Last Song of the Night = Last Chance to Grind

On any given Friday night, you’ll find me at the rink playing ice hockey in a men’s league. What can I say? I’m a badass. For my actual birthday I went back to Ohio to spend the weekend with college friends and my parents. For my “DC birthday” I invited a group of six ladies out for an evening of ice hockey and booty dancing. Too legit to quit.

I don’t know how else to say this but I have cute friends. I’m not just saying that – it’s empirically proven. We have a particularly good game which probably has nothing to do with the fact the guys know six lovely ladies are watching. After the game, I quickly shower and change into a teeny tiny red dress. Slightly slutty? Perhaps – but it’s MY birthday after all.

We head to a sleazy nightclub in Arlington, Clarendon Ballroom, where another friend is waiting for us. With drinks in hand, Rashida ushers us onto the dance floor where she has already made friends. I’m not surprised. One guy is tall, broad shouldered and handsome but obviously interested in Rashida who is humoring him. His friend is shorter, ginger and bearded. Not exactly my type but he’s fun to dance with and he makes sure all of my friends have fun too. Bonus.

Many guys try to break into our group and look enviously at the two men allowed in the dance circle with seven hot ladies. One Turkish man infiltrates and absconds with April. I can’t tell if she needs rescuing or not so I shoot her a few ‘just give me the sign and I’ll swoop in’ looks. Yes, you can communicate all of that with one raised eyebrow. She seems content to let Turkish man monopolize her dance space so I return my attention to Brian. I’m not used to someone being able to keep up with me on the dance floor. I’m digging it. And him, unexpectedly. He’s from Idaho. I can’t help but make the joke “*I* da ho? YOU da Ho!” It’s terrible and I know it but it has already escaped my mouth and I can’t get it back. He laughs. Oh, it’s on.

There isn’t much time, though. And ginger man is not making any moves. I’m feeling magnanimous so I decide to help a brother out.

Brian Ballroom, the name that is later assigned to him in my cell phone, looks shocked but I don’t have to tell him twice. He’s an exceptional kisser and I don’t even mind the scratchy beard. We leave the club and I get this text message from him shortly thereafter: “Hey Ms. Ballroom, you were a riot :) Happy Birthday.” Aww, sweet. Too bad he ruined it with a later text “it’s a sad image thinking you’re snuggling alone on your birthday night.” Not as sad as you trying to holler at 3:45 am, buddy. Does this actually work on some women? It’s sort of like cat-calling. Has that ever worked in the history of gross men whistling at women on the street? No dice, Brian Ballroom. At least invite me to Panera for a bread bowl first. Sheesh.

Alejandro Alejandro Ale Ale Alejandrrrrro

It’s Sunday night. And you know what that means! Oh. Maybe you don’t know what that means. Salsa! I suppose it’s understandable why you wouldn’t assume that Sunday night is a totally legitimate night to go out salsa dancing. I’m the weird one here. Not you.
After a night of debauchery and heavy drinking the previous night, my friends and I are content to suck down bottled water and be twirled around the dance floor. A slow salsa comes on and I find myself taking a break near the bar. A smoking hot latino man saunters up to me and says…

