Dating a Banker Anonymous

There was an article in the NYTimes recently about a support group started by some women living in NYC whose relationships went in the shitter due to the recession:

Are you fucking kidding me?

The one common thread among them is their romances with high powered, financial wankers have all suffered as their men have come under the stress of a market collapse and economic recession. No more credit cards or $250 eye brow waxings. No more unhindered consumerism at their boyfriend's and/or husband's expense.

Here's a quote from the article:

"In addition to meeting once or twice weekly for brunch or drinks at a bar or restaurant, the group has a blog, billed as “free from the scrutiny of feminists,” that invites women to join “if your monthly Bergdorf’s allowance has been halved and bottle service has all but disappeared from your life.”

I know I'm a freak who would rather wear elastic waistbands and baggy socks, but what is the fuck is bottle service and how fucking lame do you have to be to pay for it?

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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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Sex in Oregon

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from an OR gal who recently moved from the great state of California.**

I've said it and written it many times before, and as long as I live in this strange town I will continue on with my ravings. I said it to K____, in the days when we would speak to people who would say "I've got to go," and then walk a scant 10 feet away from us. I thought about it late at night, while my hair pomade soiled my martini-print pillow case. And I marveled at it as I wrote drunken slogans across a filthy 18-year old junkie's back before falling under the the wily and unholy sway of Carlo Rossi "Pisano" wine. I most certainly thought angry thoughts as visions of bygone days at Modesto Junior College passed through my dreams.

Oh, MJC, the veritable petri dish of libidinous youth from the greater Central Valley. I sing a song of MJC, my Alma Mater, to the Pirates, and with passion to the men, who seemed to outnumber women 10 to 1. The odds are against the males of MJC, and they know the score. Perhaps it is the methane and pollution in the brown air, maybe it is the never ending roar of highway 99 sounding like an ocean in the distance, a primordial sea of hot pavement and speed, the California highway that can take you Anywhere. Maybe it was the pervading stagnation of Suburban Hell and Boredom, the knowledge of the fact that there are 12 million tiny rooms painted white, 17 billion little rooms that swelter with suffocating humidity in the summer and make you realize that the entire state is like a fishbowl turned over. No air. No space. Just heat, and people, and endless rows of houses, beyond that, the country that leads to more country, to weird lakes, to the foothills, and farther off, the ocean. Always the Road and the Ocean.

What else was there to do but to fuck?

They would accost me at any time. They would stalk, and call, and wait. They were patient. They knew what they wanted. I had the luxury to say "No," and I uttered it often. Even so, I never went without for very long.

But here, there is no sex. There are too many women. It is a bachelor's paradise, the men are in charge, and oh, there are many blond ski bunnies to go around. Many nubile girls, beautiful girls, so many of them you could drown in a sea of tank tops and hair product. There are swarms of girls, they line the streets in summer. How I hate them! What's worse, how badly do I hate couples! I've a theory that every bedreadlocked dirty hippie sonofabitch was born with a girlfriend and a dog. I hate teenage couples. I hate people who go to bars and have sex and write about it on the internet. I hate how getting laid is a special thing around here. I hate thinking of all the lucky people out there, fucking, while I get none. Even working for it doesn't work. Even dating doesn't work.

I'm cursed. That is the only answer.

Fate has laid down the law. Fortuna deemed it can only take place between me and someone who has once lived in the Outside: Nevada Nevada California. I have never tasted the sweet nectar of Oregon, nor will I ever, most likely, and that is fine, for lack thereof has only embittered me, and even if the opportunity came, if Oregon offered me one of her Native Sons, I would yell "NO! None of your vile flesh! I will have none of it!" Oregon--you have done me wrong! You know I would do most anything for sex! I would ride for 24 hours on a rotten Amtrak carriage for it! I would seduce a CART BOY for a chance. What is it with you, Oregon? You have turned me into a dried up crone. You have stolen my youth and the best of my fruits! My lube has evaporated in the dry mountain air, my paintbox of Erotic Chocolate has spoiled, and my whips no longer sting--they only titillate my cat, now. What foul relegation! I could have given you orgies, masterpieces of BDSM, a really good time, but no! Do you know how unfortunate it is to wear a garter for practical reasons? I throw up my hands in anguish.

I have officially given up on Sex in Oregon.

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Gay Marriage is Weird?

