the butcher, the baker, the arms and legs shaver

I once dated a man who shaved.

Well, dated might be an exaggeration. I knew him. In the Biblical sense. You know, for awhile. It was a friendly hookup kind of deal. “Hey, I’m drunk. You’re drunk. I’m bored. So … you wanna do this?”

We’ve all been there, right? Right?

Hm. Well, fine. Maybe not.

Anyway, when I say he shaved, I don’t mean what you think I might mean. A lot of us trim our bits and pieces. But men who shave their arms and legs, their backs? I’m going to venture a guess here; perhaps that’s a bit less common.

The guy, we’ll call him Shiny, he used to be a stripper. That’s when he started shaving. It’s part of the act, part of the show. If you know a dude who’s in theater, he probably wears makeup. If you know a German chick on a swim team, she probably shoots steroids and has roid-induced backne. Know a salesman? He lies. And if you know, or, Biblically-speaking, Know, a stripper, he probably shaves lots more than just his stuff. Why? Well, I think the hairy sexpot dude thing went out of style with Burt Reynolds. (Or did it? Moustaches seem to be making a comeback)

So, generally speaking, the strippers, they go pretty hairless. Even Shiny. He was no skinny-boy gay club stripper, either. He’s the beefcake sort, and worked a club that focused on the bachelorette crowd. Looked sort of like a Marine. (Side note: No, Marine-style men aren’t so much my type, but, like I said, we were killing some time.)

I learned a few things from Shiny.

Here’s a short list:

1.) Beefcakes aren’t necessarily douchebags. OK, maybe that’s not such a shocker to everyone. It was to me.

2.) I don’t get how dudes put up with our prickly legs. Seriously? Ouch.

3.) While it’s fairly well known that lonely straight dudes will proposition strippers to purchase some sex (and they must get some success from time to time, one must assume), women are much less apt to offer cash. But just as likely to proposition. The difference? The chicks think they should get it for free.

I’d guess this is the ladies projecting the standard availability of easy tail for any lady at any bar on any given night. But those strippers, they’re not so easy. For one, a lot are gay. For two, a lot are taken. And three, it’s a totally different deal when the lady’s about fifteen sheets to the wind and the dude is sober as a priest. Or maybe that’s a bad example.

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Sometimes you just hit one out of the park.

The army guy, the trustafarian and the former male model.

In one weekend.

The end.

OK, that was a tease (which I certainly am not). Here are some highlights:

• Army Guy, attempting to be suave, opens his bedroom door with a jock sort of a flourish, and immediately a bat flies past his face. I run away and watch from a distance while he shoos it out of the room. It wasn’t quite as hilarious as John Candy in The Great Outdoors, but it was up there.

• Trustafarian referring to himself with the phrase “A man of certain means.” Seriously.

• Starting to tell a friend about the Former Male Model rendezvous, to which she (who had met him at a happy hour earlier that week) said, “Oh, you think he looks like a model? Really? Hm. I didn’t think he was that cute.” I replied, “Um, no, Gucci and Abercrombie and Fitch thought he looked like a model. I thought he looked like a house painter.”

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Boundaries

I was visiting a friend on the east coast recently, and since my galpal wasn't on vacation, I found myself going out on the town solo a couple of nights.

One night I met a friendly young thing, cute enough, and I thought I might like to spend a little more time with him. But just having met the fellow, I didn't feel comfortable bringing him back to my girlfriend's house. The next morning, after I got back from his place, I was telling her later about this trouble I ran into. She pointed out to me that maybe there was something funny in that I wouldn't, like, "vouch for the guy," and bring him over to her house, but that I was perfectly willing to let him get to know my vagina.

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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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Hooking up

From an interesting story in the New York Times. After defining what hooking up is, the author writes:

"It turns out that everything is the opposite of what I remember. Under the old model, you dated a few times and, if you really liked the person, you might consider having sex. Under the new model, you hook up a few times and, if you really like the person, you might consider going on a date."

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Excuse Me, Do I Know You?

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes from "Sweet Sickness." Keep 'em coming folks!**

I had one of those "I'm totally telling the internet on you" moments. OH Aaron… he was a fun one. Younger than I usually consider doing … anything with, but he had one of those baby faces that I just melted for. Even stranger, he's blond, and I don't normally go for blonds. Once again, just one look at the baby face with the puppy dog eyes.. you would melt too.

