Got Myself in a Pickle

So now I'm in a real pickle. I went to a resort town with a new date on the weekend.

In fact for the record, I'll call her Pickles.

The pickle that I'm in is that she likes me a lot more than I like her.

This shouldn't be an issue but it is. Let me explain.

The positives are that:.

She's friendly.

She's attentive.

She's giving.

She loves to touch.

She listens.

She kisses well.

She can do other things well but more on that later.

She can cook - that was last weekend.

And she laughs at my stupid stories and occasional jokes.

So I should be happy. Right?

Almost but it gets better.

In fact, I now realize what I missed as a teenager and as a married guy for 22 years.

I'm about to start on a mission to make up for lost time.

Remember how I said all my recent dates just wanted pleasure for themselves.

Well Pickles is not like that. OMG. She is amazing.

She bought a cute little (!) night thingy for the weekend - not a nightie - not enough material for a "nightie". It was baby blue - red or black would have been hot hot. But it still looked cute. Or technically I should say, she looked cute in it.

I had more fun in one weekend than a year with my ex.

I don't have a drop of semen left in my body.

I'm dry like fish out of water. Limp like a cooked noodle. Soft as ice cream on a hot July afternoon.

Nothing. Nada. Finito. Kaput.

If I tried to jerk off I would be red, raw, blistered and still waiting.

I should be in love, right?

But I'm not and I don't think I could ever be in love with her.

She knows about all my dates over the last few years.

I even told her that I can't fall in love.

She doesn't seem to care - she's still there.

I'm having trouble articulating why I'm struggling to love her.

But I may have figured out a clue.

Now to the "negatives".

She's not gorgeous.

She's not rich.

She's kinda cute - sort of. Let's say cute-ish.

The problem is that she looks old even though she's 2 years younger than me.

She says she has thin hair but I say it is thinning - wispy would be polite - balding would be closer to reality.

She's packing a few extra pounds but so am I (although I have lost a few since romping around with you in your city in February).

And there are a few other things.

She says sorry every other sentence.

Sorry, I bumped you. Sorry I touch you. Sorry for not being ready. Sorry for not thinking. Sorry for thinking.

It drives me crazy.

And the questions. Lord, save me from all the questions.

I don't mind questions per se, in fact I love questions - they are the foundation of good communication.

But there is a point when they can be over done - especially if the questions are coming from a place of insecurity.

Questions like "Will you phone me?" "Is my hair okay?", "Are you okay?", "How did I do?" , "Are we going to do something this weekend?", are really starting to bug me after the 10th time.

Let me give you an example.

Before going to sleep I took a sleeping pill because I know that in a new bed I don't sleep well the first night.

The problem with taking a sleeping pill, in a hotel, with a naked gal is timing - a person has to be careful.

Take it too early and, well... nothing happens and that could be frustrating for all involved.

My timing was ok but not perfect.....

We paid $14.00 for a movie so I take my pills just after brushing my teeth but before the movie starts.

I figure that the meds need a while to kick in.

Big mistake.

We didn't watch the movie. Not that I'm complaining except for the $.

What was I thinking?

Eventually the meds are going to kick in - this much I know - but when?

Well, I start to fall asleep at the end of the movie after some vigorous "exercise".

I thought my timing was just fine.

Pickle, however, can't or won't fall asleep.

And she's talking and asking me all kinds of questions.... Blah blah.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending the perspective) my eyes are drooping.

I try hinting that some sleep would be a good idea but I'm not succeeding in getting the message across.

She keeps talking and asking questions until she eventually asks, "How long does the sleeping pill last?"

Before I even had a chance to think about what to say, I said, "24 hours".

Oops. Apparently that was not the best answer.

There was some flapping and flaying about - even some thrashing.

I have a few bruises but they'll heal -- not scars, I hope.

So now I'm the one who is wide awake - worrying.

Luckily, the meds still have some effect and I fall asleep and stayed asleep.

What is a guy to do?

Here's my second problem: Holding hands in public or to be more exact - not holding hands.

I just don`t want too. I'm sure I could with the right person just not with her.

Picture this.

We park the car in the lot by the Sulfur mountain gondola.

We get out and start walking toward the ticket area.

She reaches for my hand and I tense up.

I can`t help it.

