Kimiko – Chapter 5 – Text to Fix

After my wonderful first date with the lovely Kimiko, I really wanted to see her again. I was going to try to set something up for a lunch this week. I also sent her a link to this great documentary about the Asian Bank, “Abacus: Small Enough Too Jail.” (If you’ve been following this blog you’ll know that I saw that film in the theater with Ambria.)

I’m texting her.

“Thank you! I’m still at work! How are you?”

“I’m at the salon working too! I’ve been thinking about our fun date last night!”

“Another busy day, right?

“Not too busy here tonight. Rain is keeping people away.”

“Yea…Wholefoods too.”



“Would you still be up for lunch on Thursday?”

“Hey, I’m done work now. Thursday I have a doctor’s appointment at 2pm. What time is good for you?”

“Shall we do 11 or 11:30? What works best for you?”

“My doctor’s office is in Moorestown. Quite far away from the city. You have to work Thursday?

“3 to 8pm. Looking at a property at 10am.”


“Weekend better for you?”

“I guess so.”

“Aww! Saturday after 5 or Sunday after 4pm? Movies? Or I could do a Zip Car and come to Jersey. Or I could hop on Patco and we could dine in Haddonfield or Collingswood.”

“Great! We can talk later.”


The week passes and so does the weekend. I don’t hear from her at all. I really like Kimiko and want to hang out with her again. (And kiss her again!) My schedule just really sucks right now.  I decide to make another attempt.


“Hi Kimiko. Have you lost interest?”

“You didn’t text me last week?!”

“I wanted to after I came up with a few solutions on how we could meet and I didn’t hear from you for the weekend. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.”

“You know what, it’s a misunderstanding, because I didn’t hear from you again, I thought you went on another date.”

“No. Like I said I have been working a lot lately. I like you and I thought our first date went really well.”

“Thank you. Yea, I had a good time too.”

“So you’re still interested in getting to know me and you’d like to go out again.”



“Things have been busy getting this business off the ground. But I want to stay in touch with you and find ways to spend time with you whenever we can!”

“Yes! Sounds good! Because this weekend I’m going to New York for a baby shower.”

“Sounds good. I’m so glad we chatted tonight. I feel so much better and I hope you do too, Kimiko.”

“Indeed. You know sometimes online dating just ends for no reason.”

“I guess, but I think we have a good connection.”


“Awesome. “Well have fun at the shower up in New York. We’ll chat again soon!”


“Thank you, Kimiko.”

So I’ll leave it there for now. Hopefully once I get through the next week, I should have some free time to see her. I don’t want her to get away, but I fear that if I wait too long she will.



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Racquel Writes! – 26 Questions

via 26 Questions



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Bad Habits Can Make You Look Older


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Shara – Moonless River – Part 2

Fair warning, it’s slightly NSFW

Upon arriving to her shared bungalow I followed her inside, watched her get a couple of beers from the fridge, and then continued out to the back porch to sit and drink and talk some more. Her skinny dachshund joined us and I did my best to accommodate his restless curiosity. It was there that we finally managed to have a real conversation, though my buzzing senses told me that it was largely perfunctory. I was in no state to be as thoughtful or funny as I can be on my best days, and so we mostly talked about her neighbors, my work, her school, and how we both ended up in Philly. She had moved from Texas less than six weeks earlier and was studying to take the bar exam. She said that Philly was everything that Houston wasn’t, though the fact that she’d moved to Philly sight unseen made me wonder how she’d determined that in advance.

As the summer sky cycled through a darkening palette of blue, a silent shift occurred and our conversation ceased. I spent a long moment peering out over the yard before turning to her and drawing close. We kissed. We kissed again, and again, and she eventually ended up seated on my lap, her arms around my shoulders and my arms around her waist, the first stage of weaving in which bodies can engage.

I felt good. I wanted this to be happening. I wanted to meet a young, clever girl in a bar, have a few drinks, talk, and then go to bed with her. It didn’t have to be complicated and it didn’t have to last longer than a night. It was just what I needed. After a few minutes she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. Had she turned toward me at any point while we descended the stairs leading to her basement bedroom she would’ve glimpsed the stupid grin that I was wearing in her wake.

