Darcy was doing a language exchange with a friend a few months ago and they were talking about the differences between "hooking up" and "making out" in English. She said: "Well, my friend Amanda will often kiss guys in bars, but that doesn't mean she has sex with them. So she can make out with them but not necessarily hook up." This is, on a side note, not the case in British English… she thought her British friends were sluts until she realized her mistake.
He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.
Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.
My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.
It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.
We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.
The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.
This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word, she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.
He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.
Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.
My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.
It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.
We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.
The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.
This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word, she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.
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