More on SNAGS

So I'm not as anti-Sensitive New Age Guys as some of my galpals are. Perhaps that's because I've never dated one. However, a friend of mine recently told me that her current beau was on a date with her ex, a SNAG extraordinaire, one who wanted to talk about the status of the relationship and the depth of their feelings daily. Current beau and former beau are friends, so current beau decided he needed to tell the ex about this new relationship. In order to do that, he decided to take former beau for a walk and then to a movie. 

I guess that's where SNAGs veer to the left of the guys I've dated. Rather than a walk, a talk, and a flick, there would have been a shot, a beer, a confession, another beer, a punch, a makeup shot, a hug, several more beers and a game of pool ending with someone falling over. That's my guess anyway.

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Dear Old Love

Cool site where you can send in short, anonymous messages to old loves:

www.dearoldlove.com

Here's one I liked:

FIFTEEN MINUTES OF LAME

You left me for someone who doesn't know who Andy Warhol is.

I'd bet DIW readers could do better, though, right? C'mon. Show us what you got. 

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The Over-share

Dating-related things your big sister might not want to hear about:

The size of your boyfriend’s penis. Especially if he’s a disgusting loser-asshole.

How great of head your boyfriend gives. Especially if, in addition to being a disgusting loser-asshole, he is the dickwad, unemployed father of your beautiful daughter.

The time when you and your loser boyfriend were on a break, and you spent the weekend at mom and dad’s, using their computer after they went to bed to find guys on Craigslist, walk to the bar to meet them, hump them (god knows where, thanks for leaving out that detail), and then walk back to mom and dad’s house to go to bed before they got up.

You and your disgusting loser-asshole boyfriend’s forays into anal and how much it hurt. Especially if your loser-asshole boyfriend has long, greasy hair and a thin goatee. And he shows up to Christmas in sweatpants two sizes too big with holes in the ass.

The time you gave head to my best friend’s brother. I totally had the hots for him.

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Some people just don't get it.

This was more than 8 years ago, so some of the details of the end of our time together are foggy. I was young, and there's a good chance that I didn't handle it in a very adult fashion, although I'm sure I made myself clear...we were done.

What happened afterword is crystal clear, though.

My first inkling that this guy was not giving up that easy came the night before graduation. He called and wanted me to drive an hour and a half in the middle of the night to come hang out with him at his parent's place (They were gone. 2 guesses what he wanted).

"Ummm, no, I have to graduate tomorrow."

This didn't seem to faze him (maybe I should have said, "You know, for a big guy you have a small penis."), but I got off the phone and (duh) didn't go see him.

A few weeks later he called me to hang out. I was 200 miles from home, busy for the week, and unavailable.

Then came the clincher. While I was out of town, I met up with my sister near where we were staying.

"You're not going to believe who was just here."

I had no idea. When she told me it was Big Ben my heart nearly came out of my mouth.

A short time later I returned to my car to find a note from him on my windshield asking me to call him (how I managed to not run into him myself I'll never know, but I can't tell you how relieved I was to not have to see this guy). I couldn't believe he found me. Apparently he had up and decided to visit the area and camp with some of his friends... I never knew him to be so spontaneous.

I called, though, and reiterated that I was not in a position to see him. I thought that would be the last of it.

A few months later I had moved to another state. Big Ben contacted me by e mail, asking why I had cooled to him.

"Because you act like a stalker, you know, showing up uninvited and unannounced when I'm 200 miles from home. That's something a stalker does."

That finally put an end to it. I will not think of him fondly.

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Dating Is Weird Stickers

So we just ordered 1500 "DatingIsWeird.com" stickers. They're about 5" x 1.25" and look great on the wall of a bathroom stall. Bars stand out as choice candidates for these new stickers, but really anywhere you see stickers (back of a lift chair, your car's bumper, the local wall where everyone plasters flyers, etc.) works. They're white font on black background and simple.

Want some to put up?

Email us at datingisweird@gmail.com with your address. We'll mail you some in the next few weeks.