I’d like to claim that things improved from there, but two factors worked in concert to make the next several hours more of a psychosexual endurance test than anything else. One: I was still really, really drunk. Two: I had grown surprisingly intimidated by the aggressive, exotic woman sitting astride me, which affected my ability to keep it up. Initially everything went just fine, but as time went on I found myself managing an ever increasing pendulum sweep of hot sex and performance anxiety. The slats of her Ikea daybed squeaked noisily and shifted with our movements, and fearful of her housemate’s moral judgement she pulled us both down to the clothes covered concrete floor for more.

Going down on her temporarily renewed me, but her almost belligerent approach combined with the men’s magazine spread of her lithe, strong body continued to daunt and distract me from the unspoken but obvious goal of getting both of us off. Sexual ineptitude was a wholly novel experience for me, and I am being honest when I say that she was, and remains, the only woman who has ever provoked it.

Back in bed, partly sated and completely exhausted, we continued to caress each other’s bodies. I rolled on top of her and nibbled her neck while running my hands through the moonless river of her hair. I liked the way her compact frame was boxed by my knees and elbows, my back and hips forming a tabletop above her. My mouth moved to her breasts, first left, then right, and there I discovered a stainless steel barbell piercing a small, dark nipple. Now, it is true that I’d never been with anyone with a nipple piercing before, but that doesn’t mean that what happened next was completely my fault. It might have been, but that shit was steel and my teeth are not.

Soon after my discovery, the ministrations of my mouth managed to break one of the balls off the shaft of the piercing, which then slid free of its years-old home. She recognized what had happened immediately and within an instant the lights were on and she was angrily assessing the damage done. Drunk, tired, bleary-eyed, and naked, we both peered at her nipple like inept scientists. I made the mistake of trying to gently squeeze it to determine where the piercing had been, after which she yelped, slapped my hand away, and disappeared upstairs with the broken barbell in one hand and her throbbing breast in the other.

She was up there for a long time. I fell asleep for a while. She later told me that she’d attempted to shove the shaft back in and nearly passed out from the pain. When that didn’t work, she resigned herself to returning to bed and dealing with it in the morning. I laid down beside her, flummoxed by and apologetic for what had happened. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly four in the morning. As much as I needed to sleep, I recalled with a sigh that I’d made plans to go to the farmer’s market with a friend early that morning, which somewhat incredibly had now arrived.

I allowed myself to rest fitfully for an hour before blindly collecting my things and padding upstairs. I don’t remember if I gave my partner in the previous night’s fiasco a kiss goodbye, but I’d like to think that I did. I also asked her to call me later about getting her nipple fixed up.

Like a gentleman.

As I walked to the street and I realized in a thrilling moment of disorientation that I had no idea where in the city I was. I chose a direction and began to walk, and after noticing the increasing house numbers, turned around and walked back the other way. By the time I determined my location I was still over a few miles from my apartment. It was a beautiful morning, bright and clear, and as I followed the river south I laughed aloud at the last twelve hours. My city was still slumbering, and I was welcoming the day.


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5 Basic Safety Tips For Women


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Shara – Moonless River – Part 1

One of my favorite tales!

I’ll just admit it: I looked at her pictures first.

I did that with everyone. I looked at their pictures first and then, with my immediate physical interest either whetted or withered, go back and read their profile. If I found their profile suitably charming or at the very least cogent, I would craft a brief introduction relevant to their interests that established common ground, ask a question or two, and end it, nearly always, with some variation of: “You seem interesting and I think we’d get along well. Let me know if you’d like to see if that’s the case sometime.”

Sometimes they did want to see if that was the case. And sometimes it was the case, and sometimes it was wasn’t, and sometimes it so very much wasn’t that I’d begin to imagine while the date was still in progress how I would retell the story later that night in a bar to my friends. By the summer of 2015 I’d been split from my girlfriend (See: Annabelle – Nice to Meet You) for over a year and a half and was largely finished with the sudden solitude induced frenzy of fear driven dating that I’d forced myself to endure immediately following my newfound status as a single adult male. Also, for almost a year I’d been in an on-again off-again on-again relationship with someone who I cared for but knew without a doubt would eventually be off-again and never, ever on-again.

