Mo Has No Game

I went out last week to celebrate a girlfriend’s birthday.  We were supposed to grab dinner and bar-hop around the city I bartend in.  Usually allowing for other service industry employees to “take care” of a drink or two… possibly even three.

I popped over a bit late, all for the purposes of looking absolutely fly, of course.  Every moment out has been an opportunity to dress up with the hopes of meeting another potential mate, if nothing else, at least a time killer.  Walking up to the restaurant, I was relieved to see my other girlfriends were arriving just as late as I.  Usual greets of hugs and kisses on the cheek commence.

My girlfriends and I all are unique creatures.  One with dreadlocks (with an insane amount of positivity and woman’s strength); one we call EasyBreezy (for her ridiculous CoverGirl face); The Russian (who of course was a Ballerina); and me, a pink mo-hawked-loudmouthed.. Me.  All completely different, but share a love for Hip-Hop, delicious cocktails and a gift for gab.  Being a group of single girls, it’s almost the nature of the beast to get attention.  Doesn’t even need to be a good-looking group of girls, it’s purely the fact of: it’s a group of girls.  We end up at the corner bar to which we find our favorite bartender is working.  Notorious for his wizardry of creating the most cleaver cocktails and perfect use of every bitter known to man.  He begins his 5-minute journey to handcraft a cocktail each for us, when the musician of the evening speaks out on the microphone, “All those drinks are on me.”

EasyBreezy has an attraction for redheaded-freckled-pale-skinned-boys.  And for whatever reason, they always appear out of the woodwork every night we are out.  I possibly never notice them any other night because they aren’t my flavor, and they stand amongst all the other wallflowers.  Sitting next to her, I listen into her playful banter and ridiculous cheese puns.  Of which the RedHead has no idea how to necessarily reply to her, which eggs her on even more to spew random words out.  Eventually they get onto the same playing field, and the flirtation is finally matched up.  I spin around on my barstool to give them some privacy.

I notice that Dreads is speaking to MochaLatte.  A gorgeous bartender I’ve had a little crush on since I started bartending in this city.  I first met him when I was with my last boyfriend, so I never pursued much more conversation than the usual greetings.  I join in on their conversation until it’s time for me to head home.  My departure seems to bring all the other girls to realize the time, and everyone begins their good-byes.  MochaLatte is the first to come over and give me a hug goodnight.  Even in my heels, I realize how tall he is, barely reaching his chest as I lean my body close to his.

“I love your hair, I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet, “ MochaLatte tells me.

“Aww, thanks.”

“So why haven’t you been by to see me?”

I start to stumble on my words at this moment, not really knowing how to respond.  Is MochaLatte flirting with me?

“I’ve just been busy, haven’t really had the chance to break away lately.” Of course I butcher every word as it comes out of my mouth.  Sounding like a garbled mess of stuttering and misplaced letters, to which I cannot blame on alcohol.

“Well, I bartend here tomorrow night. Come by and have a drink with me.”

I smile and tell him I will drop in for a nightcap, and begin my walk home.  Of course the entire time I’m speaking with him, I can feel the blood rushing to my face as nervousness develops on my tongue.  What is wrong with me?  I clearly have no game at all.  EasyBreezy can keep a volley of the use cheeses in her conversation (of which I assuming she also landed a phone number), and I can’t even manage to hold a regular conversation with this gorgeous man without stumbling on my words.  I even ended the conversation quickly and abruptly to get my nerves under control.

People have told me that I’m a beautiful woman.  Sexy is something I’ve heard many times as well.  I, on the other hand, believe that I’m a normal girl who loves to laugh and is silly more than I am sexy.  Sexy is when all eyes are on you when you enter the room, and every word is hung on when you speak.  That is not me.  Maybe it’s my confidence that needs to be cultivated during this single series of my life.  I’ve been broken down and mended through all the other bullshit relationships I’ve had.  Maybe the one missing piece is my confidence.  I realize that I have used my looks as a tool, but when it comes to using them… I have no idea what I’m doing.  I’d like to say that I am The Sexy Maureen people speak of… but when it boils down to it, I’m just this silly regular girl.   I think I may need to take lessons from EasyBreezy how to ease these butterflies in flight to just be comfortable in my own skin.

Attack of the 2-Ft Man

Like I mentioned in A Tale of Two Men, it seems a bit unrealistic that the first two men I meet on here are winners. Is it possible to like them both? Or maybe I just like the attention that I am getting from these men.

I decide to look further into this dilemma and set up another meet with Boy#3, Lothario. We’ve been chatting here and there, so I decide to give him my number. We interact briefly over text messages over the next few days until we set up a wine date in my favorite middle spot city, Long Beach. I had about 4 hours to spare before having to work at the bar later than night. He’s running late for our date, so I decide to go in and out of my favorite vintage shops. I’ve been on the hunt for some mid-century pieces and find two lounge chairs I can imagine in my living room. As I ask the store owners questions about the chairs, Lothario calls me to tell me he’s arrived. I tell him to meet me two stores down at the vintage shop.

