Monday, December 26, 2011

Return of the Dance Floor Makeout

When Joseph proposed to me, I came to terms with never being single again – I had accepted it… perhaps even mourned the loss of my singleness. Gone were the days of meeting random men and making out with them on the dance floor. Turns out those days weren’t over. Dance Floor Makeouts (henceforth referred to as DFMs) were instantaneously restored to me!

Two weeks after the break up, my college roommate Marcy and my friend April took me out on the town for a ladies night. Let me set the stage for you: three attractive women scantily clad, all recently single and all 29 years old. Trouble with a freaking huge T. Marcy alluded to my former makeout queen self with raised eyebrows implying I would be on the prowl that evening. I scoffed at the notion because I was “not in any way, shape or form ready to kiss someone else.” My hooker heels, which had been gathering dust in the closet since Joseph was short, were decidedly NOT scoffing at that notion.

We made our way to one of those forgettable bars with barely passable music. Jokers took their turns approaching us, buying us drinks and chatting us up. A tall, blond man kept looking at me and I thought to myself “drink it in, buddy.” He was not my type at all. Too white. Too blond. More drinks and dances followed until somehow, inexplicably the tall, blond man made his move. Suddenly we were dancing and surprisingly enough he was a good dancer. Scratch that. A damn sexy dancer. I knew he wanted to kiss me – all I had to do was tilt my head up slightly to give him access. I liked the way he was holding me so I closed my eyes, lifted my face and BOOM! I’m back.

He asked me my name. His dance skills became more understandable as his accent revealed his French-ness. I stuttered for a moment forgetting what I had decided my bar name would be. It came out something like “Ja-Britney.” This is what followed:

Me: What’s your name?

French-man: &%oiuatniocf&*^

Me: What?

French-man: *&Oiztoiueax#

Me: Shhhh. Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.

French-man: I’m staying at the Crown Plaza.

Me: That’s nice. K, bye.

We made a quick exit - both April and Marcy had enjoyed DFMs but we weren’t trying to go home with these guys. Back in the kitchen of my apartment I was reduced to what is known as “beer tears.” Unintelligible, incoherent crying that sometimes happens after a night of drinking. In my case it was coupled with the emotional turmoil of “why did he leave me?”,“I can’t believe I kissed someone else” and “why did Frenchie use so much tongue?”

Bottom line: Hooker heels + DFMs + beer tears = successful night.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Beginning and end

Things you should know about me:

My name is Jamie Wise and I’m 29 years old. I live in Washington, DC, one of the best cities in the world. 4 months ago my boyfriend of 3.5 years proposed to me in Ashville, North Carolina. 3 months ago, the man I thought I was going to marry quit his life. He quit his job, broke up with me and moved back in with family. This blog is the story of my newly found singledom and journey out of heartbreak. Some might classify what I'm doing as a "manpage". I wouldn't disagree.

I meet people everywhere. My friends don’t understand how it happens and that every story starts with “I met this guy…” and usually ends with “and then we made out.” By no means am I spectacular looking – I’m a solid 7 and possibly an 8 after 3 beers. I’m just open and friendly – it’s the Midwestern in me. I’m from Ohio and thus can talk and will talk to anyone.

I don’t believe in one night stands or casual sex. Why? It’s funny. It has nothing to do with morals. It’s pure greed. That’s right. I’m greedy. I want mine. What incentive does a man have to make sure the woman feels good if it’s a one night stand? NONE. So I’ve been labeled a tease. And I’m fine with that. I respect myself and my body too much to care. Sorry I’m not sorry, fellas.

One last thing. The name of this blog: Flingstress. Recently on a trip to visit my sister in Oregon, we had dinner with friends of hers and their children. After telling numerous dating stories the 16 year old son looked at me with wide eyes and exasperatingly said:“What are you? Some kind of flingstress?” Yes, apparently, that’s exactly what I am. Thanks, Braunamere.

Seriously the last thing. I will change the names to protect the men I write about. It’s not my intent to hurt anyone’s feelings or talk shit about them, so please don’t be offended. It isn't you, it’s me. Well let's be honest: it actually IS you.