There's his introduction. Now here's the story.

A couple years back, I had some friends that had a constant party house. Pretty much when we weren't partying, we were getting ready to, or getting rid of hangovers in preparation for the next party... You get the idea. One of THOSE houses. Well Aaron and I met through being friends of friends of friends. I actually knew the people who lived there, and he appeared at a party playing with the "band" aka the house people blowing and banging and strumming their instruments.

He played the sax. I love sax. Yes, sAx. Anyway, they all played and we had an instant drunken lust for each other. It's like "love at first sight" but it's actually "drunken-horniness-you're-cute-I'd-totally-fuck-you" at first sight. We went a couple parties just flirting, magically appearing in the same conversations with other people, etc. Then one night, we all ended up too drunk for anyone to safely leave the house. Everyone crashed wherever there was floor.

We, somehow ended up on the same pull out couch bed. And well, come on, two drunk kids sleeping next to each other.. it's rare you actually sleep. Especially with the whole attraction thing. So, my friend still doesn't know this, I'm sure she'd be kind of pissed if she knew, we ended up getting rid of that sexual tension. It was bound to happen.

I am one of those chicks where it's usually really hard for me to orgasm. Long story. I'm just a difficult orgasmer...but no worries. I still enjoy myself, and it's always fun when the guy takes it on as a challenge. I should give out medals to the ones that did… hmm… Ok, anyway, back to the story. So, he soon discovered this, and I tried explaining to him how it's not just him, it really isn't.

After the party and stuff, we exchanged numbers and I had him over at my place a few times. He made promises of dedicating a night to making me orgasm and also to take me to a movie. I thought it was cute he was trying to be "gentleman" like after he had already gotten into my pants.

Anyway, a lot of things happened that aren't really important to this story. He moved to Eugene for a while. A year or so later, I ran into him at a Safeway (the Forum) and he was all, "You know, I still owe you a movie and an orgasm," which I thought was hilarious that he remembered. We exchanged our new numbers and promised to call, but never did.

About another year or so later, I run into him again. This time, unless he was being shy, I don't think he remembered how he knew me. I'd love to see it hit him randomly somewhere. Apparently we're both regulars at one of my favorite places. He still has the baby face to melt for, but I have enough stupid little crushes.

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Bros & Hoes

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from a guy asking to be called "Wingman," which seemed apt given his backstage role in this story."

We've all heard the old saying, "Bros before hoes." For me it's gospel. I'd do anything for my guys way before I would do something comparable for a girlfriend or a potential fuck. After a few nasty experiences with friends' ex-girlfriends, girlfriends of exes, friends and my ex-girlfriends...you get the point. What guy hasn't been burned in the past by not following this one, simple rule to dating?

That's why when last week I had the opportunity to help a bro get a hoe, I was stoked. There's gotta be extra karama points for that, right?

He had managed to lay the hot manager from Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago after meeting her out at the bar. There was enough alcohol involved that although he remembered it being good ("fucking best piece I've had dude!" he said) he didn't remember her name.

Classic.

Even more classic was calling me 15 minutes before their "first date" in a panic.

"Shit! I don't know her name! I mean I think it's Beth, but I'm not 100% positive. What if I call her the wrong name?! Shit shit shit!"

"Calm down," I said. "We can figure it out. I'll call the store and ask whoever answers the name of the manager."

"I fucking love you dude."

We hung up and I called B & N.

"Hi. I was just in there talking to the female manager. I told her I'd bring something back, but I forget her name. What is it?"

"Oh, you mean Beth. She..."

I didn't even wait to hear what the clerk was going to say.

"Sweet. Thanks dude."

My bro got laid again and didn't hesitate to call out her name during it. I made up a new law for our friends: "Help our bros get hoes."