A story in the NYT tipped me off to this video, apparently a response to recent same sex marriage victories.



But the online responses are so much better:

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Surreptitious Pleasures

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from Terry Tucker. And um, gross.**

Friend of mine met this great guy….…..smart, good looking, fun - and thoughtful! When they were walking down the street, he would stop to pick up litter, even discarded cigarette butts.

On subsequent dates, everything good…..although she did notice him sneaking surreptitiously outside for a cigarette. Trying to quit, he said, when asked about it. Later, when she noticed him picking up and pocketing a cigarette butt off the street, something clicked. You don’t smoke those, do you, she asked.

He hesitated, then admitted he did. At first, he did it out of desperate addiction, he said. Better than buying cigarettes or bumming them. Then serendipity, he discovered smoking butts was more satisfying than regular cigarettes. Nicotine tends to accumulate on the paper at the lower end, resulting in a more concentrated delivery of nicotine when you inhale a pre-smoked butt. When you inhale, a tremendous rush. It’s wonderful, he enthused. And you get better and better at spotting the good ones.

What about germs, she wanted to know. Oh, I wipe the cigarettes off first, he assured her. Hasn’t been a problem for me. They say that kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. This was worse than that.

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Signs

***Editor's note: Today's guest post is from Peaches. Thanks, Peaches! ***

You’re not sure he’s going to come over tonight, but just in case, you wait to wash off your make-up until just before you go to bed, and then fall asleep with your phone on your bedside table.

You find a shirt of his at your place. It’s dirty and sweaty, and you smell it. The smell is intoxicating.

You avoid meeting other perfectly cute, perfectly single and perfectly available people.

You send an anonymous post to Datingisweird.com, hoping he’ll read it, and leave her.

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Dear Serial: I humped my friend's husband

Dear Serial,

Apparently, a friend of mind just found out I fucked her husband. Thing is, it only happened one time, and it was years and years ago. I mean, it happened more than 10 years ago. It happened before they even got together, it was before I even got together with my now husband. Now, we’re all really good friends and have been for years, but recently, she’s saying weird stuff like, “sometimes you just wish you didn’t know things” and just being kind of strange towards me.

I told my husband about that pity-fuck years ago, he’s not upset. What should I say to my friend?

Thanks,
Married and not going there ever again

Dear MANGTEA (that’s kind of funny, at first when I looked at that, I thought it said Mangenta, which would clearly be a hot new color in men’s wear, much more masculine than purple),

Don’t say a thing. You did your duty and disclosed your long-forgotten pity fuck to your husband; it was pally over there’s job to tell HIS wife about any potentially-awkward fucks, oh, I dunno, maybe before they got married? That is, of course, if he was going to tell her. There’s a certain point at which, if you haven’t mentioned it already, you should just let the fuck lie.

Plus, what if you say something, and that’s not what she was talking about? Especially if he hasn’t told her? That conversation’s going to be fun. “Oh, you were talking about how you finally noticed that I dog-eared your grandmother’s copy of Gone With the Wind? Oh. Heh. Well nevermind all that about fucking your husband. Oh, and the “pity” thing? What did I mean by that? Well certainly did not mean that I’m more attractive than your husband or that he was super desperate in the period leading up to him getting with you. No. Not at all.”

Leave it be, Mangenta.

Love,

Serial




Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Want to tell her how full of shit she is? Do it. We dare ya. Send your email to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.

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Tweezed Out

**Today's guest post comes in from "G. Ross"**

I'm sick of DIW. Sorry to say, but I am. It has way too many stories from chicks who just rip on dudes. Makes me wonder if it's become a front for a bunch of angry dykes who don't know how to actually be with a man.

I digress.

I'm sending this story in about a woman I began dating a few months ago to try and offset all the male-bashing going on. This site used to be better. It used to have stories from guys about the very real phenomenon of crazy chicks. What happened? Where'd c.vance go? My father always taught me that if you're going to bitch about something then you better be prepared to try and fix it. So here's to you pops.

S**** and I began dating after a heavy night of drinking. Blah blah...one night stand...turned into a first date....and here we are hanging out four months later. She's a cool girl. Into a lot of the same stuff I am. Doesn't run her mouth too much and when she does, it's not complete inane blathering. So she's got that going for her.

Everything's been going great. Good sex. Decent conversation. Not overly clingly. Just great. Until a few nights ago when I walked in on her in the bathroom.

