The dating psyche

[Y_B]

So when it comes to dating, and any kinda relationship you have with people, there's a process and then you reach a point where you realize that you're really getting comfy with the other person and things are going well, you're really getting along great.

 

So, just for fun, I'm curious, where is that "point" for you? 

[Ron]

So when it comes to dating, and any kinda relationship you have with people, there's a process and then you reach a point where you realize that you're really getting comfy with the other person and things are going well, you're really getting along

So, just for fun, I'm curious, where is that "point" for you? 

 

That's just it, Y_B, it's during the process, as you say, not afterwards that you get the impression that you might be comfortable with the person you're talking to. Afterwards, any further interaction emphasizes that initial gut reaction or thrashes it and you move on.

[Bill W]

I'm not sure you can really define the 'point,' as you put it, because there are a myriad of factors involved and they can vary with the different individuals you come into contact with. 

[TetRefine]

I was comfortable around my boyfriend long before this point, but the point I felt really comfortable around him was when we started seriously discussing our future options for post-college life together. 

[Traveller_23]

Yeah I couldn't really define the "point" either in terms of exactly when it happens what precedes it etc. However, if I can be unashamedly mushy around them then that point has been reached! Also, I can't do the whole date multiple people at the same time to increase your options thing. It requires too much brain power, logistical skills and I can't emotionally invest in any of them. Then I end up not being able to decide which one I want...

[Y_B]

I meant to keep this light and casual, it wasn't meant as a deep psychological question that needed analysis.

 

As in, the guy I was dating in college, I realized we really settled comfortably into the relationship when I stopped caring how I looked around him lol, it got to a point where he started telling me I looked like trailer trash basically cuz I ditch the button ups and sperrys and went with gym shorts and tshirt all the time

[Mark Arbour]

So when it comes to dating, and any kinda relationship you have with people, there's a process and then you reach a point where you realize that you're really getting comfy with the other person and things are going well, you're really getting along great.

 

So, just for fun, I'm curious, where is that "point" for you? 

 

Wait...you date?  Is that what they call hooking up these days?

[Henry_Henry2012]

I would call dating someone to be in the works of becoming a serious relationship, is when he can vocally lecture me about the fact that I spend an hour or two in the shower, without him feeling the need to quiet down because he thinks the need to know me better. That's where the benchmark for comfortability has risen to when we can call out each other on our own bullshit which is basically what every relationship entails -- which is accepting the other person's shortcomings and psychological issues (probably not this one) or plainly speaking . . . when someone accepts your own crap.

 

And if I can say a retort like, "Bugger OFF, I'm listening to Etta James! I'm having my bubble bath. Get out!" or "Leave me alone. I don't bitch to you about your comic book collection. You're a grown man for fuck's sake."

 

That for me is when I'm in a relationship. It's all fun. And I love those moments where you bicker like enemies all because you argued who got to eat the last dumpling at Mrs. Chow Fan's Chinese restaurant, and yet make-out later like rabid bunnies juiced up to propagate the earth. Mmmm . . . Dumplings.

 

So thank you for reminding me that I'm single. :-( I feel so alone. I think I'll have that bubble bath now.

[rustle]

When I was 12, we visited my aunt and uncle in D.C.. They were the most outspoken critics of each other, it became quite uncomfortable. One night, I went to bed early, just for some peace.

 

My uncle came in, sat down on the bed, and talked with me for a few minutes about his relationship with my aunt. He said they were on the verge of divorce when they went to see a marriage counselor. They found they'd both been keeping a hell of a lot bottled up, so they resolved to start speaking their minds to one another. All the time. Bluntly. That had been 9 years earlier. 43 years later, they're still married.

[TetRefine]

As in, the guy I was dating in college, I realized we really settled comfortably into the relationship when I stopped caring how I looked around him lol, it got to a point where he started telling me I looked like trailer trash basically cuz I ditch the button ups and sperrys and went with gym shorts and tshirt all the time

 

Thats me. I guess I'm just a good 'ole piece of trailer trash.

