While he sleeps

He sleeps half sitting up with his mouth gaped open and I watch him silently, glad that I’m awake first. He overwhelms me sometimes, with all the breakfast making and sweet text messages. The pessimist in me waits for the asshole to emerge, to open his eyes and say, “What am I doing here?”

He hasn’t exactly said he loves me, but I know that he does. When we made the decision to pursue this relationship, we were sitting on this very bed facing each other, legs crossed and hands clasped. There were obstacles, things and people in the way, and I wasn’t sure how it was going to progress from that point, but I knew that I wanted it to.

“You were sitting in front of me at a basketball game and you were wearing a navy jacket with stripes on the inside of the hood. Your hair was in pigtails and braided…I loved your hair like that. I’ve wanted you ever since that moment; I’ve always wanted only you.”

Years ago, he said those exact same words to me and I ran like my life depended on it. But when he said them this time, I was ready. Ready, but amazed none-the-less. I treated him terribly in the past and not once has he ever admonished me for it. Instead, here he lies…with his hand stretched out reaching for me, vulnerable once again. And for the first time in the history of our multifaceted relationship, so am I.

Last night I was trying to watch TV and he wouldn’t stop bothering me, leaving a trail of loud, smacking, wet kisses up my neck.

He makes gnawing and growling noises and chews on whatever limb he can get to. He’s always staring at me, asking me what I want. And sometimes, when we’re having sex, he tries to talk dirty…but for some reason it just doesn’t work. Coming out of his mouth, the word “pussy” could just as easily be something as mundane as “potholder”. He wears the most ridiculous clothing and he talks about his job incessantly.

All of that crap would’ve been a deal breaker for me a few years ago. Now, I talk to him about the things that I can’t live with (like the chewing and the clothing) and I let the rest go, accept it with the good.

I sleep in his arms and I let him spend time with my kid, who thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I hold his hand when we walk down the street and I sing in the shower even though I know he’s listening in the next room. He lets me be exactly who I am. He makes me happy.

I scoot closer to him, wanting to get warm again, and his lids start to flutter. He opens one blue eye and smiles. “Good morning beautiful”, he says, pulling me to his side.

“Good morning.”

“Have you been awake long?”

“For a little while”, I say, winding one leg through his.

“What have you been doing over there so quietly?”

I smile. “Watching you sleep.”

“Hmm, I’m sure that was interesting.”

“More like…enlightening.”

“How so?”

I don’t answer him, because I’m not quite ready to yet. But I feel it happening, like puzzle pieces sliding into place, so very different than all the instantaneous flash and burn of previous relationships…but exactly right. Scary and comfortable, all at once.

He continues to stare, waiting on an answer. I think he knows how I feel, he can be very intuitive, but he’s also still a man. I’m not going to rush this one. And until I’m completely ready to say the words, until that last piece falls into place, I’ll keep quiet.

“Well”, he says, one eyebrow up.

“Come here.”

I pull him on top of me and wrap my legs around his waist.

He growls and nips at my neck. “Are you trying to distract me with your pu…”

“Potholder”, I say loudly, making him jump. I start laughing and, though he looks extremely confused, so does he. Maybe he’ll figure it out while I’m sleeping.

 

My biggest pet peeve

I’ve got a million pet peeves, just like most people. Every day is full of little irritations.

I can’t stand it when someone leaves the cap off the toothpaste or doesn’t flush the toilet. I loathe backseat drivers, slow drivers, and pedestrians. (Yes, pedestrians.) I hate poor grammar and people that read something aloud, even though I’ve already read it or am in the process of reading it. I don’t like it when people tap things, click things, or make any sort of continuous pointless noise. But my biggest pet peeve, the one thing that puts me so on edge my head starts to hurt and I begin to lose touch with reality – is whining.

Before I go any further let me clear a few things up. Yes, I am aware that I have whined before and will do so again. Yes, I am aware that makes me a hypocrite. Show me a person that isn’t, in some way, a hypocrite and I’ll show you my breasts. Both of them. (The few of you that may or may not have already seen them, or only one of them, keep quiet.)

Also – there is a difference between whining and crying, whining and venting, and whining and confiding. I think I’m relatively good at making those distinctions.

My sister is a crier. I am, predominately, a venter. And my child is a whiner.

I realize that all children whine from time to time, but I can confidently report that the kid does it in excess. It she had cheese to go with her whine, she could end world hunger. If it was an Olympic sport, she would win the gold, break the legs of the silver and bronze winners, and take their medals too. It’s gotten so bad that she only has one tone of voice and that’s the up-and-down-up-and-down cadence of The Whiner.

“MaMA! I WAnt some snACks!”

“MaMA! I WAnt to WAtch SPONGEbob!”

She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it, so it’s a constant thing. And it’s entirely my mother’s fault (but that’s a different story).

If I’ve had a rough day and the first thing I hear when I walk in the door is “MaMA, MiMI woN’T LET me PLay WIth MY dSSSSSS!”...I start by chewing my lower lip. Then I suggest that there must be a good reason why Mimi won’t let her play with it, and more whining automatically ensues.

“Stop whining”, I’ll say. Sometimes this is followed by a threat, sometimes a bribe, and sometimes I just point to the closet door.

But it never fails – she always counters with: “I’M noT WHinING!”

Really? You could have fooled me, Taylor Swift Jr.

So the kid lit the fire on the whining pet peeve and has been vigorously fanning it ever since. Consequently, this hasn’t boded well for other people. They may not typically be whiners, but if they do it around me, even once, there is a strong possibility that I’m going to A) make fun of them, B) kill them with my death ray laser glare/derogatory remarks, C) begin singing “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares”, or D) turn around and walk off, muttering expressions of violence.

For instance – my cousin has a tendency to whine about her boyfriend. And though her boyfriend is indeed one of the most irritating and needy individuals I’ve ever met...I still can’t excuse the whining.

“He is constantly calling me and texting me and if I don’t text him back immediately, he starts freaking out. Ugh. I’m so tired of it. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me crazy. And he like, never wants to do anything with my friends and...” Blah, blah, blah, blahbity fucking blah.

To which I reply with something like: “He probably wouldn’t have to harass you by phone if you weren’t off slobbing on someone else’s knob all the time. Oh! SICK BURN! ...also true.”

Then I would most likely mime the aforementioned action by pressing my tongue into my cheek repeatedly in time with hand motions directed toward my open mouth. After which, she’d probably reference the one time I was ass raped. It’s our own brand of vicious cycle.

Anyway...whining. So it bothers me. And do you know when it’s particularly irritating? When men do it.

Yeah, I said it.

There’s the ever popular I want sex whine. “C’mon baby...you know you want to. C’monnnn!”

Listen, jackass. I told you I’m riding the cotton pony and it isn’t going to happen. Period. Times two. (But if I happen to cave just a little bit and end up giving you a blowjob, but stopping ¾ of the way through because goddamn it my jaw hurts, and you decide you want to go all high school and titty fuck me well...just know you’re going to be paying for it later.)

