Kiwis are kinky birds

I dove headfirst into the online dating pool before my divorce was even final. Being someone who never learned how to swim, this was probably not a smart move. I was still traumatized from nearly drowning in my aunt’s pool when I was seven. Despite my life-long PTSD which prevented me from getting into any water deeper than a bathtub, my curiosity commandeered my hormones when a hot guy from New Zealand emailed me. He had just moved to the area after stints in California and London. He was not the best-looking, but wasn’t bad. He looked a little like a pudgier Steve McQueen, with a motorcycle and all. I later found out that he had lied about his age by about five years. As online dating sins go, a five-year lie was only a misdemeanor punished by probation and community service.

The reality is, I have been an accent whore for as long as I could remember. When I first bought a GPS, I tested out every male announcer voice with a foreign accent. French, English, Dutch, Canadian—before settling on Angus the hot Irishman. The way he tells me to follow the roundabout makes me want to merge with him in the worst way. Seriously, his directions could seduce me into trying haggis. I think this infatuation goes back to my days as an intern at the United Nations. If I had another semester, I would have conquered Scandinavia like I was playing a game of Risk. But since my internship lasted a mere 13 weeks, I only managed to occupy Norway.

I learned quickly at the UN that South Pacific diplomats were the party people, and so I had high hopes for my Kiwi online prospect being my soul mate, as I envisioned every man who said hello to me at the time. Unfortunately for me, on our second date I learned he did not drink. I found this behavior puzzling, and felt a need to study him like Jane Goodall studied gorillas. Normally this revelation would have sent me packing, but he rocked my world with a movie-ending kiss in the first hour. I decided the abstinence was not a deal-breaker, and figured if nothing else, he would make a solid designated driver.The Kiwi turned out to be my longest “relationship” since my divorce, to date. We would hook up once a month for nearly a year. Although this “relationship” lacked important qualities, like leaving the apartment and eye contact, there is one important lesson I learned: foreign men generally are better lovers than Americans. I know there are exceptions to the rule, but Kiwi sex should be taught like drivers ed. While American men tend to take the jackhammer approach to sex, the Kiwi was all about me and my needs. It stretched on for hours, slow and sensual. I can only imagine what Spanish men are like, but they are on my list. Not in general, I mean Rafael Nadal. He’s on my Bucket List.

The last time I saw the Kiwi was when I realized I wanted more than just a hookup every few weeks. He had traveled to New Zealand for a month for the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, and I found myself missing him as if I actually cared. It was a curious feeling. Despite the lack of traditional relationship attributes, our personalities really meshed. We made each other laugh, and talked about the most random things. Having a serious debate about the Catholic church in flagranto delicto was not something I had ever experienced, and I appreciated the mental stimulation along with the circus act quality physical talents of this man. When he returned from his holiday, he invited me over for an afternoon, but did not act happy to see me. Something had changed. His only purpose for inviting me was to try out his new Christmas presents from his sister.

Within moments of my arrival, he whipped out leopard print arm and leg restraints and a blindfold. FROM HIS SISTER. That image alone was a turn-off, but I’m also not a fan of being that vulnerable. I like control. On occasion I enjoy giving up control, when I give express written permission, but there was something unsettling about being spread eagle in front of the sliding glass apartment window in broad daylight at 1:00 in the afternoon. In that much light it was about as sexy as a trip to the gynecologist, and I felt as if I was being studied and dissected like an autopsy victim. I was paranoid he was filming me to show his Kiwi friends what power their accents would have over American women. My fun was over; it had become too weird. The Kiwi did not seem too upset when I said I didn’t want just a hookup anymore. It made me sad, because that was some of the best sex of my life. And the accent. Oh, the accent…

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