No glove, no love

There’s a burning feeling deep inside and it won’t go away. Your skin feels inflamed and raw, you can’t stop scratching. You’re worried that someone will find out your dirty little secret, you’re paranoid, and its making you lash out. You’re alternately angry and weepy – life just isn’t fair! And you think to yourself, “Maybe if I hadn’t given in so easily...things would be different.”

And of course by “you”, I mean “me”. And by all of the above I’m referring, in a possibly over-dramatized fashion, to Valentine’s Day. Though I can see how you might have been misled.

If venereal disease was a holiday, I’m pretty sure it would be Valentine’s Day - based on Wikipedia facts and those nasty little brochures they leave lying around in the vagina doctor’s waiting room. I’ve never actually had a venereal disease, but I have had a yeast infection. And if a yeast infection was a holiday, it would be the equally annoying, yet less shamefully soul sucking, Halloween. It puts on an ugly costume and tries to scare you, but you know it’s just kidding.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right. Valentine’s Day is gross.

It’s largely a meaningless, consumer driven holiday, designed to make single people miserable – either because they’re sick and tired of watching couples be all nasty or because the loneliness has just become too much.

As a strong, independent woman (read: single and with no current prospects), I can’t just go around admitting that it sometimes “sucks to be alone” or that every time the bell rings for the back door of our office I start to break out in hives because I know it’s another motherfucking flower delivery. “No one by that name works here! Go away! Scratch scratch scratch.”

I can’t really pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t exist, but damn it I can hate it. I can scoff at the idiots that waste their money on stuffed animals and lip-shaped balloons, say “It’s so stupid” to anyone that will listen, and then secretly watch the all-about-love marathon on Lifetime in my pajamas with a tub of ice cream. That’s the more socially acceptable route: You can hate the holiday, just don’t ruin it with your sad sack routine in front of all the happy people...loser.

And I play by the rules. I only get all wistful about not having someone once in awhile, like on Valentine’s Day, and I generally keep it to myself. And it’s never for the whole day because, let’s face it, I’m not really one for romantic hoo-ha.

It’s easy to want the things you don’t have, the grass is always greener and all that, but if I think about it objectively I probably wouldn’t like all that girly hearts and flowers shit anyway.

You know what I think is romantic? Not rose petals, silk, and champagne. Not love poems, watching the sunset, and whispered words of devotion. It’s simple:

Put your dick in a box.

Alright, so that’s not entirely accurate, but it would definitely trump a stuffed animal.

I have one romantic fantasy, and it’s pretty simple. There aren’t any props or gifts and it’s not in a specific location. I won’t go into a lot of details but basically it starts with a look in his eyes and a little leisurely touching, then a bit of clothes ripping, then ends with, well, a bang. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom: Romantico!

Mom says that I shoot myself in the foot where men are concerned, and that if I’d stop giving up the goods so soon they’d probably stick around and buy me stuff for Valentine’s Day.

There may be a grain of truth in that since I just heard that the last man I went out with is suddenly in love with someone else. Not that he was ever in love with me, there wasn’t any of that, but maybe if I’d played my cards right he would have been? I guess we’ll never know. Either way, I hope she loves him back because he’s an alright guy, and there’s nothing worse than loving someone that doesn’t love you in return. Except maybe VD.

Anyway, since I’m alone again this year, I wondered if I should do something different. Maybe start my own Valentine’s Day tradition that has nothing to do with romance, cheap presents, or venereal disease. It should be something healthy, something that keeps me away from the Lifetime movies and doesn’t cause my temper to flare up.

That immediately got rid of the “go out on the town with other single friends” idea. Inevitably, someone always ends up crying and blowing their nose on someone else’s sparkly tube top in the bathroom after they got groped on the dance floor by a guy that kind of looked like their ex, but seemed so much nicer at first. Or, as proof of our independence from all things love and male, we’d end up making out with each other, groping each other, taking pictures and then deeply regretting it the next day when they showed up on some bitch’s Facebook as revenge for when so-in-so just happened to mention that you made out with her boyfriend seven years ago. Nope, not a good idea.

Some other things that were quickly discarded were: going to the gym, making an “I’m not bitter” video blog, and hanging out with high school age children and making prank calls. In the end, though, I just decided to keep it simple:

Put on Phil Collins, take a muscle relaxer and masturbate. My hand won’t feel like it’s attached to my body, therefore, it’ll seem like it belongs to someone else.

“And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord...”

How you doin', daddy.

I currently have three unfinished blog posts in my folder. That has never happened to me before. I think the problem is, when I get interrupted from writing something, I lose my train of thought and it’s hard to get back to it later. I’m the sort of writer that has to sit down and do it all at one time, no matter how long it takes. I get flustered and irritated if I don’t.