To make matters worse, Susan figures out that I'm reluctant in public but that I don't mind in private.

This is very awkward.

So she starts asking more questions. Here we go again...

Questions like, Why don't I like to hold hands in public?, Is it her? Is she ugly? Don`t I want to be with her?

What I'm I suppose to say?

There are some situations in life when it is best not to tell the truth. This is one.

But I can`t think of anything to say. I just mumble something about how it`s not my style.

I'm really messed up.

I think I need therapy.

Which brings me to the topic of prettiness.

Here is my question: Are a person's looks important?

The altruistic part of me says, No.

But the practical side of me is taking over and saying, Guess what chum, looks matter.

I suppose it doesn't take a genius to figure this out but I try not to be prejudice.

I take pride in being open to others of all racial, gender, and religious backgrounds and not getting too distracted by factors that hinder other people.

I even like women with brown skin - just kidding, I couldn't resist. :)

So I have come to accept the fact that l like pretty women.

There I've said it. I feel better now.

Here is how came to this brilliant conclusion.

Pickles and I were in restaurant. I'm sure you've been there.

We are sitting across from each other.

I should be looking at her.

But I'm not. I'm looking all over the restaurant.

I'm looking for who is pretty. I'm distracted. My mind is wandering. I can`t stay focused.

I'm thinking that if I was in love, really in love, I would be able to focus - focus on the person I'm with.

Looking at her beautiful eyes.

Looking at her hair, nose, ears, neck, freckles, dimples, forehead, lips, neck... okay we`ll stop there.

Remember that I told you that being in love is wanting to touch your lover`s neck and feel their pulse - and not remove you fingers.

You just want to sync your heart rates. That is love.

But I can't and this has me puzzled.

Which brings me back to prettiness.

If I was in a restaurant with someone who was pretty - really pretty - I know I would focus - focus on them.

I've been there before. I've been in love - but it is always with someone who is pretty.

I can't help it.

I used to be in love with my ex.

Before that it was:

- Valerie (the smoothest, softest skin ever)

- Andrea (I had to teach her to French kiss - she caught on)

- Lorraine (she taught me a few tricks. I can't believe I let her go - what was I thinking?)

- Kathy (okay, I`ll admit that she never loved me back but I was still in love with her - that counts right?)

- Eunice (I'm serious. At Bible School, no less. Seriously)

- There was someone else at Bible School but I can't remember her name (shame on me) (Maybe that is because I liked her younger sister better. I can still picture her sweeping the floor. Barefoot. Cute. Gorgeous, actually. There I go... getting distracted, again. I need therapy. Badly.)

- Gladys (she married someone else but we still stay in touch - well not in touch, physically, but you know, in touch... mentally, spiritually, emotionally but not physically. Although, if she reached out I wouldn't stop her.... Actually, she's too skinny for me. I don't like skinny any more.)

- Terri, Vanessa, Cindy, the list goes on....

- and Mary. (I can't forget Mary. I think she was my first love. She was 5 and I was 6. That was in Africa.)

I have come to the conclusion that I can fall in love - she just has to be pretty.

Aren't I smart?

Why hasn't anyone else figured this out and told me.

I'm so smart.

I'm brilliant.

Don`t you agree?

While I'm at it let me add a few more items to my wish list:

- good in bed (I wonder why that is at the top of the list)

- a great cook (second on the list - not too bad)

- rich (of course)

- forgiving (well we all know about my past which was a mess)

- understanding (obviously)

- loving (emotionally that is)

- able to laugh (a lot)

- pleasant (a opposed to bitchy)

- available (or soon to be available)

- and she has to like me (Dang, I was doing so well).

It looks like I have a few more issues to resolve.

Miss you too.

Cocktale.

I'm Chutney ;)

Firstly, I did not intend for us to in fact be named Cocktale and Chutney, but ironically, the names do fit. So I guess moving forward this is what we will call ourselves. Unfortunately for Cocktale, he may have received the short end of the stick on this one….not literally of course, not that I would know.