Happy dating.

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Dating Married Men

Dating a married man is a bad idea. (Yes yes, I know. Duh. But before you get too comfortable on your high horse, don't assume you know why unless you've also had several unfortunate experiences with married men or women. Then ride 'em cowboy. My hat's off to you.)

Dunno why or how, but I have the tendency to attract married men. I chalk it up to the absence of anything remotely similar to a wedding ring. My friends theorize it's because I also have this tendency to be somewhat naive about a man's intentions. Either way, whatever. Married men love me.

My first experience was in college with one of my former instructors. We dated (after I was done with his class) for about 5 months. I don't remember why we broke up, but it had nothing to do with a wife, whom I didn't meet until 3 years later. She called me one day while I was at work.

"Hello?"

"Is this S.G.Loughlin?" asked a heavily accented female voice.

"Yes. Who is this please?"

"I'm Ramon's wife. Have you contacted my husband lately?"

Shocked. Utterly shocked. I'm opening and closing my mouth silently like a fish.

"Uh. Yes? I guess I just emailed him a few days ago."

"Well I want you to stop. Never contact him again. He is my husband. You leave him alone or I will be forced to do something to you. Did he tell you I am his wife and I have his baby? Leave him alone..." Her English was good enough to threaten bodily harm but not quite good enough to explain how the hell she got my number or what the royal fuck?

According to her, they'd be married for the last five years but she had only recently come to the U.S. (they're both West African) and learned he had been having affairs. Mind you, she's calling me years after we dated, threatening physical violence, though I'm not sure she meant to actually threaten me given English was her second, maybe third, language. Either way, I'm not going to investigate the matter too closely.

I agree to never contact him again - "No problem! I'll be sure to lose his and your number as soon as we hang up! My apologies! Have a nice life!" - and hang up.

A few days pass. I'm walking home and Ramon passes me in his car. He pulls over, smiling and asks why I haven't called him back.

"Are you kidding me? Because your wife called me. She threatened to beat me up Ramon. Um, hello. You're married?"

He sings me a song and dance about her actually being a crazy ex-girlfriend who hacked his email account and contacted all his friends to find out if he'd been cheating on her..blah blah blah...it's not true...yada yada.

Whatever dude. What. Ever.

Epilogue: She called me about a year after that asking for help. Evidently she tested positive for a STD and he had left her and the baby high and dry. As an undocumented immigrant, she didn't know where to go or how to get help. I gave her the number of a Planned Parenthood, wished her luck and raced to get my own test. Thankfully he caught it after we had broken up (whew!) and I was clean. I changed my number and email address.

Stay tuned for Dating Married Men: Part II.

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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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Dating Resolutions

New year, new leaf, new dating resolutions...

Here's mine:

Don't fuck up the really good relationship I started a few months ago. Given my history, the fact that he still likes me three months later is a good sign. I don't think he believes me when I tell him that I sometimes maybe a teensy tiny bit sabotage things by being a big fat jerk face. Example: get shit faced wasted and not come home or call or call the next day until the hangover is semi-manageable. I pulled that one already and he called me out on it but then actually let it go after we'd discussed it. Well, let it go after we'd discussed it a few times, but fair. I'll give him that it was disconcerting enough to necessitate the WTF? Was That conversation more than once.

So what are your resolutions DIW readers and writers?

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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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Henry Rollins Hates Dating

I love you Henry. And I promise I hate Nickleback too.

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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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A Portrait of a Date

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post came in from she who wishes to remain anonymous. Fine by us, just keep 'em coming.**

It was a funny date. Not funny "ha ha," but funny "mildly awkward." Just not a really good match, but still a decent time. And the making out was good, so that's sort of how I ended up at my suitor's house. Then he made gin and tonics, and then he was obviously too drunk to drive, and it was late, and I didn't want to deal with waiting for a cab in his far-flung borough, so I decided to sleep at his house. Now, I could have slept in the guest room, or made him sleep in the guest room, but please. That's ridiculous. So I let him know that there would be no pants-off partying, and that I would figure out an exit if that was a problem.

