I miss dating.
Every time I hear a single friend of mine going on and on about the flutters and fabulousness of new lust, I find myself envious. Thus, I set out to get back to dating.
I find, however, that it is hard to date while married. Every now and then I'll try platonic dating. Ya know, meeting new people, making new friends, getting out more. I need to get out more and I love people, so it always seems like a good idea. Because I find that most women are whiny, co-dependent wretches, I tend to gravitate towards hanging out with men. They appreciate my rape jokes more anyway.
I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that men do not understand what "platonic" means. The single ones want to fuck. The married ones want to fuck. The gay ones, not so much, but there's only so much Lady Gaga a girl can listen to in one sitting. And one of my gay guy friends actually did ask me to have sex with him, just to "try it out" with someone he trusted. Frankly, with my track record for monogamy being what it is (i.e, I completely suck at it), it's likely better not to tempt fate anyway.
So after discussing the issue with Mr. Vixen, we decided to start dating together. Having long since been involved in the swingers community starting at the tender age of 22, it wasn't difficult to convince him to jump in. Okay, so it was extremely difficult. Damned scruples. But I digress.
Our standards were high. We are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals. We sought the same. That was our first problem. Following that, we refused to deal with other people's crazy. In case you were unsure, swingers are fucking insane. They're usually trying to fix their marriages, and swinging is the step taken to do so before the more permanent "solution" of procreating.
Due to our high standards, our online swingers profile read thusly:
Turn-ons: polysyllaby, creativity, good grammar, musical and artistic talent, proper spelling, dry wit, emotional stability, sense of humor, curiosity, politesse and general etiquette, a love of good food, aptitude with tongue and fingers, extended foreplay.
Turn-offs (you will be ignored if you display the following traits): ppl who rite txtspk, tipe porely or mispel comon werds, rabid demands for sex now Now NOW!, cheating on a significant other (with or without sound rationalization), those looking to fill the void of their banal existence, those who in ANY way involve their children in the lifestyle (again, with or without sound rationalization).
Polyamorous? We're not. Nor are we interested. Ever. Why? We're still trapped in the conformist monogamist mindset and prone to jealousy because instead of spending several hours discussing the minutiae of our relationship and our "feelings" we watch true-crime documentaries on MSNBC. And really, teenage vampire-cult killings interest us far more than justifying our inability to commit to another person.
Our ideal people would not send us photos of their gaping orifices. Neither of us find gynecological and/or rectal exams terribly sexy, and though intellectually fascinating in an isn't-the-human-body-cool sort of way, we tend to reserve such musing for less lusty moments.
And as a perhaps-surprising addendum to the above, photos of your penises, gentlemen, are not likely to convince us that what we've really been missing all along in our sex-lives is a second protuberance, and that yours would make the perfect addition.
Be aware that single-sentence requests for face pics or to set up a meeting do not merit the dignity of a reply: not even one of our trademark devastating, witty, and clever retorts (ie, "you're a poopstick.") Sorry, but if you want a glimpse of our faces or a chance to meet in person, you'll have to introduce yourself and get to know us first. We know, the suspense is terrifying; I mean, we might be ugly, and then you'll have had an email conversation that didn't lead to sex. Really, we're selfish to demand you type more than "got pics?", but hey... we're evil. We're the reason you can't have nice things.
Bi-Curious? Ask yourself: if my boyfriend/husband/man were not watching me go down on this chick, would I still be interested in doing it? If yes, then perhaps you are genuinely questioning your sexual orientation at this time.
If no, please ask your man to smoke another guy's pole for your viewing enjoyment. After all, fair is fair.
We were in! Because, as I previously stated, we are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals, we got a pretty steady amount of inquires coming in. Most, we didn't bother responding to. Nope, not even our trademark and witty retort, "You are a poopstick." Many were written in text speak. Many reeked of crazy. Many were by people who were, well, really unattractive.
We met a handful of couples during our year-long experiment, and the dating was, indeed, fun. We had but one rule: No fucking on the first date. Other than that, it was a free-for-all of our combined personalities. Me, the coarse, brash, over-the-top and often inappropriate instigator. (I am "somewhat of an acquired taste," Mr. Vixen tells me, albeit "a bit more subdued" than usual.) Him, the shy, cynical, dry, quick-witted intellectual elitist. (Mr. Vixen insists that he is cynical in the "classical sense," but not in the way our society now understand the word. Reasonable people may disagree on this sentiment.)
We scared people off. One couple actually downshifted into small talk and asked me about my favorite books, which sent me into a discourse upon how John Irving films are crap as compared to his books, and how I've never forgiven John Grisham since reading The Painted House.
Sometimes, people scared us off. Like the loquacious librarian who drunkenly confessed she would sleep with anyone, and then began describing an unsavory scenario involving a first-time meeting with someone else's husband and a bout of vaginal discharge. Contrary to popular belief, I do think there are certain things people ought to keep to themselves.
A few couples were fun and we got along swimmingly with them. However, trying to navigate schedules when it came to other people's children (we don't have any ourselves, nor do we plan to) was tiresome. And so, despite many invitations for more scintillating activities, Mr. Vixen and I spent most of our time at home, watching MSNBC documentaries about teenage vampire cults.
As for me, I began to realize that maybe there's something to be said for not having to date people after all.