Which is, in part, why I continued regularly meeting new people, not in search of someone better, but of everything better… better friends, better talks, better laughs, better misunderstandings, better in-jokes, better love, better life. Around that time I often claimed that I didn’t want to be a part of any relationship that precluded any other relationship, which I do still believe to some degree, as far as that goes. No one can be everyone else for another person, nor should they be expected to try. But there’s always that one person that no one else can ever be for you, and I had yet to meet that person.

I was hopeful.

As I said, I looked at her pictures first. I can still recall the dark-haired, doll eyed, almond skinned beauty in each of those first images. Here she is, petite as a teenager, standing in front of a graffiti wall, her hips at an awkward cant. And here, in a black summer dress with white polka dots, holding two dogs, her smile the brightest thing in the photo. And this one, her hand smashed against her face, soft nose and lips squishing out between small fingers, almost daring me to find her attractive. And finally, there’s that smile again as she strums a guitar, her downward glancing eyes forming the bold semi-circles of a particularly adorable Sanrio character.

Her online dating profile mirrored mine in the fact that they both tread a delicate path between witty condescension, feigned disinterest, and actual, useful information. Her intelligence was immediately apparent, as were her pop culture, gourmet, and internet meme credentials, but if I had to choose one reason for contacting her, I would have to say it was simply that I recognized a familiar voice (echo?) behind all of it, a voice I liked tremendously, and I suddenly wanted to hear what else it had to say.

Eventually I sent the girl a message that detailed my interest in cooking large meals from scratch and my love/hate relationship with food poisoning, which were both topics mentioned in her profile. Later that day she replied, and for the next several hours we volleyed messages back and forth until phone numbers had been swapped and plans had been made for the following evening. Our initial exchanges were playfully guarded, like two unfamiliar boxers dancing around each other, neither very interested in being the first to connect or be connected with.

The following day I worked and then met friends for drinks at a much buzzed about bar that had opened only a week before. Unexpectedly, my ex-girlfriend had also been invited, and so we chatted cooly with each other while sipping cocktails with names like “The Coltrane”, “Joe McCarthy’s Ghost”, and “The Chimney Sweep.” “The Chimney Sweep” was a eye-watering concoction of scotch, ouzo, vermouth and bitters, and it was the last thing I drank before saying goodbye to everyone (“What, no hug?”) and began my journey up Ben Franklin Parkway. It didn’t hit me until I was riding just how drunk I’d managed to get myself in such short a time. This did not bode well for the date to come, which I had been allowing myself to feel cautiously optimistic about. My biggest concern at the moment was that she’d ask me if I was drunk, because I most certainly was.

We’d agreed to meet at a small hipster bar in Fairmount that neither of us had ever been to. Earlier in the day the battery of my phone had died, so I hoped my date wouldn’t try to call and reschedule with a voicemail I’d never receive. I walked inside and found a spot at the bar. Then I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and squint at myself in the mirror. My disappointed reflection shook its head derisively before sighing and shrugging its shoulders. As I walked out of the bathroom back to my seat, she walked through the door and identified me immediately. We then shook hands efficiently, our arms as stiff and fully extended as soldiers at attention.

She wore a white tank top, jeans, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors faded to gray. Her inky hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her large eyes were boldly outlined with makeup. A long, well structured nose hovered above a full pair of cupid’s-bow lips. But the most striking thing about her face was the uncommonly potent mixture of youth and world-weariness that it possessed. She was pretty and petite, but seemed both aware of this and tired of it being mentioned, so I didn’t.

I don’t recall what introductory pleasantries were exchanged, but within seconds of arriving she eyed me suspiciously and then asked if I was drunk. “No,” I lied, “but you’re going to have to play a little catch up.” This turned out not to be an issue for her. A round of gin and tonics were ordered and downed, followed by a second round that we consumed with equal ease. I remember liking that she drank to drink.

My plan, pre-happy hour overindulgence, was to meet her at the bar, chat for a while, maybe walk around the neighborhood, and then go to a nearby house show where a band that I wanted to see was playing. It was still very early when we stepped out of the bar and back onto 21st Street, which was glowing warmly in the fading sunset. We briefly debated ducking into another bar, but then she made this suggestion: “So, I’m not trying to be too forward or anything, but my roommate has a bunch of liquor we can have and I live really close by, so do you want to just go there?”

Yes. Yes I did.


Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion!


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What To Do When You Like A Girl With A Boyfriend


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