Real men don’t whine. They break headboards with their bare hands and shave their balls with straight razors. Or something like that.

Recently I was introduced to a new form of whining. We’ll call it the “I don’t actually know you, but...” whine. It’s really popular on the online dating scene.

Over the course of the last few months, I’ve come across several of these guys. I’ll start talking to them, emailing them or messaging them. Everything will be copasetic; we’ll be getting to know each other...then BLAM! The whining starts.

“If you don’t want to talk to me just say so.”

“I’ve had my heart broken too many times.”

“It’s been an hour...why aren’t you responding?”

“Merry Christmas! I hope you remember that it’s about the birth of Jesus!” - Ok that one wasn’t whining, but I had to share it anyway. This guy...is getting his own post. It’s going to be a doozy.

“Fine. I see how it is. Just delete my number.”

“No...don’t. Tell me what’s wrong?!”

Honestly, I don’t understand how or why I end up talking to these guys. The first and second time it happened I just stopped responding to their messages. After the third time, I lost it.

“Not only are you a big fat whiner, but you’re also a psycho.”

And he said, “You’re a bitch”.

And I said, “I’m betting you have mother issues so I’m going to forgive you for that one. But you’re still a whiner.”

And he said, “Fuck you, cunt.”

And that’s when a vessel popped in my forehead and I said, “I usually don’t mind that word. In fact, I use it quite often. But the blatant hostility in your response makes that too far, motherfucker. Too far.”

And he said, “C.U.N.T.”

And I said, “You know what, I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you. Can we start over?”

And he said, “Really??”

And I said, “HAHA! Pussy!”

Then I congratulated myself by blocking his number, taking a Xanax, and sketching out a design for a new t-shirt:



You are NOT the father!

I’ve been dicking around for at least a week now – starting posts, then scrapping them and getting caught up in reading other people’s blogs. Or maybe I’ve been reading more of my own blog than I have anyone else’s. Is that not the height of vanity?

It really wasn’t meant to be that way. It actually started because I wanted to jog my creativity, maybe pull some new ideas from the dregs of old posts. But it ended up with me sucking down diet Pepsi and tweeting about “Extreme Masturbation” in between rereading posts from a year ago and wondering what happened to that girl. She wasn’t having sex very much, but she was funny. And she certainly didn’t have writer’s block.

I know the part of the above paragraph you’re most interested in is “Extreme Masturbation” and honestly, I have no clue where that idea came from. But suddenly I got a mental picture of the sport they call “Extreme Ironing” and I thought, “How fucking badass would it be if they made a reality show about people that masturbated under extreme circumstances? Like parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing, scuba diving, race car driving, or getting arrested.” Just imagine – if a dude can keep it up (and finish!) through conditions like those...then he’s bound to be worth a ride. Or a laugh.

Then, of course, I thought it was most likely a moot point. The Japanese probably came up with that idea ages ago.

Anyway, since I can’t come seem to complete a nice, streamlined post, I figured I’d just give you a few updates on the dating front:

I’m no longer seeing Sam because he is a self absorbed bore that wouldn’t stop trying to put it in my butt. Seriously. I’m done. The man is completely incapable of compromise in the bedroom. I asked him to pull my hair once and he acted as if he were completely offended. After things were done and we were just lying there I said, “What is your problem with hair pulling or slapping? Why are you so against it?”

“It’s really just not my thing”, he said. “Plus, when someone asks me to do it...it just seems really stupid and awkward to me.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to ask you to do it if you would’ve just tried it, at least once. Besides, you certainly had no qualms about “asking” to put it in my ass. And pardon me, but that’s really not my thing and I find that stupid and awkward.”

Then he posted a series of rude, racist, and misogynistic “notes” on Facebook. And that, friends, was the cherry on top of the end of my first, ill fated, online dating relationship. But you know what? You live, you learn, and you start sleeping with someone that has your blog address and knows exactly what you like sexually...and has no problem giving it to you.

I mentioned this very briefly several posts ago (only one line, in fact), but yes, it’s true. There’s a man I know in real life that actually has this blog address. It was a bit of an accident, really.

See, he was really the match of a friend of mine that’s been doing online dating too. But after meeting, they decided to just be friends. One night she and I planned to meet for drinks and she invited him along.

We all hung out – eating dinner, drinking, and playing pool. And my friend, not thinking anything of it, mentioned my writing. At first I was a bit surprised. I’m not used to talking about my blog in public. But in the end I decided that it didn’t really make a difference whether he knew about it or not, since he wasn’t a romantic prospect.

But after a night of incessant drinking, laughing, and sharing every embarrassing sex story ever to grace this blog – I somehow ended up in his bed. And there wasn’t much sleeping involved.

Then, obviously, I was faced with a dilemma I’ve never had before. I always write about my encounters, but under a comfortable layer of anonymity. The thought of having the subject of a post analyzing every word I wrote about him was a bit daunting.

I thought, “Well, of course that means I just won’t be able to write about him.” But recently he informed me that he has in fact read my blog, and he has no problem being the topic of discussion. Something about not wanting to hinder my creativity...

My first reaction to that was, “Sweet! A free pass!” But after thinking about it a little more, and actually attempting to write an entire post about him and him alone, I was stuck. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he may not agree with my assessment. And while I’m still unable to go into the amount of detail I normally would, I can tell you this:

The sex was fantastic. All of it. And he’s rather insatiable. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I suppose I’ve been mistaken in the assumption that older men have lower libidos. He’s 43 to my 25 and I’m not sure what he’s like the next day, but after I leave his place I’m exhausted for the next 24 hours.

However, I can’t really give him complete marks because he was practically given a roadmap. He knew just about everything I liked and disliked from our hours of talking shit at the bar. As a matter of fact, I actually told him the face slapping story. And he, unexpectedly, gave it a go...even though we both dissolved into laughter immediately afterward.

We went out to dinner a few weeks ago and I watched the SEC championship game at his house. He makes me laugh when we hang out and it’s actually kind of nice not to worry about what he thinks of me...because he already knows all of the bad stuff. I can just be myself.

I’m under no illusions that he’s a one woman man and I couldn’t say how long this...mm, tryst, of ours will last, but right now I’m just enjoying it. (Except maybe that one time when he kissed me, then said in a rather terrible Darth Vader voice: “Ally, I am your father!” Umm...well, you could be.)

Tomorrow night we’re supposed to go out for drinks and, I think, play a few games of pool. Maybe it’s like drinking beer – the more you drink, the easier it goes down. Maybe the more time I spend with him, the easier he’ll be to write about.

Or, maybe I should just ask him to stop by and give his side of the story – “What it’s really like to sleep with the woman who writes about her sexual conquests, yet never gives them a chance for rebuttal.”

Perish the thought.