"No, no, stay, I'll be good," he slurrily promised. And this guy was basically a frigging boy scout, so I trusted him. As well I should have. He didn't try a thing … until the next morning. And what he tried was very convincing, as it didn't involve the removal of clothing on his part. So I accepted his offer, but I still had no interest in what he was packing.

When he got out of bed, he was sad, mopey, even a bit mooney faced. I, of course, felt wonderfully sleepy, glowy, etc. He moped into bathroom to take a (presumably cold) shower. I rolled over and nuzzled deeper into the blankets. He turned on the radio. Over the water I heard the whiny warble of Morrisey cry out, which seemed entirely, hilariously appropriate to me.

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i'm so blue...

recently my girlfriend and i had a series of brief grope, kiss, and grind sessions. due to time and place, none of them culminated in anything other than a heightened sense of arousal. while the encounters were warm, tender and very enjoyable, the lack of a climactic finish left me with a serious case of blue balls. now, the girl fancies herself a bit of an authority on human anatomy and physiology and she immediately dismissed my uncomfortable situation by discrediting the entire existence of the blue balls phenomenon. while i respect her knowledge of all things biological, i know for a fact that blue balls happen and i assured her that should she poll other guys, they would undoubtedly confirm my belief. come on fellas, help me out. weigh in on this one.

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The Pubic Combover

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Donna Trump." What we'd like to know is how'd it go that weekend? Perhaps a follow up post Donna?**

The best part about a long distance relationship is that you can go chunks of time without worrying about maintaining the illusion that you are nearly hairless on most of your body. While I don't ever subscribe to the fully shaved pubes, I do like to keep them tidy when I'm getting ready for a weekend bedroom marathon.

I was doing just that the other day, getting ready to go see my man, who, honestly, probably wouldn't care one way or the other whether I had trimmed in preparation for him or not. Here's how it goes:

I get out the trimmers and start doing my thing. It's been a VERY long day, I'm exhausted, and with one slip of the wrist everything changes. There, about an inch northeast of ecstasy, is a nearly bald spot. DAMN SHIT FUCK HELL STUPID FUCKING FUCK SHIT. I go to the mirror to inspect the damage. Since we're always more critical of ourselves, I'm sure it's the most obvious thing in the world.

First things first, can I cover it? I start manipulating the rest of the hair around it to try and cover it up. Marginal success. There's really nothing else I can do. I refuse to shave it all off to cover up my mishap.

It's late, I go to bed and decide to discuss it with the roommate in the morning. Meanwhile I think about how I can keep my guy from seeing it. Is this going to be a lights-off, dark-of-night sex only weekend? No daytime fun? That doesn't sound good...

My roommate assures me that it's not noticeable, especially when I manipulate the surrounding hair.

And that is how I created the pubic comb-over.

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Strictly Business

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post started out as a conversation we had on the phone yesterday with a friend. Quickly realizing he sounded too much like a Craigslist personals ad to not share on DIW, we wrote down what he said.**

So here's how my dating usually goes:

Either I like a woman or she likes me in the romantic way. Rarely is it a two way street. One person feels it much more than the other and it's obvious but not awkward. Or at least, it's not awkward in the we-have-to-have-a-conversation-about-me-having-feelings-for-you sort of way.

It's more like a business negotiation. In fact it usually is. I like to have it over lunch. "Hey, let's talk about us and grab a bite to eat." That way it's no big deal.

You figure out the details like, hey we're going to sleep together from the hours of 12 am and 4 am, we'll call each other typically between 5-8 pm. And outside that, we do our own thing.

But always, always one is secretly wishing it will turn into something more.

So then you sleep together, maybe like 3 times in a row, boom boom boom.

And then you take a break because it gets too serious for one person.

But then you start calling each other again and things return to normal, ie sex, and then you're right back to where you started which is one person wanting more and the other doesn't so then the awkward conversaiton ensues.

