This little number probably qualifies as one of the worst dates I've ever been on. Although, I haven't been on too many bad ones since I am pretty exclusive when it comes to choosing who I go out with. You see, I try to avoid the terrible dates by judging the guys, and I typically refuse unless I think I'd really like the dude. Bitch, picky, whatever you want to call it. Makes my life easier.
This was a friend from home. He's a nice guy, tall, not bad looking. I figured I'd give it a go. He kind of seemed too...New England for my oh-so worldly taste, but he made me laugh and always gave me rather uncheesy compliments. Also, over the years I've been attempting to mold my taste in men since I've been insanely exclusive from a young age--to the point where I was concerned that I would never settle down because there was always something wrong. Lastly, and most importantly, how could I pass up a free dinner?
It was the second date of ours...the first one being mangled by my determination to illustrate that it was a strictly platonic setting, and immediately after that date I demanded to be dropped off at the bars, probably to pick up some ass. Feeling bad about the harsh rejection, I agreed to go on another one. Silly me. You know the saying...Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me? SHAME ON ME.
Red Flag #1. I suggested going to this great new restaurant in a nearby neighborhood. It was basically great food, cheap prices, awesome ambiance. He told me it was "too expensive." And by too expensive, you mean $15-20 for an entree? Uhhhh no thanks.
Instead, we went to this "nice" Jewish deli spot. Don't get me wrong, I'm only somewhat of a restaurant snob, but this place was good for lunch/brunch--not dinner with your lady friend. I think I got a sandwich?
Red Flag #2. He wanted to continue the night at a bar, and then another bar, and then another bar. Uhh why are you getting me drunk? There was no way he was sticking his p in my v, not even if I was roofied and comatose with legs spread. Pass.
We got drunk, he FINALLY dropped me off and I praised the heaven's above that the date was over. Great joke, right?
Red Flag #3. He basically demanded that I let him either stay over, or at least stay for a half hour or so, because he was "too drunk". I don't care if you drive across the country and die from a head-on collision with a tractor trailer. You're gross, I don't want to spend another second with you, and I hope you die. Honestly. I was being nice until that point--but who says that!??
We argued. I was pissed. I finally said he could watch TV and sober up a bit. We sat on different couches until he insisted that I sit next to him. I grimaced and grimaced hard, as if I was going to sit next to some serial rapist covered in human feces and vomit. Precisely 30 minutes passed and I shooed him out the door.
Red Flag #4. He went in for the kiss. I wanted to cry, scream, piss, moan, kill, throw up, shit, etc. I attempted all 6 actions to no avail and sat there with his gaping wound of a mouth over mine and his tongue halfway down my esophagus. I'm pretty sure he tasted my shitty Jewish dinner.
Then he left.
Haha. It's not over yet.
Red Flag #5. He texted me 15 minutes later thanking me for one of the best nights he's had in a long time. I don't think I responded, considering I felt the exact opposite.
Red Flag #6. The next day, he asked if I was home. I was, but I knew better than to admit to that, and said I had left for the day. I insisted that he could drop off whatever he was dropping off with my roommate, but he claimed he just needed to do it in person. I shuddered in disgust and told him it wasn't going to happen. He told me he had flowers for me. Flowers? What the fuck? Do you have some shrine of me equivalent to that of Helga Pataki's in Hey Arnold? Could you be any creepier? Gross? Disgusting? Revolting?
Lastly, when I explained that I was the furthest thing from interested, he was upset and said that I shouldn't lead him on. Uhh, did you not notice the gag reflexes occurring the entire night, or did you just think I had a bad case of the hiccups? Freak.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
The joys of online dating, part un.
When the internet was first introduced, one of the first things I did was to log on to chatrooms and create random personalities with which to talk to strangers all over the world. It's not that I don't have friends (I mean, I don't, but what I'm trying to say is that it's not always a reflection on your social standing. Sometimes the people with the most friends are actually the loneliest).
