Terk says it best, Dates and Cakes OFFICIALLY has a vlog! Not only do you continue to receive outlandish but non-fiction dating stories from the bubbly, punny, and gutsy gypsy, BUT you get to see her live and in color with all her hand gestures, eye rolls, and cackles (at her own jokes) free of charge! This Youtube thing is certainly a learn-as-you-go kind of thing because although my year of birth classifies me as a Millennial..... technology isn't my go to. Actually, this blog started out as scribbles in journals. Yes, red margin, black lined journals; bounded with potential for venting, humor and self-actualization. I know presently, it's a trendy thing to say you're "an old soul" but... I still write friends letters or thank you notes by hand and write 90% of my poetry with a swift pen to paper motion. Okay fine-- sometimes I use thin markers because I want to really capture imagery in a certain piece.... but you get my jest. And I think spending time away from a screen gives you zest you may have been missing from your life (as a text notification blinks like grandma's blinker she was unaware has been clicking for 3 intersections now). So, you may have heard of "please excuse my dear aunt sally" in math for order of operations, but since I'm notorious for spicing or sugaring things up, I'm going to ask you to excuse your dear Steph for her poor editing skills. The videos may seem a little chop-suey.... because they are. I'm sure I'll get better if I just believe! But I'm striving to record each one as natural as possible so it enhances the genuine factor. This world is polluted with edited moments, faces, and perceptions, so I refuse to add to it. As always, these will continue to be about actual dates that happened to me or in the rare occasion, a friend shares a wild date. I know what you're thinking, "Steph could never pull off being a blonde." WELL YOU KNOW WHAT!?! You're right.
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No longer in the shadows.....When did intimacy become casual? Or better yet, when did it become an expectation?I felt a bit hesitant about posting the imagery leading up to denied intimacy in last night's post, "Mr. Blade." Overall, I feel like it was a good read and decent writing BUT, I feared readers would slap a label on me like a can of soup. Chicken Prudle Soup. "Why didn't you just sleep with him? It isn't a big deal..." But maybe that was my point. Why isn't it a big deal whom I decide to let in, more than just physically? When did it stop becoming one? He didn't even call me beautiful or anything other than sexy. Every person is beautiful (yes, you reading this). I just want to know when sex became as casual as day drinking. Has it become a 2019 standard to reward a mediocre dinner and a few over-priced cocktails for sex? While what-- I twirl my balayage hair, holding $23 of product and most of my self-esteem? And then what? I'm left with unraveling attachment, an additional "notch in my lipstick case," and underground worth. All while he thinks about.... I don't know-- ANYTHING ELSE. Even if the guy in no form or fashion was prince charming, thoughts of "why was I not enough to stay" suffocate me. It's a form of rejection I can't combat. The standard deviation is the perception of the interactions with these intimacies. This blog is a platform for scrutiny in its purest form. It is a tightrope between Slut Shaming or Prude Patronizing, either way, you fall flat on your face. So, you keep your little black book in your dresser or turn it into a blog. Guess I took the road less traveled and yet I still hesitate. I hold back details that could reveal the identity of the "misters" that have made their debut. I insinuate very little about the physical course of every interaction to allow an element of mystery and one of imagination for the reader. With imagination comes great responsibility and... apparently judgement.One of my "fans" left a comment branding me as a "slut" and this blog being "proof." Ahh! There's the slut shaming you were talking about, Stephanie. What's humorous to me is the vast assumption made that I sleep with all these misters. Not to mention, the reinforcement of that "standard" that if a guy buys you craft beers at a Minneapolis brewery, brings you flowers before taking you to the Charleston Ballet, or even takes you to Disney World for a first date, you're obligated to sleep with him. Well, spoiler alert: of those three lavish, but real dates I went on, I didn't sleep with any of them.