I'm done with that crap.

Here's what I'm looking for:

I have good women friends and I value them a lot. I'm not trying to fuck my women friends because that's a horrible idea, so that's why I have to find strange trim instead

So unless my skirt is flipped, i don't want to date you. I want to have sex with you because daminit beating off gets old and sometimes I just want to eat the pie.

That's why I end up seeming like an asshole because I'm like, I'll call you. Between the hours of 12 and 4 am. Sometime in the next three weeks. We already worked that out. In our negotiations. Remember?

So if you're looking for the same, actually just looking for no-strings- attached sex, feel free to drop me a line.

Women who want more need not apply. No seriously do not fucking apply. For really real, just don't.

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Dating Is Weird Gets Reviewed!

So it's happened. A self-described "critical blog analysis" blog-review blog reviewed us. Wha? Yeah, exactly. A blog about blogs reviewed our blog. Stupid blogosphere.

But get this! They didn't like us.

They said things like:

"The main problem is that the stories aren't crazy or over the top enough. I know some really strange stuff happens in the world of dating, I just know it! It's just not getting reported, obviously. The sort of stuff you'll find on Dating is Weird is your average, every-day kind of weirdness. Yes, the stories are strange... But they're very believable. When I read a blog like this I wanna be like 'He did what!?' and 'She touched what!?' and 'No way!'"

They also said, "This blog journals hundreds of strange / bizarre / funny / 'zazzy' dating stories."

First of all, what the fuck is zazzy? Does anyone know? Can someone help me out? Cause maybe I'm so boring and lame and too believable to know what zazzy implies.

And secondly, hundreds? Um no. We just broke 100 stories here at Dating Is Weird. If you're going to review a blog critically, get your facts right. Maybe I'm just a stickler for accuracy, call me General Eric Shinseki, but it's not hard to count to 100. I just did and it only took a minute.

And finally (though I could go on) if the stories here are the "average, every-day kind of weirdness" of dating, thank fucking god I'm not dating you Drew. Because pissing the bed, farting while going down on a girl, going on a date with a homeless bum and shitting in the hood of your ski suit while trying to pick up a snow bunny are NOT average, every day type of events.

Thanks for the review though!

P.S. In the email he sent me, he said and I quote verbatim, "Your blog has been reviewed! Again, I wouldn't take the review too seriously. Enjoy"

Good thing even they don't take themselves seriously.

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Dating is Really Weird

Um. I don't know what to say about this.

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The First Time I Ever Saw My Boyfriend Too Drunk

**Editors' Note: This guest post hails from a gal who asked to be called "Jane." Names have been changed to protect the hairy.**

It was only 3 months after my own, overly drunken fiasco that I had to wait to see my boyfriend's version. There's probably a Hallmark card somewhere, but I'm not so sure I want to mark the anniversary. My friends who were witnesses have taken it upon themselves to remind me. Regularly.

Here's the story:

Boyfriend comes to my regular-Tuesday-night-supper-club crew's movie night. We had decided to watch the Big Lebowski while drinking white russians. Someone had brought over Kahlua Especial, which is 70 proof. Not realizing that this Kahlua was actually as strong as the vodka we were generously pouring, we generously topped off the drinks with more fire water.

The bottle runs out. Someone reads the label. Holy shit guys, we're a lot drunker than we probably realized. The Dude was only half done abiding so we kept going. Someone went to buy more. Not especial this time, but still. Regular Kahlua is about 40 proof. Nothing to scoff at.

I was taking it easy (strange in itself) because I hadn't brought my A game. Not necessary as I came to find out later as boyfriend brought his.

I went outside to hang with the smokers and catch some fresh air. My dear friend was leaving for several months, so I wanted to see her as much as possible before she left. We chatted about how well it was going with boyfriend.

When I reentered the party, the remaining folk were silent, including my clearly drunk boyfriend.

"Hey guys. What are ya'll talking 'bout?"

"Oh, preferences..." said one of my girlfriends with a derisive smile.

