Jesus loves you more than you will know

I knew it was going to be a good night. I had a feeling. I had run into some girlfriends of mine downtown, and we decided to go out “skeezin.” Seriously. I hadn’t even ordered my first drink before he started talking to me at the bar. He tried to buy my drink when the bartender showed up, but I declined. He and I talked at the bar for awhile, then made our way to a corner table while the girls worked the dance floor. He bought me a couple more drinks. He was young, but not too young. I told him he looked 19, I checked his ID. No, he really was 23.

When he brought back round two (or was it three?), I noticed he was wearing a bathing suit. Really? Yeah, he’d been on the river earlier that day. OK. Whatever. He was cute. Tall. Dimpled chin. I could forgive him. He knew my favorite bands. Before long, we were making out. That got boring, so he asked if I wanted to see his place. Oh sure, why not?

We get in his truck. I asked where we were going. “To Booneytown.” Seriously? Booneytown is about 20 miles out of town. Fairly secluded. I also don’t have my cell phone on me. I’d left it at my house. Ah, well. Time to take chances, and this kid was just so babyfaced. A face to trust.

We were about 10 miles out of town when it hit me. I went out on the wrong night. The wrong week, actually.

“Oh, my,” I said, “I just remembered something.”

He looked across the pickup seat at me, his drunken Mrs. Robinson, with his shiny, excited blue eyes.

“What’s that, June?”

His hand was on my thigh. I noted that he was sober enough to drive and to remember my name.

“Well. I’m on my period.”

“Oh,” he said, “OK,” and looked back at the road. Still smiling, still tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.

OK, then. I shrugged. When we got to his house, I was relieved to find that he had black sheets. It was a good night.

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Craigslist Personals - You Answered It

**Editors' Note: An anonymous post today about dating online.**

Dating is weird. The weirdness gets brought to a new level when you involve the internet.

But hell, why not give it a shot, right? I have.

And it was fine. Perfectly fine. We exchanged a few emails, we met for a couple of beers and a snack. He was cute enough, decent conversation, but no spark. No problem. Just a decent conversation with someone in town I might not have met otherwise. We even had a few things in common, so we chatted about that.

He was describing a painting he had made years ago. There were a couple of figures, and over them, he had pasted a newspaper clipping.

“Probably some depressing story,” he said, “Or the classifieds or something.”

Thinking of the shit-state of the economy, the lack of “help wanted” ads and the proliferation of people selling off personal possessions in order to stay afloat, I said, “Well, classifieds can be pretty depressing.”

“Yeah,” he said, snickering, “especially the personals.”

Awkward pause.

“Oh, that was bad. Sorry,” he said.

I moved on.

But, please. Are you kidding me? You answered the fucking thing.

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I got some money ‘cause I just got paid

It was another Friday night, and I had every intention of being a good girl. But I was not staying home alone—not after that asshole neglected to call me. Again.

So I prettied up and took my little coup out for a spin. I parked her carefully and began my strut. Before I’d even made it down the block, I ran into an old buddy for a stop-n-chat, how are you, how’s the family, where ever did you get that leather jacket, etc.

Then I stopped in at some schmancy event, took my free munchies and worked the room for a bit. Snore. So I figured there had to be some live music happening at the local Sip’n’Shake. But winter's coming, kiddies, and mama needs to keep warm. And this particular night was so blasted cold out that I couldn’t even walk all the way to S&S (I never drink and drive) without stopping off somewhere to warm myself.

I found myself walking past a bar next to a sushi place downtown that serves a decent drink. Sometimes there’s even a DJ. This night, there wasn’t, and the place was kind of slow. I was a bit disappointed, but really wanted a Bombay sapphire ’tini. So I ponied up at an empty seat at the corner bar. In front of the empty seat next to me was a nearly-full beer. Something micro.

Just as the bartender set down the gorgeous ‘tini, a young man with a striped shirt, a Joaquin Phoenix-ish face (minus the cleft palate scar) and a baseball cap sat down beside me, grinned, and said in a thick southern accent, “Well hello.”

“Well, hello,” I thought, “So you’re what I’m doing tonight.”

I didn’t really miss the asshole’s phone call after that.

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Submission

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Running On Thin Ice," which is an apt name given that after this story happened, ROTI ran home in a snow storm rather than wait around with the woman and her boyfriend for ROTI's ride home. We only know this because we picked him up on the side of road..**

That title sounds like this story is going in a different direction than it really is.

I have something of a sordid, lascivious history with this woman. We worked together at the same restaurant for about a year and worked together well. There were instances where the place was short-staffed and she and I had much more responsibility than anyone making $3 an hour + tips should ever have, but we made it happen and meshed well as drinking buddies, co-workers, and eventually fuck buddies. Problem: she was on her third husband and has three kids to boot. I am a free-wheeling kid fresh out of college at this point with zero job prospects aside from that which a bachelor's in psych can afford (read: waiting tables, digging retaining walls, etc.). She is much more attractive than she gives herself credit for, and that has always been a turn-on for me, as it complements my joking self-aggrandizement well. Still, I don't wish to be Homewrecker Miles as I have been down that road and have scars and concussed memories to prove it.

