Dating Disasters: THE HOT ARCHITECT

Dating Disasters: THE HOT ARCHITECT

Or: The Time I Ruined a Perfect Man with My Mouth (and not the fun way)

Let me set the scene.

I was 30. He was 23. He was already designing L.A. nightclubs and looking like the kind of man who only exists in magazine ads or extremely specific Pinterest boards labeled “Architectural Daddy.”

He walked into my tanning salon — unfriendly, quiet, and hot in that emotionally unavailable way that screams “I’ll ruin your life and you’ll still thank me.”

He barely blinked while buying a massive package, and I? I barely blinked while forming a small internal flood.

He lived a block from me.
He cooked.
He was mysterious.
He was... a trap.

So naturally, I threw myself in headfirst like a raccoon into a dumpster of glowing potential and leftover tequila.

SCENE 1: FLIRTING, BUT MAKE IT AWKWARD

INT. TANNING SALON – DAY
Me: “I just moved.” (I hadn’t. At all.)
Him: “You live a block away. I’ll cook you dinner.”
Me: “Do you have a grill?”
Him: “There’s a thing called a kitchen.”

Cue me covering my face like a middle schooler who just accidentally sexted the family group chat.

He tosses me his business card like it’s a rose on The Bachelor. I text him. We plan dinner. I try to act normal. It doesn’t go great.

SCENE 2: DINNER, NERVES, AND SHOWGIRLS

He makes dinner.
We watch Showgirls.
He casually mentions he dated a TV personality and I instantly spiral.
She’s older. She’s hotter. She’s half-plastic. I Google her.
I decide I will never be enough and promptly forget how to be a person.

He walks me home.
I panic. I hug him.
No kiss. Just shame.

SCENE 3: ENTER DRINKING JENGA. EXIT DIGNITY.

The next night my roommate and our friend Jeremy (the inventor of Drinking Jenga, because obviously) are hanging out. I invite the Architect over. Because nothing says “seal the deal” like a drinking game and irreparable humiliation.

To my surprise, he comes.
Already drunk.

What follows is not “sex.”
It’s not even “drunk sex.”
It’s a chaotic blur of shame, limbs, bad decisions, and me losing the hot guy lottery in under 30 minutes.

Let me walk you through it.

TOO DRUNK SEX: A MANUAL FOR DISASTER

• You can’t get wet.

• He can’t finish.

• You try to get into it but you’re too ADD to hold a position longer than 17 seconds.

• You forget where your body starts and ends.

• At one point you’re not sure if you’re orgasming or peeing.
  (Spoiler: it was an orgasm. But you still ran to the bathroom yelling something about a bladder issue.)

• You switch to oral because you’re tired and want it to be over — but lose focus halfway through and start thinking about pizza.

• You don’t remember how it ended.

• In the morning, he’s grumpy, and you demand a ride home because it’s raining and you’re already carrying enough regret.

POSTMORTEM: THE GIRLFRIEND DEBRIEF

Naturally, I tell my girlfriends. Because that’s the law.

Their first question?
Not “How was it?”
Not “Do you like him?”

“How big was he?”

Because we lie.
We say size doesn’t matter.
But if your dick feels like a loose Tic Tac in a tube sock, we notice.
If it’s micro, we clock it like TSA scanning for liquids.

And listen — I don’t need a 10-inch bat signal, but if your pointer finger is putting your dick to shame? You’d better have mouth skills, finger skills, and emotional support animal certification.

THE END: I RUINED IT

We never hooked up again.

He moved to Downtown.
I texted him too much.
I over-apologized.
I spiraled like a freshly dumped Disney villain.

I am an overthinking Virgo who needs to shut up, take a Xanax, and stop narrating her entire downfall in real-time.

But hey. At least I’ll always have the memory of botching my shot with the Hot Architect.
And this blog post.
And maybe, just maybe, one of you will read this and play it cooler than I ever could.

Tips:

• Never mention your body flaws while a man is eating you out. You’re not on Yelp.

• Drunk sex = chaos. Only proceed with snacks and an exit plan.

• If he’s that hot, PRETEND you’re cool. Say less. Smile more.
  Then text your friends everything later like the rest of us do.

Want more tragic tales of good sex gone bad and men I scared away with my personality? Read this treacherous blog every week. If you have a dating disaster, email me at yourdatingunexpert@gmail.com and I will put it in perspective. (As always I don't put you on a mailing list, because I am lazy.)