Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I haven’t gone dancing in a long, long time. So much has happened while I’ve been away. I have both longed to tell you and ached at the sheer thought of attempting to tell you all the wonderful, mundane, sad, extraordinary, uneventful nothings filling up my time while I wasn’t swinging. But I woke up this morning under a new set of circumstances, much like those that first drew me to write to you. That’s right, folks. I’m single again. And my heart is all broken up just in time for Christmas.
It was only about a year ago I wrote to you about my last breakup. Only about a year ago that I last thought I would never love again. Breakups are a funny animal. Almost every single person you know has been through at least one breakup; but when it happens to you, it feels so profoundly personal, as though you’re the only one who has ever experienced such a senselessly unbearable thing. You feel nothing but terribly alone.
It wasn’t always heartache and pity parties with my shy Guy. He even came out dancing again before I gave it up almost entirely. In the last days of summer, Woody Bellagamba sumptuously performed and taught on Mayor’s Island. This tiny isle by the city magically transformed into a weekend tribute to the jazz age, requiring strictly vintage attire. With suspenders safety-pinned to his pants, Guy bravely stepped off the ferry from the city and into the bygone Prohibition era with flapper Sara Swing proudly beaming at his side. Woody taught us the Charleston while onlookers sipped “moonshine” out of tea cups in keeping with the dodgy times. Peggy and Svetlana looked nothing short of Gatsby royalty as they were photographed by a gaggle of photographers flocking to capture their romantic dedication to the past.
I can’t tell you how I worried about Guy as our day on the island began. The swing gang’s obsessive, nostalgic lifestyle choice might seem a bit cultish to a newbie swing-curious boyfriend. Who am I kidding? If Peggy asked me to drink the punch, I’d down a glass and chase it with a bottle of whatever old-timey concoction she put in front of me. Would Guy be freaked out by my swing cult? Would the admittedly ridiculous looking Charleston dance send him running into the water, swimming to urban safety for dear life? Would my dress-up fantasy put him off our blushing new romance? I simply couldn’t guess.
Turns out the Charleston is really Guy’s forte! Vladymir even noted the speed with which he picked up the steps. Guy’s impressive height and lanky build were wonderfully suited to this spaghetti of a dance. This added to his childlike wonder about the whole Mayor’s Island experience had my heart dancing all day long.
My shy Guy lead me for hours around the dance floor on what turned out to be a particularly sweltering day. Maybe it was the surprising grace of our over-heated bodies or maybe it was those darn suspenders, but following his gentle but unmistakable push and pull was undeniably sexy. When we arrived back at his place after the long, fairytale day, we collapsed into his bed in an exhausted, hot heap only after a night of doing that thing I had infamously never done before.
Surprisingly, my sleep that night was fitful. I awoke with a jolt in the middle of the night beside my newfound lover and dance partner. Suddenly, Guy was chattering away in what could be added to a long list of sleep-talking incidents I had given audience to over the course of our short-lived relationship thusfar. It was on this night he looked right at me, dead asleep, and said:
I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I have to tell you something. I love you.
I laid there in stunned silence. What nightmare? Guy, loved me!? Or was he asleep and talking to some inevitably Asian girl in his dreams? Eventually, I recovered my powers of speech:
What did you say?
Guy: Huh?
Me: Are you asleep?
Guy: I think so.
Oh. My. God. I swiftly rolled away from him to hide the disappointment written all over my face. False alarm, ladies. He loves some fantasy dream girl and has no idea what he just said to the girl actually lying in his bed. As I stewed in my own neuroticism, Guy sadly murmured:
Are you freaking out?
Me: What?
Guy: Because of what I just said.
Me: Do you even know what you just said?
Guy: Yes.
Me: Did you mean it?
Guy: Yes, but if you think it’s too soon, I underst—
Me: No! I feel the same way. I was just hoping you’d say it first.
Guy: Really?
Me: Yeah
Guy: Can I say it again?
Me: Yes, please.
Guy: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
And we tenderly kissed like people do when they’re in love.
Not surprisingly, I’m a magnet for indecisive people who can’t commit to a little phrase like “I love you” for very long. Guy wavered back and forth on his midnight “I love you” declaration a hand full of times before we came to what may now be the end of our happily-never-after, web-based romance. Truth be told, I’m not sure it is, in fact, the end with us. He’s got some thinking to do and the embers of hope still burn in my little, swing-deprived heart. Will Guy decide he really does deeply love me and stick to it this time? And if he does, will my wounded pride allow me to take him back? I just don’t know. I certainly shouldn’t wait too long for someone who doesn’t seem to catch on to my sincere, witty, beautiful self. But I can’t help imagining that he’s known this about me all along and is on his own journey coming to terms with his feelings.
I know, I know. Delusional much?
Of one thing, I am certain. That night after we danced the day away on Mayor’s Island and made love for the first time in my heterosexual life, we were both very sure of each other and our newfound feelings. No matter how much my heart hurts now, I wouldn’t trade that midnight conversation for anything. That night, I felt the endless glory of love’s possibilities and the happiness we all seek. He may not love me today, but that night he did. And for that, I am foolishly grateful.
Yours Always,
-Sara
12.15.2008
9.01.2008
My Cheating Heart
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’ve been cheating on my dance studio… in more ways than one.
During August, Apple Guy asked me to join him at a competing studio one night a week. For all my good girl ways, cheating on the studio that first night was pretty exhilarating. All new, even more intense men availed themselves to me. To them, it was as if I appeared out of nowhere, an advanced follow to try their luck with. Apple Guy kept his distance, so other men would scoop me up. And scoop they did! I felt like the belle of the ball and the hot foreign exchange student all at once. It was scary, but it felt outstanding!
Of course, I never went back.
Apple Guy failed to mention or realize that he was going on vacation to the obvious continent of Asia for the rest of August and we would never be in class together at our mistress studio again that month. Without a familiar face in the class, cheating on the studio suddenly really felt like empty, lonely, guilt-ridden cheating. Apple Guy went off to visit the girls of his dreams while I let my money go to waste one missed class at a time. I did, however, find a pretty amazing replacement for sexy alternative swing night.
And his name is GUY.
I met him online, my friends. I should be an online dating commercial. I subscribed to the site for only two and a half weeks. I made first contact with Guy in the first week. We were so clearly compatible that I referred to him as “my future husband” to my mother and cousin while home for the bridal shower (a phrase I immediately retired for both our sakes as soon as I realized it could technically be true). I was a little overwhelmed by what a full-time job online dating was turning out to be. So many people with whom to converse! But Guy’s emails were the only ones that didn’t feel phony or desperate to impress. Each and every one of them made me laugh, ladies. I couldn’t help getting excited at the prospect of meeting him in person. I was beside myself with nervous excitement when the time came…
My quick introductory coffee date with the delightfully nerdy-but-cool Guy turned into an eight-hour epic event, complete with dinner and impromptu make-out session for dessert. I learned many valuable lessons on the best first date of my life, such as never wear the chastity belt that is the Spanx Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother (complete with convenient pull-apart pee hole, ladies!) on a date with a guy you’ve been dreaming about kissing/ mauling and don’t try curry for the first time in your life on date with said dreamboat, since you’ll soon discover you’re clearly allergic!
Several random Bridget-Jones-esque debacles later, I found myself walking home late at night as if in a dream. I got on the phone with roommate Parker Pansy and rambled aimlessly about the palpable spark I felt when we kissed for the first time… and the explosion of kisses and wandering hands that I ended up having to pull away from despite every fiber of my being pleading with me to be a different kind of girl for just one night of my knee-locked youth! Parker insightfully advised me to cherish my current walk in the clouds. He said, “This is the feeling we are all chasing after. It’s always a surprise and it almost never lasts.” I knew he was right and I’ve done my best to take his advice.
My mother had a heart to heart with me about Guy recently. It turns out the woman who wanted me to get laid so badly, doesn’t want me to rush into any heartbreaking situations again anytime soon either. She recognizes my impulsive, passionate nature and just can’t help doing what she can to protect me from what she warns is the inevitable disappointment of being so easily blinded by love. I tried to assure her that I’d learned some valuable lessons about rushing into commitment and declarations of undying love. But still the Swing Mamma had gripes! She had one more key concern- one I fear will be the end of me. She said:
Sara, you tell everyone, via blog or otherwise, all of your personal, private business. How do you think Guy is going to feel about that? I just think you should be careful.
Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him, folks. He read The Swing Diaries before we ever met and I told him he would be spared blog immortality if he only followed one rule:
Don’t come to Swing!
You may have guessed by the last several paragraphs that he’s broken the cardinal rule. Yes, I lured the poor boy to the studio last week. Muhahahaha! Like Cowboy Girl before him, we took free introductory salsa and swing classes on Friday, followed by student and teacher performances, featuring Woody Bellagamba’s new swing opus. At first I was nervous I had set Guy up to hate dancing, but when the swing instructor taught us a simple hand changing men’s turn, my shy Guy came to life! Guy is pretty close to getting his black belt in the particularly graceful martial art form that is Aikido. Something about the grip on my wrist as he switched hands behind his back reminded him of the grip on the wrist of an Aikido opponent who’s arm he was about to break. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, ladies?
HOT!
After the fantastic studio performances (which included getting to sit beside Peggy!) Guy and I hit the practice session and took his 3 moves out for a spin. Some friends, including an adorably inebriated artist-by-day/ swinger-by-night who we’ll call MICHELANGELO, asked me to dance, giving me an opportunity to show my moves off to my new friend, despite an inexplicably bad case of stage fright. Michelangelo had felt my absence earlier that week and I confessed I had skipped swing class to spend my night with Guy. All my friends could tell I was on a date that night at the studio and affectionately teased me about it. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer and warmer with embarrassment. I liked Guy so much that I suddenly wanted to protect our budding relationship from the gaze of others. Don’t get me wrong! I was having fun, but, feeling my worlds collide, I rather abruptly suggested we make our exit. I wanted him all to myself.
I realize it may seem like I’m disregarding Mom’s warning, so blatantly writing about my new beau. But I always take care of the readers of my blog as they enter the storyline. (If you read carefully, you can pinpoint the exact moment I started writing about Apple Guy with the understanding that he might actually be reading it.) So, Guy never needs to worry about slander… well, not much. It might also be a helpful tool for any oblivious straight male to have such a specific doorway into the female psyche, chalk full of helpful hints (like: cough- text me to make sure I make it home safely late at night if I don’t stay over- cough, cough- it greatly increases chances of me staying over in the future- end cough). All men should be so lucky!
It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m sitting at my computer alone in the city in the middle of the night. Guy has gone home to suburbia for a barbecue with the family and I have spent the night yet again cheating on the studio at the city’s premiere lesbian dance club. I know what you’re thinking. Poor Guy! He leaves me alone for three days and I’m back to my old ways again. Despite this entry’s entire premise, I am not the cheating sort. I could never kiss, snuggle or get busy with more than the one special person of my choosing at a time.
But, ladies and gentleman, I can dance with every Tom, Dick and Harriet that glances in my general direction no matter what!
So, for anyone who fears that Guy might be the beginning of the end of The Swing Diaries, let me assure you I’m not going anywhere. There may not be swing love or, god forbid, swing sex (no change there) for the time being, but there will always be swing dancing!
Yours Truly,
-Sara
I’ve been cheating on my dance studio… in more ways than one.
During August, Apple Guy asked me to join him at a competing studio one night a week. For all my good girl ways, cheating on the studio that first night was pretty exhilarating. All new, even more intense men availed themselves to me. To them, it was as if I appeared out of nowhere, an advanced follow to try their luck with. Apple Guy kept his distance, so other men would scoop me up. And scoop they did! I felt like the belle of the ball and the hot foreign exchange student all at once. It was scary, but it felt outstanding!
Of course, I never went back.
Apple Guy failed to mention or realize that he was going on vacation to the obvious continent of Asia for the rest of August and we would never be in class together at our mistress studio again that month. Without a familiar face in the class, cheating on the studio suddenly really felt like empty, lonely, guilt-ridden cheating. Apple Guy went off to visit the girls of his dreams while I let my money go to waste one missed class at a time. I did, however, find a pretty amazing replacement for sexy alternative swing night.
And his name is GUY.
I met him online, my friends. I should be an online dating commercial. I subscribed to the site for only two and a half weeks. I made first contact with Guy in the first week. We were so clearly compatible that I referred to him as “my future husband” to my mother and cousin while home for the bridal shower (a phrase I immediately retired for both our sakes as soon as I realized it could technically be true). I was a little overwhelmed by what a full-time job online dating was turning out to be. So many people with whom to converse! But Guy’s emails were the only ones that didn’t feel phony or desperate to impress. Each and every one of them made me laugh, ladies. I couldn’t help getting excited at the prospect of meeting him in person. I was beside myself with nervous excitement when the time came…
My quick introductory coffee date with the delightfully nerdy-but-cool Guy turned into an eight-hour epic event, complete with dinner and impromptu make-out session for dessert. I learned many valuable lessons on the best first date of my life, such as never wear the chastity belt that is the Spanx Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother (complete with convenient pull-apart pee hole, ladies!) on a date with a guy you’ve been dreaming about kissing/ mauling and don’t try curry for the first time in your life on date with said dreamboat, since you’ll soon discover you’re clearly allergic!
Several random Bridget-Jones-esque debacles later, I found myself walking home late at night as if in a dream. I got on the phone with roommate Parker Pansy and rambled aimlessly about the palpable spark I felt when we kissed for the first time… and the explosion of kisses and wandering hands that I ended up having to pull away from despite every fiber of my being pleading with me to be a different kind of girl for just one night of my knee-locked youth! Parker insightfully advised me to cherish my current walk in the clouds. He said, “This is the feeling we are all chasing after. It’s always a surprise and it almost never lasts.” I knew he was right and I’ve done my best to take his advice.
My mother had a heart to heart with me about Guy recently. It turns out the woman who wanted me to get laid so badly, doesn’t want me to rush into any heartbreaking situations again anytime soon either. She recognizes my impulsive, passionate nature and just can’t help doing what she can to protect me from what she warns is the inevitable disappointment of being so easily blinded by love. I tried to assure her that I’d learned some valuable lessons about rushing into commitment and declarations of undying love. But still the Swing Mamma had gripes! She had one more key concern- one I fear will be the end of me. She said:
Sara, you tell everyone, via blog or otherwise, all of your personal, private business. How do you think Guy is going to feel about that? I just think you should be careful.
Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him, folks. He read The Swing Diaries before we ever met and I told him he would be spared blog immortality if he only followed one rule:
Don’t come to Swing!
You may have guessed by the last several paragraphs that he’s broken the cardinal rule. Yes, I lured the poor boy to the studio last week. Muhahahaha! Like Cowboy Girl before him, we took free introductory salsa and swing classes on Friday, followed by student and teacher performances, featuring Woody Bellagamba’s new swing opus. At first I was nervous I had set Guy up to hate dancing, but when the swing instructor taught us a simple hand changing men’s turn, my shy Guy came to life! Guy is pretty close to getting his black belt in the particularly graceful martial art form that is Aikido. Something about the grip on my wrist as he switched hands behind his back reminded him of the grip on the wrist of an Aikido opponent who’s arm he was about to break. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, ladies?
HOT!
After the fantastic studio performances (which included getting to sit beside Peggy!) Guy and I hit the practice session and took his 3 moves out for a spin. Some friends, including an adorably inebriated artist-by-day/ swinger-by-night who we’ll call MICHELANGELO, asked me to dance, giving me an opportunity to show my moves off to my new friend, despite an inexplicably bad case of stage fright. Michelangelo had felt my absence earlier that week and I confessed I had skipped swing class to spend my night with Guy. All my friends could tell I was on a date that night at the studio and affectionately teased me about it. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer and warmer with embarrassment. I liked Guy so much that I suddenly wanted to protect our budding relationship from the gaze of others. Don’t get me wrong! I was having fun, but, feeling my worlds collide, I rather abruptly suggested we make our exit. I wanted him all to myself.
I realize it may seem like I’m disregarding Mom’s warning, so blatantly writing about my new beau. But I always take care of the readers of my blog as they enter the storyline. (If you read carefully, you can pinpoint the exact moment I started writing about Apple Guy with the understanding that he might actually be reading it.) So, Guy never needs to worry about slander… well, not much. It might also be a helpful tool for any oblivious straight male to have such a specific doorway into the female psyche, chalk full of helpful hints (like: cough- text me to make sure I make it home safely late at night if I don’t stay over- cough, cough- it greatly increases chances of me staying over in the future- end cough). All men should be so lucky!