It's more about the curiosity and the exposure to different people and cultures. I genuinely enjoy meeting new people, whether that be in a bar, on the street, or trapped in a small, dark basement in Germany with incestuous sex slaves. What?...As a young teen, I obviously didn't have many opportunities to meet people in person. So I logged in.
And then we grew older. Online dating was invented and became popular amongst the older divorcees of the world. I specifically remember my mother's friend dating men online. My mother said they all looked (jokingly)like serial killers, and she asserted that they must have had strange personalities and characteristics, as well as small penises (everyone who sucks at life has a small penis in my mother's mind, even if they actually have an 8 incher). I mean, no one in their "right mind" would date someone online!
I laughed, my mom's friend got laid, and my mother got to make fun of her. We all got something out of the experience.
Then came college. It's funny, I was elated at the idea of moving into a new arena, where the men would be mature, kind, intelligent, and willing to actually date, monogamously. Could I have been more wrong? The guys at the first school I went to were tools. I'm sorry, but the tri-state area of NY/CT/NJ does not create winners. Yes, maybe some. I'm not trying to generalize here. But seriously, generalizations exist because of evidence. Anyone I liked ended up being weird, boring, or just an asshole. And the ones that liked me were even stranger still.
After freshman year, I dated an old friend from home for a while in order to escape the horrors of my school's SLIM, maybe even nonexistant, pickins. After breaking up, transferring schools, and exploring new cities and even slimmer pickins, I decided to try this little online dating razzledazzle. Several gay friends had had great luck on the sites, so I chose the free one and gave it a whirl. At least I would get some drinks and great stories out of it, right?
I created a bomb profile, got hammered with messages and "winks", and became basically horrified at the amount of attention I was getting. I mean, I know I'm really really ridiculously good looking and witty, but what do the other girls look and act like on this thing? They must be like Sloth from "The Goonies" if I reached max capacity in sexual harassment in only a few days.
Probably the best message ever received was from a 40 something year old "successful" "psychiatrist" who didn't want his patients to know he was on the site so he cropped out the upper half of his face in all of his pictures...riiiight. He ended up writing me some weird paragraph about his life and why he wants to date (bone) me, and he followed it up with a lovely poem discussing his "silk thunder sliding down my warm belly."
After I vomited in my mouth several times, I laughed, vomited some more, and told all my close friends. I told you I'd get some good stories out of it.
It's more about the curiosity and the exposure to different people and cultures. I genuinely enjoy meeting new people, whether that be in a bar, on the street, or trapped in a small, dark basement in Germany with incestuous sex slaves. What?...As a young teen, I obviously didn't have many opportunities to meet people in person. So I logged in.
And then we grew older. Online dating was invented and became popular amongst the older divorcees of the world. I specifically remember my mother's friend dating men online. My mother said they all looked (jokingly)like serial killers, and she asserted that they must have had strange personalities and characteristics, as well as small penises (everyone who sucks at life has a small penis in my mother's mind, even if they actually have an 8 incher). I mean, no one in their "right mind" would date someone online!
I laughed, my mom's friend got laid, and my mother got to make fun of her. We all got something out of the experience.
Then came college. It's funny, I was elated at the idea of moving into a new arena, where the men would be mature, kind, intelligent, and willing to actually date, monogamously. Could I have been more wrong? The guys at the first school I went to were tools. I'm sorry, but the tri-state area of NY/CT/NJ does not create winners. Yes, maybe some. I'm not trying to generalize here. But seriously, generalizations exist because of evidence. Anyone I liked ended up being weird, boring, or just an asshole. And the ones that liked me were even stranger still.
After freshman year, I dated an old friend from home for a while in order to escape the horrors of my school's SLIM, maybe even nonexistant, pickins. After breaking up, transferring schools, and exploring new cities and even slimmer pickins, I decided to try this little online dating razzledazzle. Several gay friends had had great luck on the sites, so I chose the free one and gave it a whirl. At least I would get some drinks and great stories out of it, right?
