To marry or not to marry

A night out in my home town on Thursday night and I tried to do the usual things in an unusual way.

I went to Ki, the Bay Street (Toronto's Wall Street), after-work hang out to meet a couple of Bay Street working friends.  I must say that the mood on Bay Street was very different from the mood I have experienced in London and New York.  The place was still packed, and people are still spending money.  

So I tried some of my new skills on for size:  looking people in the eye and smiling - even if they are not perfect for me, letting them come to me, keeping my posture relaxed . . . and it was quite easy to meet people (men).  Unfortunately, the first man I met was a bit of a nerd, but in a good way, complimented me on my nails (odd that I liked that, but I did - I think I liked it because it was after I made a really superficial comment about not wanting to go rock-climbing because because it would ruin my nails, and rather than judging me he actually said they were nice), and was married.  I tried to check for a ring several times but he was particularly adept at hiding his left hand so I gave up and ASSUMED that since his friend had no ring, and he was inching closer and closer to me on the bench that he likely was single, AND coming from London - the land of love where the majority of men who approach you are ACTUALLY single, I was a bit naive about his motives. 

So I left with my friend to go and see her man-friend, and it so happened that we were both planning to end up at One in Yorkville afterwards (where I would be meeting another girlfriend) so I said maybe I'll see you?  I didn't have my hopes up, because the new me has very low expectations of the outcomes of such meetings, but I did have an ulterior motive in taking his number and making sure to show up at One.  He and his friends are looking for a singer to compete with them in a Rock Band competition at a Bay Street Bar.  Bay Street and Karaoke is a no-brainer. 

So . . . later that night at One, I walked in and pretended not to notice him and went to the bar to order an $8 rum and coke with $2 flavour from an un-impressed bartender. Everyone around pretended to be absorbed in their conversations while noticing who was there, and who was noticing that they were there.  Oh Toronto how I've missed playing the game of polite condescension. . .

I started to speak with a man who was also waiting for his friend to show up, and then the ring-hiding banker noticed me and got up from his table to talk.  It took me about two hours to finally see the glint of his ring - in a moment when it was not hiding in his pocket, under his glass or hanging at the end of his limp arm behind his chair.  He had been a total gentleman up to that point and was speaking to both my friend and I with equal enthusiasm so I had no  reason not to invite him to Amber with us.  

Amber was actually fun.  It was also full of people there strictly to determine who deserved to be in their company and who did not, BUT the Dj was playing some really fun music so I decided to let loose.  The ring-hider was game for dancing and we all lived it up on the dance floor (he periodically disappeared for stretches where he had long intense conversations with women at the bar and returned with a mitt-full of drinks for us).  

I had attracted a little posse of gay men to dance with me and a couple of potential men that I could meet and was about to make my move towards a sweet-faced Italian (I know - I should know better by now) when the ring-hider decided it was time to get all touchy feely.  I did my best to discourage him by making him do the back-to-back air guitar dance, but it was no good.  I thought about telling him that it was not ok to cock block no matter how much he had given the bouncer to let us in, but I figured I would get the - we're only dancing response and then feel like an asshole.  So, I just continued to dance around him and ignore his 'moves' until he finally decided to leave.  

I obviously have some sort of married guy magnetic energy.  How do I erase this from my energy?  Is it because I want to be married - so I therefore attract the ones who are already?

I am getting pretty close to not wanting to be married - maybe it will change when I finally let go of that idea . . .

Sex-on-the-white-leather-couch belonging to the 19th richest billionaire in India

I left London to return to Ontario and spend a couple of months 'at the cottage' to the north of the great city of Toronto.  I had spent enough time touring castles and watching Pride and Prejudice in England to have satisfactorily decided that I would 'summer' in the country and learn to play the piano forte and embroider in between picnics and grand social events for the months I was forced to be in the country.

Then I realized that there are two major reasons as to why this will not be my experience of the country: A. people here shop at Giant Tiger so there will be no dressing for dinner and B. people work (presumably so they can shop at Giant Tiger) and therefore have no time for frolicking with me.  

The reason I left the loving arms of London in the first place was to participate in the wedding nuptials of a long-time friend.  I waited until the last possible minute to leave - I had to be at a bachelorette party on Saturday night so I left London on Friday - flew Air India.  (A wonderful experience except for the state of the washrooms - airplane washrooms are typically disgusting, but this was exceptional - no soap until I demanded it, and then I was handed a BAR OF SOAP?!?!, and dirty diapers on the floor, lots of wet spots  . . .  you get the idea).  My dear friend told me that we were all to wear sparkly dresses to the party so I showed up in one - umm it was sequined, and I did my hair in a grecian/art deco/late 50s style, but then all the other brides maids showed up in black and the brides dress was 'sparkly', not sequined. Not that I minded standing out, but you are not supposed to upstage the bride in any way shape or form.  I'll be checking with her pre all future events.

I had purchased another dress for the wedding on my last day in London.  It was a jewel blue number, very short and skimpy which was the requirement, but I left it in the Benz of the CEO of an international fashion label after a night out which involved champagne with the 12th richest Billionaire in India, Bongo playing at Annabelle's where there were apparently a lot of footballers (so that is who all the young hot men were! I knew they weren't men of independent means because that would be too good to be true.), and finding excuses for not smooching in public.  