It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m sitting at my computer alone in the city in the middle of the night. Guy has gone home to suburbia for a barbecue with the family and I have spent the night yet again cheating on the studio at the city’s premiere lesbian dance club. I know what you’re thinking. Poor Guy! He leaves me alone for three days and I’m back to my old ways again. Despite this entry’s entire premise, I am not the cheating sort. I could never kiss, snuggle or get busy with more than the one special person of my choosing at a time.
But, ladies and gentleman, I can dance with every Tom, Dick and Harriet that glances in my general direction no matter what!
So, for anyone who fears that Guy might be the beginning of the end of The Swing Diaries, let me assure you I’m not going anywhere. There may not be swing love or, god forbid, swing sex (no change there) for the time being, but there will always be swing dancing!
Yours Truly,
-Sara
8.22.2008
Big Yellow Taxi
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I think I have successfully given the least welcome of my swing suitors the brush off.
The Chief was MIA at swing for much of the summer. Much to his vexation, he was forced to travel the globe without me at his side and in his bed. I was truly grateful to get a vacation from the cantankerous jitterbug who just can’t seem to grasp that he’s not getting any younger and not getting any of my younger flesh! Well, summer’s over, my gentle readers, and my Chief is back with a vengeance.
Since The Chief has been away, I have experienced tremendous personal swing growth. I’ve really begun to discover and, on my good days, master the upper body frame required to become a true lindy hop proficient. In some ways, frame is more than the steps. Good frame gives you the confidence, balance, elegance and strength to be led in almost any move with ease. When my frame is solid, I feel confident, feminine, and sexy. I become a more desirable dance partner- the type of partner the less advanced dancers are too intimidated to approach. Except, of course, The Chief.
That man dragged me around the floor for three straight dances of hell last week. He’s deluded himself into thinking he’s a solid dancer, despite the fact that he’s woefully out of practice and constantly stopping in the middle of a dance to restart like he’s a fucking PC. It would be one thing if he danced a single dance with me and then walked away, opening me up to the invitations of other far superior dancers. But he not only selfishly keeps me in a death grip for dance after dance without so much as asking me if I’d like to continue, but, to add insult to injury, he also attempts to blame me for most of his chronic blunders. The Chief needed to wake up to the fact that I’m simply not the same broken-hearted, spaghetti-spined girl he used to know. Clearly, I was the only one who could deliver this message.
It was during our fateful third dance together last week that The Chief tripped over his own jowls and had the audacity to spew, “Hey, you’re supposed to turn the other way. God, you can’t do anything tonight.” With the chorus of Kelly Clarkson’s Since You Been Gone playing in my head and the venom of a black mamba rattle snake slithering through my voice, I said what I would not dare say to any other man on the floor:
I could do it, if you could lead it.
Oh, snap! I said it and we both new I meant it. The Chief’s face suddenly tightened. Just as we finished dancing, I forcefully withdrew my hand and started to inch away from him, delivering my usually more courteous thanks. To my surprise, he began to reach out to lay claim to yet another dance. I think I visibly flinched, because his face reddened as he ferociously tore into me, “I guess you think you’re pretty good. Sorry for ruining your night!” And with that he fled the scene on a Vespa with his tail between his legs.
I instantly felt guilty. My friends tell me this type of behavior is necessary sometimes. A girl’s gotta be tough to get certain guys off her back. But, despite my sarcastic tendencies and the existence of this tell-all-blog, I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. Regardless, what’s done is done. I did what I had to do.
The Chief didn’t show up to the studio this week. I found myself wondering if he’d ever come back. As you know, I haven’t seen Norman Nurman around at all either. Grisly Adam blew out his knee and is most likely married. And worst of all, Apple Guy has gone away on vacation to Asia (duh…) for weeks. Apple Guy has become my dating mentor and one of my best city friends. Dancing with him is like curling up on the couch in my favorite pajamas. It’s familiar, warm, generous, and missed.
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
Before you get out the violin (or acoustic guitar as it were) and tissues, I should tell you I had a blast at swing this week. All new amazing dancers and the temporarily partnerless father-to-be Vladymir of The Russian Clan cut a rug with me. Peggy brought stunning wedding hat creations she was working on for a little show-and-tell on the side lines. And in true Sara Swing fashion, I entertained all my swing friends with tales of my online dating adventures. I’ve let my dating phobia get the best of me in the past, but by taking my fears to the web, suddenly I am the master of my own romantic destiny. This novice dater has become a dating machine! Ok, honesty, I’m already making plans to slow down and simplify, but, in the meantime, there will be flirting and there will be kissing and there will be absolutely no regrets.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Ciao,
-Sara
I think I have successfully given the least welcome of my swing suitors the brush off.
The Chief was MIA at swing for much of the summer. Much to his vexation, he was forced to travel the globe without me at his side and in his bed. I was truly grateful to get a vacation from the cantankerous jitterbug who just can’t seem to grasp that he’s not getting any younger and not getting any of my younger flesh! Well, summer’s over, my gentle readers, and my Chief is back with a vengeance.
Since The Chief has been away, I have experienced tremendous personal swing growth. I’ve really begun to discover and, on my good days, master the upper body frame required to become a true lindy hop proficient. In some ways, frame is more than the steps. Good frame gives you the confidence, balance, elegance and strength to be led in almost any move with ease. When my frame is solid, I feel confident, feminine, and sexy. I become a more desirable dance partner- the type of partner the less advanced dancers are too intimidated to approach. Except, of course, The Chief.
That man dragged me around the floor for three straight dances of hell last week. He’s deluded himself into thinking he’s a solid dancer, despite the fact that he’s woefully out of practice and constantly stopping in the middle of a dance to restart like he’s a fucking PC. It would be one thing if he danced a single dance with me and then walked away, opening me up to the invitations of other far superior dancers. But he not only selfishly keeps me in a death grip for dance after dance without so much as asking me if I’d like to continue, but, to add insult to injury, he also attempts to blame me for most of his chronic blunders. The Chief needed to wake up to the fact that I’m simply not the same broken-hearted, spaghetti-spined girl he used to know. Clearly, I was the only one who could deliver this message.
It was during our fateful third dance together last week that The Chief tripped over his own jowls and had the audacity to spew, “Hey, you’re supposed to turn the other way. God, you can’t do anything tonight.” With the chorus of Kelly Clarkson’s Since You Been Gone playing in my head and the venom of a black mamba rattle snake slithering through my voice, I said what I would not dare say to any other man on the floor:
I could do it, if you could lead it.
Oh, snap! I said it and we both new I meant it. The Chief’s face suddenly tightened. Just as we finished dancing, I forcefully withdrew my hand and started to inch away from him, delivering my usually more courteous thanks. To my surprise, he began to reach out to lay claim to yet another dance. I think I visibly flinched, because his face reddened as he ferociously tore into me, “I guess you think you’re pretty good. Sorry for ruining your night!” And with that he fled the scene on a Vespa with his tail between his legs.
I instantly felt guilty. My friends tell me this type of behavior is necessary sometimes. A girl’s gotta be tough to get certain guys off her back. But, despite my sarcastic tendencies and the existence of this tell-all-blog, I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. Regardless, what’s done is done. I did what I had to do.
The Chief didn’t show up to the studio this week. I found myself wondering if he’d ever come back. As you know, I haven’t seen Norman Nurman around at all either. Grisly Adam blew out his knee and is most likely married. And worst of all, Apple Guy has gone away on vacation to Asia (duh…) for weeks. Apple Guy has become my dating mentor and one of my best city friends. Dancing with him is like curling up on the couch in my favorite pajamas. It’s familiar, warm, generous, and missed.
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
Before you get out the violin (or acoustic guitar as it were) and tissues, I should tell you I had a blast at swing this week. All new amazing dancers and the temporarily partnerless father-to-be Vladymir of The Russian Clan cut a rug with me. Peggy brought stunning wedding hat creations she was working on for a little show-and-tell on the side lines. And in true Sara Swing fashion, I entertained all my swing friends with tales of my online dating adventures. I’ve let my dating phobia get the best of me in the past, but by taking my fears to the web, suddenly I am the master of my own romantic destiny. This novice dater has become a dating machine! Ok, honesty, I’m already making plans to slow down and simplify, but, in the meantime, there will be flirting and there will be kissing and there will be absolutely no regrets.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Ciao,
-Sara
8.13.2008
Always a Bridesmaid
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I know. I’ve been remiss. What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.