I created a bomb profile, got hammered with messages and "winks", and became basically horrified at the amount of attention I was getting. I mean, I know I'm really really ridiculously good looking and witty, but what do the other girls look and act like on this thing? They must be like Sloth from "The Goonies" if I reached max capacity in sexual harassment in only a few days.
Probably the best message ever received was from a 40 something year old "successful" "psychiatrist" who didn't want his patients to know he was on the site so he cropped out the upper half of his face in all of his pictures...riiiight. He ended up writing me some weird paragraph about his life and why he wants to date (bone) me, and he followed it up with a lovely poem discussing his "silk thunder sliding down my warm belly."
After I vomited in my mouth several times, I laughed, vomited some more, and told all my close friends. I told you I'd get some good stories out of it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
re·cy·cle (r-skl) tr.v. re·cy·cled, re·cy·cling, re·cy·cles
1. To put or pass through a cycle again, as for further treatment.
2. To start a different cycle in.
3. a. To extract useful materials from (garbage or waste).
b. To extract and reuse (useful substances found in waste).
4. a. To use again, especially to reprocess: recycle aluminum cans; recycle old jokes.
b. To recondition and adapt to a new use or function: recycling old warehouses as condominiums.
re·cycla·ble adj. & n.
re·cycler n.
Recycling also has many meanings in the coital world.
The "recycling bin" is a collection of men to which one could apply each definition, especially that of extracting and reusing (useful substances found in waste).
It is very important that every woman, especially those single prowlers, have a recycling bin of grade A man meat. Preferably one in each city in which one might reside or visit on occasion. Keep a mental black book of whoever might be available, and voila! You get laid AND you play tourist in New York City!
It's gotta be a sure deal. Automatic. No questions asked. That's right, when I visit NYC, sometimes I wake up on Wall Street.
Well, in an apartment, on Wall Street. But that story is for another post.
Whether it be high school ween, college cock, or just some random guy you met one time and always have him crawling back for more, get yourself a recycling bin, and fill it with AT LEAST 5 guys. Let's be honest ladies, we can't always have those numbers shooting up. It's not cool to sleep around when you have a vagina, according to the Martian side of the argument.
2. To start a different cycle in.
3. a. To extract useful materials from (garbage or waste).
b. To extract and reuse (useful substances found in waste).
4. a. To use again, especially to reprocess: recycle aluminum cans; recycle old jokes.
b. To recondition and adapt to a new use or function: recycling old warehouses as condominiums.
re·cycla·ble adj. & n.
re·cycler n.
Recycling also has many meanings in the coital world.
The "recycling bin" is a collection of men to which one could apply each definition, especially that of extracting and reusing (useful substances found in waste).
It is very important that every woman, especially those single prowlers, have a recycling bin of grade A man meat. Preferably one in each city in which one might reside or visit on occasion. Keep a mental black book of whoever might be available, and voila! You get laid AND you play tourist in New York City!
It's gotta be a sure deal. Automatic. No questions asked. That's right, when I visit NYC, sometimes I wake up on Wall Street.
Well, in an apartment, on Wall Street. But that story is for another post.
Whether it be high school ween, college cock, or just some random guy you met one time and always have him crawling back for more, get yourself a recycling bin, and fill it with AT LEAST 5 guys. Let's be honest ladies, we can't always have those numbers shooting up. It's not cool to sleep around when you have a vagina, according to the Martian side of the argument.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Revenge Ideas
In case you were wondering what the fuck to do with that extra bit of clothing your ex left behind (especially if he is persistently asking for it), here's my plan:
Place it kindly on his doorstep, in a shopping bag, with these large words written in permanent marker:
Dear _____,
You're an asshole.
xoxo, ______.
PS: Your sweater is gay.
Yes, I have carried this out. As of today, the count is at 1. But I plan on recycling this idea. It's brilliant.
Place it kindly on his doorstep, in a shopping bag, with these large words written in permanent marker:
Dear _____,
You're an asshole.
xoxo, ______.
PS: Your sweater is gay.