The Unseeing Eye

I can be nice when I want to be. That’s why I’m giving you fair warning (especially any family members, boyfriends of family members, or squeamish old people) – this post is about butthole (dis)pleasures. And just so we’re clear, being warned means you can’t complain if you read on and feel the urge to vomit, actually vomit, or maybe just die a little inside. I know I’ll likely participate in two out of three just by writing this.

**********

I was involved in a casual sexual relationship with The Fireman for a little over five years. He was a complete dick, but great in bed and, I’ve gathered, far more experimental than most men his age.

I had a lot of firsts with him – choking, an actual working threesome, handcuffs, pictures, shower sex, watching porn together, and more. But the most memorable experience he introduced me to, as you’ve already gathered, was anal sex.

Women have a way of saying no to anal sex without actually opening their mouths – it’s a bit like boxing. He does a bit of jabbing around, pretending to be going for one hole, when he’s actually faking you out and making a play for the exit. But with a quick shift, a bob and a weave so to speak, the woman throws him off balance and directs him back to the preferred course. Most men will recognize that for what it is – a body language “hell to the nah” – but there are always a few that can’t be deterred. I’ve been in a battle like that more than once: they kept trying, I kept dodging, and pretty soon we were locked in a dance worthy of Muhammad Ali. The end result was never pretty. No, or a sucker punch to the head, does in fact mean no.

The Fireman, thwarted more than once, finally decided he was going to win our ongoing asshole battle by stealth. And by stealth, I mean he waited until I came over one night blitzed out of my mind, talked me into getting in the shower, and pretended we weren’t doing anything but having a jolly, soapy old time.

I was blissfully unaware of the danger lurking behind me when I bent to pick up a rag from the tub floor. Then, suddenly, before I had a chance to stand back up he...well, he attacked me from the rear. With gusto. I would have shrieked, but I had to grab the sides of the tub to keep from toppling over and, as luck would have it, my head was directly under the spray. Every time I tried to open my mouth, water filled it; mascara burned by eyes and matted them closed. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown, and to say I was traumatized would be putting it mildly.

The next day we had a family dinner and I drew more than my fair share of attention with my duck like walk and geriatric sitting techniques. My cousin Christine, who I unfortunately told everything to back then, found it hilarious and made sure to work in plenty of snide remarks and ass slapping. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets ass raped in the shower”, I shouted at Christine. “I could’ve died! My obituary would have read, “Poor young woman dies from ripped rectum/drowning!”

And my best friend was also unmoved, telling me that I should’ve just done what she had done from the beginning. “The first time they try it or ask you to try it, just say ‘Why, are you a fag?’. They generally don’t ask again.”

Though The Fireman did indeed ruin my first anal sex experience, its more than safe to say that I’d never planned on having one to begin with anyway; it wasn’t something I’d been even remotely curious about. For a while after that episode, every time a man suggested or attempted it, I became borderline hysterical. There was no more body language bobbing and weaving, it was simply “don’t you even think about putting it in my ass, motherfucker”. I found out that there’s a whole clan of straight men that pursue asshole sex with a passion. It seemed like every man I slept with wanted to be a bun bandit.

Then, as most of you already know, I had quite a lengthy dry spell. Now, if there was one good thing about being celibate for almost nine months, it was that no one was trying to make me a human hot dog. But that also means that I forgot to be vigilant, to expect it, to be ready with a karate chop to the jugular if need be.

The first time I had sex again it was, as I said here, with Sam. And it was fantastic. It was hot, it was freaky, and so what if he did slip one little finger in there mid romp? It didn’t hurt and I was so busy with the rest, I barely even noticed. He has long, thin piano player fingers because, you know, he plays piano and just...there was only one. The only definitive reason I can come up with for why my ass didn’t blow the rape whistle is, I suppose, because the rest of my body was too busy trilling to the tune of “Whistle while you work”.

I didn’t think anything of it – it never crossed my mind again. Until the last time I went over there.

Everything started off grand. I showed up at his house dressed to fall over on my face in a tight black skirt, a ruffled blouse with an easy access zipper on the side, and the strappy caged high heels he liked so much. We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a few minutes of distracted conversation on the couch, it was clear that dinner would simply have to wait.

I was sitting astride his lap, shirt off and skirt ruched up around my waist when he stopped kissing me and said, “Bedroom. Now.” Standing up, I clacked up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. I hopped up on his bed, crawled to the middle, turned around, and started to pull my shoes off. “Did I tell you to take those off”, he asked, throwing his clothes left and right. “Nope”, I said laughing.

He was being a lot more forceful that he’d been before and that should have been warning number two (after the piano finger, you know). Forceful and hyped up are butt sex indicators, apparently. To his credit he waited until later, two O faces in to be precise, to pull his shenanigans.

I was on top, working on O face numero tres (perhaps to the rhythm of Digital Underground’s The Humpty Dance) when he said, “You know what I want?”

No, I didn’t. I had no idea; because I was too busy getting what I wanted. But I got all excited thinking it was going to be something awesome like, “I want you to let me slather you in Chick-fil-a dipping sauce, maybe slap your ass once or twice.” (He’s not really a hitter.) Or, you know, something simple like, “I want to make you scream”. Everybody likes screaming.

“Tell me”, I said – not breaking pace, because I’m a hardcore rodeo bitch like that. (“...I’m a freak. I like the girls with the BOOM...I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom...”)

He stared at me. I stared at him. He stared at me. I started to get nervous. He stared at me. I stopped waving my arm in a circle over my head and kicking his legs with my heels.

“Get on your knees.”

Happy clap! Doggie style! OOWA OOWA! We’ll get back to the Humpty Dance later.

Staring nerves temporarily forgotten, I did as he asked. But then, leaning over, he whispered in my ear the words I should have known were coming. “I wanna fuck you in the ass.”

“Um...I don’t...err...not really my thing...”

But for some ungodly reason, I ended up eventually agreeing. Maybe it’s because I like him and wanted to please him; I don’t really know. Either way, it turned out that done correctly (and by correctly I mean with a warning and lube), it isn’t painful at all.

That does not mean I enjoyed it. On the contrary, it did nothing for me what so ever. I thought it was extremely weird and I was counting down the minutes until it was over. And when it was, he was so happy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I was thinking the majority of the time: “I’m totally having prison sex right now. This is what people do in jail. Ohmygawd I'm his bitch. I wonder what they use for lube...ew, no I don’t. I said what what in the butt...”

Later, stretched out beside him, we talked about it. I relayed my horror story and he looked appalled. “No wonder”, he said, rubbing my hip. But he also went on to tell me just how much he enjoys that particular pastime and how much he was looking forward to doing it again...among other things, but still. Ugh.

On my way home that night, after a comfortable few hours of pizza and movies, I wondered if I would let him do it again. I thought to myself, “Even though it does nothing for you...it doesn’t hurt. And he really likes it. Maybe it could be like a ‘you’ve been a very good boy’ treat.”

However, I formed a very different opinion over the next few days.