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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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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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It Would Be Better If This Were a Friends Episode

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post hails from "Rachel" who wants us to know she doesn't get paid a million dollars to deal with this crap.**

So the first time I was approached about contributing to DIW I had to carefully explain that I couldn’t really contribute since I hadn’t actually dated. Yes, I was about 8 months in to my first serious relationship (lasted 15 mos. Boo-ooring!), but everything before had been pretty much the same: he’s cool, we start hanging out alone together, he acts weird, I go out of town and I never call when I get back. All in less than 3 weeks. That just didn’t seem DIW worthy. That’s when I learned that you don’t have to have officially dated the person, just tell us some crazy relationship shit. Oh! In that case, I’m totally in.

You know how on Friends they had the whole “We Were On a Break!” thing? Mine is “I Don’t Think We Should Do This Anymore”. And just like on Friends I can say it and all my friends know what I’m talking about. And just like on Friends, it never quite gets to the “we will laugh about this one day” stage. Its always just as awkward and hurtful as the day he said it.

So you should probably know that while we weren’t dating, 88 and I were sleeping together pretty regularly. We were good old-fashioned fuck buddies, there for each other at all the right times (ex: After bar time). Oh, we were also really great friends. But that’s what friends do in college; they sleep together. And if they are a really great friend, they’ll be ok with no strings attached and they won’t get all emotional on you every time they down a 12-pack. So that was us—really great friends. And I think we must have been sleeping together for about a year before things got ugly the first time.

I could totally feel it coming; things just weren’t feeling as friendly between us as they had been. I knew it. He knew it. I knew that he knew it. You know. But less than friendly sex with your FB is better than no sex at all. Apparently that only holds true until your FB girl (me) shows up to your house shit faced off tequila and with a group of friends.

It was a friend’s birthday and we had been at a Mexican restaurant doing the obligatory underage “pitcher of margarita/flirting with the waiter” thing. And I was properly shit faced. I can’t give you great details about the first half of the night at his house other than at one point, I was mummified in scotch tape, I opened a bunch of flavored condoms that were in a bowl on the counter and tried to get people to taste them, and my wallet was missing for about a week. What I can tell you is just about every single thing that happened after 3 am that night.

I ended up passing out in his bed of course and somewhere around 3 am I got that half-asleep sex nudge. You know, you’re both still kind of sleeping, but you still know you want to have sex, so you fumble around for a bit until you wake up going at it?! I know I don’t have to explain that to this crowd.

So I got the nudge and I responded and I was fine with it. He, apparently, was not. It wasn’t more than 15-20 seconds after we finished, we’re both totally naked, I’m laying on top of him, resting a minute, when he said the words that have come to define an entire period of my life:

“I don’t think we should do this anymore”.

He said it with the kind of slight hesitation that you know he had been practicing it over in his head and for just a second he had to make sure that this time he was saying it out loud. That’s it. No, “I think we need to talk”, no “I think you should put your clothes back on”. Just, “I know I just initiated this sex, but now I got what I want and am ready to humiliate you”

Ok, that might not be word for word, memory can be a tricky thing. But I got up, I gave him a little “Are you fucking kidding me that you did this right now, like this? You’re the one who started this.” speech, I put my clothes back on and I went home. I’m not totally sure, but I’m guessing I was starting to cry at this point too. I know myself and I was sort of drunk, it was the middle of the night, and I just got broken up with by my non-boyfriend. That’s usually the kind of thing I would start crying over.

So I left. But I didn’t get in my car and drive home like a nice self-respecting girl would do. I didn’t have my car there so I stomped out the front door and started to walk the 7 blocks back to my apartment at 4 in the morning. And I had gotten about a block and a half before I realized I had forgotten my shoes at his apartment.

So now comes my mental debate: Is it better to turn back now and have to walk a few extra blocks and get the shoes, or wait until morning and have to call and ask for them back?

I turned around and retrieved my shoes, deciding I’m still a little drunk right now and can probably pull this off better now than when we all sober up in the morning. And I was pretty sure I didn’t want to talk to this asshole again for quite a while. So I walk back into his house, announce that I’m not returning to talk to him, only to get my shoes, and I walk right back out the door.

And I never slept with him again.

Actually, that was about 4 years ago and we finally ended things last week. You’re probably going to be hearing from me again.

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With just enough mentions of sex to be dating related

A blogger named Sarah Brown apparently has the most hilarious, clever friends ever to have cell phones. And she publishes lists of texts that she's saved.

