American Girls and European Guys: We’re Cool, They’re Weird

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Recently I’ve been dating a Dutch dude who’s, tall, good looking, generous and with a very nice smile.  Upon my meeting him, one of the things this Dutch dude told me was important to him is conversation.  The dude, who’s a polymer chemist, can certainly yak on a million subjects.  On the other hand, every time he told me how important conversation was to him he would add ”just like it was when I was in college.”  Dude, you graduated at least fifteen years ago, and we are not in the Netherlands.  We’re in L.A.

  

Our second date, for drinks, ended with some innocent making out. (Although he had bad breath, I had to forgive that one because I am sure he came straight from work and I don’t know many guys who take a spare toothbrush to the office.)  I left, teetering on my Ferragamos and knowing I had made a conquest. 

 

Naturally he emailed to go out the next weekend, and I agreed to meet him at this very groovy wine bar.  We eased into the conversation with a startling revelation on his part:  that he has an uncut cock.  Said he wanted to prepare me, as an American girl, that he is uncircumcised because in his experience we always find it a shock.  When I heard that I…went into shock.  I suddenly saw myself from above sitting at the bar with the dude, kind of the like those people who claim they’ve had a near-death experience.  I tried to be tolerant, but I’ve never been with a guy who was not circumcised.  He asked if his not being cut was okay with me.  What could I do but just smile and order three more drinks?

 

He was concerned that I might be a “germophobe” about sex and uncut cocks as some American girls are. At the mention of the idea, the nebbiolo almost projectiled out my nose.  The dude is trippin’ if he think I a nun, oh-kaaay?  He was wearing this godawful Hawaiian-style shirt with billiard balls all over it.  (That should have been my clue right there.)  “Germophobe,” thinks I.  I’ll show you “germophobe.”  Right in the middle of the restaurant, at the bar, I snaked my hand under the shirt, past the waistband of his trousers and into the crotchal area.  

 

But instead of meat I got only potatoes.  Honest to god, it was the size of my thumb.  It kind of moved like the tentacles on a snail, all slow and unsure.  I may have vomited in my mouth just a bit.  I seem to recall him saying in a voice not dissimilar to that of Arnold Schwarzenegger that for an erection to occur he needs to “kohncentrite.”   
 

All I know is that if I had kept my last boy waiting for three dates and then finally put my hand down his pants he would have been on me like one of those cartoon wolves whose jaw drops to the floor, eyes bulge, tongue curls up and down, steam starts blowing out his ears, and feet start flapping in the air.  Therefore, Dutch dude’s behavior leads me to several suppositions: 

 

1.  He’s a freak who can get hard only in the presence of a transvestite dwarf in red stilettos and a black leather jock strap.

2.  He’s gay and needs a beard for business purposes.  

3.  He’s impotent with alarmingly low levels of testosterone and requires hyperstimulation (see conclusion #1).

4.  He’s totally not into me but he’s lonely. 

5.  He’s totally not into me, he’s lonely and he’s looking for a green card.

6.  He’s a submissive and looking for a dominant, and while I am happy to boss a guy around he needs to be the man in the bedroom.

7.  I’m not into him at all, don’t want to look for anything else in his pants or any other areas.  I shudder to think what that could be anyway, it’s just too terrifying.

 

I want a big guy, with a big wallet and a big dick.  This is not a case where “two out of three ain’t bad.”  Trust me.  Once I had touched his thing, all I wanted to do was go home, wash my hands over and over, and then get in bed—alone.  Which is exactly what happened. 

 

The week goes by and sure enough he’s calling again.  I tell myself I wasn’t going to go out with him again, yet I do.  This time we meet for a movie, have a cocktail afterwards at a nearby bar and then that’s it.  He didn’t try anything, just hugged me and gave me a quick peck on the lips. 

 

And this is what I don’t get, in him or myself:  I don’t want to be his girlfriend.  I don’t want to have sex with him.  But what I was enjoying is that here’s a guy who is acting like a perfect gentleman, paying for our evenings out and being interested in what we discuss.  There’s no requirement on my part at all, except to show up, smile and engage in the back-and-forth (which I would prefer to be in and out if only it were the right person). 

 
In this regard that I believe I have ascended the Relationship Ladder, struggling up one rung from asshole to oddball (or possibly gay guy).  So, as I munch on my second Nutrisystem dessert for the day, I will try to look at it as a victory on my part and allow him to spend a little more money on me.