I typically stop by the makeup store on my way home and catch up with the women folk – my lovely godmom and her sidekick, the hilarious Jules, who is also doing the online dating gig. We share our horror stories, our sex stories, our “you’d better never breathe a word of that to anyone stories”...and we laugh a lot.

That, of course, means they have to be kept up to date on all things Sam related...and no subject is taboo.

“How was the other night”, they asked.

“I let him put it in my butt”, I said matter of factly.

They laughed. And knowing my unhappy history with anal sex, then they asked questions.

“It wasn’t bad. I mean, it didn’t really hurt or anything.” I went on to explain the logistics of the encounter.

“So are you going to do it again?”

“Well here’s the thing. I’ve decided that it’s not the act that bothers me anymore, it’s the after affects. For almost two days after that my ass was FUCKED UP, ok! It was just...things were...gross...not cool. I don’t remember that happening before. My body was taking its revenge.”

They laughed, the bitches. And while they were laughing, Jules threw her palms in the air, made an ‘oh no’ face and said, “Your ass was like...GASP! Someone’s been here!”

Then I was laughing even harder than they were. Someone may or may not have said, “Abort, abort”, but I don’t rightly remember because I was too busy dancing in place with my legs crossed, trying not to pee.

Yes, we’re classy like that.

So, anyway, now over a week has gone by since I’ve seen Sam. He was out of town this past weekend with the boys, but he let me know when he got back on Sunday (which was cute and unexpected). We’re supposed to see each other later this week and, unfortunately, I need to have two very important conversations with him.

The first is the typical female need for clarification – I need to know if all he wants is sex...he’s never actually said exactly what he wants. I like him, but I find myself falling into my same old habits. We hang out and we talk, but the majority of the time we’ve spent together, we’ve spent in the bedroom. And even though I do immensely enjoy the (normal) sex, that’s not all I want anymore. It’s great that we want to rip each other’s clothes off, but I also want someone to go out and do things with more often, to meet my friends and come to the Halloween party. I (holy shit) actually want to date.

This is all very new to me and I want to be as honest as humanly possible without sounding like a needy girl. And I don’t think of myself that way, really, because even though I like him a lot, I’m not emotionally invested at this point. So I’m going to ask him where we stand and, hopefully, I’ll do it in a way that makes me sound normal...because sometimes I get nervous when I have to talk about shit like that.

Then, of course, the second important conversation we need to have (if we even need to have it after the first one is over) is about my ass. I’m looking forward to that one even less. Because, honestly, how am I supposed to tell him it isn’t going to happen anymore? We’ve already had the “that wasn’t so bad, was it” conversation. How do I explain?

Do I just come out and say,

“Listen, I don’t particularly like it and it doesn’t do anything for me. However, I was prepared to take one for the team every now and then because you enjoyed it so much. But you know...later...Sigh. Um. See, it’s like this:

Sometimes, in the case of organ transplants, the body will reject the foreign organ. The immune system’s job is to say “bitch, that don’t belong here” and then it goes all kung fu on said organ and tries to destroy it, which causes all sorts of problems. They have medicine to help with that, but it still happens sometimes.

Basically what I’m trying to tell you is that my ass rejected your dick and tried to destroy it, several hours later and for a period of almost two days, in a very unpleasant manner...but your dick wasn’t there anymore so I’m the only one that had to suffer. At the moment I’m unaware of a pill I can swallow that will make my ass happier about being invaded, and I’m worried that next time it’ll realize your dick is there much sooner than it did previously and...well, you know. Plus, I really don’t like spending that much time on the toilet. I don’t know how you men do all that reading there, it isn’t comfortable.”

That’s what I’m working with right now, and I have less than a few days to polish it up and have it ready for presentation. I’ll draw a diagram if I must. It has to happen, no matter how uncomfortable a conversation it will be, because there is no fucking way I’m going through that shit again. Pun, unfortunately, completely intended.

“Peace and humptiness forever.”

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.

Online dating - The first date...and then some.

Thursday afternoon, as I was looking over a printout of eye shadow selections and shooting the shit with my favorite godmom , I received a lovely text message from the guy that’s now stood me up not once, not twice, but (as of Wednesday night) three times. “Hey. Sorry about last night. I had a rough night.”

I thought to myself, “Self, you should really hear him out. He could have been gang raped by a group of bikers and be in the hospital recovering from reconstructive asshole surgery.” Then I smiled and typed “No biggie.”

“I got a job offer in a ‘big far away’ city and I was thinking about it. I need to walk and clear my head.”

I couldn’t help myself – I snorted. It was definitely not one I’m familiar with, and I pride myself on having an excellent repertoire of excuses. He went on to say how he hadn’t slept the previous night and had to make a decision by Friday evening. Really? I admit I went into a mini tantrum - ranting to my godmom about what a dickface he is and how it must be so hard to text someone and say “I can’t go” because you’re too busy thinking.

While she went to help a customer and I sat silently stewing, glaring at my text messages, up popped a new one from someone unexpected. The original online dating candidate – Mr. 39 year old (whom we will from here on out refer to as Sam). I wasn’t necessarily surprised to hear from him because he’d been texting me sporadically over the past few weeks, trying to set up a dinner date, but I’d been so wrapped up in trying to get things off the ground with dickface that he’d slipped my mind.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

It was last minute and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t accept a date on those terms. However, weak and irritated at being stuck in a constant cancellation rut, I immediately agreed. I moved around a few things, got a sitter for the kid, rushed around the makeup store fixing myself up, and off I went.

That’s when the nerves hit.

The closer I got to my destination, the more nervous I became. I have no idea where it came from or why, because I’m not usually like that. By the time I was in the home stretch, about two miles from the restaurant, I’d resorted to talking to myself.

“You’re going to be fine. Just be yourself. But not too much like yourself! Don’t say vagina...or masturbate...and definitely don’t call him a menstrual chunk. He’s not your friend – nasty name calling is not appropriate. Unless he really insults you...then it might be ok. Shit. Deep breaths, deep breaths.”

I sent him a text letting him know that I arrived and without waiting for his response, got out of the car, straightened my skirt, and walked purposefully toward the door. We were meeting in a popular Mexican restaurant that is usually filled to the brim with people I know and would rather not run into – especially on a blind first date. Seating is by choice, so I hoped to see him as soon as I walked in the door rather than standing there awkwardly or walking from section to section, inviting people to ask me what I was up to.

Two Mexican men smiled at me as I clacked across the tiles, looking left and right. “Sit anywhere”, one said. “How many”, said the other. Still glancing around, now getting a bit more nervous because no one was coming forth to claim me, I mumbled that I was meeting someone. My phone buzzed in my hand. “Had to stop for gas. Five minutes.”

I had a tiny flash of annoyance since I’d driven all the way from downtown and managed to make it on time, yet he lived virtually next door and was late. But I quickly reminded myself that tardiness was not something I could fault anyone else for, and made my way to a booth visible from the reception area. The waitress dropped menus on the table and asked for my drink order. I needed alcohol, that much was clear, but I didn’t want to order anything strong or expensive. I settled on a Mic Ultra in a bottle and leaned back to wait.