"I told them about my preference for the natural look," said a slightly slurring boyfriend.

Knowing exactly what he was referring to, I immediately blushed red and flustered my way to the coach. Looking around, everyone was smiling at me. They all knew too.

"Well I still keep it manicured. Whatever. When in Rome, do as...whatever. Just whatever."

Later when we were ready to go, I said "Come on Tarzan. We're going home."

My friends still find it immensely funny to say things like, "Don't trip over your pubes" or "You need to comb your hair" or other helpful grooming tips.

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Why Dating Co-Workers Is A Bad Idea

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "Slightly Disheveled." This is why we don't date co-workers.**

I was a head hostess in a "gourmet" pizza place. Our pasta chef was only a little bit older than I was and was really cute in a kind of awkward skater way. I flirted with him and exchanged off-color jokes and we were... friendly. He was quirky and offbeat. I like that.

He eventually got around to asking me out and took me out to dinner and to his favorite bar. I displayed my full range of ineptness at pool. Had some... was I young enough to have ordered RED WINE in a Dive Bar? I guess I was. One of the girls there kinda pulled me aside to tell me that he was bad news. Okay. Jealous much?

I got the flu soon after and he wanted to fix me a blood orange salad with a orange-balsamic vinaigrette dressing. He was speaking my language, so I let him come over. It was delicious. I agreed to another date after I got better.

He came into work the next time Absolutely Brilliantly Happy. He swung through the door and walked up to me and said: "You'll never ever guess what I found on my way to work. It's so cool. Not everyone would understand it though. But you would. You're really going to love this." He opened up his brilliant yellow backpack to show me three wet objects the size of a man's fist wrapped and tied off neatly in those long baggies that newspapers get delivered in. I was perplexed.

"They're cat heads."

(ahem)

"I'm going to put them in the back yard with the rest of them. You put a rock on top of the hole and the other critters don't eat them but the bugs clean them off."

I told him that I couldn't go on that date with him after all.

So he started showing up in my backyard at night watching my house "To make sure I was okay." He told me to watch for his Mickey's Wide Mouth Bottles in the recycling so that I would be able to tell how long he spent each night watching my house. Which he did... for about four bottles a night... for the next three weeks.

I left the state.

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My First Lay in a New Town

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "ZZ Bottom" about his first lay after leaving home.**

so i am writing my first blog...so i'm chosing to write about my first lay in a new town. at 18 i moved to a city out west, and i was having a little trouble meeting the ladies as i did not have a fake id, and i had no friends. well, everyone knows the best way for an underage scrub to meet a young, willing woman...house party!! a co-worker invited me to a house party, and beverages were being served. well, later in the night, a classy young breezy started talkin' to me. before long we were tongue wrestling atop a freezer box in the basement...pretty standard hook-up story up to this point...

enter her hippie ex-boyfriend.

lets call him Kip, and lets call her Jessica...which was her name (i'm surprised i remembered that). in any case, Kip, a disheveled, passive aggressive hippie common to the region, accosted us while we pawed at each other's goodies. being a glutton for self-punishment, he hung around us like the smell of patchouli and body odor while we made out. not long after he says to me, still next to Jessica, "Hey dude, she means a lot to me and we just broke up a week ago... just please promise to wear a condom." Interesting request, but i nodded and we continued kissing and groping. We made the natural course to the cramped bathroom. Young Jessica lifted her skirt and we commenced to boning...without a condom. HA! (now i typically don't endorse this cavalier attitude about sex, but luckily i've since been tested and came out ok!)

Anyway, dude, Kip, sees us coming out of the bathroom, fully sexed out. Being the sweet doormat that he is, he offered us a ride to my new apartment. SWEET! this dildo let us pile into his cute little yellow VW bug (like Ted Bundy's) and took us! Then he dropped us off and gave me the whole, "hey, she's a great girl...treat her right" speech. Then he left and we had more unprotected sex on my couch. the next morning i found her panties on the sidewalk in front of my house. poetic.

thanks Kip

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