Yes, I have carried this out. As of today, the count is at 1. But I plan on recycling this idea. It's brilliant.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Corn Mazes are for Giving Blowjobs
I'm a bad, bad blogger. No, seriously, I will be more diligent. Especially as life starts to calm down in a few weeks (Think: graduation).
I don't know if mazes made out of a cornfield hold a spot on your bucket list, but they sure as hell reside on mine. Any sort of gigantic maze sounds amazing, especially if David Bowie is waiting for me at the end. I don't recall why the thought crossed my mind, but I decided to google nearby mazes and found one at a farm about an hour away from my hometown. I convinced (although, convincing would imply there was some sort of hesitation) my boyfriend at the time to go, and then his parents jumped in on the idea. Free ride and admission! That's what parents are there for.
We got to the farm and took this massive tractor/wagon down to the not so massive maze, into and out of which small children were running. Disappointment was ever-present, but we held our adult heads high and marched into the "depths" of the cornfield maze. And by cornfield maze, I mean maybe 3 to 4 short paths through the field with a slight spattering of dead-ends. Joe and I separated from his parents in an attempt to revert back to a childlike state, since the only way to enjoy the charlatan that dared to call itself a maze was to pretend we were the age of 5 or 6. Although, 5 and 6 year olds don't tend to become horny when with those of the opposite sex and sneak into the unmazed portion of the cornfield in order to perform fellatio. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can catch them. Those crazy kids.
Yes, yes. I gave head in a cornfield maze. Don't worry, it wasn't in the middle of the main drag with screaming children and stressed parents encircling us. We snuck into the thick of the corn stalks and I went to town. Nothing like the sound of your future parenthood screeching in your ears while you're getting your dick sucked. I mean, that must be such a turn on. Damn, this is what having kids is like? Oh, yeah girl, deepthroat. Umm, what?? No wonder we broke up. I should've been pissed he wasn't flaccid. That's incredibly disturbing. Almost as disturbing as the thought that a small child could've seen the very base of your shaft while you skullfucked me. F-ing creep.
Okay, okay. It was my idea. But still. He's the one that actually found pleasure amidst the chaos of the pussy ass cornfield maze. Just saying, maybe he should've said that he felt uncomfortable. I guess it was the whole "Oooh we're doing something dirty and could get caught quite easily," that propelled the moment. Looking back, I realized I could now be paying for some kid's lifelong therapy sessions just because Joe wanted a beej and couldn't wait a few hours (Probably cause he knew I wouldn't fucking feel like it in a few hours. Gotta grab at the opportunity while its hot.)
Life lesson: think before you s?
I don't know if mazes made out of a cornfield hold a spot on your bucket list, but they sure as hell reside on mine. Any sort of gigantic maze sounds amazing, especially if David Bowie is waiting for me at the end. I don't recall why the thought crossed my mind, but I decided to google nearby mazes and found one at a farm about an hour away from my hometown. I convinced (although, convincing would imply there was some sort of hesitation) my boyfriend at the time to go, and then his parents jumped in on the idea. Free ride and admission! That's what parents are there for.
We got to the farm and took this massive tractor/wagon down to the not so massive maze, into and out of which small children were running. Disappointment was ever-present, but we held our adult heads high and marched into the "depths" of the cornfield maze. And by cornfield maze, I mean maybe 3 to 4 short paths through the field with a slight spattering of dead-ends. Joe and I separated from his parents in an attempt to revert back to a childlike state, since the only way to enjoy the charlatan that dared to call itself a maze was to pretend we were the age of 5 or 6. Although, 5 and 6 year olds don't tend to become horny when with those of the opposite sex and sneak into the unmazed portion of the cornfield in order to perform fellatio. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can catch them. Those crazy kids.
Yes, yes. I gave head in a cornfield maze. Don't worry, it wasn't in the middle of the main drag with screaming children and stressed parents encircling us. We snuck into the thick of the corn stalks and I went to town. Nothing like the sound of your future parenthood screeching in your ears while you're getting your dick sucked. I mean, that must be such a turn on. Damn, this is what having kids is like? Oh, yeah girl, deepthroat. Umm, what?? No wonder we broke up. I should've been pissed he wasn't flaccid. That's incredibly disturbing. Almost as disturbing as the thought that a small child could've seen the very base of your shaft while you skullfucked me. F-ing creep.