That honorable intention lasted maybe a month and we were between the sheets. Things fall apart, and between me moving across the country and her other life we lost touch for a while. Fast forward to more recent times and we are back in touch... promising to connect and drink ourselves silly as a late birthday celebration for her.

I show up at the bar we left when we first got together all those years ago, and there she is, looking fantastic and with a 6'4" boyfriend with arms as big as my thighs in tow. He also happens to be much better at pool than me, which doesn't happen everyday, in addition to being an extremely well-paid engi-nerd. Sigh. Tequila flows freely with Mr. Buff picking up I don't know how many rounds in a row, and all of a sudden Miss Thing and I are talking about what it was like exploring each others' nether regions back in the day. She is sneaking this conversation in when Mr. Buff isn't close enough to hear, but she is getting into my personal space bubble and I don't think Mr. Buff was too excited about it. Thankfully there were a bunch of their friends around to distract him while Miss Thing and I step outside. Then we're kissing. Then we're getting into HIS truck. Then...

It's as good as I remember, even if I am sneaking looks over her shoulder at the bar door waiting to see if Mr. Buff is running in my direction with a pool cue / tire iron / gun. He is not. This is pretty hot, even if my life could be in danger. I wonder briefly if he will smell the sex in his truck.

We hurry back inside and nobody seems to be the wiser. Miss Thing is even audacious enough to go up to her man whom I just cuckolded and give him a kiss. Scandalous. But who am I to talk?

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Dating Married Men : Part Deux

As promised, the second installation of why it's a really bad idea to date married men:

I didn't realize it was a date until he saw a female friend who looked first at me in confusion then at him questioningly then back at me in disgust and then turned to him and said, "How is (wife's name)?"

It wasn't that I didn't know he was married. I've met her. And their two kids. It was that he asked me out to drinks to discuss "work." Or so I thought.

"I'd like to run some ideas by you about my book business," he wrote in an email. "And it'd be nice to catch up over some whiskey."

Now if you've followed this blog even a little bit, you're aware I love whiskey and hate bad pick up lines. I'm also a bit of a geek so a book discussion over whiskey invite is heaven. It's also a brilliant cover.

We met at a swanky bar downtown and ordered top-shelf scotch-bourbon with a tasty appetizer. The conversation meandered through the usual catching up then veered towards discussion of building crushes. Evidently the men in his office had crushes on the various young women in the building (I used to work there). I feigned ignorance and ordered another.

He kept asking me about my personal life - what I was up to these days, what did I like to do on the weekends, etc. - and was reticent when asked about his wife and children, whom I asked about frequently. Truth be told though, I was alright with having a few drinks on a married man's tab until his female acquaintance walked up and gave me the stank eye like I was the one in the wrong.

Tangent: women, instead of blaming each other when a man's being a dog, blame him. This seems obvious to me, but for whatever reason, the majority of women will go after the other woman like she's the one cheating. I have a few stories about this as well, mostly about being physically threatened and harassed by crazy girlfriends who think their boyfriends are cheating on them with me, but I'll save that for another post.

At one point I asked if he had to go given that it was getting late and a school night and he said that he had told his family he would be working late. Sketch.

As the third round of drinks were finished, I thanked him for a pleasant discussion, pointed out we hadn't even once mentioned books and wished him well. No mention of the possibility of meeting again, nothing about the awkward tension introduced by female friend, just a nice and formal "thank you."

"I'm sorry we didn't even talk about books! We'll have to go out again soon," he said.

"Thanks again. Tell (wife's name) I said hello," I replied.

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Hitting On A Married Woman

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in late last night. I happened to be around for this one (funny how often that happens) and was one of the unfortuante fools suffering the Nikki-Six wannabe. After reading this, I'm glad I got him and not the ass hitting on the married chick.**


Dating may be weird, but believe it or not … marriage can be pretty damn bizarre, as well. But those are stories for a whole 'nuther blog. I've been out of the dating scene for years, and while I do visit the bars (ok, one bar) from time to time I am not usually privy to an insider's look at the dating/pick-up scene in the 21st century. My fortunes changed one evening not long ago.

I met some friends at "the" bar for drinks and conversation. The four of us—three of us female and one male—sat at the bar for a spell, making small talk over our beers and whiskeys. When the linear arrangement of seating made conversation difficult we picked up our drinks and moved down to a table. Things were busy that night, with a table down the way quickly filling with people and growing in size as more tables were dragged over to accommodate the blossoming number of drunks gathering there. They were young, for the most part … and granted I'm older than everyone in this story so a bunch of early-20-somethings made it look like frat-boy night at the bar to me. Though, NONE of these people looked like ever they'd seen a college, let alone a frat house.