One of the posts is about my mother and it’s undoubtedly the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted to write. (One of my favorites wrote a brilliant post about her mother – it was incredibly beautiful. They aren’t really similar so I hope she won’t mind if I put it up soon. If you haven’t read it yet, please do. And tell her I sent you.) The second one is about the only love letter I ever wrote and the third is about my sister’s 18th birthday...in a manner of speaking. Which one would you guys be interested in reading the most?

Anyway, I know I’ve been writing a lot about dating and I hope you haven’t grown too tired of it yet. There just seems to be an endless amount of material there.

I’ve been getting messages from so many different characters. It’s almost like sensory overload. Just yesterday I was contacted by a single dad who, according to his profile, is way more straight laced than I am (like, all about God and shit), a large, redheaded professor at a local college, and a man that wanted to know where I buy my hair products.

“Your hair is awesome. What do you use and where can I find it?”

I’m serious.

And then last night I got this little gem from a guy in the military:

“Let’s be honest, all guys want sex. My case is a little different. I was deployed for a year and I spent the next year working two jobs, managing 23 interns in my own start up business, and going to school full time. Long story short, due to my life situation I haven’t had sex in two years. I don’t know how I kept my sanity. You can keep your pity cause I don’t want it, but I wanted to let you see that I’m not some guy lookin for a quick lay. I’m looking for a friend who likes and needs sex as much as I do. I have two years of passion to unleash on the right person and I find you to be stunning and completely attractive.”

Whoa there, Sparky. First of all – the guy looks like he’s playing dress up with his daddy’s fatigues. Second – Seriously? I’m not that fucking stupid. He needs to unleash that passion somewhere else...maybe get a fleshlight. The whole thing sounds like a desperate attempt to pass on some foreign version of herpes he caught on a dark desert night, and start an epidemic among the vaginas of America.

I immediately had to text a friend about it.

Me: Dude! You wouldn’t believe this freakin email I just got from this army guy.

Him: Send it to me.

Blah, blah, blah – issues with sending.

Him: Two years of passion? That’s a lot.

Me: Hahaha. Can you believe that shit?

Him: He just needs your vagina.

Me: He should order one then. No entrar.

Me: I just couldn’t believe anyone could have that much gall.

Him: He’s an American hero.

Me: So is my vagina.

Me: Neutralized plenty of weapons.

Him: Nice one.

Me: I know, right.

He was in a cranky mood because I’d pissed him off earlier, but had he not been...he totally would have laughed his ass off.

I haven’t responded to it yet because I honestly don’t know what to say. I probably won’t say anything. After all, even though I would never proposition someone like that; I can fully understand what it feels like to be unwillingly celibate. It sucks.

Then, this morning, I received an email from a guy in England. I wondered why on earth he’d contact me, but then I thought, “Maybe he’s a transplant and lives here now.” Nope.

The last question on my profile asks that I share something about myself that no one else knows. And the last sentence of my answer is, “Also, sometimes I burp.”

Him: Sometimes you burp?! Awesome, I love a girl with a good burp! Can you burp on cue?

Ok, I thought that was a bit strange, but it made me laugh. I figured it was a joke.

Me: Haha. As a matter of fact, yes. I can.

Him: Cool. I’m not ashamed to admit that I think it’s hot when women burp! Got any plans for this weekend?

Hmm. Ok...maybe he’s serious. Still, this could potentially be an interesting conversation.

Me: Nothing wrong with that. To each his own. I’m going out with friends tonight, but I don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend. What about you?

Him: Exactly. I agree 100%! We all have our likes and dislikes, one of mine just happens to be women burping. I actually have a fetish for it if I’m being honest. I hope that doesn’t sound too gross...

I am beside myself with giggling by this point.

Me: Ha. I think a fetish is supposed to be a bit strange. Most people just don’t admit to them.

Him: Yeah they often are! I don’t go round shouting about mine, but why keep it to yourself all the time, you’re never going to be able to act on it if you do! I want one day to find a nice girl who can burp loudly and doesn’t mind burping in my face!

Oh...motherfucker. I dare anyone to say shit to me now about getting slapped in the face.

Me: Ha. I have no doubt you’ll find one.

Him: I hope so. All the cute chicks who burp seem to be thousands of miles away though!

Me: They are. Only uncouth American girls burp.

Him: Maybe it isn’t a burping fetish I have then, maybe it’s an American girl fetish! Haha I might have to get on a plane to find the girl of my dreams in that case!

Me: Perhaps it is.