Now wait a minute.... He took you Disney and you didn't get intimate with him? How was that not a home-run? And THAT'S the prude patronizing I'm talking about. Either way, I'M WRONG. I've lived my whole life not wanting to cause any trouble or be in it. I've been driven by guilt, far-fetched promises, one-sided relationships, and acceptance. I've apologized for things I didn't do and problems I couldn't have begun to ignite. I've been a doormat in floods and used up like a marker; even the brightest marker in the box runs out of ink. So, I guess mostly for myself, but also for the "misters" mentioned here and soon to come (I have at least 8 stories itching to be revealed from the last couple weeks ;) I'm not sorry that I didn't sleep with you even if you expected it or felt like you deserved it. Such a crazy thing for me to type... but, I think I mean it. Yeah, I do :)) Standard recipe? Bring your own icing and write your sweet ending.Depths of blue eyes, I breathed. Haven’t I been here before, I thought to myself. Yes, but not with this particular pair. Not like this. He was a roommate of an ex (ages ago) that I never really thought twice about. Married and grinding away at this thing called life in the state I left behind, he only crossed my mind when he crossed my Snapchat. Mr. Blade, we’ll call him, because he had the potential to cut right through me, was always the flirty type. He began with jovial jousting of words and smiles were exchanged, along with quick-witted responses. A common love of traveling was revealed and then a suggestion of visiting each other’s town: mine, a quiet beach town with a twang and his, a Hispanic city of significance with culture to match. “Yeah, you and your wife are welcome to crash on the futon,” I typed. “Oh Steph, we’ve been divorced for 2 years now,” he typed back. In a mischievous manner, I was relieved, but shared a response of empathy, to which he dispelled immediately. “Shit happens.” Not the sharing or feeling type… I have been here before. The walkway to his apartment was lit with string lights over artificial grass. He guided me through the countless gates of security and illuminated the elevator button for second floor from the top. His front door too was opened with an electric chip. Guiding me through his modern palace, I felt his cold eyes on my skin, as my eyes wandered the different rooms and patches of decor. As we drifted into the kitchen, he breathed something coy and as I fired back, he lifted me onto the granite island. “Time to address this tension,” he smirked. Completely unaware that there was enough tension to address, I cackled as he brushed my unruly bangs out of my emerald eyes. His lips pressed hard against mine and he gripped the back of my curly head. Hard-pressed to reject an invitation for adventure, I kissed back. The fingers to my left hand lightly massaged the back of his blonde hair, while my right hand clutched his bicep. Breathing heavily after several, several moments, he inquired of my appetite for something other than him. Chuckling, I put my freckled hand in his as we strolled alongside the river to a fabulous Mexican restaurant. The date was everything a date should be: great ambiance, warm company, and chivalry galore. From pulling out my chair upon arriving at our teal table and crimson chairs, to planning a drive-by-viewing of a plate I thought looked dreamy, to paying, he was a gentleman. He even entertained my request for photography reinforcements. Instead of exploring the city, as expected, he lead me back to his security-clearance apartment. It's as if we picked up where we left off on the granite counter top, but this setting was a bit more comfortable. While kissing on his Tempur-Pedic bed, he kept moving my "wispy" hair in-between nips at my fair neck. Uttering the words I loathe, I closed my eyes so he couldn't see them roll. "I want you so bad" ricocheted off the walls of my cranium. Again, again, again, I thought. But then his blue eyes broke my train of thought. His kissing slowed and his gaze lengthened. He looked at me-- really saw me and I sighed. I felt like we stayed in that moment. It was our moment and I was captivated. Almost paralyzed with lust, I almost buckled, like my knees would have if we were standing. He's everything. This is right. Maybe if I just..... but my self-discipline hijacked the whimsical soundtrack. You know how this ends; you have been here before with these blue-eyed beauties. I pulled away in more ways than one and partook in another form. After recovery, he caressed me and slept skin-to-skin. Sweating from the blue-eyed furnace against me, I smiled even in my absence of sleep. The next morning, he surprised me with kisses throughout the day between flashes of his baby blues. When the chance to venture into the city presented itself, he caressed me and were back into a spiral of seduction. Passionate, but patient, we kissed with intent. Tugging at my high-waisted shorts, I sheepishly revealed the presence of "mother nature." Displeased, he suggested a towel. I scoffed, "this is like our first time hanging out- hanging out." "We've known each other for years..." "Yeah, but even if I wasn't on my period, I still probably wouldn't." I knew that was possibly a declaration of war, but I was tired of being the casualty of every "connection" I misread for something more. Naturally, he played it cool and offered a shower option. I considered it, but again, the emotions taunted me. I couldn't afford to relinquish that kind of control when I was still rebuilding. I caught glimpse of those eyes and his smile coaxed continuation of kisses. They weren't soft, but steamy. They beckoned more as his body tensed beneath me. I complied as whispers of my name filled the air. I longed for that feeling, but swallowed it. We laid there staring at the ceiling as I hinted at his earlier proposal of the shower. "I could be up for that," he uttered, motionless. He laid there while my patience and ability to hold my tongue dissipated. My next hint was as subtle as Christmas lights in January, yet his only advancement was towards his phone. WOW. I laid there fuming. Thank God I was on my period. Thank God I didn't allow his blue eyes to cut right through me.... completely. Knowing this wasn't a trip to earn a boyfriend, it also wasn't a trip I thought I'd be in his bed. My naive heart read more of a friendly vibe that maybe would turn into a drunken make-out but not this. Not a selfish repeat of a previous encounter(s). I grabbed my phone to pacify my climbing rage. He made attempts at conversation while I offered a cold, freckled shoulder. Precise responses sprinkled with a pleasant front, were served to him luke-warm before inquiring about dinner plans. He suggested a burger place and a genuine smile returned to my face. As I rode shotgun like a dog in a country song, my restraint to hold my tongue disappeared. "You know, I thought you were different, but you turned out to be like everybody else. I'm so much more than a good lay... it's so exhausting." Yup. I actually told the man driving me around and sharing his bed with me that he was like everybody else. Like Gretchen Weiners, I had cracked. Practically speechless, Mr. Blade sputtered, "more than a good lay?" Laughing in my head that those words left my lips, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded with a smirk the size of the state of Texas. After what I'd been through in Pensacola, I vowed to no longer tolerate belittling and manipulation. If things aren't in my best interest, I'm probably going to take "two steps to the left and then take it back now y'all. Chacha real smooth..." Needless to say, the blue-eyed Mr. Blade bid his time. We made conversation like strangers at a bar while stuffing branded burgers into our mouths. When we returned to the near penthouse apartment, I voiced frustration with his failure to follow through with his suggestion for shower play, because at this point, I was in competition mode. This attempt again supported my claim that he was like everybody else. I felt like an unattended Halloween bowl of candy with a sign reading, "please take only two." EMPTY. Many of the guys I've talked to belong in the sea because they are Sel-fish. When you have to take care of yourself anyways, it makes even the brightest of blues seem dim. Sigh. So I bought myself a drink at a bar on the river, had a ball fighting Tropical Depression Imelda back to his gated, guarded, locked-down apartment... much like something else alluded to here... After ringing myself out, I offered to sleep on the couch and Mr. Blade declined. So, alas, another sleepless night with a blue-eyed furnace spooning me. This night, I knew I was nothing more than a space-holder. Although he probably thinks he's cutting me out of his life, I've been on a bit a purge lately so.... Like Bonquiqui, boy, "I will cutttttt you."Mr. Blade's dessert would be fudge, since that's his favorite verb. Melt a bag of chocolate chips, like you normally would with blazing blue eyes. Then drizzle condensed milk over the melted madness. Stir with uneven expectations and then make it cold, like you both are after it's all said and not "done.""The people that aren't supposed to let you down, probably will...."There's been such a lapse in my blogging and dating and overall breathing because, well, my life as I knew it was in shambles. I'll take you back to my last month in Pensacola....A background of palm trees, white sand, water suitable for mermaids, and half of America's retirees perched about. How did I become such a miserable sap in a place people were dying to retire? How could I loathe a city that by definition, resembled paradise? That's the thing about a beach town... people actually live there and furthermore, have to work there. I changed locations, professions, and preferences all at the same time. Recipe for disaster... and I know a little something about recipes: I run a blog called Dates and Cakes for goodness sake!
