Oof, busy week.
I met another pretty femme on Wednesday. As it turns out, going out with other gay people is fairly fruitful — and, y’know, fruity.
(You can groan at that joke. I just did.)
So, this femme. She’s from the Czech Republic, gorgeously accented, engaging as all hell, funny, sweet, athletic — she teaches break-dancing, and snowboards, for Christ’s sake. Even her name is exotic. It’s ‘Sharka’, but spelled ‘Sarka’ with a few accented letters. She’s blond, too, with that kind of urban-messy hair you just want to pull your fingers through. And she gave me her number.
But I just fell out of one big relationship, and I’m only planning to be in the UK for nine more months.
Where were all these women three years ago? When I actually wanted to date.
Okay, yes, I know: wah-wah, poor guy who has all these attractive people dropping in his lap. So sad. So painful. But, see, there’s this other element to it…
*drags hands through hair*
I’ve had one long-term relationship — which was also long-distance, and not precisely action-heavy — and one very short relationship with a friend closer to home. We’re talking one-week short. Other than that, I’ve dated a little bit; gotten drunk and kissed a fair bunch of people; and drop-kicked a guy for shoving his hands down my pants when I was sixteen. But that’s about it.
So, not really a whole lot of experience over here. Which tends to make me a little nervous with new folks when things get past the exciting flirt-sizzle stage and look like they might be heading anywhere… more.
Now, obviously, the thing to do to get over this is to get out there and meet people. Engage, bite a few bullets, and sleep around. Or hell, just sleep with someone. But — but — well, just but.
Sometimes I feel like it’s a little extra awkward for me. Because if you’re butch, talk a good game, strut like a champion, and come off like you know what you’re doing — well, obviously people expect you to know what you’re doing. Especially when you’re twenty-two. And in my (admittedly limited) experience, the average girl that looks at me twice also likes it when I take charge.
Which is great and all for the ego, but not exactly nerve-soothing when I don’t know what I’m doing.
If I could get a late Christmas wish, it’d be to run into someone who’d be willing to show me the ropes — maybe a few times over, because hot damn — and then I’d never have to see them again. I think that last bit is a pride-thing. Or a desire for privacy. Or anonymity. Something.
Also, if I’m completely honest, I don’t think I’m looking for someone who likes to go the slow-and-gentle route. I like a challenge. Like being challenged. Which puts my mind in more of a wrestling, grab-and-tussle place.
*amused* Clearly, I need another butch.
And yow, this post got a touch more personal than I intended. I guess that’s blogging for you.
On a sideways note: I’m still intending to get out there and comment. You bet. Any day now.