I felt awkward, sitting there sipping my beer and staring at the door, so I started texting my sister. “My hands are shaking”, I wrote. (She has been oddly supportive about my foray into the world of online dating and has spent several evenings stretched out across my bed, listening and chiming in with words of encouragement.) “You’ll be fine. Relax.”

I glanced up from my phone, a half smile on my face over the fact that my 17 year old sister was giving me dating advice, and there he was. Infinitely better looking than his pictures, which I hadn’t expected, and with a grin on his face that immediately put me more at ease. “Hi”, he said, sinking into the opposite seat, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d decide to wait in the car or not.” I reached across the table to shake his hand, which seemed to surprise and amuse him. He ordered a sweet tea from the waitress and I briefly regretted the beer, then inwardly shrugged. At least I hadn’t ordered Jack.

The conversation was comfortable, normal, at first. We covered the usual topics – work, family, geography, and kids. Contrary to my earlier belief, he hadn’t been scared away by the single mom stigma. He asked questions and relayed stories about his nephew who is around the same age.

Then it moved into hilarious territory. We somehow got on the subject of gay men, which turned into me relaying the story of the 40 something man in women’s underwear that was online stalking me, which turned into him telling a story and so on. We covered a wide variety of topics – from homosexuals to bums, go-cart racing, books and movies. The only part that gave me a minute’s pause was when the story of my amorous drag queen turned into a discussion on men that wear their wives underwear, which turned into a discussion on violence in the bedroom.

“Sex is like...vanilla ice cream. It’s already good. All that other stuff is just toppings, nice to have sometimes but not really necessary. A little chocolate syrup – alright. Some whipped cream – ok, yeah. Sprinkle on a few chopped nuts – alright, but that’s probably enough...let’s not get too crazy. This hitting shit, I don’t know. A little slap on the ass and tug on the hair occasionally should be good enough, but not every time.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “If you won’t bruise me, you can’t use me”, but I refrained. I was, however, a little worried about all this vanilla sex talk. I happen to like toppings. But we continued to laugh and I wiped that part of the conversation from my mind for the time being. I told myself that I shouldn’t be concerned with his sexual prowess at the moment anyway. Besides, he fascinated me. He was so confident and relaxed. When our eyes met there was undeniable chemistry. We would periodically lean across the table toward each other and every now and then, though I wasn’t certain if it was purposeful or not, his foot would brush mine.

We sat there long after the waitress placed the bill on the table (which he snatched up immediately) and I was so loathe to end our time together that I’d been delaying a visit to the bathroom for a good thirty minutes. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore; I excused myself and he went to pay. When I returned he was sitting on the edge of his seat and I was disappointed. It was time to call it a night. I perched on the edge of mine and gathered my things.

“Are you in a hurry? Do you have anywhere to be”, he asked.

“Not really”, I replied nonchalantly.

“Do you want to hang out some more...do something else?”

“....sure. Ok.”

“What do you want to do?”

I shrugged, assuming we’d just go to a bar and have a few drinks. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want to come over and watch that movie we were talking about?”

I paused to consider my answer, my thoughts going back and forth, weighing the good and the bad: “I shouldn’t – I don’t know him. But I like him. But I shouldn’t because I’ll be tempted to sleep with him. What if he puts the moves on me? What if he doesn’t put the moves on me? I’d be an idiot to go. But I want to go. But an invitation to “come over and watch a movie” is an invitation for sex. Or at least in my experience it’s usually been that way.”

I smiled and said, “Ok.” Adding in my head, “I’m not fucking you...even if your green eyes are making me all tingly. Damn it.”

I followed Sam around the corner and into a neighboring subdivision that, coincidentally, I take the kid to every Halloween for trick-or-treating. I wondered if I stood on his doorstep and smiled at him last year, without even noticing him at all.

Pulling into the driveway of a simple brick house, I cut the engine. I was nervous all over again as I stepped out of the car and walked toward him, my heels tapping on the pavement and echoing down the dark, quiet street. He smiled and turned to lead me up the steps. “It’s a little messy”, he said as he unlocked the door.

It wasn’t messy at all. It was lovely. The kitchen was light and airy with a breakfast nook and a tall, two-seater table. A large wine rack was stocked with glasses and bottles next to a high backed wooden bench with hooks for hats. I followed him down a short flight of stairs into the living room. A huge, squishy looking white sofa was in the center of the room, one corner angled out like a chaise lounge. Black and white photos decorated the wall, along with an astounding array of movies and pictures on a wide black shelf. There was some sort of contraption in a corner that’s point swirled designs in a plate of sand. It was comfortable, yet modern...and exactly the sort of thing I’d do in my own home (should I ever again have the chance).

When I asked if he was a “techie” because of the seemingly large amount of equipment around the entertainment center he smiled and said, “I like gadgets. C’mon...I’ll show you.” I followed him back through the kitchen and into a side room. There were glass patio doors on one wall, a computer desk filled with monitors on another, and what looked like a lot of high tech audio equipment and huge speakers on the remaining wall. I thought of asking if he was in a band, but didn’t because I couldn’t remember if it was on his profile or not. I didn’t want him to know that I might have confused his stats with another’s.

Through another doorway I caught a glimpse of a big, gleaming black piano with the lid propped open. I’m ashamed to say that on our trek back to the living room I may have had a mini Pretty Woman fantasy.

We chatted about the house while he grabbed me a beer and squatted in front of the TV to find the movie. “Make yourself at home”, he said over his shoulder. The couch was so big that I had to wiggle back into it, my feet lifted awkwardly off the floor. I decided to angle myself on the chaise portion, stretching out my legs and crossing them. “Those are hot shoes, by the way”, he said, smiling as he walked toward me. “You can take them off if you want.”

“I’m alright.” They were black, caged high heels; I don’t know why I didn’t want to take them off. He flicked the light and settled down next to me, but not too close.

And then....

We watched the movie. I’m not even kidding. Occasionally one of us would make a comment about what was going on, but for the most part there was contented silence. About halfway through he told me I could take off my shoes again and I couldn’t find a reason not to. It seemed silly by then that I hadn’t. I had to scoot all the way to the edge of the couch to unzip the back of them and slip them off. I could feel him watching me, but I ignored it and wiggled back into place.

A short while later he stretched out and pulled me to him, put his arm and a pillow under my head, and spooned with me, his hand stroking my hip. But he didn’t try anything else and I relaxed, leaning back into him and feeling his chest rise and fall against my spine. I was entirely too content when the end credits rolled and he excitedly asked if I’d liked the movie. “I wasn’t sure you would”, he said, “but I hoped...”