I feel good about recovering from that awkward moment so brilliantly as he leads me onto the dance floor. I can’t help but wonder: how many drinks had I consumed that made me forget this stunning man? His dancing was average but all is forgiven because he’s smoking hot. Have I mentioned he’s hot? No? Well he is. Oh, and his name is Alejandro. Yes, like the Lady Gaga song.
Alejandro texts me – side note, texting is a new and obnoxious development in dating that allows men to be even more cowardly – and invites me to join him and his friends at a Chilean reggae concert. Right on. I invite my friend Joy to come since I’m not sure if he likes me or if this is a date (I mean, hey, I’m out of practice – maybe that’s how the kids are doing it these days).
We arrive fashionably late, on latino time some might say, and are immediately transported to Central/South America. Not a single gringo in sight. So many brown men sporting “faux-hawks” it’s insane. It smells like beer and cigarettes. A dude actually tries to light a joint in the audience and he gets hauled away by a bouncer. Welcome to the United States of America.
The opening band is like Sublime – only all in Spanish and with a lead singer who has dreads literally down to his knees. I’m in heaven bopping around to the music and people watching… Alejandro is unabashedly dancing and stealing looks at me from time to time. Eventually he pulls me to where he is standing and we sway together for a bit. He smells dangerously delicious.
Not even halfway through the band’s first set, Joy leans in and tells me she has to leave by 10:15 pm. WHAT?! Why was this not discussed beforehand and why did we ride together then? Alejandro is visibly agitated when I tell him the bad news. I comfort myself in thinking I should leave him wanting more.
Walking out to the car I tell Joy I’m not sure if he likes me. She shoots me one of those ‘you’re an idiot’ looks and then proceeds to say “he wants to sleep with you.” Hot damn. To quote the illustrious Fergie: GIRL CAN’T HELP IT!

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

The invite to my childhood friend’s wedding said “costumes encouraged” and so I arrive fully decked out with a blond bob wig, boa and long gown. Getting out of the car with my family I am suddenly nervous that I had overdressed. Fuck. What if I’m *that* girl? I catch a glimpse of a blue wig and breathe a sigh of relief.

An old friend (and former flame) spots me and approaches. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but take it from a guy who messed things up with you… he’ll regret it forever.” ::gulp:: I had prepared myself for the possible feeling of sadness at this wedding. However, as I watched Will and Charissa say their vows surrounded by family and friends in costumes, I am pleasantly surprised to feel nothing that even resembles sadness. Not even a distant cousin of sadness. Not even a weird uncle-in-law of sadness that you only see every other year at Christmas.

After the ceremony, we head into a simple but beautifully decorated barn for the reception. The first dance is over and couples are invited onto the dance floor. I sit there watching happy couples dance and finally a little sadness creeps in. Damn it. I resolve to a two-fold mission: 1. Get exceptionally drunk (Joseph was always the drunk one and I always had to take care of him) and 2. Find a DFM (see previous post for definition). I meet some new friends who become my accomplices and are bent on helping me with both endeavors.

Enter my mom and dad. They are introducing me to some old friends. Everyone is all smiles as they present their 23 year old son to me on a platter. He’s unfairly handsome with blond hair, piercing blue eyes and a huge nose. It’s a strange thing to like, I know. But there’s something very manly about a good-sized schnoz. Target acquired. The accomplices watch knowingly as he follows behind me.

For someone who’s used to dating older men, 23 feels slightly criminal. It doesn’t stop me, though, and neither does the fleeting thought “Is his mom watching?” when Jack leans in to kiss me.

The rest is a blur. A bonfire. Fire dancing. A bear hat photo shoot. A friend slipping me a condom and me scoffing. More making out back in my tent. It felt good. To be desired. To be touched and held. And no joke, someone had taught this boy how to kiss! When my sister crawled into the tent, it was a good excuse to pump the brakes.

The next morning can be summed up in one word: Ughhhhhhhhh.

Hello hangover. Haven’t felt you for quite some time. After dropping him off, we head back to change for the brunch. Wait. My head is pounding when a sickening thought comes to mind. This is a brunch for close friends and family. His parents will be there. The same parents who undoubtedly know why Jack didn’t come home last night?! YES. An awful, awkward resounding yes.

Note to self: don’t make out with the groom’s cousin next time. I walk in and he doesn’t look up. Got it. We’re playing this cool. “This seat is open” says his father and I find myself planted right beside his father and directly in front of his beaming mother. Eek. His parents still seem gung ho on selling their son to me with things like “Jack is in his first year of law school” and “Jack caters dinners for huge benefits” and “Jack knows his way around a boat.” I smile politely as I catch a few knowing glances from Jack. We both know what the deal is. It was an incredibly fun night but I won’t be moving to Michigan anytime soon and he won’t be done with law school for 3 years.

So Jack, look me up when your car insurance rate goes down.

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.

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.