Now my pops also told me that women have bags of tricks that men should never, ever try to open. This is what makes them female, he said. Appreciate the magic but don't try to understand the magic. Apparently the bathroom is where women practice their magic. Wish he had told me that one.

We'd just finished having sex and S**** jumped out of bed to "freshen up" as women-folk like to say. Ok, fine. Whatever. About 12 minutes go by. My need to pee is pretty intense by now. I originally thought she'd take no more than 5 minutes. How much water do you need to splash down there to freshen up ladies?

How wrong I was.

I finally say fuck it and knock on the bathroom door. No answer. Dude. I need to piss. Bad. So I say fuck it again and open the door.

S**** is kneeling on top of the sink, inches away from the mirror, plucking hairs from her nipples. She screams when I walk in and falls off the counter. I am so startled I just stand there, mouth gaping.

She begins yelling at me about fucking knocking and bum rushes me out of the bathroom. I am too bewildered by what I saw to do anything except allow her to shoo me out. I go to the porch and take a leak off the side of it. Thank god for dicks.

We haven't discussed it. Thank god. It's weird though. The image in burned into my mind. Sometimes it flashes while we're having sex and I go to suck on her tits. Weird dude. Fucking weird. Chicks are weird.

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Before eHarmony

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Based on a true story

One night stand gone horribly, horribly wrong:



Thanks, Ms. Disheveled!

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Can't get enough of that Craigslist

*** Editor's note: Today's Craigslist Gem comes from Sir Robin, AKA The Fool. Happy dating! ***

Being male, I'm used to being cast as the villain, but there are some dating scenarios that would make even the most virtuous white knight act rather like Sir Robin. Appropriately enough, a confrontation with a three-headed ogre is a pretty fair metaphor when used to describe my date, although to hear her tell it, I was the one who behaved inappropriately. We had first connected online, through Craig's List, and the day after our dating disaster, I found the following post:

"/Last night was the worst first date of my life. Not only was it with the creepiest guy I had ever seen, but after pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's and making me drive an hour out of my way, he barely said a word to me... except to call me fat and tell me to stop eating so much. He tried to order booze after I told him I didn't drink, and he wouldn't take his shades off the entire time. We won't be going out again./"

There was no question that it was about me. The sunglasses bit confirmed it, although she left out the part where I apologized for my debilitating light-sensitivity. Still, as certain as I was about the subject of the story, I wasn't completely clear on the details.

1. "/... After pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's.../" Apparently, responding to passive-aggressive accusations about not being interested counts as pressuring. When I suggested that we wait until Saturday afternoon to meet - rather than a bit past ten on Friday evening - she questioned whether I really wanted to meet at all. I assured her that I did, and she asked if I knew of any restaurants that were open late. "Only Denny's," I joked. Her unexpected response was that Denny's was fine by her. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I supposed that it was better than a dingy dive bar somewhere.

2. "/... Making me drive an hour out of my way.../" We lived three hours apart. You do the math.

3. "/... except to call me fat.../" She weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she had led me to believe, but I didn't say anything about it. At least, not until she asked - and this was perhaps the second thing she said to me - "I'm heavier than you expected, aren't I?" My response, for the record, was a decidedly lame reply of "And prettier, too!" Really, though, is there a right answer to that question?

4. "/... and tell me to stop eating so much./" While we had been planning the date, she asked if I would mind paying. While we were eating, she kept ordering more additions to the meal. While looking into my wallet - figuratively speaking - I politely stated that I couldn't comfortably afford much more, being that I was a broke college student. While ignoring my statement, she ate my french fries.

5. "/He tried to order booze.../" No, I tried to order a Shirley Temple. It was the waiter who thought that I was trying to order booze. At least he realized his mistake after I explained it to him.

Perhaps my favorite accusation, though, is this one:

6. "/... he barely said a word to me./" This is true. Of course, it's a little bit hard to get a word in edgewise when she and her sister - who she brought along as a chaperon - are spending the entire time gossiping about friends whom I've never even heard of whilst dining on the meal that I paid for. It's even worse when they both glare at me every time I try to interject a comment or ask a question, and downright insulting when the they discuss me in whispers that they think I can't overhear from across the table.

In spite of all those incorrect details, though, there's definitely one thing that she got exactly right: "/We won't be going out again./"

Believe me, folks... As soon as it was polite enough to do so, Sir Robin ran away.