Okay, okay. It was my idea. But still. He's the one that actually found pleasure amidst the chaos of the pussy ass cornfield maze. Just saying, maybe he should've said that he felt uncomfortable. I guess it was the whole "Oooh we're doing something dirty and could get caught quite easily," that propelled the moment. Looking back, I realized I could now be paying for some kid's lifelong therapy sessions just because Joe wanted a beej and couldn't wait a few hours (Probably cause he knew I wouldn't fucking feel like it in a few hours. Gotta grab at the opportunity while its hot.)
Life lesson: think before you s?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
(Ex)Girlfriends.
Need I say more? There's an "ex" there for a reason. Come on, what the F. Are there other girls out there that seem to be haunted by this very same problem? They're like mold. Damp, smelly. Putrid. She needs to leave him alone, and he needs to not enable the situation. Every god damn guy I start to like has one of these. I enjoy how I am referring to "them" like a bad wart. Let's call them genital warts, that's better.
You broke up. It's done. Everyone needs to move on.
PS, Olivia Newton John called. She wants her pink jacket back.
You broke up. It's done. Everyone needs to move on.
PS, Olivia Newton John called. She wants her pink jacket back.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
No one walks as shamefully as I
Exhibit A:
I had just left the dorm of this boy I was seeing (which brings up the substory about the fact that I was only really seeing him because my friend wanted his friend. I know, I am a GREAT pal sometimes). I was smoothly sporting a lacy black and silver top, heels, and....wait for it....worst of all....ENORMOUS men's basketball shorts. Add last night's makeup, the scent of day old alcohol exuding from my pores, and that haggard I-just-got-f'd aura, and you have the best recipe for a simply delightful walk of shame.
Luckily, my girlfriend was along for the ride, since the boys were roommates.
Unluckily, we somehow picked the perfect time and place to run into a meandering group of 10 or so priests on campus. I know those things aren't supposed to have had sex or anything, but I'm pretty sure they figured out that I had. Once we realized the blackhole ahead of us, we even attempted to take a minor detour through the parking lot. GOD FORBID I try not to get judged by men that have never supposedly touched their own penis, an idea which is blasphemous in and of itself. They of course changed their own direction in order to run straight into us and our judgment. Yay.
Exhibit B:
I was getting a ride home from my cousin's friend, a nice boy with an uncircumcised penis (yes, my first one!). We had some fun, that is, after I got over the shock of blindly feeling the anteater with my hand down his pants. He sweated a lot, which was weird, but he gave me one of the top 5 best compliments ever received in saying, "You have the body of a pin-up girl." So I let his odd bodily attributes slide. No pun intended. Ok, maybe it was a little intended.
The next morning, he gave me a nice ride home...
...
...
...to my parents' house. Woops. I don't know why I didn't care in the least, or why I wasn't even a tiny bit nervous. I guess you just have to know my family. 'Sweaty' over in the driver's seat apparently had no idea what they were capable of, and stupidly tried to drop me off in front of the house next door. As if that is going to not make it completely obvious that he's trying not to be seen/caught/made fun of. Seriously, could you make it ANY worse? Anytime you're stuck like that, you just have to run with what you've got. Make it a great story, maybe start a blog?
I'm pretty sure I was wearing heels and maybe even a dress. I got out of the car and started walking up the sidewalk towards my house. I think I might have even closed my eyes and shuffled my feet in a post drunken stumble to try and power through the potentially mortifying event. But, of course, avoiding confrontation with my family and/or neighbors is simply out of the question. 27 seconds into the sidewalk strut, I hear the tapping of a finger on a window and look up at my living room to see my mother repeatedly knocking on the window and waving to me with a facial expression of mockery and excitement. I walk in the door and she immediately asks, "Where have YOOoOOuUUu beeeeen? Hmmmm???" As if I'm simply coming home to my curious and jovial college roommate who knows EXACTLY where I've been. My older sister, home for the holidays, follows up her interrogation with a shrill "WALK OF SHAME!! WALK OF SHAME!!" accusation, while my brother joins in on the fun by laughing hysterically, and I ran up the stairs as quickly as my hungover and sore body will allow.