Self-Worth has been my greatest challenge long before I've started this blog, it was just never brought to light until this year. So having both a family member I trusted with my life and a supervisor that was supposed to be your leader and encouragement, practically feed me to tiger sharks in spiraling gulf. I wished I could say it was a lapse in judgement. I wished I hadn't spent so much energy and finances already insecureceased. I wished I could regret it all, but I breathed in, looked up and smiled. Like so many other cities before, I had soaked it up, given it my all, and moved on. Here's the part I've grown accustomed to: the moving on. Thanks, Robin <3You know the saying, "love knows no boundaries?"Well, why can't the same be true with dating?The longest relationship I've ever had was long distance and the conclusion was: it can be done. As far as a friendships, I have a dozen that are across the globe and we maintain the conversations, humor, guidance, and support. Sure, it requires more discipline, but quality demands nurturing and patience. My British friend is a hoot! Hey, compliments are accepted in any accent, dialect, and timezone.My perspective on dating presently is: sheer entertainment.
SQUISHDaddy long legs deceaseA couple things guys never seem to learn about me (or don't care to):
This guy again, wasn't my type. He was military-- apparently I haven't learned this lesson with the LAST FIVE. He was much older (yet, not the oldest I've talked to) and he was painfully sweet in his ways. He seemed to be from a generation where women jump when their prospective man says, "red mushroom!" O-kay, o-kay.... that's only in Mario, but hey! At least it's clear, I am no Peach. He was the guy that sprinkled me with compliments about my "luscious legs" and pleaded for me "to allow him" to take me out. Texting does it again.... This guy made minimal effort to get to know me and attempted to set a date either moments or hours before his convenient time. After his 2nd attempt, this was our encounter: I was retracting interest before this thread of messages stitched through this particular day, but it became offical at 4:15 am.Splat! Mr.. Daddy Long Legs lost more than a number....
Although phonetics is REALLY is not my strong suit, this is a raw post of my collision of hypocrisy. The animal that came to mind upon reflecting on my most recent hypocritical action was hippos: Hungry Hungry Hippos. Little did you know, this adolescent pass time personifies the endless appetite of a single millennial for shreds of attention and figments of belonging. These colorful hinged hippos snatch more than little white balls in this plastic children's game. They snatch compliments, lust, reassurance, words of affirmation, opportunity, and hope. They're always hungry for more. Is any amount of plastic balls enough? Even though I disappeared from dating sites and "enjoyed being single," I was secretly obsessed with reassurance that I was "good enough." I grasped desperately for reinforcements in the form of words and little actions because it was what we valued-- my immediate support, aka best friend, and I. We thrived on male attention and relinquishing phone numbers through a crowd of smoke, holding a cold one. Once attention was received, more was craved, craved, necessary. Even when the best friend left my immediate surroundings, I was ingrained with the need for shallow embrace and chance at a lustful environment. This story is proof that it's not just guy-on-girl crime. I was a little bit of a hypocrite in this real world scenario. But not like the reality TV show, I'm not loud and boisterous and built like a Barbie with a boob job. Buckle up buttercup, you're about to get the juicy details and proof that even your protagonist has slanted intentions. This whole generation me and putting yourself first and living your best life may have been rubbing off on me... Or my give a damn's busted. Maybe a flirty combination of the two. Let's just say that this story is chronologically weeks after my most recent post, but I'm a lover of irony and other literary elements.This time, the boy was visiting me. This time I relinquished my digits instead of retrieving his. This time, I was being the inconsiderate, questionable person. As Mr Sprinkles made it to my house from over an hour away to spend time in a city he spent six years for school just to be with me, I was in a Mustang being showered with kisses from another man who's appeared on this blog (more than once). His identity isn't important. And, like a standard As Seen On TV commercial, but wait-- there's more. I arrived at my house by the hand of the sober mystery man just seconds before Mr. Sprinkles arrived. Trying to smile innocently, I hugged him and buried my guilty smirk into his shoulders. After mixing a couple drinks, he was again impressed by my confidence in the kitchen. He shot the whiskey concoction, along with my hesitation. The energy of the night was high, as were the stars. We