Edited September 24, 2013 by TetRefine

[Y_B]

Wait...you date?  Is that what they call hooking up these days?

Occasionally. When I feel for a sprinkle of class.

 

Lemme share a story I read on the dangers of dating -

 

"We hadn’t been dating that long, only about a month. Even though we'd only been dating a short time, we were having sex since the second date, and it was the best, freakiest, porno-style sex of my life. Seriously, this was the kind of sex that every man, deep down, dreams about having at least once in his life. It was the kind of sex that I had wished for ever since my voice started changing. It was with this woman, and only with this woman, that I was ever addressed with the phrase, “Use your whole fist for Christ’s sake.”

 

On one now infamous date night, we were enjoying a romantic dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant. Through the entire meal, however, sex was all that was on our minds. In retrospect, every date we ever went on seemed to just be a temporary diversion from the best part of the night, which involved animalistic insertions, feral lickings and brazen misuse of food products. We emptied wine bottle after wine bottle over the course of the dinner, and by the time the main course arrived, fish for her and lobster for me, she slipped off her shoes and casually masturbated me under the table with her stocking covered feet. Completely plastered and horny by the end of the meal, we decided to skip dessert in the restaurant because a much sweeter dessert “was being prepared in her hot, wet crotch,” she said. I paid the bill and narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket, not to mention a DUI, during the drive back to my place.

 

By the time we got into my apartment, we were tearing each other’s clothes off. Sloppy in our drunkenness, we knocked over two lamps during our horny, groping journey into the bedroom. Once in the bed, she got down on all fours, arched her back, and presented her delicious ass to me. I grunted my approval while aiming my rock-hard cock missile at her hairy silo. When the head of my cock began to penetrate her lips, she stopped me.

 

“No. In my ass,” she hissed at me, sounding both horny and angry at the same time.

“Are you sure,” I asked?

She giggled as she said, “If I could handle last night. . .”

Oh yeah, I thought. Last night’s adventure involved a clown mask, three packets of Pop Rocks, and a twenty-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower. What the hell was I thinking? Of course she could handle some anal-action. She reached between her legs and began lubing up her asshole with her own pussy juices. Where did I find this girl? I thought. I was in horn-dog heaven. Blessed. Not being an expert in anal intrusion, I slowly eased my way into her lovely stink-star. First the head, then a quarter of the shaft, and soon I was buried to the hilt between her ass-cheeks.

 

“Go slowly,” she said, half moaning, half panting in both pleasure and pain, I think. I did as she bid, and very slowly began pulling out, like a steam piston on an old locomotive beginning its first run in a century. Almost all the way out of her, but keeping the head firmly planted in her ass-iris, I slowly began inserting again.

 

“Yeeeeees!” she moaned and began diddling her clit. Soon she said, “Faster.” So faster I went, the tempo increasing until the train was running at full speed, the piston pumping in and out so fast my cock became a complete blur, her hand rubbing her clit like she was trying to start a friction-fire in her pussy.

 

“Gnnnnnnnah!” she screamed. Thinking she was close to orgasm, I pumped that ass even faster, faster than Amish meth-head churns butter.

“Gnnnnnahstoooop,” she screamed, or something like this, because the noise in my head was drowning out the reality around me, for in my head I heard a steam locomotive, chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-Woo-Woo! Barreling down the tracks, and somehow I pumped even faster.

“YES!” I screamed.

She started reaching behind her and flailing on the bed in what I thought was ecstasy—

“—Stop!” she screamed, able to finally get out the word I had mistaken for groans of ecstasy moments ago. She screamed this with such volume and guttural, primal force that it had the effect of pulling the emergency brake on a 100,000 pound locomotive running at full speed. The sex act squealed to a halt, and I pulled my cock out of her ass like the rip-cord on a parachute. Did someone order champagne? No, that popping noise was my cock coming out of her ass.