The four of us minded our own business, drinking and talking, laughing and drinking more. Eventually the youngsters outgrew their accommodations and went looking for more seats. They found them at our table, and instead of picking the chairs up and dragging them over to their soiree, three of the guys plopped their asses in chairs around our table. At first I was sure one of my companions knew these guys, despite the fact that one of them—the ringleader, it seemed—looked like a Nikki Sixx-wannabe, and the other two looked like they were Nikki Sixx-wannabe wannabes. Aim high, young men … aim high. Needless to say, my companions did not know these boys.

Wannabe One placed himself at the end of the table, between me and my male friend. Wannabe One looked at me and said, "You're married, aren't you?" To which I replied, with a sarcastic flash of my ring finger in front of my face, "Wow, what ever gave you that idea?" Give the young man props for his astuteness. His answer? "Because you're so sexy." Wow again. And thus began Wannabe One's heavy-handed charm … from his sharing of his pay stub with me (he had a job!) to his drunken slurring of my name whenever he could fit it in a sentence. Boy was all of 24 chronologically, but not a day over 16 emotionally. At the end of the table, one of my girlfriends was getting the suave treatment by Nikki Sixx-wannabe and Wannabe Two. At one point Nikki Sixx-wannabe looked at me, trying for his best deep and smoky look, and asked, "Where are you from?"

So I'm from California … I don't always share it up front because I get some ribbing for it, but with this guy I was more than willing to do some verbal sparing. "California," I said. "Ah, me too," said Nikki, sealing our common bond, "I'm from Huntington Beach." "Oh," I replied, "Huh. I'm from Northern California … we don't typically like the SoCal bunch."

And what do you do when a woman makes a point to show she has no interest in who you are or where you're from? You try to impress her with your rock-star credentials, of course. "I'm just up here with my band," says Nikki. "Oh?," I say, "What's the name of your band?" To which he replies:

"Slut."

Honest to god. (No, this is not the same band as the German band Slut … in case you music lovers were wondering.) "You must get a lot of girls with that," says my girlfriend who's been stuck with these two hacks hovering over her. But they still don't get the hint. Obviously our acid is not acidic enough. Finally, after disturbing our peace for a good 20 minutes, Nikki Sixx-wannabe asks, "So, what are you guys doing tonight?" To which my friend and I look at each other and reply dryly and in unison: "This."

They didn't run away immediately, but they apparently heard chastity belts locking because they pulled back on their assault, slowly filtering back into their own crowd of hairspray, black leather and ear piercings. We continued with our night.

I told my husband the story when I got home, and he just laughed. Which, on one hand, was nice … he wasn't going to blow a gasket over me being at a bar with random losers hitting on me. On the other hand, he could have shown a little concern. I mean, really? Your wife is at a dive bar and you have zero territorial instincts when you hear she's been hit upon? That's just one way in which marriage is weird. But again, that's a story for another blog.

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Friends Forever?

**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from a gal who wishes to remain nameless. Fine by us, just keep 'em coming!**

I need to stop fucking all of my single, male friends. Pretty soon I'm not going to have any left.

I don't know why it happens or how it happens. Well, actually I have a pretty good idea of why – they know me and I know them and it's comfortable. And, thinking about it, the how too – alcohol is usually involved. Is there some kind of underlying sexual tension with some of those single, male friends that just sometimes, on the right night and the right conditions (or wrong ones), just erupt?

A history:

1. A really good friend who I worked with and got close to over cigarette breaks. He was leaving town to move back to his homeland and his last night on earth…well, yeah. Since then we haven't been able to keep the friendship. I still really want to be friends, but it doesn't seem to be working.

2. Another friend about this time last year, not as close but still designated as a pal. This one hit me sideways, I wasn't expecting it to happen and it happened again and again quite a few times, on those certain nights. He left town too.

3. And just recently, a good friend that I have known for years and hang out with on occasion. I am currently in the process of trying to figure out how to approach this one – should I be honest and tell him the truth? I think he wants to get to know me better and he is a great guy, but I'm not sure if I want to start anything serious. How can I keep the friendship? Does it have to change our relationship?

Maybe I just need to start going out to bars more.

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Worst One Night Stand Ever

**Editors' Note: Found this little story from across the Atlantic. Holy shit. **

Wayne Fisher looks like your typical early 20-something guy:


Wayne likes to drink, likes to fuck, and enjoys taking some Valium every now and again to cut loose, according to a story in the Daily Mail. His tastes lean toward the pretty, young, attractive girls at the clubs as evidenced by Dominique Fisher, a young lady he went home with:


According to the story, Wayne went home with Dominique after meeting at a club. They had both had a few drinks, Wayne had taken some Valium, and they bumped uglies in the bikini area, as the saying goes.

But when Wayne woke up, something was horribly, horribly wrong. He was covered in blood and found this:



And these:



"When I woke I was covered in blood. Dominique was snoring. I just had to get out of there. I didn't even wake her to ask what she'd done," Wayne told reporters.