It was strange because half of our conversation was normal and the other half...was like that. We talked about our jobs and traveling; I mentioned that I was planning a trip to England in the spring. Then he said that if I was near where he lived, and I felt like burping, not to hesitate. Like an idiot, I laughed and said “ok”. But in my defense, I was trying to treat the whole thing like a joke.

Him: I’ll hold you to that now you’ve said ok. I want to hear you burp now! Lol.

Me: haha.

Where do these people come from?

Right now I’m talking to two guys, other than Sam, frequently. One is very nice – exactly the opposite of what I would normally go for. And the other...the other was badass. His profile was hilarious – snarky, abrasive, smart. I loved it. We started talking and we had so much fun. But yesterday it took a turn into loony town.

He told me that he likes me. Ok, great, cool.

He told me he thinks I’m beautiful. Swell, thanks.

Then he told me that he wants to hold me and kiss me and lalalalala, etc, “I lied on my profile and the truth is that I actually have a vagina. P.S. – I will get sensitive when you back up and say you aren’t big on PDA. I’m on my period.”

Sigh.

It’s one thing if I know I’m talking to a lovey guy. It’s another for them to misrepresent themselves and then come out with this Casanova weirdo shit later on down the road. Psssh. Men.

In other news:

Tonight I have my third date with Sam. Well, I suppose you could call it the third. Technically all we accomplished on the second was a brief conversation and a sprint to his bedroom.

I know you guys are used to me completely spilling my guts and going into a detailed description worthy of a Harlequin novel, but somehow I don’t think I should right now. Suffice it to say – the sex was phenomenal and I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep with a younger man again.

I must go – errands to run, dancing in front of mirrors in my underwear singing “Waiting for tonight Oooooh!” to do.

Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!

Sometimes I feel a little muddled in the head.

You know, like there’s cotton wool up there and you can’t think so you say what you think you’re trying to think out loud and it comes out something like this:

“My nipples are hard ‘cause I got the chills and it’s not even cold.”

And your big boss is standing there looking at you like you’ve peed on the carpet they just shampooed, but you don’t even care because you’re trying to think about why your nipples are hard when it’s not cold and wondering if you unknowingly had a sexual daydream somewhere in your cotton wool brain and then getting this horrifically angry expression on your face because you can’t THINK and you haven’t gotten laid in forever and if your brain is having sexual daydreams without you then you are really going to be PISSED. Then you say something like, “I’ll have that for you this Monday”, and he gawks at you as you zig zag down the hallway with your head tilted to the side and shouts, “Today is Tuesday!” and your only reply is a maestro finger move in the air and a half sung, “Tuesday’s gone with the wind!”

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel a little depressed.

You know, like when your four year old daughter says she doesn’t want you to walk her into school this morning because you aren’t wearing any make up and your hair is wet and you wonder who taught this ungrateful child to care so much about appearances and then you remember sitting on the porch and openly laughing at that incredibly fat five year old jumping up and down on the trampoline that isn’t even hers and knowing that if she breaks it you’ll be blamed for it because your fat ass was jumping on it two days ago, but then making a remark about her bob haircut and who does that to a fat kid anyway? Then you hang your head in shame and vow that your daughter will learn that it’s not what’s on the outside and jiggling up and down that counts, but what’s working its way through those fat little insides and if she ever wants another snack pack again she’ll do well to keep that trap shut.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel like vomiting.

You know, like when you find out through the grapevine that your mother’s ex boyfriend whom you nicknamed Spongebob because of the ridiculous tattoo on his fat pasty white leg has been asking mutual acquaintances if you are single and if they think you’d be interested in going out with him and when they tell you about it they laugh uncontrollably, especially when you start making those retching sounds and not even as a joke, they’re totally real. Then you freak the fuck out because what if he thinks you owe him something because he fixed your car and gave you that expensive digital camera and a $100 gift card for Christmas and he shows up to put the fucking lotion on your skin and give you the hose he used on your mother...OH DEAR GAWD and the retching continues because he’s probably crazy enough to do it. After all he tried to buy you and you totally let him and you realize that you’re probably going to get stuffed into a van when you leave work by a short, fat man that looks kind of like him but you can’t really tell because he’s got used panty hose over his face and you make a promise to yourself that if this happens you will stab yourself in the jugular no matter what Jesus says about suicide.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel sheepish.

You know, like when you write a blog post that makes absolutely no sense but you can’t help it because the alternative is actually doing some work or getting up to go to the copy machine where you’ll surely pass your boss and he’ll shake his head because he’s positive about two things – first that he’s writing you up for wearing that shirt when he specifically told you through another employee that that amount of cleavage is not suitable for the office and secondly he’ll forgive you all your weird habits and outbursts and even your unsuitable cleavage if you’d just sit on his desk one time with no under....

Ahem. I’m sure that’s just me.

Thank you, come again.