MAN EATER

What defines a date? Seriously. I want to know. ‘Cause somewhere along the line, I got labeled as “Couch Potato Chick”. After the requisite coffee, lunch, and dinner outings, we arrive at date three, have sex, and suddenly my suitors relegate me to “let’s stay in” status.

…not that I mind necessarily. Home is where the heart is and all that sentimental crap. What I’m trying to figure out is if my suitors simply prefer to spend one-on-one time with me in private…or are they embarrassed to be seen with me in public?

Let’s get some examples on the table, shall we?

Pumpkin Eater was the I-wanna-show-you-off kind of guy. Within two weeks of our introduction, not only did we share several chi-chi meals together, he also invited me to a company function, introduced me to his daughter, AND offered to buy me a plane ticket so I could accompany him down South for a triathalon he was participating in. (Egoic aside: yup, I’m so good men would rather drop hundreds on a travel costs than spend a weekend without me. Heh heh.)

Compare this to last week, when I met up with a man at a pizzeria for dinner. As soon as the hello-hug was over, he looked at the menu and said, “Should we order this to go and take it back to my place?” We’d met before, so this proposition didn’t completely creep me out…but it was a tad too forward for my taste. Tacky, even. I told him no, because I was tired of driving. (The truth, as I had gotten lost twice en route, but not the whole truth, which was that I wasn’t gonna go there with him, especially not on the first date.)

We ate at the restaurant; though no sooner had the leftovers (his) been boxed, he suggested we head back to his house. Is this what dating has devolved to? Sex and pizza? You feed me, I fuck you? Really? For the record, I refused again. His next date offer was to watch cable and eat Chinese take out…at his house. Here we go again…

Perhaps I’m taking this all too personally. Could it be that midweek dates, if they are to happen at all, will probably be at home because of work schedules? Or that men don’t want to plan away every night of their lives? Is it the economy? Laziness? Simple neanderthal “I do what I want!” rebellion?

Or could it be that some couplings are sweeter in private? Thinking back to My Little Indian (with whom I had a whopping four dates, despite a complete absence of chemistry), our best times were watching cooking shows on his couch. In public, we were awkward, even phony, together. And our outings weren’t much fun, like when we went to see “Slumdog Millionaire”, both of us under the impression that it was a romantic comedy. What a downer! The best part of THAT date was the huge plate of sweet potato fries I used to stuffed down my post-movie misery.

And then, of course, there’s Puck. I so wish I could tell you the story here, but I gotta save some tidbits for the book (So go sing Man Eater’s praises as much as possible, people! We must get a publisher for this baby!). The short version is that I showed up for a date at his place with one set of expectations for the evening only to find that his were completely different…and very dirty…a la “I need to pick up some toilet paper at the corner store”. The only common item on our agendas was sex. Which was, of couse, fucking fantastic, but it made me wonder if Puck only wanted to me to come over because I put out. It was as if the price-of-admission to my pussy had suddenly dropped to the cost of a coconut popsicle. (That’s not a pun, BTW.)

This brings me to Slump Buster, with whom I’ve had a few stay-in dates. Admittedly, I kind of like our arrangement whereby I have plenty of time to write, “om”, shower and eat what I want (and as much as I want) before heading over to his place for dessert. We’re beyond nicecities at this point, so, truth be told, the bedroom is where we’re at our best. Why put on the social show-and-dance beforehand?

Because…as a stay-at-home mom turned work-at-home writer, I sometimes yearn to be in the 3-D company of other people. I don’t need to interact with them (in fact, I’d prefer not to), but it’s nice to confirm there is a world spinning outside of my laptop. And, okay, I get really turned on by PDA. The idea that a man wants me so bad he can’t keep his hands off of me—especially when it’s inappropriate to do so—is sooooooo sexy.

I consulted my brother on this issue (staying in versus going out, not PDA!), as he’s a young man with poor planning capabilities and a tight budget. His opinion was that the activity didn’t matter so much as the amount of interest the partners show in getting to know each other. “Does he remember stuff about you?” my lil’ bro asked. “If not, he might just be bored and doesn’t want to admit it.”

Hmm…of course my mind goes to the foodie wooing first. Slump Buster most certainly remembers my preferences for treats. (I’m thinking of one smooth Reese’s peanut butter cup gesture in particular…) Slump Buster also remembers most of these blog posts, details of which he occassionally regurgitates in bed, much to my chagrin. (Oh well, I guess I should be glad he’s an attentive reader.)

Speaking of which, if Slump Buster is reading this post, I’ll best he’s rolling his eyes and groaning at the screen. This isn’t meant to be a passive aggressive hint-hint to take me out on the town. I don’t need ABC’s “Bachelor” style courtship with supper in caves, air-baloon rides, and bungee jumping. I adore chillaxin’…as long as it’s because you’re happiest hanging with me in the buff, even when the sex is over. If I’m only getting the invites because I’m booty call girl, then I expect monetary, in addition to culinary, compensation!

In closing, I don’t mind being a couch potato…as long as both our appetites are satisfied.

These greasy, salty, sweet potato fries with a dollop of chipotle mayo will hit the spot, especially after sex. Eat in your underwear with your favorite couch potato!

Click here for Man Eater's Sweet Potato Fries and Spicy Chipotle Mayo Recipe.