I rolled over onto my back and propped up on my elbows, his arm draped casually over my waist. “Yes, I liked it.” We smiled at each other and discussed all the clues that led up to the surprise ending. I was charmed that he’d not only behaved throughout the whole thing, but that he’d wanted me to like it so much that when he asked, his face had been creased with something akin to worry.

Movie rehashing over, we stared at each other. He shifted a bit, half sitting up, and drew me toward him. I closed my eyes as his lips softly touched mine.

And for a long time he kept that soft, sedate pace, brushing his lips across my neck and back to my lips again, just barely teasing my tongue with his, until my mouth was begging for more pressure. I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed quite that way. It was delicious.

A few minutes later we became more urgent and he pressed me down into the couch. My skirt was twisted around my hips, my legs wrapped around his waist. My phone buzzed on the seat by my head as his hands wound themselves in my hair and his lips found my ear. I sighed, knowing exactly who it was. Mom had been texting me all evening, wanting to know when I was planning on coming home.

“Sam”, I said reluctantly.

“Mmm”, he replied, still nuzzling my neck and pressing closer.

“I can’t stay long. I mean...I can’t...I don’t want you to think that I...”

He chuckled and kissed me again. “It’s ok, I understand.”

“Good”, I said, relieved, kissing him back.

He leaned back and sat up, pulling me with him so hard that I tumbled into his lap. We laughed. And then we were at it again, his hands pressing down on my hips and my hands clutched in his hair. I pulled away a few minutes later, breathless, and he flopped back onto the couch with a sigh, leaving me straddling him and grinning. “You’re killing me”, I said with a laugh.

I reached over and picked up my beer from the table, taking a huge swallow while he laughed underneath me. I clambered off of him, tugging my skirt down and perching on the edge of the couch to put on my shoes. While I slipped a foot in one and zipped the back, he picked up the other and turned it over in his hand. “Yeah...I really like these. You were killing me by not taking them off.” We laughed and he handed it over.

I clacked across the living room and up the three stairs to the kitchen, with him hot on my heels. Picking up my purse from a chair, I turned to tell him goodbye. He wrapped me in a tight hug and held me up on my tiptoes. “I had a really good time”, he said.

“Me too.”

“When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know”, I replied a bit glumly. “I have a wedding this weekend that’s going to keep me busy.”

“I’ll be around. Let me know when you have some time.”

It took forever for me to get out of there –because my resolve was crumbling and every time he put his lips on me, I forgot where I was for a moment. Finally, pressed up against the wall next to the front door, I found the willpower. “I have to go. Really.” I dunked under his arm and backed out smiling. He grinned back at me and waited until I was in the car to close the door.

I drove out of the neighborhood in a state of barely suppressed agitation. My arms were covered in goose bumps and tingles ran up and down my spine. I lit a cigarette and attempted to calm down, but nothing could stop the squeal that came out of my mouth. “I’m like a fucking teenager”, I thought. But I didn’t care. My face was started to hurt from the grin that wouldn’t move.

My phone buzzed in my lap and I jumped. It was a text message from Sam. “That was really hot.”

My grin stretched even wider and I knew I was in serious danger of cracking my face in half.

“I agree”, I replied. “Though now I am incredibly frustrated.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way”, he said, “but I kind of like the idea of you going home all hot and bothered.”

Sleep did not come easy that night, but I was bright eyed and ready to go Friday morning. And luckily, I get off early on Fridays, because I was very distracted. I was home by 3:30 that afternoon and in the shower to get ready for the rehearsal and dinner. I had to be at the church by 6.

Arriving right on time, I stood around and waited for things to begin. The wedding was outside on a point overlooking the water and it was still quite hot outside. I was chatting with the bridesmaids when my phone buzzed. It was Sam.

We texted back and forth for awhile before I told him I’d get in touch with him after the rehearsal. I knew I was going to try to sneak out early to see him and it was making me antsy.

Around 8:30, after I’d socialized at the dinner for an hour and had a few drinks, I sent him a message.

“What are you up to?”

“Just finished dinner. Headed back home I guess. You?”

“Finishing up at this rehearsal dinner.”

“And then?”

I grinned as I typed, “No plans.”

“Not the right answer”, he said.

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“Much better.”

After several high fives from the bridesmaids and one “No more ‘Since January’ for you!” cat call, I was on my way to the car. There were tons of people there and I wouldn’t be missed. Besides, there was always the reception the following night.

I realized on the drive to his place that I was a little more tipsy than I originally thought and I had to be extra careful. I was relieved when I finally pulled up in his driveway. For about half a second. Then I saw him sitting on the steps, talking on the phone, and it hit me. I was there for one reason and one reason only. He knew and I knew it. And it had been such a long time...I was suddenly nervous.

There was a heavy night breeze as I got out of the car and my dress sucked to my legs as I walked toward him. He smiled and reached out his hand, still on the phone, and I took it. He squeezed my fingers and rolled his eyes in the direction of the phone.

“Where’s your bathroom”, I whispered.

He pointed to one side and mouthed, “Hallway.”

I went inside, dropped my purse in a kitchen chair, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. I stared at myself in the mirror – a mass of curls around my face and eyes wide. I turned the water on and rinsed my suddenly dry mouth, then took a deep breath and went back outside.

He was still on the phone and made an apologetic motion at me. I felt awkward standing there, listening to his conversation, but I didn’t want to sit in his house either. Instead I leaned on the railing and looked up at the sky, tuning him out. The moon and the stars looked particularly bright, but I imagine that had more to do with the closest street lamp being out and my level of inebriation, rather than anything else.

Finally he said goodbye, stood up and came toward me. “Hi”, he said smiling.

“Hi.”

He gathered me in his arms and kissed me, right there on the front steps. And as I kissed him back, as his hands stroked my shoulders and my hair, I realized I wasn’t nervous anymore. Not at all.

Online dating - the saga continues

So, this is day what in the online dating chronicles? I don’t even know.

I haven’t spent much time at all researching matches or browsing through profiles. I haven’t had to. That’s not an ego thing, it’s just a fact. I’ve been bombarded with messages since day one, hour one. I think this has less to do with them finding me attractive and more to do with the fact that I’m young. I can just see the wheels turning in the brains of these older men that are so gung ho about meeting me. “She’d fetch my beer and make me sandwiches a hell of a lot faster than those older broads. And she’d put out more too.”

During the first two weeks I received some pretty unfortunate messages. (I shared a few of them already here.) I was sorely disappointed in the quality of the site I chose to try first. The only decent candidate stood me up last weekend. Well technically we had no concrete plans, but we’d discussed doing something and then after Wednesday of last week, he never messaged me again. I was a little let down, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t as interested when he realized I had a daughter. Apparently he didn’t read my profile very clearly.

The other weekend, after the millionth request for sexual favors, I decided to try a different website. And I was immediately reassured. The matches were much, much better. Though, of course, there’s no keeping away all of the strange, disturbing, and borderline illiterate. There are also a lot of different features that make finding matches easier.