Two all-time favorites:

I sleep with so many dudes with weird chins. Clefts, dimples, you name it, I bang it.

Wait, are you on your date?! Stop texting me about your ex-husband’s dick!

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Damn Tubes

**Editors' Note: Slightly Disheveled sent this in after reading about June's burning biscuit. We've had many an embarrassing sexual mishap (bed wetting, farting, etc.) grace this blog. We're just thankful this particular phenomenon has yet to happen to us personally.**

Okay, okay... so the last posting did bring this on. "Alejandro" and I had moved in together and all was blissy blisstastic. He was a tall, dark, handsome, Argentinian painter of the MFA variety and was just about as cute as cute could be. We went out drinking with friends one night and came back to our little love nest and started to Go There. Right around where we left third base I started to feel something Rather Odd which turned immediately to something Rather Unfomfortable and then to Really Very Unpleasant as we reached home base. All this in under a minute. Something smelled rather like wintergreen.

He started to howl in pain and we turned on the light. The tube of Name Brand Lubricant was sitting nicely in the drawer and the tube of Name Brand Muscle Rub was on the bed next to me. I had never noticed that they were in the exact same tubes. From then on he kept the muscle rub in his nightstand and the lube in mine.

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My Biscuit's Burning

So this story goes into some detail about my sex life. Probably more than I’d generally trust the internets with, but this is a public service announcement, kiddos. I have a lesson to share. One that should have been obvious to me, but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I can be forgetful. Woe to she who pays no heed to my warnings. Hot woe.

So, I was, as the kids say, “in the red.” My delightful new pet and I, though, have a hard time keeping our hands off of one another. In this case, he had a hard time keeping his hands off of my bits. But knowing as I did that it would all only lead to frustration, I playfully pushed his hands away, kissed him again and bid him good night. Moments later, the tingle began. I shifted. It got worse. “What the?...” And worse. Soon enough, my lady parts were afire. “Oh, god, babe, no,” I said, “It burns!”

At the same moment, he and I flashed back to earlier in the evening. I was cooking one of my favorite Thai recipes, and he, being an expert knife handler, seeded six peppers for me. Hot, hot fucking peppers. When I looked down at his pile of hot seeds, I said, “Now don’t go sticking your finger in your eye later.” I’d forgotten at the time to also recommend that he keep his hands off my own sensitive, damp areas.

“Oh, no, the peppers!” said he.
“Shit, it really burns!” said I.
“Do you want some ice?”
“No, I’ll be fine. God! That’s really hot!”
“Well, should I get some vinegar?”
“Vinegar? I’m not putting vinegar on my snatch.”
“You know some women douche with vinegar.”
“OK, well, I don’t feel like doucheing right now.”
“Peanut butter?” he offered.
“Peanut butter?”
“I don’t know, all I can think of is kitchen items.”

Now, I'm not sure, but I think it may have been the food connection that led him to the proper solution to the problem. He’s a smart boy, he is.

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If I could erase a memory

My regular hookup, the ruddy-headed charmingly gap-toothed Mr. Bojangles, raised his head up from betwixt me thighs. I looked down with some surprise--I wasn't really expecting any sort of interruptus, even of the oral-coit-variety--to see an odd expression on his face. He fished his farmboy fingers into his mouth and pulled out a large, wet wad of blue lint.

Dear god. Blue lint. From my blue slacks.

Should have worn panties.

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Get It On

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MySpace Sucks

I had forgotten all about the hellish side of MySpace until I was cleaning out my messages last night.

Let me back up.

Once upon a time long long ago in a living room of a house I used to live in, I drunkenly hooked up with a guy I knew from firefighting. We used to work together. He was my boss. Of sorts. He was also rather attractive and knew it. We both did. Of course there was sexual tension the whole summer fighting fires. Of course he had a girlfriend. Of course she hated me even though I'd been nothing but pleasant and respectful.

Of course he didn't tell me they were still "on again off again dating" until the next morning.

"Huh. Interesting. So is the switch on or off this morning?" I asked.

"Uhhh. On. Yeah, on I guess. She would say on, so yeah. On," he replied.

Awesome.