By the end of July, I had broken poor Norman Nurman’s heart. After our infamous date , he reached out to me a predictable number of times requesting another date. Apple Guy, among others, suggested I nonchalantly decline a couple of times with a general lack of enthusiasm for his invitation and he’d get the hint soon enough.
Uh… not quite. Norman did, in fact, get the hint and he didn’t like it one bit. An online chat took a turn for the worse when he said:
are you sort of telling me but not really telling me that you just want to be swing buddies?
They say a direct question deserves a direct answer. Apparently, they didn’t say it loud enough though, because I responded with the wishy washy:
Would you be mad if I said maybe yes?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity for his response, frantically trying to get Peggy and the girls from my old job, like the dating savvy Sandy Sunshine, online for some emergency advice. While the girls chimed in, Norman’s much anticipated answer came:
and what if I said I would be
What!? Oh No! Was he serious? He was not about to make this easy for me. Sandy Sunshine, no stranger to the online dating world and, therefore, the electronic rules of engagement, was particularly surprised at his less than chivalrous response. After much debating, I responded:
If you said yes, that would be sad, since I would genuinely like to be your swing friend.
As Peggy and the gang patted me on the back via email on my diplomatic choice of words, Norman violently retorted:
i'm not mad that you just want to be friends, but i am annoyed that i had to glean it from you, rather than you just say so. i also find my self-esteem cut down a bit. but i'll deal with it.
Come on, buddy! Take it like a man. Did I mention that I discovered on our date that this bore looks deceivingly young? He’s almost 40, people. Are these martyr tactics the behavior of a middle aged man? I think not. It seemed there was nothing I could do to smooth things over with Norman Nurman, so I simply chose not respond. We haven’t spoken since.
This whole stupid Norman Nurman experience / fiasco succeeded in turning me off dating. What had begun only weeks ago as a joyful experiment, ended in a guilt ridden dead-end. I live in fear of Norman returning to the dance studio to resume his swing studies, awkwardly avoiding the not-so-easy girl who wounded his oblivious swing ego. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. But I also hate to think I scared him away from his beloved dance hobby with one empty kiss. Why does this whole dating trial-and-error thing always have to hurt someone? Were Apple Guy and I the only ones swinging who could flirt, figure out we weren’t meant for each other and forge an ever-growing friendship despite initial discomfiture? All my friends seem to think so. It’s the inevitability of heartache that makes us all want to stop trying. I am no exception.
At the peak of my debatably trivial sorrow, one of my most enthusiastic supporters, a kindhearted, worldly, endearingly neurotic woman named Francesca, suggested we collaborate on a book to perhaps be called What If You Are Not Having Sex in the City?.
Of course, she would think of me first for such a book. Here I am, practically ashamed of my own hunger for a good “deep dicking,” now considering co-authoring a book clearly defining how hopeless my own case is…
I actually think it’s a great idea. Who knows? It could have a happy ending!
Maybe it was in the name of book research or maybe it was just in the name of fun, regardless, like Sandy Sunshine and Dalia Domina before me, I joined the online dating community the day after my 26th birthday. Admittedly, I had always thought this mode of playing the field just a tad beneath my dignity, but, apparently, it’s okay to look…
To top it all off, everyone around me is winning the race to grow up. Svetlana and Vladymir, an adorable young couple at the dance studio henceforth knows as THE RUSSIANS, had big news last week. I first started talking to these two jitterbugs months ago when I walked up to Svetlana and uttered the unthinkably taboo, “Are you pregnant?” Guess what? She wasn’t. I still can’t believe it happened. I had no choice but to initiate a wholehearted friendship with them in the hopes of being forgiven for the unforgiveable. Judging from the rides home they offer and the online chat they both grant me on occasion, I am now in their good graces just in time for Svetlana to announce that she and her husband are, indeed, expecting. I brim with joy for them!
Despite their youth and vigor, The Russians do have a couple years on me. I am very young and, as they like to say, “have my whole life ahead of me.” But last weekend I went home to suburbia to host the bridal shower of my high school best friend. That’s right; my best friend is all grown up and getting married. I’m a pretty progressive girl. I’m in no rush to get married and have a family. I have always been somewhat hopeful that all that stuff would fall into place in its own time, and when you fall madly in love with a girl at 24, you start reimagining the white picket fence your mother dreamed up for you. But when your bosom buddy of fifteen years and the prom date you set her up with a decade ago decide to commit their lives to each other, it simply must give you pause. Maybe, just maybe, I’m another ill-fated spinster, all washed up at 26.
And, of course, I’m the fat bridesmaid! At a size 6, I am the thickest stem in the David’s Bridal clad bunch. After a post-shower evening in with girls, featuring my old high school girlfriends sitting around the groom’s computer screen laughing at some of the less suave prospects on my dating site of choice, I went home to the Swing Mom’s house and tried on the big cliché of a strapless bridesmaid’s gown in the wee hours of the night. As I stood before a ghetto mirror propped up in my mother’s spare bedroom, I was surprised at how gorgeous the dress really looked on me. After self-indulgently posing in it for God only knows how long, I reluctantly peeled off the dress and stood in front of the mirror for a moment in nothing but my high heels. For the second time that night, I was surprised at the beauty of what I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
Isn’t it amazing what a pair of heels can do for a girl?
Yours Truly,
-Sara
I know. I’ve been remiss. What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.
By the end of July, I had broken poor Norman Nurman’s heart. After our infamous date , he reached out to me a predictable number of times requesting another date. Apple Guy, among others, suggested I nonchalantly decline a couple of times with a general lack of enthusiasm for his invitation and he’d get the hint soon enough.
Uh… not quite. Norman did, in fact, get the hint and he didn’t like it one bit. An online chat took a turn for the worse when he said:
are you sort of telling me but not really telling me that you just want to be swing buddies?
They say a direct question deserves a direct answer. Apparently, they didn’t say it loud enough though, because I responded with the wishy washy:
Would you be mad if I said maybe yes?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity for his response, frantically trying to get Peggy and the girls from my old job, like the dating savvy Sandy Sunshine, online for some emergency advice. While the girls chimed in, Norman’s much anticipated answer came:
and what if I said I would be
What!? Oh No! Was he serious? He was not about to make this easy for me. Sandy Sunshine, no stranger to the online dating world and, therefore, the electronic rules of engagement, was particularly surprised at his less than chivalrous response. After much debating, I responded:
If you said yes, that would be sad, since I would genuinely like to be your swing friend.
As Peggy and the gang patted me on the back via email on my diplomatic choice of words, Norman violently retorted:
i'm not mad that you just want to be friends, but i am annoyed that i had to glean it from you, rather than you just say so. i also find my self-esteem cut down a bit. but i'll deal with it.
Come on, buddy! Take it like a man. Did I mention that I discovered on our date that this bore looks deceivingly young? He’s almost 40, people. Are these martyr tactics the behavior of a middle aged man? I think not. It seemed there was nothing I could do to smooth things over with Norman Nurman, so I simply chose not respond. We haven’t spoken since.
This whole stupid Norman Nurman experience / fiasco succeeded in turning me off dating. What had begun only weeks ago as a joyful experiment, ended in a guilt ridden dead-end. I live in fear of Norman returning to the dance studio to resume his swing studies, awkwardly avoiding the not-so-easy girl who wounded his oblivious swing ego. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. But I also hate to think I scared him away from his beloved dance hobby with one empty kiss. Why does this whole dating trial-and-error thing always have to hurt someone? Were Apple Guy and I the only ones swinging who could flirt, figure out we weren’t meant for each other and forge an ever-growing friendship despite initial discomfiture? All my friends seem to think so. It’s the inevitability of heartache that makes us all want to stop trying. I am no exception.
At the peak of my debatably trivial sorrow, one of my most enthusiastic supporters, a kindhearted, worldly, endearingly neurotic woman named Francesca, suggested we collaborate on a book to perhaps be called What If You Are Not Having Sex in the City?.
Of course, she would think of me first for such a book. Here I am, practically ashamed of my own hunger for a good “deep dicking,” now considering co-authoring a book clearly defining how hopeless my own case is…
I actually think it’s a great idea. Who knows? It could have a happy ending!