Jesus H. Christ.

Needless to say, Wayne high tailed it out of there and called the police. Dominique was arrested, charged and found guilty of "unlawful wounding." (God I love the British vernacular.) She has yet to be sentenced.

Next time you think of going home with that pretty thing from the bar, think of Wayne.

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The Perfect First Date

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes from "Terry Tucker" about the winner she met one night.**

A club below Santa Cruz, drinking and listening to music with a group of friends. Late in the evening, a solitary male walks in and parks himself at the next table. He catches my eye, and we invite him over to join us. Good looking guy with a scruffy beard. Just before closing time, he mentions his nightly/early-morning newspaper delivery route in the Santa Cruz mountains….starting in less than an hour, do I want to join him? Of course.

We pick up the newspapers just before 3:00am and head out, fortified with stimulants he just happens to have handy. Soon wildly careening down backroad corridors, alternating the paper stuffing, a wonderful rhythm, chatting our heads off, totally wired. A couple of stops where he grabs paper and package, runs inside the cabins, quickly returns. Delivery to the door for invalids and shut-ins, he explains. What a guy. Not just that, but he took them something extra, probably food, and delivered inside. Talk about trust.

It occurs to me that this is the perfect type of first date. A shared activity that brings a strong sense of teamwork, connection…..the conversation so easy. It should always be like this. That’s when I realize I'm buzzing on something special. I like it. The route takes about 3 hours, is over like that.

We wheel into a breakfast café still in the Santa Cruz mountain area, Felton I think. The locals seem to know him, and greet him as they filter in. He gets up and works the room while I tie into an omelet. So popular, almost everyone knows him, wants a piece of his time. A overheard fragment of conversation from the next table, then it hits me, and slowly sinks in.

The fatal flaw. My ex was a dealer, too.

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My Side of the Bed

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from Wayne, who almost put his foot down about his side of the bed.**

My two friends and I took these two girls home one night after seeing a sweet jam band that loved to cover the Grateful dead and the Alman Brothers. It was clear from about minute 4 of meeting these girls that my friend was hooking up with the cute one. That was it.

To be honest, I had no intention of any "hooking up" with either of these girls. I just had to start a conversation because they were the only girls at the bar who weren't old enough to be my mom. I mean, they were fun, they were just the sort of insecurity that manifests itself as negative reactions, whiney tones, and a general discontent, instead of just.. idk... laughing at a situation. (aka stop complaining).

After bar time, we arrive at my place. One of my friends was captain wasted face and crashed on my roommates bed. In order to give the two love birds some privacy (British accent implied) I offer to share my bed with the other friend. I guess this is called "taking one for the team." And so we enter my room.

My queen size bed fits snugly in the back corner of my room. This means there 1 side to get in and out from. Being that its my bed, I typically sleep on that side, the "outside" if you will. My new friend, however, decided that if you throw yourself in my bed with all your clothes on, you get to pick what side you sleep on! Neg friend.

I get naked because that's how I sleep (jk). I'm in underwear and t-shirt. I ask her to scoot over, and in the same whiney voice she's had all night she says "No! I'm sleeping on the outside."

My first thought wasn't to make her sleep on the floor, or with Drunky McUnderage in the other room. It was, "how did this girl learn that that would be an ok way to react?" I mean, entitlement is an understatement.

I calmly informed her that this was in fact, my bed and as a guest in my bed, she would surrender the same 6' by 3' area I sleep in every night. Her face was shocked, but then for the first time all night, I felt like she chilled out and realized its ok if everything doesn't go your way.

A man can be territorial, no doubt. It's hardwired. We take pride in what we call our own, and feel great about being able to share our bed with you. Try to be grateful for what your man provides, return the favor with your feminine sweetness, and he will share everything with you.

P.s. we ended up making out, and she woke up on the "outside"

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Going Out on St. Patty's Day

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post come in from "Terry Tucker" who sent us The Perfect First Date a few weeks ago. Thanks Terry!**

Driving downtown, I spot my ex-boss walking on the sidewalk. Should let it go, but I can’t. Later I call him on the cell, ask how it’s going. Tell him I saw him walking downtown, why don’t we get together and catch up….how about St. Patty’s day?.......been awhile.

Quite a while…..we did not part on good terms. In fact he fired me for insubordination, and I wonder what in the world I’m doing…..asking him out, wanting to see him again. Chance to clear things up? Always a lot of sexual tension between us. Or maybe just tension….we disagreed on politics and just about everything else…..the way we saw the world. But he was good looking, and flaunted it, and so did I…….flirting and sexual double entendres were part of the daily routine. Going with a biker at the time, so it never came to anything.

Still irked me the way he fired me. Had a dentist’s appointment on Friday afternoon at 2. The doctor’s office was on the other side of town, so I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off, not come back. No way, he said. Would not budge, even when I explained it. When I returned to the office the next Monday morning, he had me clean out my desk (hovering above) and walked me to the door. My last memory of him was a smirk on his face. No wonder I felt conflicted about this date. He should have been working for me, when I thought about it.