The neat part is seeing who looks at your profile. I’ve come across some interesting people – an English teacher, a Marine, and a man that prefers to live his life on the go, selling things out of his trunk. Anybody need a watch? But the most interesting by far is a 40 year old married man. All of his pictures are taken from the back, waist down, and he’s wearing women’s lingerie – black stockings, garters, high heels, and a thong. When I first saw it I simply stared with open mouthed horror, but before long I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face. His entire ass is covered in black hair.

I’ve never been a fan of hairy men to begin with, but really? It’s bad enough that your profile picture is of you wearing heels and stockings, meaning that the thumbnail is unavoidable, but why would you put up a picture of your ass when it looks like the face of a particularly ugly gorilla? Not cool, dude. No wonder he’s out seeking another playmate. His wife is probably in intensive care with the only 3rd degree rug burn on record.

He’s viewed my profile approximately 7 times now and has marked me as someone he’d like to “get to know”. The scary part is that he lives in this city. I keep looking around as I walk downtown, wondering if one of the suits passing by is hiding his hairy ass. See, my face is on my profile. His isn’t. Freaky.

But, like I said, it’s not all bad. This past week I started talking to a seemingly perfect candidate. We were matched by the site and both happened to read the other’s profile and rate each other highly.

He’s 32, divorced with two kids, and runs his own business. Though I’m not a huge fan of kids in general, I can’t rule out other parents. It would just be hypocritical. Not only that, but if they have their own kids they’ll probably be less likely to want another one...which makes my uterus breathe a sigh of relief. I really don’t want to have to explain to a man that pregnancy and childbirth is on my “never do again” list, right along with anal sex and the cha-cha slide.

Anyway, we’ve started emailing and recently progressed to text messages. And he’s funny. Not just funny, but my kind of funny. He’s witty, inappropriate, and smart. He reads as much as I do. And he writes. Not anything big, he says it’s just a journal, but c’mon...he writes! Finding a man that reads (things other than Field and Stream or Reader’s Digest because it’s on the back of the ‘shitter’) and writes around here is like winning the lottery.

We have plans to go out this Saturday night for drinks, dinner, and maybe some live music and I’m incredibly, uncommonly nervous. I think it’s because, unlike the first guy I was supposed to go out with, this one has most of the qualities that I’m looking for. I went into this with low expectations and I wasn’t disappointed, I was having a good laugh. Now, who knows? This shit might work after all.

He’s been trying to nail me down all week for a lunch date or a walk in the park, but I’ve been too busy. And I also kind of want to wait until Saturday. It gives me more time to plan, you know. Anyway, if we don’t click in person it won’t be the end of the world, but I find myself hoping that we do. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to write a hilarious post about a horrible date. Yep, I said it.

Surprisingly, Mr. 39 year old that sort of stood me up sent me a message a few nights ago. He wanted to know if I wanted to go grab some dinner. I’d chalked him up as gone. I said no, of course. Last minute plans are not something I often agree to, or even that I’m able to agree to because of the kid. He said, “No worries, there’s always next time :).” And after thinking about it for a minute I said, “Yes, there is.” Because if he ever asks me a few days in advance and sticks to it, I may consider it. At least for the experience, right?

There’s one other possible interest in the pipeline, but so far it hasn’t gone further than a few emails – which is fine because I don’t know how people have time for all of this business. It’s one thing to juggle a few booty calls – you don’t have to necessarily do any talking there. This getting to know people stuff is a little like work. Not that I’m complaining...yet.

Coincidentally, how many dates do you think it’s appropriate to have before you throw caution to the wind and do the horizontal mambo? And by throw caution to the wind, I mean make it as far as the car. Not like going for it without protection or anything. I’m no maverick when it comes to that. I know all about the pullout method – it just turned 5 in April and answers to the name of “PUT THAT DOWN”. Not that I plan on sleeping with any of them. Ever. I’m doing this the right way. I’m just curious is all.

So...I’ve got the dress. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the date. Now all I need to do is relax and try not to get drunk accidentally on purpose and fuck it all up. Stay tuned.

Blog-ish news and a new meme

It’s been more serious than usual around here lately, hasn’t it?

I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)

Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.

Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.

I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.

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It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.

I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)

Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:

Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.

I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.

Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:

He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.

Now, vast arrays of women love Johnny Depp. He’s one of the most heralded hotties to grace the big screen. But in all honesty, even though I’ve always thought he was good looking, I never really gave two shits until he played the role of the devilish Jack Sparrow.

I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.

Savvy?

Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:

I love Vince Vaughn in pretty much everything, but his character in this...yum. He’s a womanizing, fast talking bastard and it’s hot. Everything he does is ridiculously over the top, but somehow it works. There’s one scene in the beginning of the movie, where he’s talking to his secretary who suggested setting him up on a blind date, which sums it up perfectly:

“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”

I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?

Character number three is an oldie but goodie:

Dear Rhett Butler,

I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?

I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.

This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)

James Spader, as the creepy E. Edward Grey in Secretary, turns – me – on. I get goosebumps every time I watch. I can’t deny that the setting, the plot, and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s sexual awakening help fan the flame of my interest, but he’s definitely the spark.

Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.

(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)

And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:

I’d like to be the filling in a Diane Lane/Oliver Martinez sandwich please.

There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.

So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.

Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:

Veg Ass

Sara

Erin

Jules

And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):

Jerrod

Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.

Hasta mañana.

Button, button, stop with the goddamn button!

I owe you lot an apology for not posting a drunk video blog like I said I probably would. So here it is:

“I’m sorry I didn’t make a video blog of myself being retarded drunk on New Year’s Eve because I was far too busy having sex.”

I’d love to say it was glorious and that I’ve been filled up to the brim with enough sexual healing to last me awhile. Sadly that’s not the case. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

It was a bit like eating at a really nice restaurant.

The setting is perfect: mood lighting, attentive service, the air is filled with the scent of promise. The appetizer melts in your mouth and the wine is delectable.

Then the main course comes and the first few bites are amazing. Eyes roll heavenward and satisfied moans escape lips. You start to feel a bit lightheaded. You want to eat everything, but you find yourself ready for dessert NOW.

But SURPRISE! There isn’t any dessert! There’s only more main course...and more main course...and more main course. They keep taking away your plate and putting a fresh one down a few minutes later. And that really sucks because you’re a methodical eater – only eating one thing at a time and saving the best for last.

You eat all of the main course you can because you’re a trooper and it’s been a very long time since you’ve been to a restaurant. But someone has to cry uncle. You’re left with no dessert, only a dissatisfied ache. And even though there’s no check, you know you’re going to be paying for it later. Because, for some reason, you already have plans to come back.

There. I think that about covers it. Should I leave it at that? Would you be satisfied? No, neither would I.

I met him sometime around March of last year. He was a friend of my mom’s boyfriend – only a few years older than me, good looking, smart.