Maybe it was in the name of book research or maybe it was just in the name of fun, regardless, like Sandy Sunshine and Dalia Domina before me, I joined the online dating community the day after my 26th birthday. Admittedly, I had always thought this mode of playing the field just a tad beneath my dignity, but, apparently, it’s okay to look…
To top it all off, everyone around me is winning the race to grow up. Svetlana and Vladymir, an adorable young couple at the dance studio henceforth knows as THE RUSSIANS, had big news last week. I first started talking to these two jitterbugs months ago when I walked up to Svetlana and uttered the unthinkably taboo, “Are you pregnant?” Guess what? She wasn’t. I still can’t believe it happened. I had no choice but to initiate a wholehearted friendship with them in the hopes of being forgiven for the unforgiveable. Judging from the rides home they offer and the online chat they both grant me on occasion, I am now in their good graces just in time for Svetlana to announce that she and her husband are, indeed, expecting. I brim with joy for them!
Despite their youth and vigor, The Russians do have a couple years on me. I am very young and, as they like to say, “have my whole life ahead of me.” But last weekend I went home to suburbia to host the bridal shower of my high school best friend. That’s right; my best friend is all grown up and getting married. I’m a pretty progressive girl. I’m in no rush to get married and have a family. I have always been somewhat hopeful that all that stuff would fall into place in its own time, and when you fall madly in love with a girl at 24, you start reimagining the white picket fence your mother dreamed up for you. But when your bosom buddy of fifteen years and the prom date you set her up with a decade ago decide to commit their lives to each other, it simply must give you pause. Maybe, just maybe, I’m another ill-fated spinster, all washed up at 26.
And, of course, I’m the fat bridesmaid! At a size 6, I am the thickest stem in the David’s Bridal clad bunch. After a post-shower evening in with girls, featuring my old high school girlfriends sitting around the groom’s computer screen laughing at some of the less suave prospects on my dating site of choice, I went home to the Swing Mom’s house and tried on the big cliché of a strapless bridesmaid’s gown in the wee hours of the night. As I stood before a ghetto mirror propped up in my mother’s spare bedroom, I was surprised at how gorgeous the dress really looked on me. After self-indulgently posing in it for God only knows how long, I reluctantly peeled off the dress and stood in front of the mirror for a moment in nothing but my high heels. For the second time that night, I was surprised at the beauty of what I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
Isn’t it amazing what a pair of heels can do for a girl?
Yours Truly,
-Sara
7.18.2008
My Date with Norman Nurman
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
So many men, so few sparks…
Maybe I am a lesbian.
Now, I know that you rarely find someone special by actively looking for him or her. Cupid always gets you when you least expect it.
Tell that to my hormones.
Between the clearing skin and hysterical urge to mate, I must be ovulating. I want to cuddle and smooch and (subconsciously) make babies! Making babies isn’t going to happen, but, at times like these, I think we can all admit that you want to shout from the rooftops:
I WANT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, I admit it. I want a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend. I want a sexy boyfriend. I don’t want to be thinking about marriage, but I also don’t want to be thinking… I’m definitely NOT going to marry this guy. I know it’s not going to happen at my request or convenience or, god forbid, at all, but I am humbly telling you that I am officially pining.
This is probably why I let Norman Nurman kiss me on our date. Twice!
I regret some of the things I said about Norman Nurman last week. He’s a terrific person and took me on a splendidly romantic date. Our first stop was a cute rooftop bar, and I actually had an entire glass of white wine (unheard of behavior for Sara Swing)! I warned him that this was the most liquor I had ever had in my life. But I was with Norman Nurman! He’s practically an R2 unit; there’s certainly no danger of him taking advantage. Or so I thought…
I had made the incredibly good decision of not eating anything all day on the day of my date, only to quickly imbibe a beverage with a high alcohol content at the top of said date. What was I trying to prove? Actually, that’s just it. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I didn’t care. I knew it would be ok and it totally was… if you don’t count the one pedestrian collision on the way to dinner. But we don’t have to talk about that.
He took me to this awesome Korean restaurant where we had to take off our shoes! I thought this was a wonderfully novel treat. At this point, we were eating and the wine had lost any power over me. I thought Norman’s liquid courage must still be going strong when he proceeded to get frisky under the table… playing footsie! I was pleasantly reminded of how much I like to rub feet with a special someone… so I just let it happen. It was Norman Nurman; what was the harm?
After dinner, Norman and I were at a bit of an impasse…
Norman Nurman: Um, well… do you think you’d like to get another drink?
Me: I’m ok.
Norman Nurman: You sure?
Me: I don’t need another drink.
Norman Nurman: But would you like one?
Me: Honestly? No, not really.
Norman Nurman: Hmmm… um- what to do now then? Where do you want to go?
Me: We could just walk.
Norman Nurman: It is a nice night. How about going back to the park we met up at.
Me: Sounds great.
Norman Nurman: Or we could go back to the bar...
Me: Um… let’s go to the park.
Norman Nurman: Oh, wait. The park is closed.
Me: Oh.
Norman: Is there anything else in particular you’d like to do?
Me: I’m pretty flexible. You’ve taken us this far…
Norman: Ok, let’s go back to the bar then.
And so we did. At this point, I was having an out of body experience. Each step I took toward the bar was a step toward a lie. I did not want to have another drink. I had said this. Why was he pressing it and why was I caving? It seemed to be because, once again, I just didn’t mind. I knew I wasn’t going to let myself get drunk and I knew that Norman Nurman didn’t have it in him to get me drunk. When he asked me what I wanted to drink, I said, “surprise me” with a flirtatious smile. He was shocked. For me, the date was entering a new faze: target practice.
He brought over a whiskey and a pinot noir. I knew he was lying when he said the whiskey was for me, but I didn’t bat an eyelash as I took a sip. I could have killed him, because it tasted like radioactive yellow homeless guy pee… but whatever. When in Rome! I slowly sipped my rightful wine after that, careful not to finish it, while we sat under the dark night sky languidly chatting about nothing I can recall. As boastful as it sounds, I knew Norman wanted me, and- god help me- I liked it! I liked feeling confident and sexy and captivating. For once in my life, I was pretending to be like all the other girls who made it look so easy. Suddenly, Norman did the incredibly awkward yawn + arm-around-girl move (sans wink of cliché acknowledgement). He gently pulled me to him and our lips met.
It’s never a good sign when you’re thinking about your mother during a first kiss. At that moment, I knew that kissing Norman Nurman at the rooftop bar was a mistake. A minor misdemeanor perhaps, but, nonetheless, just not me. At least it would make a good story for Mamma Swing, who’s wishing I was doing more of this sort of thing, lest I climb aboard the lesbians-who-aren’t-good-to-sara bus again. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t agree to go on the date in the first place in hopes of a good story to tell all of you. I might have been in over my head, but I had to admit I was getting exactly what I bargained for.
The thing is- I have never been like all those “other girls that make it look so easy.” Something tells me that no one is.
Despite Norman’s surprisingly supple lips, my heart was not in that rooftop kiss, and it was never going to be. So, walking to the subway with Norman Nurman, I was faced with a choice. He was going to go in for another kiss. I could either pull away or take the hit. But why did it have to be so black and white? Perhaps I was being too hard on myself and poor Norman. Why couldn’t I enjoy a simple kiss? Perhaps I could use this opportunity to practice my craft. Who needs books when you have a live lab rat sitting in front of you? And so, in the true spirit of my first and last date with Norman Nurman, I said to myself…
Why the hell not!?
Yeah, I kissed him. I kissed him gooooood.
Love,
-Sara
So many men, so few sparks…
Maybe I am a lesbian.
Now, I know that you rarely find someone special by actively looking for him or her. Cupid always gets you when you least expect it.
Tell that to my hormones.
Between the clearing skin and hysterical urge to mate, I must be ovulating. I want to cuddle and smooch and (subconsciously) make babies! Making babies isn’t going to happen, but, at times like these, I think we can all admit that you want to shout from the rooftops:
I WANT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, I admit it. I want a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend. I want a sexy boyfriend. I don’t want to be thinking about marriage, but I also don’t want to be thinking… I’m definitely NOT going to marry this guy. I know it’s not going to happen at my request or convenience or, god forbid, at all, but I am humbly telling you that I am officially pining.
This is probably why I let Norman Nurman kiss me on our date. Twice!