Let me also back up to give some character development of this on-again-off-again girlfriend: She liked attention. She was loud. She was abrasive. She was attractive. She had a flair for drama. And if we had to go to blows, I might put my money on her and I don't often say that about other chicks.

In short, don't fuck with her man.

Which, I wouldn't have done had I known. But, he conveniently waited to tell until after the point of no return. Fucker.

So back to last night's mailbox cleaning.

I found the series of messages she sent in the weeks after. Oh boy. Here's a taste:

"Subject: O.P.P.

It has been brought to my attention that you had sex with the man who had been my partner for over four years. What's amusing is that he's been telling me for the last year that I'm gonna marry him and have his children. Fortunately for me, I learned (before making a big mistake) that I can't trust him.

While I primarily blame him (after all, he was my boyfriend)I also find you guilty of serious misconduct. Apparently you haven't learned or just aren't grown up enough to realise that you don't go around fucking other people's boyfriends. I must be honest, I never liked or trusted you from the beginning. It's too bad (for me at least) that I was right about you.

Let's face it, you wanted ___ from the beginning and I never tried to keep him from being your friend cause he always said he didn't find you the least bit attractive. Interesting how men can do that, screw woman they think aren't appealing. I guess one hole is as good as another if you're drunk enough and the lights are off so you don't have to see their face.

If this message hurts you in any way, I can't say that I'm sorry because nothing could describe the pain that I feel. Maybe you are laughing as you read this, or maybe you could give a shit; but on the chance that you have a shred of decency, I hope you take this to heart and realise the damage you have done. I would also take a moment to think about the fact that no bad deed goes unpunished, meaning that things have a way of coming back to you."

So ok. I felt bad. I mean, she has a point. And she even cleverly put a Naughty By Nature reference in the subject line. I didn't respond however; instead, I forwarded her message along to her "man" and said that perhaps he should look into it. He created the fucking mess after all. I thought he should be the one to clean it up.

But no. She didn't see it that way. Here's another:

"I want you to delete him as a friend from your myspace and never call him again. If you don't want to comply, I will show up on your doorstep and we can talk about it in person."

Show on my doorstep and talk about it in person? Um, no fucking way. Fuck you. Show up at my doorstep bitch?! That would be a bad idea. For both of us. Remember how I said I might put my money on you if it came to blows, yeah, not on my fucking doorstep. Bring it.

But again, I didn't respond. Simply forwarded it to her "man."

Thankfully all that died away. I haven't spoken much to him since, though he did text me a few weeks ago saying he'd be in town.

The best part? I found all the other messages from jilted girlfriends who felt it was my fault they were dating a shithead. Thank you MySpace. Thank you for allowing stupid bitches to send me ridiculous threats and for saving them for years.

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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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In the news

Last week, I picked up a copy of our local alt weekly, and inside, there was a story about a local band, and, whaddya know, I went on an awkward blind date with one of the fellers. Awkward's actually not the right word, not totally. It was a fun time. We met for beers and split some chicken wings, and had a nice conversation. He made me laugh. The only awkward part was when I had to tell him that although I'd had a nice time, I wasn't planning to see him again. The thing was, he had led me to believe he was at least 60 pounds lighter than he was. I like big boys, but not that big.

Flipping farther back in the issue, I saw another story about a local hip-hop dance program in town, and, whaddya know, the photo was of a fellow I'd gone out with twice, then decided not to see again. Except when, bored one drunken evening, I saw his green chat bubble pop up and flirted my way into a bootie call.

I really need to move to a bigger town.

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Chexy

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

She came into my place of employment wearing one of those Victorian corsets with leather and purple, frilly bullshit and stainless steel buckles; you know, for people to wear to the premiere of the next Twilight movie. Three quarters of her extremely ample, milky sweet breasts came bursting out the top of her outfit like steam escaping from a cartoon wolf's ears. Also, I think she was wearing a torn ballerina's tutu, which was sexy and cheesy at the exact same time. I call it Chexy. After having just had my heart used as an ashtray\enema bag I became Emotionally Unavailable Guy, which is exactly who sidled up to little miss clit piercing. I used the single greatest pickup line possible when working in retail:

“Can I…show you something?”

She said something stupider than me by saying, “I don’t know, can you?”

She was eye touching me in my bathing suit area so I went for it.