made our way to Whiskey Bar where we encountered some of my only friends in town. This married couple from the north; yeah ...I admire them. I spend more time with them in this town than anyone my own age. They educated us on a couple mixed drinks that would launch our evening and we were off. I couldn't help but notice a mysterious blue eyed man in the corner. I continually felt his eyes on me. My green eyes and attention waved through the room. They landed back on Mr. Daddy Long Legs. He didn't quite resemble an insect, but my metaphor wasn't quite far-fetched. The outgoing person I am, pumped with liquid courage, blurted out "what's up?" Startled, he responded with slow conversation. His eyes started to wonder as we exchanged words and I followed them to a surprising destination. "Were you just looking at my legs?" Instantly, I could feel the blush encompassing his face even in the pitch-dark. "Well... " I leaned in. I don't think I've ever been so excited to hear an excuse in my life. He broke eye contact again and gave my legs in uptown as he formed the words, "you have the most beautiful legs I've ever seen. They are damn sexy." His blush must have been contagious, because I was covered. Not only had I never heard this one before, but I believed him. I I almost felt like I had to tell him my eyes were up here. His eyes went wild. The liquor buffered the situation and made it seem flattering. After exchanging a couple more flirty words, he made his advance. And I actually gave him my number. Hardly put up a fight because I was so taken aback from the compliments. I thrived in the attention. Guy number three tonight that thought I was absolutely stunning. It's not everyday you feel beautiful. Which I know, sounds like a line or an understatement. But sadly it's not. I know you're thinking damn Stephanie! Don't make this about you. What about the guy that had to pack a lunch to come visit you? Oh I'm sure he saw the whole thing. But did he make me feel bad about it once? Did he even bring it up? no. Which almost makes me feel shittier. I never apologized because I guess I didn't want to admit that I was wrong. But I'm saying it now, hypocrite. I wanted to knock the guys lights out from the last post for doing that to my best friend, and I probably took it a step further. It's important to be well versed on the Beast but be wary to not become it.
This boy's shoelaces must be untied, because he tripped all over my best friend's heart.This boy hailed from Charleston and rekindled a fire with the blonde bestie. He ended things in the first place because he chose another girl "more high maintenance" than her. maintenance I know! She should have head for the hills BUT, I've been there. You've been there-- think about it. The titanic may have been sinking, but boy was it beautiful. So, this Mr. Two Step Tripping is a South Carolina country boy with expensive taste. He was single, but was a two-stepping fool. Here's 10 reasons why:
Let me get this straight: he "reconnects" with a girl he "shouldn't have turned down" to visit her in a beach town south of his current beach town? So he drove 9 hours for.... friends with benefits? A free trip? Old Hickory Whiskey Bar (pictured above) is a landmark here for sure, but he wasn't even aware of its existence. He did no research for restaurants, history, or festivities, which was evident in his wandering. Maybe he was ready to replace someone's shower curtains-- Fixer Upper Style I didn't really see the difference.... feel like it's one of those "find the difference." Oh, but my best friend noticed. She was steaming; who throws away someone's ....anything?!? I'm all about traveling and having connections in different destinations, but getting intimate and then hitting on other people? Here's how it went down: I was volun-told to bring him around downtown until she got off from work. He revealed to me that he retrieved the bartender's phone number AND his hopes of engaging in a threesome. Well, by the time she showed up, she was well aware of the juicy gossip. I ready dismissed myself from Mr. Two Step Tripping tour guide duty, so I gave him my number in case he never found her. It was better than the alternative: he begged me to give him my house key so he could "talk with her at home." Mama didn't raise no fool.... so I gave my digits instead. Mistake. He texted me not even 15 minutes later saying: you need to mediate this; she's trying to kick me out. Trick (or treat), I don't need to do anything. You're the antagonist here. She let him have it. She kicked him out of her house, AFTER listing the reasons he's single. baha! She kicked him out of her house Fluff and I agreed with her decision and good riddance! I would disclose his two stepping dessert, but I replaced it with this beauty. I figured I didn't need his permission.....
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AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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