We had dinner at McCormick’s…..on the way back I suggested stopping and getting hammered at an Irish pub, not far from where I lived. Actually, it was a bikers’ bar called Duffy’s, Irish in name only. A couple guys at the bar greeted me as we walked in. He said something about it as we slid into the booth. I nodded……”yeh, used to come here a lot with my ex, he practically lived here.”

“Still does,” I added. He turned and surveyed the room. His eyes landed on the surly guy behind the pool table with a cue stick in his hand. Who glared back and held eye contact. As my ex slowly sauntered over to our table, cue stick in hand, I felt the urge to go. “Going to the girl’s room,” I said. When I came back out, both of them were gone. Ditto for the other pool player. I walked over to the bar and order a beer. Time to figure out a way to get home.

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He's No Cull

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post hails from Lisa S. about the first time her parents met her new boyfriend.**

Mom really wanted to meet my new squeeze, so we made plans to do a dinner together. Mom was nervous, and maybe I was a little, too. I wanted to keep it mellow and casual, so I suggested burgers and beers. There’s one spot my mom and I have been going to for years, it’s out in the country a bit, and they have delicious greasy burgers and crunchy, flavorful onion rings. That’s what I suggested. But mom wanted to invite a friend, whom I love, and friend had gotten sick at Delicious and Greasy before, so we went to the local pub. The local pub, which smells super bad. Like toilets, now that you can’t smoke in there and the cigarette smell’s not covering up the toilet smell.

But whatever. Squeeze and I have been to dives before, and we will go to many dives in the future. But here’s what was really charming: When we showed up at my mom’s place at 4 p.m., she was already working on a cocktail. OK, whatever. We all went down to the pub after mom finished what was at least cocktail #3, and we all ordered a round. When mom’s drink was set down in front of her, she took one sip and said, “Nope. This is no good. Bring me a double.” OK, whatever. I like a good drink, too, and sometimes I want to tie one on, too.

But here’s the really, really nice part: As soon as we order food, mom goes over to the ATM, pulls out some cash, and then plunks down in front of a video poker machine. Sure, when the burgers come, she comes over to eat, and yes, she’s being very nice to squeeze, but as soon as food’s gone, it’s another cocktail and back to the video poker machine.

Finally, I shouted at her from across the bar, “Mom, we’re tired of watching you play video poker, we’re out.” She seemed disappointed.

Later, she drunk-dialed me and told me how much they liked the squeeze. Not sure how they knew that they did, but OK. Whatever.

Here’s one more reason I know he’s awesome, though: Took it all in stride. No judgment, no complaints. Just shrugged it off and said, genuinely, how nice she seemed. He’s certainly no cull.

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Dear Serial Monogamist: Gettin' Some

Dear Serial Monogamist,

What's the easiest way for a girl to get laid in this town?

Sincerely,

Tired-Of-Masturbating


Dear TOM,

I’ve believed for some time that nearly any woman who possesses at least average looks and charm can probably pull tail on any given night. I know a single gal or two, and I know that when they’re determined to bone down, they’re successful.

But so much depends on you, darling. I mean, have you checked out all the options at work? Interns maybe? They’re usually pretty easy. Do you pass out your phone number indiscriminately to any male who glances your direction? I mean, you’ve gotta keep casting if you want to catch one.

You know and I know that I can’t write you a recipe for action, but I wonder if you know the basic recipe for “getting laid.” (Which is, of course, a helluvalot different than the “meeting someone special” or “having good sex” recipe)

1) Go out.
2) Apply alcohol.
3) Make eye contact with a target.
4) Look away.
5) Look back.
6) Smile.

Repeat until your target approaches.

From there, it’s easy. Laugh at his jokes. Touch your hair, but not too much. Tease him. Drink more. One item that women sometimes make a mistake on: Don’t try to get him to buy you drinks, buy your own. This is about getting some nookie, not about getting free booze.

At some point, hopefully after a spell of making out in the corner, all that’s left to do is offer to pour him a drink at your place. Do not pass go, and do not, for the love of tits, ask if he has a girlfriend (remember, kids, this is a “get laid” course, not a “be a good person” tutorial).

I should say something about safety at this point, you know, carry a knife in your purse, have a fruitbowl of condoms on your nightstand at all times, have a safety “out” word if you play with S&M; but Jesus, I’m a dating blogger. I’m not your mother.

One more tip. If June has taught us anything, it’s this: Fly solo. You’re less intimidating when you’re not surrounded by a flock of women. If you’re too afraid to go out alone, at least go to the bar alone when you get a refill.

If all else fails, lower your standards. Ugly dudes, guys with one leg, guys wearing silk shirts, hell, they all need love. Grab a hold of a mullet and go to town. Imagine approaching a nerd and taking him home. He’d be so grateful. I won’t judge you.