“Arrrrrrgh!” She screamed, as I yanked my cock free. And then it happened.

Immediately after my cock popped out, I was sprayed from belly to thighs with watery, fish-smelling diarrhea.

“What the—-?” I said, not able to get the word ‘fuck’ out of my mouth because of my shock at the brown funk lining my body. As she sprayed me, she seemed to be propelled forward by the force of the jet-propelled diarrhea, and she collapsed onto her stomach.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” I murmured, completely shell-shocked. Everything was still. I could hear my wind-up alarm clock ticking on my dresser. I stared at my shit-covered body. I surveyed the room to see if there was any collateral damage. The trajectory of the diarrhea spray was similar to buck-shot in a sawed-off shotgun; it was everywhere. Unfortunately, during the sex act she had been facing the feet-side of the bed, which meant that the headboard, my bedside table and lamp had poop on them as well. Even my bedside clock had a few speckles staining its face. The bed sheets: Killed in Action. A total loss.

 

I looked at my date, lying there motionless. I called her name. No response. I called her name while shaking her a bit. Nothing. Fear shot through me, as I thought, “Oh my god, what if she’s dead?” But this fear quickly dissipated when I heard her snoring. She was passed out from the wine. I on the other hand was no longer blasted drunk, because the blast from her ass rendered me completely sober. This night was definitely going down in the (ahem) annals as the all time worst date of my life. In fact, I had to invent a new special category, “Even the Devil would feel sympathetic,” to describe this night.

 

I cleaned up. I cleaned her up. I cleaned the headboard, the dresser, the lamp and the clock. With some manipulation of her passed out body, I was able to wrangle the sheets from the bed and throw them down the garbage chute. By two in the morning, I found myself lying on my couch, drinking Jack Daniels from the bottle. I don’t remember passing out myself, but I can say that unconsciousness didn’t come soon enough.

 

“It was food poisoning,” her voicemail message explained to me the next day. After some silence, she added, “The fish.” More silence. “Sorry.” She left this message the following day, around 2:00 p.m. I had slept until Noon, and, thank God, she was gone when I woke up. How do you face that? She never called me again. I never called her. I definitely learned two valuable lessons that night: 1) Never have anal sex after a sea food dinner. 2) Be careful what you wish for. There’s only one other experience in my life that entered into the “Even the Devil would feel sympathetic” category, and frankly I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell that story. Let’s just say that the morning after a great one-night-stand, the beautiful woman you banged the night before can certainly use your bathroom. . .but she shouldn’t be more comfortable standing up while she pees."

 

There is no fish involved in hooking up

Edited September 24, 2013 by Y_B

[Sasha Distan]

i haven't been on a date in nearly 7 years... i basically don't remember what it's like, and hopefully, I'll never need to remind myself.

[Thorn Wilde]

We haven't really got a dating culture in this country... Magpie and I had known of each other's existence for a few years, found ourselves at some of the same parties for a few months, and then we hooked up at one of them. The next day he took me out to dinner to make up for me having paid the taxi bill to his place the night before as he was too drunk to find his wallet. Cue a couple of weeks of hanging out at his place (I was still living at home), watching movies and quite a bit of shagging, before we, at 4 in the morning on the 1st of April, decided that it would be hilarious to change our relationship statuses on Facebook to 'in a relationship' with each other and see how many of our friends thought we were kidding. And that's the closest I've come to ever being in a 'dating' phase with anyone.

[Ron]

I dated both of the long term partners I've had in my life which includes the current one of 18 years, Thorn but then again I'm - how did you put it, oh yeah - I'm someone twice your age. 

[Thorn Wilde]

I dated both of the long term partners I've had in my life which includes the current one of 18 years, Thorn but then again I'm - how did you put it, oh yeah - I'm someone twice your age. 

 

Is this where I try to smooth things over by telling you that I find older men really very attractive and that one of the sexiest men I can think of at the moment is 55?