Likely I should start in the same place as Cocktale. I am now 29 years old, I am divorced and enjoying my life for what it has become today. I was married to a gay man. He is technically not out of the closet just yet. He is a Muslim man with strong conflicting traditional values, like so many second generation Canadians. Frankly, it’s only a matter of time when he comes to the resolution his morning 3 hour routine and affinity for men is a lifestyle and not a choice. We were together for a total of 4 somewhat miserable years. We had sex only a handful of times, so this may explain my fixation with this particular activity now. I love sex. I crave it, and I need it on a regular basis to make me feel alive and desirable. Is this behaviors healthy, likely not, but for this period in my life, I have accepted it as an enjoyable extracurricular activity.

My life really began after my separation from my husband, but I met Cocktale almost a year earlier. Cocktale’s memory may be fading, but I remember the day quite vividly. I was in sales at the time for a small online agency looking for new clients. Every networking event at the time was like a hunt. I was checking out the crowd for potential opportunities and saw that Cocktale was in fact a competing company to my business. I introduced myself to see if perhaps we could work together on future projects and this was the beginning of our relationship.

At that particular time in my life, I was confident and secure. Talking to anyone and everyone was not a problem at all. So our communication progressed quite easily. We went out for dinner and I thoroughly enjoyed his stories. He is truly a wonderful story teller which is where the ‘tales’ part of his online name fits. Our first dinner was uneventful, aside from the great company and great food. The second time we went out for dinner I remember being devastated. My ex husband had sent me an email a few weeks earlier asking for a divorce. This was really the beginning of our journey together.

Hopefully, you can read our stories, be entertained as some of what has happened to us over the last few years is pretty surreal. Most importantly, we hope we can start a dialogue for us all who have a lust for life and affinity for getting into trouble.

Chutney

I'm Cocktale

My name, Cocktale, is made up. Truth be told, Chutney made it up. I blame her. Damn.

Let me start by telling you a bit about myself. I'm 50 years old (unfuckingbelievable especially when I feel 38). I live in Canada but I was born in Africa to ex-patriate parents. I'm divorced. That happend a couple years ago but I was separated for a couple years before that. And before that I slept in the basement for 2 years - that was like living in shit. Going through a divorce is nasty. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. But being divorced is okay - just fine by me actually. Better than being married to ..... well I'll refrain from being nasty; maybe later.

I live with my sons - 2 teenagers. Actually, they live with me or that is how it is supposed to be but teenage boys seem to have a habit of doing their own thing which ends up having an impact on me and my life. But I digress, they are a story on their own and I'll tell a tale or two about them at another time, not now.

Chutney can tell her own story. So I'll start by telling you how we met. Strangely, I can't remember when we first met, she says it was at some business event of which I have no recollection - I must have been drunk except that I never get that drunk. I do remember our second meeting. It was in a coffee shop after she emailed me asking if I wanted to meet for coffee. What? Are you nuts? Of course, I'll have coffee. Who are you again? Oh yeah you're female - good enough for me. I'm game to meet any woman for coffee.

This was about 5 years ago. Our meeting was like any other work related meeting. We talked about clients, projects and work issues. She was married. I was married. I often met (meet) female coworkers for coffee - I consider this one of the joys of working. To be honest, that is all I ever did while I was married - meet for coffee. I'm not a person that plays the field - I'm loyal. Scewed up a bit but loyal.

So we have coffee a few times. Then we worked on a project together and that was it. We were associates, co-workers, colleagues but not friends - all we talked about was work. Until... Chuney sent me another email asking if we could get together. By that time I was separated and I needed any type of companionship that was being offered. Being a sensitive guy, I suggested going for coffee. Chuntney replies saying that she loves nice meals at restaurants - how about dinner?

Let me ask you, what would you do? As I mentioned, I might be a bit screwed up but I'm not stupid - I know a good thing when it is forced upon me. Chutney is a goddess. She reminds me of Lisa Ray. So we went for dinner. Remember she's married. Well not for long. By the time of our next dinner, Chutney tells me that she's separated.

And that is how our friendship started - talking about relationships, separation, divorce, pain, sorrow, hopes dashed, dating, longings and by the way, what should we have on tonight's menu?

Our friendship is strange - we've talked about everything and we've been to many restaurants for dinner. We've even travelled together but we are just friends and that is the beauty of what we want to share with others.

Welcome to our blog, our stories, our frustrations with dating and relationships and our unexplainable friendship. Enjoy.

Cocktale