I regret some of the things I said about Norman Nurman last week. He’s a terrific person and took me on a splendidly romantic date. Our first stop was a cute rooftop bar, and I actually had an entire glass of white wine (unheard of behavior for Sara Swing)! I warned him that this was the most liquor I had ever had in my life. But I was with Norman Nurman! He’s practically an R2 unit; there’s certainly no danger of him taking advantage. Or so I thought…
I had made the incredibly good decision of not eating anything all day on the day of my date, only to quickly imbibe a beverage with a high alcohol content at the top of said date. What was I trying to prove? Actually, that’s just it. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I didn’t care. I knew it would be ok and it totally was… if you don’t count the one pedestrian collision on the way to dinner. But we don’t have to talk about that.
He took me to this awesome Korean restaurant where we had to take off our shoes! I thought this was a wonderfully novel treat. At this point, we were eating and the wine had lost any power over me. I thought Norman’s liquid courage must still be going strong when he proceeded to get frisky under the table… playing footsie! I was pleasantly reminded of how much I like to rub feet with a special someone… so I just let it happen. It was Norman Nurman; what was the harm?
After dinner, Norman and I were at a bit of an impasse…
Norman Nurman: Um, well… do you think you’d like to get another drink?
Me: I’m ok.
Norman Nurman: You sure?
Me: I don’t need another drink.
Norman Nurman: But would you like one?
Me: Honestly? No, not really.
Norman Nurman: Hmmm… um- what to do now then? Where do you want to go?
Me: We could just walk.
Norman Nurman: It is a nice night. How about going back to the park we met up at.
Me: Sounds great.
Norman Nurman: Or we could go back to the bar...
Me: Um… let’s go to the park.
Norman Nurman: Oh, wait. The park is closed.
Me: Oh.
Norman: Is there anything else in particular you’d like to do?
Me: I’m pretty flexible. You’ve taken us this far…
Norman: Ok, let’s go back to the bar then.
And so we did. At this point, I was having an out of body experience. Each step I took toward the bar was a step toward a lie. I did not want to have another drink. I had said this. Why was he pressing it and why was I caving? It seemed to be because, once again, I just didn’t mind. I knew I wasn’t going to let myself get drunk and I knew that Norman Nurman didn’t have it in him to get me drunk. When he asked me what I wanted to drink, I said, “surprise me” with a flirtatious smile. He was shocked. For me, the date was entering a new faze: target practice.
He brought over a whiskey and a pinot noir. I knew he was lying when he said the whiskey was for me, but I didn’t bat an eyelash as I took a sip. I could have killed him, because it tasted like radioactive yellow homeless guy pee… but whatever. When in Rome! I slowly sipped my rightful wine after that, careful not to finish it, while we sat under the dark night sky languidly chatting about nothing I can recall. As boastful as it sounds, I knew Norman wanted me, and- god help me- I liked it! I liked feeling confident and sexy and captivating. For once in my life, I was pretending to be like all the other girls who made it look so easy. Suddenly, Norman did the incredibly awkward yawn + arm-around-girl move (sans wink of cliché acknowledgement). He gently pulled me to him and our lips met.
It’s never a good sign when you’re thinking about your mother during a first kiss. At that moment, I knew that kissing Norman Nurman at the rooftop bar was a mistake. A minor misdemeanor perhaps, but, nonetheless, just not me. At least it would make a good story for Mamma Swing, who’s wishing I was doing more of this sort of thing, lest I climb aboard the lesbians-who-aren’t-good-to-sara bus again. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t agree to go on the date in the first place in hopes of a good story to tell all of you. I might have been in over my head, but I had to admit I was getting exactly what I bargained for.
The thing is- I have never been like all those “other girls that make it look so easy.” Something tells me that no one is.
Despite Norman’s surprisingly supple lips, my heart was not in that rooftop kiss, and it was never going to be. So, walking to the subway with Norman Nurman, I was faced with a choice. He was going to go in for another kiss. I could either pull away or take the hit. But why did it have to be so black and white? Perhaps I was being too hard on myself and poor Norman. Why couldn’t I enjoy a simple kiss? Perhaps I could use this opportunity to practice my craft. Who needs books when you have a live lab rat sitting in front of you? And so, in the true spirit of my first and last date with Norman Nurman, I said to myself…
Why the hell not!?
Yeah, I kissed him. I kissed him gooooood.
Love,
-Sara
7.10.2008
The Computer Wore Dancing Shoes
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’m in trouble.
I have agreed to go on a date with NORMAN NURMAN tomorrow!
Yes, this is the same Norman Nurman I revealed in my last letter as,”so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him.” He’s been hounding me for over a month to go to Dancing Under The Stars, an annual swing dancing festival extravaganza here in the city. He emailed, facebook messaged, called, and texted me in his quest for this date; it was a full artillery assault.
I’ve never been a big dater. I have always fallen for friends. Before last weekend, I had only been on two real let’s-see-if-we-hit-it-off dates in my life. The first was with a guy we’ll call GIDEON DICK. Charming, talented, and smart, Gideon Dick had it all and seemed to really dig me. Yes, I asked him out, but only because he was too shy to go for it himself. At dinner, Gideon went on and on and on and on about my many outstanding qualities, only to stamp on my ego and dub me a “Screwball” at then end of the evening. Apparently funny girls intimidate some guys…
However, Gideon Dick has nothing on IAGO DE THESPIAN. Shakespearean actor Iago de Thespian had been enamored on me for almost a year prior to our date. Finally, I convinced myself it could work. We were slated to go to a free classical play in the park. First, we had to wait in line for the tickets that morning, which went smoothly. Iago then ran off to the airport with his best friend, who was returning home to China on that very day. He ended up not calling me for dinner as planned and not showing up until the second act of the play that night! I took a good hard look at him upon his arrival, only to discover he was covered in hickeys he did not have that morning. The conversation then went something like this:
Me: Are those hickeys?
Iago de Thespian: (dramatically looking down in shame) Yes. They are.
Me: I see.
Iago de Thespian: You know what the worst part is?
Me: What?
Iago de Thespian: She missed her flight.
Me: You were at the airport for a long time; how long does it take to miss a flight?
Needless to say, I was offended. The careless pig actually tried to ask me out again at the end of the date. Six months later, Iago got drunk at a party with a bunch of my friends and cried about how he’d ruined his chances with me by “ending” one relationship on the same day that he tried to start one with me.
Sooooooo not my problem.
But, ladies and gentlemen, my luck seems to have changed. I recently went on a date for the first time in a long time, and actually had a lovely time. This guy (yes, guy) didn’t abandon me, marginalize me with belittling nicknames meant to give me the brush off, or suck face with some foreign girl in the middle of our date. (Have I accidentally found myself in a secret feudal war with Asian girls?) He even checked to make sure I made it home safety. In my book, this date is the first ever success story!
Of course, he doesn’t live in the same city as me and hasn’t contacted me since our date. (it’s been whole days, people!) So when Norman Nurman asked me out this week using every communication weapon in his arsenal, I felt I had no choice but to give the guy a chance. I mean, why is it always the ones that pay attention to you that you take for granted and the ones that barely notice you that make your heart skip a beat? When someone goes out of his way to show you he thinks you're special, it’s worth overlooking a few dweeby flaws, right?
You see, Norman Nurman is more like a robot than a person. Sweet? Yes. Good looking? Yes. (And Asian! Ooh-la-la!) Smart? Totally. Rich in personal intrigue? Hell no. He works with computers and volunteers at an animal shelter. The latter point is a very pleasing quality, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that my heart flat-lines whenever he’s near.
But maybe I’ve misjudged Mr. Nurman.
It turns out Dancing Under The Stars is exclusively Salsa on Friday night, so Norman asked if we could make alternative plans. I rather reluctantly agreed. He then sent me the following oh-so-sexy text message:
I will send you details in forthcoming correspondence.
Yesterday, I received that highly anticipated correspondence in the form of a text with the time and outdoor meeting location of our date. I then asked:
What’s on the itinerary or is it a mystery?
Norman Nurman: If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Wow. Ding, ding! Maybe Norman Nurman has a few tricks up his sleeve. He then quickly followed with:
Oh hey, do you eat meat?
Enter my roommate, Parker, the Will to my Grace. Parker brilliantly proposed that I play into Norman’s little innuendo game, so I responded with a cheeky…
If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Quickly followed by:
P.S. Yes, I eat meat.
Parker and I felt sure that whatever his response, it would be a sign of whether or not he could really handle a sweet but truly sassy woman like myself.
And his response was:
Good thing you’re cute Miss Smarty Pants! ;-)
Uh- fatal error. Disappointing at best. What does that even mean? Well, golly gee! I’m gonna gitcha, Miss Smarty Pants! Wow, Norman. I'm really shakin' in my boots.
