An Argument Against Dating Highly-Sexed, Passionate Men

I’m really good at falling into the same dating trap. Like an experiment with insanity the same tactics are surprising me with the same results. My kryptonite is passionate, highly-sexed men. And I don’t think I’m alone here, because these guys are great! They call you beautiful on the daily, they look at your until you feel seen in a room full of people, they are curious about what you’re curious about, and they love your dog. We, these men of men and us, fall into an addiction of witty textual banter and desired quality time figuring out who each other is, who each other wants to be.

We never build, we start out at an unobtainable pace. The pace has nowhere to run. We know it’s fast, but it always seems right. It always makes sense. The man leads, and we mirror emotions and schedules, being happy, being high off of each other.

After a recent mind-blowing connected first date with a yogi, rock climbing carpenter (yes, I live in Portland), we knew there would be a second date. Twenty-four hours hadn’t come to pass before he was asking to take me to his favorite Portland spot. I agreed before I realized The Everett House was a nude spa. My gorgeous, sex-positive date assured me it would be a sensual, lovely night and because I’m a writer who has a hard time turning down experiences—even ones that push my comfort zone—I went. And being the passionate guy that he is, he washed my anxiety over being nude in public, away in the coed showers. He boosted by ego by calling my naked body goddess worthy. And he comforted me by massaging my worries into the steam of the sauna.

It’s really easy to fall for the passionate guy.

But we can’t date these guys anymore.

Or maybe we can date these guys, but not in the way they lead. The sensuality will come; it’s not meant for the second date. The building needs a foundation. Without it, as quickly as the his climax, the automatic relationship is over. The addiction is healed but somehow we still feel broken. Was it only three weeks? It’s always only three weeks.

Let’s experiment with pace, sanity. Maybe it leads somewhere new.

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