4 hours later I was off of work and she was knocking on my front door wearing a super tight t-shirt with a picture of John Stamos on it. Every time I stared at those amazing boobies there was Uncle Jesse, judging me. She was at my house for sex. 4 seconds after closing the door she grabbed me by my left nipple (my favorite one. The other one just…pisses me off) and led me to my bedroom. 10 seconds after that she was naked and I was giggling under my breath, for fear that my desperation would show through my mask of casual indifference. That’s when she slapped me in the throat.

“Did that hurt, little girl?” She growled.
“A little…”
Thwack. Again. Right in the Adams apple.
“Okay, that really…”
Thwack.
“Shut your face-hole, faggot and tie me to the chair.”

Simply to spare my poor vocal cords further torment, I obliged. I grabbed my desk chair and a couple of ties from my closet and trussed her up like she was in the bed of a pickup and I was going on a road trip. A road trip to Creepytown.

Once I tightened the straps she looked me in the face with big, wide, innocent eyes.

“Now I need you to hit me as hard as you can.”
I laughed. She stared.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Please master? I’ll be good to you if you do.” She purred, all sex kitteny.
“Now, by ‘good to me’ you mean…” I asked, fishing.
“Anything you want, master. Just make me hurt and I’ll wrap my body over every square inch of you.”

After a solid 3 or 4 seconds of thinking I said “Okay, I’ll do it, but does it have to be in the face? Can’t I punch you in the tit or something? Oooh, how about the kidneys? I’ll give you a hard shot to the kidneys.”

After haggling like I was buying a bracelet on a beach in Mexico we agreed upon an open handed slap across the left side of her face. And then I did it. Left a red palm print on her cheek and everything. 15 minutes later, after I had stopped crying, I untied her and she left without wrapping a goddamned thing around me. But that was okay. I wasn’t in the mood anymore anyway. I just wanted to call my mom and have her tell me everything was going to be alright while I fell asleep with my thumb somewhere near my mouth.

Anyway, I realized then that I had no choice. I was Sensitive Guy. I will always cry at episodes of The Office. Whatever, I’m fine with that. I like watching Dancing with the Stars and I’m not ashamed of that. Much.
Plus, if it wasn’t for my little trip to Creepytown I never would’ve met that Gothic Princess, who I married 2 years later. That’s right, I married the shit out of her. How’s that for a third act twist? I’d tell you that story, but you might think it’s weird. Maybe some other time.

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Dear Serial: Is this legal?

Dear Serial,

I attended my cousin's wedding. Yes, the reception was open bar. There was a guy there and... truth be told, I knew he was on the Bride's side too because he managed to sit next to me at the wedding proper. We exchanged pleasantries and photos of the wedding.

Later, we ended up running away from the celebration and mindlessly making out on streetcorners throughout downtown Major Midwestern City. We have since done the other rather more naked things that people tend to do.

He is my father's brother's widow's great-nephew. There is no real blood connection so we think we might be okay (despite the fact that we are both the black sheep of our families). Oh, yeah, and I don't really look my age and he's 12 years younger than me. Still, is this illegal? He's 23... so it's probably legal in most states.

Help me,
"Sophia"

Dear Sophia,

I had to draw a picture to get this one straight in my head.



OK, so I'm not really great at drawing family trees (And I totally gave him Justin Beiber hair). Basically, it looks like while you guys are of the same generation. I'd go so far as to say you're family, but I'm not pulling the incest card. I googled family relationships and looked at some charts written by people who understand this shit, and I don't think you're actually any kind of cousin, not even a cousin 14 times removed.

As for the age, yes. You're cool.

So, legally, we're all good.

The real question is whether it's OK, morally. And I say, yes. Not only is it OK, morally speaking, but it's pretty hot. Forbidden fruit, but without the yucky concerns of arrest or babies with arms growing out of their foreheads.

Fact is, people are supposed to hook up at weddings. That's what weddings are for. It's not about the couple. Weddings exist for the purpose of making old ladies cry, giving people the opportunity to dress up, and giving all of us an excuse to get wasted and get laid. Even if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative. Or, maybe especially if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative.

Rowr.

Love,

Serial



Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Oh, sure you do. Send them to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com

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