Some might say my standards are too high. He’s just trying to be witty. …and failing. Suggestive banter is far from the key to my heart. I’m an outgoing girl. I am highly compatible with socially awkward introverts. I guess I’m just hoping for a feisty, passionate heart underneath the timid façade. I love a geek! I am a geek! But I guess I love it more when my beloved geek doesn't push to be something he or she is not. When you try to act so much cooler than you are, it usually rings false. Regardless, I have it on good authority that one thing can be said for Norman Nurman and his tame breed.
They’re tigers in the sack.
Wish me luck! I think I’m gonna need it…
Yours Truly,
Sara
I’m in trouble.
I have agreed to go on a date with NORMAN NURMAN tomorrow!
Yes, this is the same Norman Nurman I revealed in my last letter as,”so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him.” He’s been hounding me for over a month to go to Dancing Under The Stars, an annual swing dancing festival extravaganza here in the city. He emailed, facebook messaged, called, and texted me in his quest for this date; it was a full artillery assault.
I’ve never been a big dater. I have always fallen for friends. Before last weekend, I had only been on two real let’s-see-if-we-hit-it-off dates in my life. The first was with a guy we’ll call GIDEON DICK. Charming, talented, and smart, Gideon Dick had it all and seemed to really dig me. Yes, I asked him out, but only because he was too shy to go for it himself. At dinner, Gideon went on and on and on and on about my many outstanding qualities, only to stamp on my ego and dub me a “Screwball” at then end of the evening. Apparently funny girls intimidate some guys…
However, Gideon Dick has nothing on IAGO DE THESPIAN. Shakespearean actor Iago de Thespian had been enamored on me for almost a year prior to our date. Finally, I convinced myself it could work. We were slated to go to a free classical play in the park. First, we had to wait in line for the tickets that morning, which went smoothly. Iago then ran off to the airport with his best friend, who was returning home to China on that very day. He ended up not calling me for dinner as planned and not showing up until the second act of the play that night! I took a good hard look at him upon his arrival, only to discover he was covered in hickeys he did not have that morning. The conversation then went something like this:
Me: Are those hickeys?
Iago de Thespian: (dramatically looking down in shame) Yes. They are.
Me: I see.
Iago de Thespian: You know what the worst part is?
Me: What?
Iago de Thespian: She missed her flight.
Me: You were at the airport for a long time; how long does it take to miss a flight?
Needless to say, I was offended. The careless pig actually tried to ask me out again at the end of the date. Six months later, Iago got drunk at a party with a bunch of my friends and cried about how he’d ruined his chances with me by “ending” one relationship on the same day that he tried to start one with me.
Sooooooo not my problem.
But, ladies and gentlemen, my luck seems to have changed. I recently went on a date for the first time in a long time, and actually had a lovely time. This guy (yes, guy) didn’t abandon me, marginalize me with belittling nicknames meant to give me the brush off, or suck face with some foreign girl in the middle of our date. (Have I accidentally found myself in a secret feudal war with Asian girls?) He even checked to make sure I made it home safety. In my book, this date is the first ever success story!
Of course, he doesn’t live in the same city as me and hasn’t contacted me since our date. (it’s been whole days, people!) So when Norman Nurman asked me out this week using every communication weapon in his arsenal, I felt I had no choice but to give the guy a chance. I mean, why is it always the ones that pay attention to you that you take for granted and the ones that barely notice you that make your heart skip a beat? When someone goes out of his way to show you he thinks you're special, it’s worth overlooking a few dweeby flaws, right?
You see, Norman Nurman is more like a robot than a person. Sweet? Yes. Good looking? Yes. (And Asian! Ooh-la-la!) Smart? Totally. Rich in personal intrigue? Hell no. He works with computers and volunteers at an animal shelter. The latter point is a very pleasing quality, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that my heart flat-lines whenever he’s near.
But maybe I’ve misjudged Mr. Nurman.
It turns out Dancing Under The Stars is exclusively Salsa on Friday night, so Norman asked if we could make alternative plans. I rather reluctantly agreed. He then sent me the following oh-so-sexy text message:
I will send you details in forthcoming correspondence.
Yesterday, I received that highly anticipated correspondence in the form of a text with the time and outdoor meeting location of our date. I then asked:
What’s on the itinerary or is it a mystery?
Norman Nurman: If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Wow. Ding, ding! Maybe Norman Nurman has a few tricks up his sleeve. He then quickly followed with:
Oh hey, do you eat meat?
Enter my roommate, Parker, the Will to my Grace. Parker brilliantly proposed that I play into Norman’s little innuendo game, so I responded with a cheeky…
If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Quickly followed by:
P.S. Yes, I eat meat.
Parker and I felt sure that whatever his response, it would be a sign of whether or not he could really handle a sweet but truly sassy woman like myself.
And his response was:
Good thing you’re cute Miss Smarty Pants! ;-)
Uh- fatal error. Disappointing at best. What does that even mean? Well, golly gee! I’m gonna gitcha, Miss Smarty Pants! Wow, Norman. I'm really shakin' in my boots.
Some might say my standards are too high. He’s just trying to be witty. …and failing. Suggestive banter is far from the key to my heart. I’m an outgoing girl. I am highly compatible with socially awkward introverts. I guess I’m just hoping for a feisty, passionate heart underneath the timid façade. I love a geek! I am a geek! But I guess I love it more when my beloved geek doesn't push to be something he or she is not. When you try to act so much cooler than you are, it usually rings false. Regardless, I have it on good authority that one thing can be said for Norman Nurman and his tame breed.
They’re tigers in the sack.
Wish me luck! I think I’m gonna need it…
Yours Truly,
Sara
6.26.2008
Let’s Talk About Sex
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I think it’s time I come clean.
If you reread all of my posts to date again and again out of sheer swing enthusiasm (not that I do that), you might come to certain conclusions about the type of girl I am. My mother recently put it best when she said I clearly came off as “wicked horny” throughout The Swing Diaries.
Yes, my mother says that type of thing, much to my chagrin.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth did I tell me mother about my secret sexy swing blog? All I can say is that she’s not like other mothers. She’s a realist and enjoys reading about my romantic misadventures. Regardless, I was a little aghast at her comment- mostly because it came from Mom, but also because I didn’t realize that was the prevailing message I was leaving with some readers. Sure, I experience lust as much as the next swinger, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force in my swing life and otherwise.
Ok, maybe it is…
But not the way you think! On one of our first hot chocolate chats, Apple Guy and I started talking about sex. Because apparently I can’t wait to move the topic of conversation into the bedroom! (I’m starting to see my mother’s point.) I told Apple Guy then, and I maintain now, that I am all talk. I put it this way exactly: “Dirty mind. Clean body.”
It’s a frustrating existence lately for the girl with her mind in the bedroom and her bod in the books. How many bisexuals do you know that technically qualify as virgins?
There. I said it. The “V” word. I used to embrace the “V” word. It meant I was waiting for someone special. Meanwhile, my mother, among many of my other friends, is getting nervous that I’ll be locked at the ankles until I’m 30, and has now taken to blatantly suggesting I go out and “get laid,” while I adamantly insist that the first time has got to be for love. Isn’t it usually the daughter who just wants to have fun while the mother implores her to wait for someone special? Our relationship is an unconventional one at best.
The thing is, I want to have sex. I do. I admit it. Guilty! Very, very guilty. Who am I kidding? Even my mother can tell! And I’m no stranger to the female orgasm, let me just you. It really all boils down to the fact that I just haven’t found the right guy. Let me explain…
My first boyfriend was amazing. It was my first semester of college in my freshman year. He was funny, talented, attentive, and a senior! I was very young, and he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. So, it didn’t happen before I trampled on his heart and ended the relationship by transferring to a different school across state.
My second boyfriend was a sweetheart. It was my sophomore and junior years of college. He, too, was a senior and then a post-grad. He was shy, dorky, super-attentive, and sensitive. Very, very sensitive. Let’s just say the prospect of intercourse could overwhelm him more often then not and we never ended up crossing the official finish line through no fault of my own. We were together for a year and half and did not seal the deal…
Hey, I did my part!
Then, as my mother might say (sorry, Mom, but you would), I “got hit by the lesbian bus.” Oh boy, did I! Much to my surprise and delight, I fell in love with a girl just before graduation and, by lesbian standards and even my own, am by no means a v*****. However, by straight standards, all that stuff’s just foreplay!
