When I lived in Long Beach in my 20s, I went out with a comedian and television writer named Brian. Some dates in I brought him a Baskin and Robbins ice cream cake with my name written in pink frosting on it. Fail. In my early 30s in Oakland I made an advent calendar for Peter, a CEO with fascinating long form essays tucked away in 24 envelopes. Fail.
I once wrote lyrics from R.E.M.’s King of Birds in Sharpie on someone’s locker. I was on a radio show sharing the love letters I had written every week for three years. I made a scavenger hunt (not the creepy Gone Girl kind), which ended with a trail of candles leading to me wearing lingerie and a flashing heart necklace I’d picked up at a rave. There’s the Fallout sugar cookie plot I mentioned in my first post and the time I sent my underwear to someone residing in a Buddhist monastery. More than once on a 2nd or 3rd date, I’ve given out small jars of the jam my mother and I make in the summers with strawberries picked in her coastal Oregon garden. I learned to fold intricate origami penguins, craft a Sailor’s Valentine and mold chocolates shaped like a bird skull. Fails, except for the lingerie.
Recently, I read about the 5 Love Languages and how it makes a lot of sense to discuss with someone what makes them feel loved before donating a kidney (I possess both my kidneys). The question I have about the love languages thing is this: isn’t every guy’s love language physical touch? Sex before kidney donation?
To my question, I’ll share with you my 3 moves that work every time.
- I’m the librarian type but I’ll sometimes wear colorful ripped fishnet stockings
- On a first date if I want to get to first base, I’ll get up from the bar, plant one on the guy’s cheek, and let him watch me walk sexy like to the bathroom
- Strip horse (the basketball game, not the animal)