Haha, just kidding. You know I will. But I tease because I love.

Got a question for the Serial Monogamist? Sure you do. E-mail it to seriallymonogamous@gmail.com

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The Joys of Online Dating: Part Deux

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post is the second installment from Kate in KC. You may remember her first story about getting into a fight about college sports on a first date from a few weeks ago.**

Adorable Nerd came along and seemed as if he would be the answer to my holy-crap-this-was-a-bad-idea prayers. He was smart, funny, interesting, cute in that Seth Cohen (yes, I’m dropping an OC reference in here) super-nerd kind of way and, best of all, seemed very interested in me. We sent a few novel-length messages to one another before trading in email for 3-hour long phone calls. We would talk about anything and everything while staying up so late that we would practically fall asleep on the phone because neither of us wanted to hang up the phone and end the conversation…we finally arranged to meet one night.

We sat at a table in a small restaurant and talked and talked and talked…we were telling stories, laughing and having a fantastic time. We ended up closing the restaurant down and he suggested that we continue the night at a wine bar across the street. Sharing a bottle of wine, there was never an awkward silence or dull moment…it was like we had known each other forever and slipped into conversation with one another like it was the easiest thing on earth.

The end of the night rolled around and we strolled through the moonlight of the city streets until we got to my car. I had butterflies in my stomach as we turned to face each other to say good night…he told me that he had a wonderful time, looked deep into my eyes, leaned in…shook my hand and ran away.

He literally RAN the fuck away.

I never heard from him again.

A weird-o, a closeted gay and a guy with sports-related Tourettes…strike one, two and three. You win this one, online dating.

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Taking Out The Trash

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who knows how to get 'er done. Er something.**

Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.

Yeah.

Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.

So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.

At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.

We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.

Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"

Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."

Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)

Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."

Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."

Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."

Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.

But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.

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Out of the woodwork

How is it that ex-lovers and former flames know when you're no longer available?

At a bar the other night, I ran into the Captain. More than a year ago, I had met him through a friend. That night, I ended up at his house, on the couch, drunk, while my friend was getting it on with Captain's roommate (they preferred to call it "housemates" because they don't share a room, but finding it important to make that distinction just seems vaguely homophobic to me). At some point, I said I was cold, and he offered to snuggle. Sweet. Then I started in about how I was worried about my new puppy who was home alone in her crate, and he offered to drive me to my house to let her out. I accepted. We chatted while he drove me home, and I impressed him by knowing about Stereolab. When we got to my house, he impressed me by knowing who Frida Kahlo is. He stayed the night. More snuggling, a little making out. In the morning, we exchanged phone numbers.

For the next month, I threw myself at him. At one point I literally climbed into his bed and took my clothes off. Nothing. There was some making out, but I didn't even get laid. He never called me, and I refused to call him. Eventually, I gave up. We ran into each other from time to time over the next year or so, and I pretended I hadn't been totally rejected.

But now that I'm deliriously happy with a hotass new boyfriend (with a sexy accent)?

I ran into Captain at a concert. We chatted, he flirted his ass off. He acknowledged that he'd gained weight, referenced his new "man boobs." He said he'd since given up smoking pot. He had a new job and got to travel. At one point I said something particularly charming, and he smiled and said, "Will you be my girlfriend?"

I laughed.

"Seriously? You had your chance. Too late."

"I know, I really fucked that up. I'm sorry."

"What?"

"Oh, you know."

"No, you can't apologize for something if you're not even willing to admit what it was."

"I'm sorry I blew it with you and didn't ask you to be my girlfriend. I should have."

I was surprised he said it.

"Yeah, you are sorry," I said. "I'm a pretty rad girlfriend."

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Twyla

We have a guest post from "D" today.  Happy Dating!

I can still remember dear sweet Twyla (not her real name). Twyla was a teller at the bank I went to and she was kind of cute. Not the kind of cute that made me want to hop the counter, explore the vault and make a deposit, but more like a Kia Sophia rental car. I wanted to race it across town, burn the wheels off and then return it, no strings attached.

I flirted, she flirted back. I suggested going for a drink, she giggled. The warm up was good; I was just waiting to put it in drive.

Well, I got her number and said I would call in a few days. You might imagine my shock then when she called me the next night. Are you wondering why I didn’t mention that she got my number too? Well, that’s because I never gave it to her, she just went into the computer at work and got it from there…yea, no kidding.

Now I’m guessing psycho but I decide to play along because I’m still thinking Kia rental so what the hell. We agree to meet at this dive of a diner (absolute shit hole) for coffee. Prior to going I mentioned to my roomy that he needed to call me in an hour and a half and give me an out….just in case.

So what happens next is right out of Springer. I walk in, find Twyla, approach the table and discover that it’s a party of 3. Sitting comfortably in his car seat is a 6 month old baby boy. Next I’m told that Twyla’s mom and dad are sitting in the booth behind us…they are apparently there because Twyla does not drive and therefore needed a ride. I am then told that the parents decided to stay and have dinner because well, why not eat at this great establishment, you know you want to.