Luckily, my father was not home at the time. Again, not that I was concerned that I might get into trouble. I just can't bear being humiliated by my entire family after a long night of lovin'. Call me (or them) crazy. Unluckily, he came home 2 hours later, heard the absolutely hiLARious story of my adventures and came up to my room straight away to address me saying with a coy smile on his face, "Heard you've been doing some really good things."
Alright, now you choose. Which one is worse?
I had just left the dorm of this boy I was seeing (which brings up the substory about the fact that I was only really seeing him because my friend wanted his friend. I know, I am a GREAT pal sometimes). I was smoothly sporting a lacy black and silver top, heels, and....wait for it....worst of all....ENORMOUS men's basketball shorts. Add last night's makeup, the scent of day old alcohol exuding from my pores, and that haggard I-just-got-f'd aura, and you have the best recipe for a simply delightful walk of shame.
Luckily, my girlfriend was along for the ride, since the boys were roommates.
Unluckily, we somehow picked the perfect time and place to run into a meandering group of 10 or so priests on campus. I know those things aren't supposed to have had sex or anything, but I'm pretty sure they figured out that I had. Once we realized the blackhole ahead of us, we even attempted to take a minor detour through the parking lot. GOD FORBID I try not to get judged by men that have never supposedly touched their own penis, an idea which is blasphemous in and of itself. They of course changed their own direction in order to run straight into us and our judgment. Yay.
Exhibit B:
I was getting a ride home from my cousin's friend, a nice boy with an uncircumcised penis (yes, my first one!). We had some fun, that is, after I got over the shock of blindly feeling the anteater with my hand down his pants. He sweated a lot, which was weird, but he gave me one of the top 5 best compliments ever received in saying, "You have the body of a pin-up girl." So I let his odd bodily attributes slide. No pun intended. Ok, maybe it was a little intended.
The next morning, he gave me a nice ride home...
...
...
...to my parents' house. Woops. I don't know why I didn't care in the least, or why I wasn't even a tiny bit nervous. I guess you just have to know my family. 'Sweaty' over in the driver's seat apparently had no idea what they were capable of, and stupidly tried to drop me off in front of the house next door. As if that is going to not make it completely obvious that he's trying not to be seen/caught/made fun of. Seriously, could you make it ANY worse? Anytime you're stuck like that, you just have to run with what you've got. Make it a great story, maybe start a blog?
I'm pretty sure I was wearing heels and maybe even a dress. I got out of the car and started walking up the sidewalk towards my house. I think I might have even closed my eyes and shuffled my feet in a post drunken stumble to try and power through the potentially mortifying event. But, of course, avoiding confrontation with my family and/or neighbors is simply out of the question. 27 seconds into the sidewalk strut, I hear the tapping of a finger on a window and look up at my living room to see my mother repeatedly knocking on the window and waving to me with a facial expression of mockery and excitement. I walk in the door and she immediately asks, "Where have YOOoOOuUUu beeeeen? Hmmmm???" As if I'm simply coming home to my curious and jovial college roommate who knows EXACTLY where I've been. My older sister, home for the holidays, follows up her interrogation with a shrill "WALK OF SHAME!! WALK OF SHAME!!" accusation, while my brother joins in on the fun by laughing hysterically, and I ran up the stairs as quickly as my hungover and sore body will allow.
Luckily, my father was not home at the time. Again, not that I was concerned that I might get into trouble. I just can't bear being humiliated by my entire family after a long night of lovin'. Call me (or them) crazy. Unluckily, he came home 2 hours later, heard the absolutely hiLARious story of my adventures and came up to my room straight away to address me saying with a coy smile on his face, "Heard you've been doing some really good things."
Alright, now you choose. Which one is worse?
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