Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Just got my first text asking for sex.

The background

I met this ultra cute guy late three Friday night’s ago. It was a lovely night, totally unexpected. I had been stood up by Mr RSVP2. A man who I had been dating and whose potential was outstripped by his reality. I was so hung up on the potential; I had fallen stickily into the love trap and was trying to emerge without too much pain. I had been planning what wedding dress number two would look like and how I desperately wanted to break the 60 kilogram mark (downwards of course) to fit in said frock. I was so busy dreaming and scheming, it took a while to work out that RSVP2 failed to return my calls, never dated on a weekend and basically, just wasn’t that into me.

On reflection, the stand up wasn’t totally unexpected. What followed was.

Sitting at the hairdressers at 6:00 p.m. that Friday late afternoon, knowing that I would likely have the best hairdo for a night of Midsomer Murders in my fluffy slippers, I desperately scanned my contact list, looking for a friend who would welcome me into her snug family unit, as long as I bought a decent bottle of anything or paid for the takeaway.

Pay dirt on text one.

“Cum to party with me. Nice people. Writers, artists, etc. Loft in Redfern. B @ mine at 7:30.”

Speedy was the word for the next hour. Home. Protein shake 4 dinner so I wouldn’t have a pot belly. Never fail to be fancied in (but not fucked – not on the first date, anyway) frock. Drive to friend’s happy family Randwick home.

8:00 p.m. Redfern

Sexy, minimalist to the max loft. A huge artwork installation of grey resign so crap it must have cost a bomb hung like a drop of giant’s snot from the ceiling. Who has an installation in their home?  Luckily the owners were trekking in Nepal, so the party was being held by a gracious, funny woman (who was house sitting the cat and art). The crowd was sparse to begin with and the too bright lighting made us all uncomfortable, till my friend hit the dimmer switch and we all relaxed. No matter what the lighting, the eclectic mob of metrosexuals and models was too cool to be obviously drinking grog, excepting me. I was lushing around with a bottle of real champagne, offering it to cold shouldered, not the friendliest girls, in an effort to break the ice, work the crowd. Finally it twigged why they accepted the fizz but not the bubbly banter. Lights on! I was competition! For me the party was an amazing reprieve from crap television and a luscious block of Orange Intense Lindt (having eaten the Coffee Intense during the last RSVP2 stand-up). Tonight was all good for me. For some of these late 30’s women, they had been planning their outfits and strategy for days. Well I would gladly leave the floor open for them to find any straight man in the room. I had no intention of finding a guy. I was off men. For always. A not great husband, bad experiences with Mr RSVP1 and a suspiciously bruised heart from Mr RSVP2. Off men.  Period.

Isn’t it always the way?

So there I was (sorry it has taken me so long to get to the money shot). Sitting on the sofa, when Mr Handsome saunters up and sits down. (Well it was the other way, I almost sat on him, but that doesn’t sound so sexy). Anyway, after protein shake and four glasses of champagne, I was pretty much off my trolley. Didn’t know he was an apparent sex god till my friends told me later, lost somewhere along the Parramatta Road. Focusing was really optional at that time of night; especially as my contact lenses desperately needed a clean.

Chat chat chat.

Single?  Single.

Single? Single.

Silence.

Me: Book clubs are fun, you don’t even need to read the book. Champagne?

Him: Meditation is the key to unlocking the stresses of Sydney life. Ahh…. herbal tea.

Silence.  

Me to self: Nice night. Great night. In cool loft in Redfern. No kids toys anywhere. This one is too young. I’m no cougar. But he does have a great profile.

Him to me: “Shall I meet you back at yours at 12:30 p.m?”

Pick my jaw off the floor.

Are people really this cool? I thought this kind of Je ne sais quoi was reserved for French films. My first outings into the dating arena decades prior had involved a bottle of Stone’s Green Ginger Wine and snogging under street lights because we both lived at home with our oldies. Recent experiences had replaced the ginger wine with real stuff (though still with a screw top) and the parents with kids, tucked up in flannelette sheets and pyjamas.  Street lights and car seats still featured prominently when snogging occurred.

But tonight one of us is sober and he was drinking herbal tea and talking about his twice daily mediation sessions.

I definitely wasn’t in Kansas, or Gympie, anymore.

So, I said yes, didn’t I?

I got lost on the way home so only had 10 minutes to hide slippers, The Rules of Dating and stuff of single motherhood (Lego and the like) which would scare off any man – lust crazy or otherwise.

Ding dong doorbell at 12:30 p.m. We chatted (over another cup of herbal tea), then made out and made our way upstairs. Nice night, no sex (me finally knowing – very slow learner – that boundaries are acceptable), lotsa cuddles. Perfect evening.

He took my number and that was it for me. Good memories of a night that could have been so much worse. Didn’t want or expect anything else.

Till 30 minutes ago, when Mr Handsome texted:

“Hi Blondie. Hope you had a good weekend. M I being 2 forward in asking for some bedroom action. Soon?”

Ker-ist.

The oxygen is different up on the dating slopes this time around. Decided I need to spend a little more time on the learner levels till I get my balance.

“Thx,” I texted back. “Sex 4 sex sake way too grown up for me. I love love, but good luck 2 u.”  

“We’ll always have Redfern.”

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