So, I find myself in a bind. I didn’t realize quite the bind I was in until shortly after my breakup when my good friend Dalia said:
Oh my god! If you're with a guy next, what are you gonna tell him?
Me: Umm… what do you mean? Most guys think girl on girl action is hot, and if it bothers him then he’s an assho—
Dalia: No. Uh, hello! You’re a virgin!
Me: So? It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. Isn’t purity somewhat desirable anymore?
Dalia: Not at 25 it’s not. Sara, you cannot tell some guy you’ve never had sex. He’ll run, Sara. He will run!
I let Dalia detail her plan for me to find the first man I met in a bar, despite the fact that I don’t really drink (yeah, I’ve got this abstinence thing down), only to “get it over with” with said mystery man. I told Dalia I thought her plan was ridiculous, and that honesty was obviously the best policy. Let them run! I’m not a prude, nor am I strumpet. I have always followed my heart, and have nothing to hide as a result. But the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind…
Naturally, I bought a sex book. Two actually. I suddenly thought that maybe I was ill-equipped to meet the demands of the modern man. I panicked and bought How to Be a Great Lover and You Want Me to Do What? on Amazon. When I received the books in the mail at work of all places, Peggy and the girls were captivated. Truth be told, I hardly touched the books, especial the particularly graphic one. Meanwhile, my books got past from cubicle to cubicle wrapped in a big, boring spreadsheet, instead of the traditional brown wrapper popular circa 1950. Apparently, I’m not the only lady who’s thinking impure thoughts. To top it off, my mother absconded with both books in my precious sex library when she came to help me move recently, sighting that she could put them to use long before I hoped to.
Everyone’s a critic.
So, here I am faced with a sea full of swingers. You remember swing, right? It’s the official topic of this blog in case you forgot. Among my prospects at the dance studio, you’ve got the bashful, sweetly bearded Grisly Adam, the so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him Norman Nurman, the hypnotically seductive Commie, the blog-favorite Apple Guy, and the old, rusty hard-on that is The Chief. To tell you the truth, if I ever for one second considered The Chief as a viable option for me, it was because the idea of a mature, experienced, hopefully skilled man wasn’t exactly unattractive given my suddenly alarming situation. Try as I might to ignore Dalia’s voice inside my head, I couldn’t kick the idea that male attention was something that now had to be worried about.
I can’t help thinking that subconsciously this is why I started the blog- to sort out, record, and convey this particular journey. It may sound corny, but I, in fact, think that my experience- or lack thereof- is wonderfully human. From what I hear, I should count myself lucky that I have no regrets. I am not afraid to risk my heart and body, but not without just cause. Despite appearances in this blog entry, my mother taught me never to settle or succumb to peer pressure. A quarter of a century into life, I’m still sticking to that advice.
Sorry, Mom.
Sincerely,
-Sara
I think it’s time I come clean.
If you reread all of my posts to date again and again out of sheer swing enthusiasm (not that I do that), you might come to certain conclusions about the type of girl I am. My mother recently put it best when she said I clearly came off as “wicked horny” throughout The Swing Diaries.
Yes, my mother says that type of thing, much to my chagrin.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth did I tell me mother about my secret sexy swing blog? All I can say is that she’s not like other mothers. She’s a realist and enjoys reading about my romantic misadventures. Regardless, I was a little aghast at her comment- mostly because it came from Mom, but also because I didn’t realize that was the prevailing message I was leaving with some readers. Sure, I experience lust as much as the next swinger, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force in my swing life and otherwise.
Ok, maybe it is…
But not the way you think! On one of our first hot chocolate chats, Apple Guy and I started talking about sex. Because apparently I can’t wait to move the topic of conversation into the bedroom! (I’m starting to see my mother’s point.) I told Apple Guy then, and I maintain now, that I am all talk. I put it this way exactly: “Dirty mind. Clean body.”
It’s a frustrating existence lately for the girl with her mind in the bedroom and her bod in the books. How many bisexuals do you know that technically qualify as virgins?
There. I said it. The “V” word. I used to embrace the “V” word. It meant I was waiting for someone special. Meanwhile, my mother, among many of my other friends, is getting nervous that I’ll be locked at the ankles until I’m 30, and has now taken to blatantly suggesting I go out and “get laid,” while I adamantly insist that the first time has got to be for love. Isn’t it usually the daughter who just wants to have fun while the mother implores her to wait for someone special? Our relationship is an unconventional one at best.
The thing is, I want to have sex. I do. I admit it. Guilty! Very, very guilty. Who am I kidding? Even my mother can tell! And I’m no stranger to the female orgasm, let me just you. It really all boils down to the fact that I just haven’t found the right guy. Let me explain…
My first boyfriend was amazing. It was my first semester of college in my freshman year. He was funny, talented, attentive, and a senior! I was very young, and he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. So, it didn’t happen before I trampled on his heart and ended the relationship by transferring to a different school across state.
My second boyfriend was a sweetheart. It was my sophomore and junior years of college. He, too, was a senior and then a post-grad. He was shy, dorky, super-attentive, and sensitive. Very, very sensitive. Let’s just say the prospect of intercourse could overwhelm him more often then not and we never ended up crossing the official finish line through no fault of my own. We were together for a year and half and did not seal the deal…
Hey, I did my part!
Then, as my mother might say (sorry, Mom, but you would), I “got hit by the lesbian bus.” Oh boy, did I! Much to my surprise and delight, I fell in love with a girl just before graduation and, by lesbian standards and even my own, am by no means a v*****. However, by straight standards, all that stuff’s just foreplay!
So, I find myself in a bind. I didn’t realize quite the bind I was in until shortly after my breakup when my good friend Dalia said:
Oh my god! If you're with a guy next, what are you gonna tell him?
Me: Umm… what do you mean? Most guys think girl on girl action is hot, and if it bothers him then he’s an assho—
Dalia: No. Uh, hello! You’re a virgin!
Me: So? It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. Isn’t purity somewhat desirable anymore?
Dalia: Not at 25 it’s not. Sara, you cannot tell some guy you’ve never had sex. He’ll run, Sara. He will run!
I let Dalia detail her plan for me to find the first man I met in a bar, despite the fact that I don’t really drink (yeah, I’ve got this abstinence thing down), only to “get it over with” with said mystery man. I told Dalia I thought her plan was ridiculous, and that honesty was obviously the best policy. Let them run! I’m not a prude, nor am I strumpet. I have always followed my heart, and have nothing to hide as a result. But the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind…
Naturally, I bought a sex book. Two actually. I suddenly thought that maybe I was ill-equipped to meet the demands of the modern man. I panicked and bought How to Be a Great Lover and You Want Me to Do What? on Amazon. When I received the books in the mail at work of all places, Peggy and the girls were captivated. Truth be told, I hardly touched the books, especial the particularly graphic one. Meanwhile, my books got past from cubicle to cubicle wrapped in a big, boring spreadsheet, instead of the traditional brown wrapper popular circa 1950. Apparently, I’m not the only lady who’s thinking impure thoughts. To top it off, my mother absconded with both books in my precious sex library when she came to help me move recently, sighting that she could put them to use long before I hoped to.
Everyone’s a critic.
So, here I am faced with a sea full of swingers. You remember swing, right? It’s the official topic of this blog in case you forgot. Among my prospects at the dance studio, you’ve got the bashful, sweetly bearded Grisly Adam, the so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him Norman Nurman, the hypnotically seductive Commie, the blog-favorite Apple Guy, and the old, rusty hard-on that is The Chief. To tell you the truth, if I ever for one second considered The Chief as a viable option for me, it was because the idea of a mature, experienced, hopefully skilled man wasn’t exactly unattractive given my suddenly alarming situation. Try as I might to ignore Dalia’s voice inside my head, I couldn’t kick the idea that male attention was something that now had to be worried about.
I can’t help thinking that subconsciously this is why I started the blog- to sort out, record, and convey this particular journey. It may sound corny, but I, in fact, think that my experience- or lack thereof- is wonderfully human. From what I hear, I should count myself lucky that I have no regrets. I am not afraid to risk my heart and body, but not without just cause. Despite appearances in this blog entry, my mother taught me never to settle or succumb to peer pressure. A quarter of a century into life, I’m still sticking to that advice.
Sorry, Mom.
Sincerely,
-Sara
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