Am I the only one who suspects that men secretly pass around a book titled The Hook Up: Steps 1-5? By this I mean, it seems that every hook up starts and ends the same way, and each time I get a sense of deja vu about it. I think I could close my eyes in the middle of a heavy makeout session and it could be any one of a dozen different men that I’ve made out with in the last few years.
Please tell me I’m not alone.
Take my date last weekend for example. After an enjoyable dinner conversation and copious amounts of red wine, we retreated back to his place for a night cap. Cut to: some making out on the couch while my body contorts into some odd position that is in no way comfortable but is mentally chalked up to an extra ab workout for the day.
Then comes the attempt at fondling, however misguided it may be. Let me put this out there for everyone: no matter how a woman is reacting in the moment, no one ever enjoys the feeling of a hand rubbing her sensitive bits over her jeans. Just don’t do it, ever, never, period. (There’s a little thing known as chafing.)
While I’m on the subject of misguided fondling, let me remind all men that my breasts are attached to my body. I can understand why they seem like additional fun objects, but squeezing and twisting and putting any sort of pressure on them hurts, just as it would on another less innocuous part of my body. No amount of mushing you do will detach them and allow you to take them home later.
After several excruciating minutes of this clothed groping, hands and fingers inevitably begin to move under the clothes. I’m hopeful, for a brief moment, that things are looking up and I might actually begin to enjoy myself. All hopes are dashed, however, when he attempts to slip his hand under my jeans without unbuttoning them. Forget about removing them completely – I am happy to settle for a quick unbuttoning so I don’t feel like I have to squeeze even further into these tight pants. Alas, the struggle continues until I take matters into my own hands and remove the restricting denim myself.
Cue the deja vu. I close my eyes and a slideshow of a dozen different people flows through my mind, each of them doing the same exact thing.
At this point in the evening, I’m tired and bored and it’s time to go home. I call a girlfriend on the way home and we commiserate over the awkward and uncomfortable fumblings. And while it sounds harsh and I personally could have done a thousand things differently, I can’t help but expect a little more confidence and a lot more creativity from the next person.
Is that too much to ask?