A group of them were going to a bar and invited both of us out with every intention of causing a connection. Sadly things didn’t go as planned. We said barely a few words to each other and there may have been a misunderstanding or two. I didn’t see him out again, but I would hear the occasional story about him and his women. I’d never admit it to any of my friends, but his antics fascinated me. It was almost like listening to stories about myself, in male form.

New Year’s Eve was looking rather grim. Most of my friends were either having a quiet night at home or going out to a club. I didn’t really want to spend the evening at home alone, nor did I have the money to go clubbing. The only other option was a party.

My mom and her boyfriend go to this party every year. I always heard it was a good time, but in all honesty, who wants to go to a New Year’s party and get drunk with their mom? Well...I decided it was better to get drunk for free than sit at home, so I climbed in the backseat of Ray’s truck and tagged along.

Ray has to get to everything early, so for the first two hours I was asking myself, “Self, why the fuck did you come here?”

Then things got better. Some people I knew came in and the hardcore drinking began.

I was wearing my new outfit – a pinstriped shirt dress, black leggings, and black flats. I was in love with the top because it reminded me of wearing a man’s shirt. There were slits on each side and when I sat down they rode up to my hips, exposing a lot of leg. Legging clad leg, but still.

I was sitting at a long table with my legs propped in the chair next to me, chatting across the way to a friend, when mom said in my ear, “He’s here.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw him speaking to Ray. He looked good, better than I remembered. I shrugged and turned back to my friends.

Later I was walking past him and he said something smartass to me. I replied in kind and the flirtation began. Never actually stopping to talk to each other, we just exchanged heated looks and barbed words. The turning point was the dance.

There was a band playing country music (which isn’t my favorite, but I enjoy some of it) and they were pretty good. I was standing in a group of people, including him, when they struck up a slow song. (Wish I could remember what it was. I’ll have to ask.) He got all excited, claiming he loved it and had to dance. So I said, “C’mon.”

We walked out onto the floor, wrapped our arms around each other, and melted. His fingers ran from the back of neck, down my spine, stopping just short of getting very hands on indeed. While he swayed us in a raunchy circle, he sang low next to my ear. I forgot about everyone there, including my likely slack jawed mom. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had slow dancing.

The song ended and we returned to our places. The flirting kicked up a notch and had our looks been hands, I swear we would have been naked and panting.

I’d stepped outside for a minute when I heard the count down begin. I raced back through the door and began counting with the rest. Then everyone was shouting and exchanging hugs as the band struck up the New Year song. I came face to face with him and we grinned at each other.

“Happy new year”, I said.

“Let’s see what you’ve got”, he replied grabbing me and pressing his lips to mine. BANG. FLASH. Instant burn. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was effective.

The party ended with the band making up funny songs about it’s members and various people in attendance. People were drifting out and saying their goodbyes. I was sitting on a barstool and he stood with his back to me, wrapping my legs around his. I slid my hands under his shirt and ran my nails down his back, tugging at the back of his belt. He made a noise of frustration and looked around before slipping his hand behind him and placing it between my legs.

It was all very inappropriate, but I honestly didn’t think anyone had noticed until I looked to the left and saw mom looking at me in horror. I just shrugged and grinned at her. She never drank, but that night she was wasted, having taken a Xanax before the party. I knew she wasn’t likely to remember much. (And she didn’t.)

Ray turned to me shortly after and said, “Are you coming with us?”

“I guess”, I replied reluctantly.

Loosening my legs, he turned around, looked and me and said, “That’s fine”, in a fake hurt tone.

That was all the invitation I needed. I looked back at Ray. “Nevermind.”

As we tripped off across the driveway he said, “Your mom is going to kill me.” (My mom works with his mom and knows him quite well, him being a friend of Ray’s and all.)

“And?"

We made the short drive to his house and went in. While he greeted his dog and dicked around, I took off my jacket and watched him. He seemed nervous, which was at odds with the personality I’d come in contact with so far.

“Come sit down for a minute.” He stretched out on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. I lay my head in his lap and threw my legs over the armrest. While we talked he slipped his hands inside my shirt and, well, here’s where I have a mental block. If I’m to explain it correctly I should say, “He fondled my breasts”, or something like that. But I just couldn’t type it without laughing and thinking of a Fabio novel in my Aunt’s fat, sweaty paws. I also couldn’t say, “He played with my boobies”, because that just doesn’t sound right...right?

Whatever, you get the idea, ok?

I was impatient, which I’m sure he was all too aware of, but he took his sweet time getting acquainted with my boobs. Finally he got up and towed me toward his bedroom, shutting the door in the face of his unhappy dog.

I started to take off my leggings. He turned around from whatever he was fiddling with (no, not himself) and said, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking off my leggings.”

“Oh.”

At the time I was a bit confused about the problem with me removing my clothing. Was there a protocol? Was I supposed to play red light, green light or something?

I soon realized what the deal was: he wanted to be in complete control.

After removing my leggings, I crawled across the bed on my knees and turned around to face him. My shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and I was attempting to undo the rest when he pounced, flattening me to the bed. My sense of time is a bit addled, but there was a lot of long, delicious foreplay.

But when I tried to rise and take some control, he wouldn’t have it. For a moment it was a bit like being between two trampolines. I was trying to sit up and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me. So being the stubborn drunk, I kept trying and just ended up pinging back and forth between him and the bed. It was awkward, but kind of funny.

I finally got him on his back. (Isn’t that always fun to say?) And you’d think I’d get tired of hearing how awesome I am at oral sex, but no, I don’t. I’m even semi-bragging about it now. How tacky...yet entirely true. I will say I’ve never had one shout quite that much or that loudly. Must be getting better with age, eh? *brushes shoulders off*

Then there was some sex. It was good sex. There was hair pulling and ass slapping and shit talking. But then...

Whiskey came calling and demanded payment. And we’d have to start all over again.

And again. And again. He was tireless and would not accept defeat and neither, at first, would I.

Unfortunately, the longer things went on the harder he was on my bizness. Not in, or with the right appendage, but on, you understand. I’m not exactly sure what that deal was, but I had to put a stop to the button grinding before it went numb and fell off.

The stop and start routine went on forever before we finally just curled up together and slept for awhile. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I slipped on my shirt and found him in the living room watching TV. He was embarrassed, poor guy.

Now, normally I wouldn’t have cared it he was embarrassed or not. I would have shrugged and kept my mouth shut. But for some reason, I liked him enough to reassure him that I’d had a good time. And for the most part, I had.

I went and put my clothes on and asked him to take me home. I still have an aversion to being there when the sun comes up. I’ll have to work on that...

We laughed and carried on an easy conversation all the way home. When we pulled up he apologized again. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. As I climbed out of the truck he said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Yes, you will”, I said smiling.

He watched me dance across the driveway on my tiptoes, trying to avoid the mud puddles, and didn’t pull off until I was inside.

I went quietly about my routine and climbed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. As much as I thought I liked him, there was still one problem:

I was too sore to help myself to dessert.