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Co-sleeping

I remember clearly the first time a man farted on me -- and I'm not talking about my brother.

You roll over in the night, you want to be the big spoon, so you cup your body to his, put your arm around his waist, then let it rest on his delightful chest. You nuzzle your nose between his shoulder blades, and you both settle in to the comfort of a warm body. Then: Pffft. Against your thigh.

Here's the question: Is it rude to roll over? Do you just pretend it didn't happen?

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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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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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Cops

Why did I think it would be a good idea to date a cop?

Sure, he was kind of cute. Sort of funny. A stitch mouthy. But honestly, at that point, I'd go out on a date or two with just about anyone who asked. I felt like I had to give everyone a chance. I felt like at that point in my life, I'd made such bad decisions in relationships, it was time to challenge all of my assumptions. And who knows? People can be surprising. Right?

On my second date with Abe the cop, we were driving downtown, and I was in the front seat of his car, which, coincidentally, is the same year, make and model as my car. (Was that part of the attraction? That he had good taste in cars?) He wanted to stop by his house before he took me home, so I could meet his dog (He owned a house. I think that was a big part of it. I was curious about dating a responsible guy, I guess. Slightly older. Maybe looking for something long-term?), but as we drove down the left lane of one-way street, we passed by a cop car driving slowly in the right lane. My date slowed down his car and rolled down my window using his driver-side controls.

“What the hell are you doing, harassing some punks?” he shouted across me as I tried to impress the back of my head into the headrest.

“Abe! You son of a bitch!” the on-duty cop shouted from behind his mirrored sunglasses and moustache. “Are you drunk driving?”

“Hell yeah!” Abe laughed.

Then they proceeded to chat for another minute. Across my face. While I stared dead ahead, mortified. I live in a small town. Someone I know could've walked by at any moment, and I knew I'd be horrified if someone saw me in that position. I think that’s exactly when I decided I’m not the kind of girl who dates cops.

The problem is, you can't live it down. Months later, I was out on the town with a new one I was just getting to know. It was a sweet summer night, and we'd ridden our bikes, loving the gorgeous weather and anticipating a few too many beers. As we strolled and chatted, we walked by a couple of cops on the corner. I realized too late one was Abe.

We exchanged a friendly hello (I almost always let fellas down easy) and I continued walking with my new beau.

"Um, how do you know that cop?" Beau asked.

I had to 'fess up. Fortunately, Beau was understanding. Everyone has a few skeletons in the closet. Some of them just happen to be cops.

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Mormon Soaking

I really really wish what I was about to say was made up. Really, I do because I like Mormons. I was unsure what it would be like to live in the Mormon mecca, aka Salt Lake City, but since moving here I'm very pleasantly surprised and happy to report that it's not as weird as you may think.

Mind you, not as is not to say not at all. There's these funny little things like having to buy real beer (more than 3.2% alcohol) at a state liquor store, everyone is married with children even if they're significantly younger than me, and there's a rather schizophrenic personality to the citizens: you're either Mo-Mo and happy-go-lucky or you ain't and you're damn fucking proud of it.

I digress. Mormon soaking.

So here it is: because Mormons are against pre-marital sex, many of the "good" Mormons make it to their twenties as virgins. Heaven help them, they're hell bent on staying a virigin. But...we all know sex feels really really good. Add to it that it's forbidden and now you have a group of hormonally-saturated, unfulfilled virginal, twenty-something-year-olds going off to college, namely Brigham Young University.

See where this is going? How do you have sex without having sex?

You have "soaking," that is, you put your dick in her vagina but you don't move. Not even a single pump, rub, wiggle or jiggle. Nothing. You just lay there, soaking.

Like I said, I wish I was making this up.

I can't in good faith say I've ever experienced this phenomenon first hand because I'm A) not a BYU graduate and B) not fucking retarded. But, I have it from good sources (a few "Jack Mormons," also known as Mormons who were born and raised but no longer practicing, as well as an ex-communicated one).

There you have it folks. The solution to every religious believer's ultimate dilemna: how do you have sex without having sex. Mormon soaking.

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Miss Manners Neglected to Talk About...