I struggled for the right words at first and probably made an ass of myself but Twyla was cool and seemed relatively peeved that mom and dad had stayed…although she was not too concerned about the effect of baby boy. After a sip of sumptuous diner coffee (made for old people with no taste buds), I started asking about baby. It turns out that dad split the minute he found out that Twyla was preggo and Twyla was not shy that she was looking for a “daddy” to help raise the little man.

At about that point my pecker had begun to head home. Willy was already pissed that some other guy had stolen the Kia idea but my brain and Willy don’t talk much so I got the message late.

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How to Wither an Important Appendage

***GUEST POST!***

Here's another post from Jorge, one of our few, but much loved, male readers. It contains some f-bombs, unabashed judgment, and failed physical contact - these are a few of our favorite things.

How to Wither an Important Appendage

This is less a story of a date than one that makes me lose faith that I will ever meet the girl of my dreams while horribly intoxicated, as I have always expected I would.

One night recently, at about 3 am, I found myself with one of my friends, terribly inebriated after spending some time at a bar. Big goddamned surprise. I had spent the eve watching an incredibly attractive girl, who had come to the bar with another friend, totally mindfuck all kinds of dudes who, it appeared, unequivocally spend very little time conversing with anything over, say, a 4.

I quickly came to realize that, besides being a colossal cocktease, this girl was also very fucking stupid, and an unparalleled belligerent drunk.

Later, I learned, she was just terribly fucking afflicted with aspergers. Which caused me to retract about 70% of the loathing.

Anyways, around 3 am, friend 1 and I, in our drunken state, decided that ordering a 26" pizza was a great idea.

Friend 2 managed to find his way back over, while also managing to leave Aspergers at home. At some point, friend 2 received a phone call from some girl demanding sex or something. She also happened to have a friend who was apparently desperate to make out with someone.

While friend 1 and I were intrigued, friend 2 most certainly was not. He was certain that this girl would want to go home with him, which obviously wouldn't work, because Aspergers was there, and would do God knows what, should he stumble home with another female. Probably something extra belligerent. And understandable.

So they arrived, and the girl with a rather large chest, who also happened to be the one apparently jonesing for a make out, began shamelessly comparing her much larger tits to her friends much smaller ones. And not so casually inviting her friend to cuddle with her, apparently thinking that some girl-on-girl cuddling would cause our loins to burn with desire.

Every girl I met tonight seemed fucking stupid. I texted friend 1, "These girls are fucking stupid." He didn't notice. He was too busy using our tiny Asian friend as a cockblock. I was tired/passing out. Friend 1 and tiny Asian were tired/passing out. Friend 2 was pretending to be tired, and pretending to pass out. These 2 dumbshit girls were on a mission. So outside on the balcony they went to smoke, along with friend 2. To the couch I went, with a blanket.

A short time later, Miss Desperation comes in. I'm half asleep, and not terribly coherent. She says, "Hey, can you come here and help me with something?"

"Curious," I thought. "Very fucking curious."

So I stumbled up, and followed her towards a bedroom, where I was then lead to a bed, and then promptly pounced upon by a girl who, it seemed, was intent upon chewing my face off. Or licking it off. Or stirring up some imagined concoction in my mouth with her tongue. I came to the conclusion in about 14 seconds that either: A) I was somewhere around the 3rd person she had ever kissed, or B) she had never kissed anyone more than once.

I felt like I was being mauled and clawed by a feral dog. In addition to this, my face was forcibly shoved, at least, but not limited to, 4 times into her mountainous expanse of chest, to the point of near suffocation.

I have no idea what her name was. At one point, after a few minutes, she said "Oh, I probably can only stay for like, 5 more minutes," to which I responded "Oh." Which was the first, and also second to last thing that I said during the entire ordeal. The last was, "Okay," after "I have to go now...goodnight."

It's been at least 3 years since I kissed someone that made me contemplate never participating in that activity ever again. I vow, if ever I find myself in an "am I kissing a sloppy joe with teeth?" scenario, I-don't-know-her-name may be somewhat shocked when I stop the whole thing in mid-misery and say, "Enough. My penis has withered, and I don't even think someone spending life in prison could possibly enjoy this."

And I guess it shouldn't be a big goddamned surprise when I get punched right in the withered penis.

I guess my message is this: cup size is but a trifle when coupled with desperate snake tongue. Or something like that.

- Jorge

omgnoparentsnorules.blogspot.com

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Blondie and the hottie from the gym

** Today we have a guest post from Blondie, who has agreed to share some of her dating adventures in the city. Like some people we know (ahem) Blondie is enjoying a fairly fresh foray into singledom, making good use of the wonders and joys of the Internet. ***

Friday night was supposed to be my dating night off. Thursday night I had been with a couple I see, and I had a date on Saturday with a guy I've been seeing for a little while - so Friday I was going relax and give my "body" a rest.