Annabelle's is a very exclusive night club/restaurant in Berkeley Square, frequented by socialites and paparazzi alike (they stand outside obviously) and not a place for wives.  I read on line that the ex wives of members are not allowed in.  I doubt they would want to go anyway.  Most 'exclusive' places are like this . . . extraordinary women with mugly men . . . although there was a higher than average number of attractive men . . . and a somewhat 'competitive' spirit amongst said women.  Although I did have a nice chat with a gal in the bathroom about the state of toilets in the UK.  Why the HELL are they so difficult to flush?  Honestly I need to take a class - if I have to ask my host to come and help me one more time . . . !

The evening was lovely except for the CEO.  He is a great guy, but he is ruining it with his delusions of having me as his mistress.  It is so cliche - I can tell he just wants me as an accessory (HA - he sells accessories!) I know I am fabulous, but his assumptions are just strange - I don't know how else to describe it.  I am not sure what made him assume that I would want him to plant a huge kiss on me when I arrived at our 'business meeting' at the Mayfair bar.  (PS - when I was on my way to the bar I met a fan from Hip Hop Karaoke!  I stopped to ask for directions (for the 4th time!) saying; "let me preface this by saying I am not an American, and could I please have directions to Hobu?" (I was starting to think that all the wrong directions had something to do with  my accent), and this guy said - Hey! aren't you the girl who sang OPP at Hip Hop Karaoke?  To which I replied 'why, yes!', and then he proceeded to launch into a play by play of how I threw down, and, late as I was, I obliged with a short rendition of the chorus . . .). . . but, anyway (also it is not lost on me that the song I sang so eloquently was about Other People's Penises).

 . . . the CEO may have gotten the impression that it was ok for him to touch me because I didn't stop him from holding my hand, or my thigh during dinner (at a great little greek restaurant in God knows where - but the place was apparently full of British celebrities including some McKenna guy whose name I only remember cause it was the last name of my first grade teacher - he is apparently a magician).  I have to say that if I were still in my 20s as I was the last time this happened (Arab Shampoo guy - offered to buy me a Jag and fix my teeth, took me to a $700 a night hotel and I made him sleep on the couch - excuse me - settee), I would have told him I wasn't interested right from the start and move on.  But, now I am wondering if it is possible to make it without compromising your self 'in that way' - I mean, let's face it, I have had sex with men I liked less than this guy for no immediate benefit. . . who may or may not have been married.  The difference? I didn't know they had significant others as I do in this case. I can't say that there is a difference in the degree to which I think I may get something out of it - with the other men I have slept with that I didn't like very much I had made up a fantasy about how great they were in order to be attracted to them for the purpose of . . . potential marriage, children, vip access, concert tickets, a day on a yacht, lunch, a cab ride home . . . of course it was not as obvious to me then, and I did a great job of convincing myself I actually liked the guy(s).  But now I stand here with eyes wide open wondering if I should take the plunge . . . the prize you ask . . . North American Brand Manager for a 30M pound company. . .a job I may not otherwise get even though I am very capable and qualified -  what would you do?

So, back to the country, I escaped from the situation (his wanting to make love on the couch of the 14th richest billionaire in India like 14 year olds) by saying 'I barely know you,' and 'I don't usually mix business with pleasure' and racing out to get a taxi (a 23 pound ride for which he gave me a 20) thus leaving my dress in his car in the process.  

I am mainly upset because I sincerely hope no one finds it in there - not because I don't want him to get caught, but because I will be mortified if anyone thinks I would normally wear a 15 pound dress from a clearance store on Oxford that barely covers my underpants.

He offered to ship it to me - God hope he doesn't open the bag - I didn't take off the tag, and there is another 10 pound dress in there with fake pearls attached - forgive me Anna W.  

Running this scenario by my friends they have all said - don't do it - don't pimp yourself - but I must say that I am tempted to use him the way he wants to use me.  Yes - I deserve to be with someone who loves me for who I am, who treats me like a Queen, who is perfect for me in every way. . . but, let's face it folks, no one is lining up to be with me (ok maybe there are a couple of men in line, but none that I would like to spend my life devoted to) . . . 

Yup, I need some input here people.  The truth is that he doesn't repulse me - he is reasonably attractive (unlike the Arab, whom I affectionately referred to as Ari, who had braid-able eyebrows and a mega-mole with hair extensions - but HEEEE was married), and I am bored.  There is no danger of his falling in love with me - he is way to delusional to be in real love - nor I with him.  I would be able to run things relatively free of his influence as he would be in London and I in New York and I would need to be there only long enough to make a name for myself. . . which should take about a week (JK) . . . and as long as we have a kick ass contract I will be in no danger of financial ruin (no more danger than what I have already done to myself). Plus he wants to take me to his 16000 square foot villa in Mirabella to 'brainstorm' new business ideas.

I'm going to stop going on about this now and hope that one of the 4 people who actually read my blog will respond.  (Not you Mom - I already know what you think) So one of the 3 people. . . and that one of you will tell me to go ahead with it, live the adventure, and get all I can out of the fucker.  Would it be vindication for all of the women everywhere who have been used by men?  Would it be vindication for me?  Or just bad karma?

At the very least it will make for an enjoyable read. . .