You have a Good One: nice, considerate, sweet. Only thing is, you have the sex drive of a blue-assed baboon and they have the sex drive of... well, do they even have a sex drive? A few of my friends are having this problem, and it's not limited to guys or limited to girls. So I'm asking you: is there a loving way to tell someone that you care about that they need to put out or ship out? I mean, I'm a woman in her 30's... and it's true what they say about women in their 30's. I think sex is healthy and demand a healthy amount of it right now. Maybe we can get some guy advice: has ANYONE ever come up with a tactful way of having this conversation with someone?

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The score is love-love...

We have a guest post from "Strobino" today. HAPPY DATING!

A woman had expressed interest in me on a popular dating site by "winking" at me. I looked at her profile, and saw her pictures and life stories. She seemed cool enough. I didn't see too much in common with her except that she liked playing tennis, but wasn't that great at it, and wanted to play more. That was the same as me.

A few emails later we had set up a tennis date. When we first met we made some small talk before taking the court, and everything seemed to be going well. However, about 15 minutes into the game she hit a shot that was clearly out, but she claimed was in. The dispute was minor at first, but I didn't want to just let it go, and it escalated. Realizing that I was being a little too stubborn for a first date I tried to play it off and give her the benefit of the doubt and said something playfully like "Ok, McEnroe it was in." All hell broke loose.

She ran around the net screaming "You fucking asshole! What the fuck is that supposed to mean!!?." She began hitting me with her racket as hard as she could clearly aiming for my face every time. For about a minute I made every effort to run away and block her blows, but she was a little quicker than me and kept cutting off my escape route. After she cut my hand with one of the swings with her racket (intended for my face) I cocked back and bashed her head with mine with a fair amount of force. She then cried and ran away. Later that night, I sent her an email saying "Just for the record it was out." I still haven't heard about a second date.

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Am I crazy or is he creepy?

I can't tell. I was just sitting there, minding my business late in the week, trying very hard not to beat my head against my keyboard, when an IM popped up on my screen.

He says:
Hey! Whatre you doing?

She says:
whipping some stuff out before I get out of here
and then tomorrow's FRIDAY

He says:
Yes it is!!! WOO HOO!!!!
big plans this holiday wekend?

She says:
Oh yeah
gardening
cleaning my floors
big stuff
Actually I might spend a night in a cabin on the Waccamaw
and do some kayaking
so that'll be good
Oh, you know, and being pious, of course
You?

He says:
LOL>...of course!!!
well...I cleaned floors last weekend so thais done...YEAH!!!
a little golf Frdiay and Saturday mongings...

She says:
Oh nice

He says:
and I do have to clean out the garage one day...BOOOOO

She says:
I hate chores

He says:
me too...

She says:
Why did I think they'd go away when I grew up?
I think I need to have kids. Make them start doing some dishes.

He says:
they just get more and more and more

She says:
srrsly

He says:
we need FUN in our life...hhhmmmmm

This is where I start to feel squeamish. I mean, OK. I like fun. But that long "hhhmmmmmm" felt like a hot breath across a phone line, right? That's not fun. It certainly ain't sexy. So I tried to keep it light and jokey. I figure, can't we all agree that work sucks, eh? Eh?

She says:
Oh, what, like work isn't FUN for you?
It doesn't bring you enough JOYJOYJOY?

He says:
there you go again..scarcasim...I LOVE IT!

She says:
I just can't help it
I'm glad someone around here appreciates it

He says:
I do...let it FLY!!!

She says:
ha
I still have to figure out different types of humor.
Not everyone thinks I'm hilarious, apparently.

He says:
i find you hilarous and interesting...

I don't want bald, married guys my dad's age to find me interesting. Especially if they can't spell for shit. Again, I retort with a joke.

She says:
Me, too!
That's why we get along

There's a pause, so I think it's over. Oh, no.

He says:
so.,...
tell me something unique

Um, what? Is this how old people flirt? Is he that bored? I hardly know this guy. He works in a different building. (I think his WIFE works in my building though.) Are we all of a sudden on Match.com? I play it safe by playing stupid.

She says:
??

He says:
lol
see...you haven't figured me out yet...I am haviong a tought ime with an outage over here and thoiught I would settle my stress by being silly wiht you
sorry

She says:
ahhhhh
I'm slow sometimes

He says:
not a problem...

OK, DIW. What is this? Am I being paranoid? Is he just so well-meaning and innocent and I'm the one projecting? Should I avoid this guy?

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