, I would be thinking "yeah, that sounds awesome." But instead, guy-me is thinking it smacks of bitterness.

Verdict: Let's pretend that it doesn't exist, and let's hope that this fall is full of lovely rainy Sunday trysts.