Now, almost as a ritual at this point, I always take another glance at the pictures before meeting these guys so I can remind myself what I’m getting myself into. Almost every picture Lothario takes, he looks slightly different, not taking very many full body pictures. But nonetheless, he appears attractive and stylish. We greet each other with a hug and a kiss on the cheek as I show him the chairs I have my heart set on. At this point, I am more excited about the chairs than I am about the date. Lothario takes a look at them, sits down and is full of smiles and says in a Spanish accent, “Oh yeah. These are nice chairs. I can see you in these chairs.”

I reply back with, “Why did that just sound dirty?”

He smiles sheepishly in return. I tell the shop owner that I’ll return later that weekend for the purchase, and we continue to walk to the wine bar. Walking side by side now, I realize that we are completely eye-level. If I tippy-toed just slightly, I’d be able to see the top of his head. Now you may think, “So what? You guys are the same height.” No, no. I am a short girl. Pretty short actually, all of my 5’1 ½” height; placing me at a good 5’5” with the proper heels, which I did not wear this night. In my flats, we are eye level. This is weird. Especially since he mentioned on his page that he was 5’8”.

When we arrive into the wine bar, there are several seats available: bar counter, table tops, and a couch. I motion for us to sit at the table, but he replies with, “But the couches look more comfortable.”

As a bartender, I try not to be a snob about the types of drinks that people order, or try not to judge them. But I can’t help it. Almost as if the cocktail of their choice is an interview question written in fine print only visible with a microscope. There’s a vast variety of wines and beers to choose from. I carefully look over the menu, glance at the regions of where the varietals are from, and read the different flavor profiles. When the server comes to take our order, he orders 2 glasses of the cheapest Riesling, without consulting me with what I’d like to drink. His take charge behavior in being a man trying to order for the both of us was a ridiculous attempt. This is almost like someone ordering me a Midori-Sour. I shake my head, and tell the server that I would be having the Tempranillo. Already having a bad taste in my mouth, I try to take this date for what it is….. killing 4 hours of time before going to work.

I find out that Lothario is from Colombia and moved here when he was 14 years old, hence his Spanish accent that he has been unable to lose. We chit-chat about random conversation, all of which is boring me, so I start focusing on his mannerisms. He sits cross-legged next to me on the couch, using a lot of hand gestures. When he either begins or ends a comment, he fans his fingers out and down with authority only to snap them back towards his chest when referencing himself. He uses numerous awkward pauses, and the word “Like” so frequently, I begin to think that this guy might be gay and he just doesn’t know it yet. Wearing tighter pants than I’m wearing, and a double-breasted button-up cardigan. At that moment, I think Lothario confuses my attention to his body language as attraction as he begins to stroke my leg. Each glide of his hand from my knee to my shin send icicle stabs into my body, so I push back and realize that we are on a love seat. NO ESCAPE, the right of my hip hits the arm rest. All of this seeming to turn him on, he inches towards me more.

I change the conversation to ex-boyfriends and other men to try to make it uncomfortable. Everyone knows talking about ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, moms, sisters, men, dating other people, is REDFLAG. Approach with caution. I bring up something about how I had dated a Colombian when I was in college, and before I could finish my comment, Lothario jumps in and says, “See I knew you liked Colombians, huh…” as he throws his arms around my waist and tries to pull me in for a kiss.

“What is wrong with you?” I squeal as my entire palm is pressed against his face to push his away from mine. Most people would take this action as, “Okay, she’s not interested.” But he continues to try jut his face in my direction, with his lips creeping in-between the gaps of my fingers. There’s a solid 20 seconds of me trying to peel this guy off of me. Kind of like your friends dog who refuses to stop smelling your crotch.

Lothario laughs and says, “I was only kidding.” Which sounds so much creepier with his accent, and all of his 5 foot frame.

“Kidding?” I replied as I check the clock my on cell phone, and realize that we haven’t even been on this date for more than an hour. I tell him that I need to grab another cup of coffee before going to work and drop $10 on the table to cover the cost of my glass of wine. I stand to walk away feeling a sense of relief to be out of the most uncomfortable hour I’ve had in a long time; also excited that I can honestly say that I had a bad on-line dating experience. I laugh to myself a little about this but can feel the burning of his eyes staring at my ass as I walk out the door.

A Tale of Two Men

Is it truly possible that the first two men I have decided to meet on this dating site be normal?  Or can we just chalk it up to beginners luck?  It almost appears to be too good to be true.  I mean, let’s be honest… my kind of luck leaves me paying a $75 drop […]