I ended up going out to the bars with a couple friends. The plan was just to have a beer or two, go home and watch a movie. Well, I get to the bar and we hang out a bit and I realize that this guy who I've had a massive crush on at the gym is there. Not some guy I've seen - but a hot 6 foot 7 inch tall basketball player I've been watching while I cool down on the track for the last 5 years.

I tell my friend the story and he talks me into talking to the guy. Long story short - I talk to him and end up going home with him that night. Yep - I got to sleep with my gym crush. But that's not all.

Side note - this gym guy ends up not being very bright. It was an interesting situation for me - I felt like one of those guys who sleeps with hot dumb chicks. While we were hanging out post sex, I was found myself having an internal debate about hotness vs. intellect. Does his hotness make up for lack of smarts? Would I ever dare bring this guy around my friends? Would I be comfortable keeping a guy around for sex just because he was hot, even if he wasn't that interesting to talk to? (I appreciate that this might make me sound like an asshole but I have smart friends and they would call me out on this.)

But, the sex is fun, I have a good time. And, oddly, after sex, he hung out completely naked until I left. He was up walking around, doing all kinds of things. I thought it was cool how comfortable he was, most guys throw on a pair of boxers or something. Though I guess I could have done without him leaving the door open and looking at and speaking to me while he pissed.

As we're hanging out afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night. I say no because, quite frankly, his apartment was kind of a shit-hole. I don't quite understand how a 32-year-old guy with a professional-type job could live like that. Anyway, I say no thanks and go home at about 3:30am or so. When I got home, I sent him a text saying I made it home safely. He didn't text back until the next day, but this is the conversation:

Me - I made it home safely.

Him - Who is this?

Me - Uh ... Blondie. The girl you slept with last night.

Him - Haha, no seriously, who is this?

Me - I am serious. Don't you remember?

Him - I'm in Seattle with my fiance. I think you have the wrong number

Me - HA! You're right. Wrong number. That's hilarious.

Well.

It turns out that I don't have the right phone number for this guy. He just gave me his number, I didn't give him mine. So now, not only did I hook up with the hot dumb guy, but I'm the one who never called again. Part of me feels a tad bad about that, but part of me thinks it's a little funny, if a bit of a bummer because I would like the option of sleeping with him again ... but c'est la vie.

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Going Out In Anchorage, AK

I recently moved to Anchorage for a job and was curious what it'd be like living in a place where the male to female ratio is skewed, to put it mildly.

"You're going to get raped. I heard they pay for women they're so desperate for pussy up there," said one idiot at a bar when I told her where I was moving.

"8-to-1 guys to girls. You don't even have to be hot to get proposed to I heard," said her friend.

"Get a gun," was my brother's request before boarding the plane.

And with that sage wisdom, I went to a local watering hole to meet some new gal friends two nights ago. I didn't make any effort whatsoever to look cute. In fact, I did the exact opposite. No shower after two days of skiing and hat wearing. I didn't even change out of the sports bra from said ski. I managed some deodorant and a different hat, but not much else. I chose one of my more pointed t-shirts (a bright red shirt called "burning bridges" with an image of a guy burning the bridge between him and a woman on the other side). What the hell anyway with all that stupid romance shit.

We saddled up to the bar and of course the three old guys sitting to the right of us starting making conversation, but they were fairly easy to not engage. I find old guys far more fun to drink with than younger dudes mainly because they're harmless and have funnier stories. If you tell them you're not interested, they're not butt hurt and they'll often still buy you a drink for being cool enough to not be a complete bitch. Younger guys on the other hand...sigh.

There was one of said younger versions of the male species to the left of my friend. I noticed him glancing at us every 30-45 seconds and looking for a way to insert himself in the conversation. I also noticed him staring at my tits every time he looked over. Did I mention I was wearing a t-shirt and sports bra and am not exactly a Victoria's Secret model? I have pretty much no boobs to speak of, particularly in a sports bra and t-shirt so I was curious what he kept staring at.

He finally figures out how to interrupt our convo with some asinine comment. He asks me a question, to which I ask him why he's been staring at my tits for 40 minutes. With absolutely not a moment's hesitation, he shifts his gaze to my general torso area and does not look up while responding that he's trying to figure out what my shirt means.

"Really? I'm confused how a bridge burning with a man on one side and a woman on the other is confusing."

"Oh. That's a guy, huh?"

"Yep. A guy. Burning a bridge. The shirt's called burning bridges, weird huh?"

The entire time, he has not once lifted his gaze to make eye contact.

"You're still staring at my tits dude."

"I know. I just don't really get your shirt."

I didn't engage him any further except to make a rather horrible, politically incorrect joke a few minutes later. I wanted to give the angry, lesbian feminist vibe because that's never failed in the past to scare guys away, but this guy didn't seem to mind neither my condescension nor general insulting of his ethnic identity. He asked what we were up to later that night.

Might have to take my brother's advice after all.

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